Lady Vigilante (Episodes 16 – 18) (Lady Vigilante Crime Compilations)

by Hayley Camille

  “I’m afraid I have no child of that name or birth date here. He’s not in this asylum, nor has he been here since his birth.”

  The young woman looked down, blinking hard. When she looked back up, grief was etched in her striking features.

  Mrs. Bricknell sat back down behind her desk.

  “I am not unsympathetic, you understand. But I warn you that these types of searches almost always end in more grief for those involved. I’m sorry.”

  The young woman nodded and rallied herself. She folded the birth certificate into neat quarters and tucked it back into her handbag.

  “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Bricknell,” she said quietly, getting to her feet. “You’ve been – unexpectedly kind.”

  “We deal with broken homes and broken hearts here,” the administrator said, gently. “I do not wish to add more misery to misfortune.”

  The young woman nodded again and gave a tight smile then let herself out of the door. She walked past the secretary who was engrossed in the satisfying repetition of her work, then softly closed the main reception door behind her. She had almost reached the front steps of the asylum when someone called out. It was Mrs. Bricknell.

  The older woman caught up, then held out a hastily written note.

  “Somewhere to start,” she offered, putting a kind hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “These institutions have quite a lot of younger boys. It may not lead to a miracle, but then again, perhaps it will. Good luck to you, dear.” She disappeared back up the hallway and through the reception door.

  The young woman looked down at the note. It was a list of names, institutions, that the administrator must have thought worth trying.

  In the search for Theodore Mills, born 7th July 1938:

  Try -

  Benevolent Foundling Society

  St. Agnes Orphan’s Asylum

  Mercy Institution for Abandoned Children

  St. Augustine’s Home for Unwanted Boys

  The young woman stepped down onto the sidewalk. She allowed herself a small smile. It wasn’t what she had hoped for, but after years of disappointment, it was something. Her heart fluttered with the possibility that she might find her son, after all.

  “Oh, she’s such a jolly little thing,” Betty gushed, bouncing a ginger-mopped baby on her knee. “Time is just whizzing by! I feel Christmas came and went like a blizzard this year.”

  “You’re right about that, Betty,” said a matching ginger woman, who was turning her face to and ‘fro in front of a gilded hand-mirror, admiring her complexion. “This one is growing like a weed, it’s all I can do to keep up feeding her sometimes.”

  “Oh, by the way, I meant to thank you, Harriet – for the Hoover Stew recipe,” Betty cooed, still making faces at the giggling baby. “It went down a treat with the children on the weekend. I’d never thought of using spaghetti that way.”

  “It was a recipe of my mothers,” replied Harriet, “she got rather clever with feeding us all on a shoestring during the depression. There were nine of us you know. Five girls and four boys, all a year apart.”

  “You don’t say? How well she did to manage it.”

  “Goodness yes, I find it hard enough juggling one. Say, Betty, I really do like this Winter Glow foundation,” she waved a jar in the air, “but I was hoping for something bright for my lips as well. You know – to distract from how tired my eyes look. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep all year with this one –”

  “Oh, she’s a cherub –” Betty laughed.

  “Then with all the entertaining I do for my Henry’s work colleagues –”

  “Oh Hattie, no matter what lipstick you wear you’ll always have the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like warm coffee on a cold morning.”

  “Would you like another coffee?” Harriet asked, suddenly remembering her manners.

  “Goodness no, I need to get home to my own cherubs soon, thank you though. But you know I do think you’re right about the lipstick.” Betty leaned forward, holding the baby tight on her lap. “Our latest catalogue had a stunning shade that I think would do you wonders. Let me find it.” She sorted through her cosmetic case with one hand, holding the baby with the other. Betty pulled out a small gold lipstick case with floral engraving. “This is the one. It’s just divine with a splash of bronze in the red base – perfect for your hair. You’ll look an absolute dish, Hattie, go ahead and try it on.”

  Harriet applied the lipstick and admired herself in the mirror again.

  “Yes! I’m so glad I finally caught up with you Betty, this is just what I’m after. Oh, and I’m nearly out of those lavender bath salts you bring me by the way.”

  “Sorry, darling. My rounds have had me run off my feet lately.” She gave the baby a squeeze. “In three months, this divine creature has grown two inches! It’s been far too long between cuddles. My own children are so big these days, it’s nice to remember how sweet they are before they find their own voice.”

  Harriet raised an eyebrow. “Trouble in paradise?”

