by Avi
Donck wipes his hand down his chest. “Is it raining?” he says.
“Yes, sir,” says Maks, hardly knowing how to react to this man.
Donck shoves his writing papers aside. “Pay no mind to my ill health,” he says. “A rank case of rapid decline. Now then, your sister’s case. What have you to report? I presume you spoke to her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she tell you more? Admit she took that watch and chain?”
“I told you, she didn’t take nothing.”
“Of course,” Donck sneers. “I forget. The whole world is innocent.” He grinds an eye with the heel of his hand. “Then she told you nothing?”
“Just one thing.”
“One is vastly more than none. What was it?”
Maks says, “Asked her if she remembered anything unusual at the hotel. Before she was arrested. A clue.”
“Ha!”
“All she said was . . .” And Maks tells Donck how Emma was interrupted and praised by that guest. “That a clue?” Maks asks when he’s done.
Donck, pondering Emma’s story, sits still. Maks and Willa wait. The detective, scratching one side of his whiskers, says, “Does your sister have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Would you even know? Sisters don’t always tell brothers such things.”
“She does me.”
Donck holds up a dirty hand. “The first rule of detection: Nobody tells anyone everything. Now then, lessons. What a detective must do is look at the scene where the crime was committed. Study it. Search out people who might have noticed something. Determine if other people are involved—like a boyfriend. Your job is to notice as much as you can. The key: He who looks, sees. He who sees, knows.”
Maks says, “How am I gonna do that?”
“When you learn one thing, connect it to another thing. Keep on connecting until you can go no further. Then go back and make more connections. Finally, connect the connections. There’s your evidence.”
Maks, with a glance at Willa, struggles to understand.
“Now then,” Donck goes on, “at The Tombs today I inquired of a man I know as to what it would cost to release your sister on bail. Two hundred dollars. Twenty for deposit. Does your family have that?”
Maks shakes his head.
“I thought as much. Very well, I’ve arranged for you, Maks, to work where your sister worked—at the Waldorf.”
“Me? At the Waldorf?”
“You wish to be a detective, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can start there.”
“Me too?” says Willa.
“Alas, no. Just your brother.”
“When?” says Maks.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“How I gonna do that?”
“I have arranged everything. Tomorrow morning, nine thirty, present yourself at the servants’ entrance of the hotel. Ask for Mr. Philip Packwood.”
“Ain’t he the mug who arrested Emma?” says Maks.
“He is.”
“Hate him,” says Maks.
“Pha! Emotion clouds your eyes. I assure you, he’s a good man. When you go, do not give your own last name.”
“How come?”
“May I remind you, your sister was arrested there. People know the name. No. You’ll tell people your name is Brown. Maks Brown.”
Maks stares at him.
“Consider it a disguise. Packwood will treat you as an employee. You won’t be paid. Your task: Do what he tells you while you do your sleuthing.”
“What’s sleuthing?”
Donck sighs. “Detection. Still willing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good! You need to discover three things. First, learn the room number from which—”
“What’s a room number?” says Maks.
“Good God! You know nothing, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Who was the idiot who claimed that ignorance is opportunity? Ignorance is . . . is ignorance. Every hotel room has a number. You, Willa—a task for you: You will return to The Tombs to ask your sister where she was—the number of the room in which she received that promise of a compliment. You, Maks, at the Waldorf, will ask Mr. Packwood if your sister did, in fact, receive that compliment. Do you both follow me?”
“Think so.”
“Now leave me in peace. Don’t come back until you’ve learned something. If you do learn something, come immediately. Time—mine and your sister’s—is short.” Donck leans back in his chair, pulls his speaking tube out of his ear, and resumes his writing.
“Mr. Donck!” yells Willa.
He looks up.
“You never said the first thing to find.”
Donck looks blankly at Willa and then, remembering, says, “Indeed. I did not. Very good. Excellent. Smart girl! It’s the most important of all. Maks, ask Packwood in which hotel room the theft took place. That understood?”
Maks glances at Willa and says, “I . . . I think so.”
“Now go,” says Donck, and he turns his back on the kids and furiously resumes his work.
46
Maks and Willa—damp, cold, and uneasy—stand inside the tenement door, staring out onto the street. Rain is falling hard, bouncing off the glistening cobblestones like tiny iron balls. The flashing lightning throws gold onto the street while gutters float with garbage.
Only a few people are out. They’re moving fast, as if they can outrun the rain. Some hold umbrellas. Others got newspapers over their heads. Most have nothing. A few wagons roll by, horses’ heads bent, manes streaming. Drivers crouching beneath canvas capes as if they were the ones—for once—being whipped. An almost empty streetcar rattles past, the squally weather turning its tinkling bell to taffy.
Maks is thinking ’bout what he’s agreed to do: Go to the Waldorf. Just the thought of it makes him anxious. Hardly knows what he’ll do once he gets there. Find evidence. Sleuthing. Take on a different name. Things he’s never done.
Willa says, “You going to do what Donck says?”
“Wanna help Emma, don’t I?” He shakes his head. “Those questions I’m supposed to ask that Packwood, you understand ’em?”
“Not really. Maks, if you go to the hotel, who’s going to do your papers?”
“Forgot ’bout ’em. How ’bout after you go ask Emma Mr. Donck’s question, you sell ’em.”
“Will they let me?”
“Sure. The guys met you. Like you. And you seen what I do. I’ll get Jacob to go with you—he done it before. You’ll be all right.”
“You still not telling your parents what you’re doing?”
Not answering, Maks says, “Come on. Rain’s not gonna let up. We should be home.”
They take off, sometimes running, sometimes just walking fast.
Most shops are shut tight. The few streetlights still on have halos of mist. Peddlers’ carts are covered with canvas, making ’em look like funeral wagons. Only small saloons, with their gaslights dreary in the thick, moist air, are doing business.
Maks leads them down Second Avenue, ’cause the overhead elevated train tracks block some rain. Cold and soaked, shoulders hunched, they try to keep out of the rain by hugging close to buildings. Their shoes splash in puddles. When Willa keeps pushing wet hair from her face, Maks gives her his cap.
Pausing to catch her breath, Willa says, “Is . . . is Mama going to be mad at me for getting my clothes wet?”
Maks notices: This is the first time he’s heard Willa call his mother “Mama.”
“Naw. She’ll understand.”
It’s right near the Rivington Street station that Maks skids to a halt. “Over here!” he calls, and gives Willa a yank, scooting into a doorway.
“What is it?”
“Bruno and his gang are just down the street. Must be eight or nine of ’em.”
Shivering with cold, Willa grips her stick and groans. “They see us?”
“Don’t think so. Went
into a saloon.” Maks leans out of the doorway, peeks down the street. “The last one just went in.”
“Can we get past?”
“Go ’cross the street. So wide and dark, they ain’t gonna see us.”
After taking another look to make sure none of the Plug Uglies are on the street, Maks jumps from where they are, races ’cross to the opposite curb. Willa’s right at his heels.
As they start downtown again, Maks keeps an eye on the saloon in which the Plug Uglies went. The sign on its window names it THE SHIRT TAIL .There’s another sign reading FREE LUNCH.
Maks stops, watches.
Inside the saloon, a gaslight hangs from the ceiling. They can see Plug Uglies standing ’bout, with Bruno in the middle. They’re all drinking, talking, not that the kids can hear anything.
Willa tugs at him. “Let’s go.”
“Wanna see what they’re doing.”
“Why? We’re not going in there, are we?”
“You heard what Donck said. If we’re gonna be detectives, we’re supposed to see things.”
“Maks,” Willa pleads, “we shouldn’t be here.”
But Maks wants to see what happens.
Within moments, the gang comes out from the saloon, Bruno in the lead.
Maks and Willa duck down behind the station steps. Maks peers out, watching as Bruno talks to his pals. Then the redhead goes up the El steps, the uptown side.
As for the rest of the gang, they walk just past the saloon and disappear between buildings, down what looks to be a narrow alley.
Willa pulls at Maks. “I’m really cold. We need to get home.”
While the train rumbles into the station overhead, the two start downtown again. All the same, Maks keeps wondering where Bruno could be going that late. And the gang. Where were they headed?
47
Up at the American Theatre restaurant, the cold, rainy weather keeps the regular crowd down to half. On the stage the orchestra has stopped playing. Musicians are putting away their instruments.
But Bruno’s boss sits at his usual corner table. His derby rests not far from the steak dinner he’s all but finished eating. As a cigar propped on a plate burns slowly, he takes out his fancy watch and checks the time. Bruno is late again. But even as the guy puts the watch away, a waiter, white napkin over his arm, steps up to him.
“Excuse me, sir. There’s a young fellow asking to see you.”
“About time,” the man mumbles. “Just show him along.”
“Forgive me, sir,” says the waiter. “He’s rather wet and . . . what shall I say? . . . untidy. We’d rather not have him come onto the floor. I’m sure you can understand. Would you be willing to see him in the lobby?”
“You certain he wants to see me?”
“He asked for Mr. Brunswick.”
The man frowns but stands up. “I’ll see him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brunswick,” says the waiter. “Much obliged.”
When Brunswick reaches the restaurant’s entryway, Bruno is waiting. He’s quite a mess: wet hair, sopping jacket, muddy boots.
“Where have you been?” Brunswick demands. “I was just about to leave for home.”
“Case yous haven’t noticed,” says Bruno, “it’s stormy. Letting up, though.”
“Good of you to come,” says Brunswick, not speaking too nice.
“Nothing good ’bout it,” Bruno throws back. “Yous tells me to come every day. Then they won’t let me in.”
“Never mind. I suppose you haven’t managed much today.”
“Not too bad.” Bruno, grinning, holds up his bag of coins. “Usual haul. We shook some bones too.”
“Fine,” says the man. “But time is crucial. You need to work faster.” He touches a hand to his breast pocket, where he keeps Bruno’s photo—and his pistol.
Bruno, understanding the threat, frowns. “Hey,” he says, “don’t like yous pushing me all the time. Yous don’t want to get me mad. Doing the best I can. I’m telling yous, them newsies are coming in. We’ll bottle them soon. They’re scared.” He might as well be talking ’bout himself.
Brunswick smiles. “That’s what I want to hear. Anything else?”
“Nothing. Just doing what yous told me.”
“Good. I’ll finish my dinner.”
“Sure,” says Bruno. “See yous tomorrow.”
“Good night,” Brunswick says, and goes back into the dining hall. When he sits down—thinking ’bout Bruno’s threatening words—he pats his pocket, his revolver.
Down below, Bruno steps out onto the street and looks up. It’s stopped raining. For once, the city air smells decent. Streamers of fog wrap round tall buildings.
Bruno glances at the line of horse-drawn hansom cabs at the curb. Be fun, he thinks, to ride one. He supposes Brunswick will take one home.
Just thinking ’bout the man reminds Bruno how much he hates the mug for forcing him to do his nasty work. If he could just get that pistol—and that picture—from him, he could be free. Nobody could touch him then.
Thinking ’bout Brunswick, Bruno wonders, as he often has, why the man don’t want him to know where he lives. Wants me to do his work, but don’t want people seeing me with him.
Recalling that the man said he was almost done with his dinner and going home, Bruno decides to wait for him to come out. Maybe—if it ain’t far—he can follow. Might help him to get that gun and picture.
Bruno stands in the shadows ’cross the street just opposite the restaurant. Turns out it’s only a few minutes ’fore Brunswick appears. As Bruno guessed, the guy hails a hansom cab, speaks to the driver, climbs in.
When the horse and cab pull away, Bruno walks into the street. He watches the rear red night lamp swing from the back of the cab, then suddenly starts running after it.
The cab heads down Forty-second Street, then turns south onto Broadway. There’s enough traffic to keep the cab from going fast. Bruno has no trouble keeping it in sight.
On Thirty-third Street the cab turns east to Fifth Avenue and stops. A run of only thirteen blocks. Bruno is hardly out of breath.
Keeping his distance, Bruno watches the man climb out of the cab and walk into an enormous building. Low clouds circle its top towers, making it seem something strange. But as Bruno stares at the building, he recognizes it as that new highfalutin hotel, the Waldorf.
Bruno grunts with satisfaction. So that’s where he lives.
As he trudges toward home, Bruno tries to think of ways to make use of what he’s learned. He tells himself once again that all he needs is to get his hands on Brunswick’s pistol and the photo. Once he does, he’ll be free of the mug. Forget the newsies. Lam it to Chicago. See that fair everyone’s talking ’bout. Be anywhere but New York.
Just has to get that gun. And that picture.
48
When Willa and Maks get home, the kitchen is warm, smelling of the new bread Mama baked. The lone lamp casts a warm, yellow light.
The family has already finished supper. Since they know it takes Maks a long time to sell papers in bad weather, they don’t even ask where he and Willa were.
Agnes, who’s reading at the table, jumps up. “Come on,” she says to a shivering Willa. “I’ll get you something dry.” Willa goes with her into the back room.
To Maks, Mama says, “Give me your jacket.”
First Maks gives Papa his eight cents, then he dumps the rest of his pennies into the cigar box next to Willa’s blue tin. Mama hangs his jacket on the back of a chair near the warm stove.
Papa, in a half whisper, says, “Maks, why does Willa always carry that stick?”
“Forget?” says Maks as he kicks off his wet boots. Sets them near the stove. “She beat off that Plug Ugly Gang with it. Makes her feel safer.”
“But she feels safe here, doesn’t she?”
“Oh, sure.”
Mama places two bowls of hot soup on the table. Though she’s always saying bread ain’t done till it cools, Papa cuts it. Maks holds a warm
piece in both hands, sticks his nose into it to smell its freshness. There’s a family story ’bout how Maks once burned the tip of his nose smelling hot bread that way.
“Where the boys?” he asks.
“Monsieur Zulot is reading to them.”
“That detective story?” Maks says, sorry he ain’t hearing it. But he’s so hungry and cold, he starts eating.
Willa comes out of the back room wearing one of Emma’s dresses. Agnes, after giving the wet dress to Mama, who hangs it up, sits down near the lamp and picks up her book.
Maks says, “Papa, Emma’s trial’s gonna happen soon. Did you find a lawyer?”
“I’m trying,” Papa answers.
The room is very silent. Papa unexpectedly stands up. “I’d best lie down.” He starts for the back room only to pause. “Miss Willa,” he says, “did Maks tell you? I have a little boat on the river. On Sunday—if the weather is good—we can go fishing.”
“I’d like that,” says Willa.
“Good night, Papa,” Agnes says to him as he goes.
Mama says, “I’ll come with you.” Suddenly, she turns to Maks. “Shame on you!” she hisses. “What do you think? There’s not a moment he’s not worrying ’bout Emma. What are you doing to help?”
Maks bows his head. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“The Tombs were awful,” Mama goes on. “And Blackwell’s Island will be worse.” She shudders.
Agnes coughs, covering her mouth, but says nothing.
Mama takes a breath, sighs, bends over Agnes. “Don’t tire your eyes.”
To Willa, Mama says, “Stay warm.”
To Maks, she grabs his hair, shakes it. “Papa’s trying,” she says, and leaves the room.
Neither Maks nor Willa says anything. It’s Agnes who says to Maks, “Can’t you see how worried they are?”
“I know,” mumbles Maks.
After a moment Willa eats.
Maks, leaning forward and keeping his voice down, says, “Agnes . . .”
Agnes don’t look up.
Maks says, “Papa really looking for a lawyer?”
“We should use that Mr. Sisler I told you about.”