  Betty dismissed her with a wave. “Just a young lady who’s as stubborn as I am. Sometimes it doesn’t pay for daughters to take after their mothers quite so well.”

  “Nancy’s a doll,” Harriet said. “I can’t imagine her causing you worry.”

  Betty decided to change the subject.

  “So, shall I order you the lipstick? And the foundation? Some more bath salts, and – what about that powder puff you were admiring? Shall I add it to your list?”

  Harriet chewed her lip as she picked up a decorative jar and puff from the coffee table overflowing with cosmetics. “Ooh, I’m just not sure –”

  “Well they have been very popular,” Betty said, airily. “I can’t guarantee that if you put it off, I’ll be able to get you one later.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. Caroline Marshall bought two for herself and one apiece for each of her four daughters. Though they are all rather fashionable that lot, always keeping afoot of the latest trends. Mr. Marshall is an attorney you know, and I believe Caroline has to entertain important guests at least once a week for dinner.”

  Harriet raised her eyebrows. “Well I’ll certainly have one,” she sniffed. “I’m always entertaining one client or another for my Henry and I need to look my best. Next week I’m putting on a spread for the partners at his firm and I’m certainly not going to look dowdy for it. I have to do that, you know,” she added, sounding a little indignant, “keep up with the other wives and put on a good show. Henry’s up for a promotion, he may be offered partner himself soon.”

  “Is he really?” Betty said. “Well that doesn’t surprise me at all. Your Henry is such a clever fellow. Of course, he will rely on you to play your part. Behind every successful man there stands a woman, isn’t that what they say?”

  “That’s right,” Harriet said, her bristles smoothing. She scanned the coffee table. “And I’ll take the Bluebell Mist perfume too,” she added “and a second one for my sister, Millie. The Marshall ladies aren’t the only ones keeping up appearances.”

  “Certainly not,” Betty agreed. She gave the baby one last bounce and gently placed her on the floor at her feet. Betty scribbled Harriet’s order in her notebook and began to pack up the cosmetics. “Thank you so much for the cup of coffee, darling. I’ll make sure your order is delivered first, as soon as it arrives. I don’t want to keep you waiting with so many important dinners on your hands.”

  “Thank you, Betty. Give my love to George when you next write. I trust he’s doing well?”

  “Oh, very well,” Betty said, snapping shut the clasps of her oversized Avon case. “It seems he’s found his feet in the driver’s seat of those big military tanks. He has always had a soft spot for fancy automobiles – now he’s in the biggest one there is!” They both laughed as Betty made her way to the door. “Take care of that darling cherub, Hattie, I’ll see you again soon!” She strap
ped her cosmetic case tightly to the back rack of her bicycle.

  With a cheerful wave and a ding of her bell, Betty wheeled through the dusk toward home. It had been a busy day doing the rounds for the latest season’s catalog. She hadn’t meant to be out so late. The children would be home from school and waiting for dinner.

  Betty had barely ridden ten minutes when a prickly intuition touched the hair on her neck. She let down her mental shields. A single voice, one that she recognized, broke through the hum of whispers.

  “I’d like a word, Mrs. Jones.”

  Betty stopped her bicycle. She had slipped along the Promenade, between the cemetery and the World’s Fair grounds in Flushing Meadows. There was a side road ahead, that crossed to a low fence bordering the maze of roads and empty buildings of the abandoned Fair. The old fairgrounds were a spectacle of isolation. Over 1,200 acres of abandoned buildings and posters for rides and amusements taken away too soon. The place now wore the aura of a ghostly carnival. Laughter and hope had been swept away by the gale of war.

  “I’m waiting for you in the building on your right, Mrs. Jones.” The voice said, clear as day in her mind. “I think it’s time we had a talk, don’t you?”

  Betty recognized the voice all too well. It was Agent Ratliff, the bloodhound from the FBI who had been dogging her steps for months. It seemed he had finally found his moxie.

  With an irritated sigh, Betty turned off the Promenade and wheeled her bicycle to the edge of the fairground. She was tired, and the man’s intrusion was the last thing she felt like dealing with. She rolled her bicycle into a small gap behind a bush, then sifted through the contents of her cosmetic case, until she could access the false bottom of her bag. She slipped out one knife, then another, and slid them into her garter. Just in case.

  Leaving her bicycle hidden in its leafy alcove, Betty jumped the fence and walked into the fairgrounds. The sun was almost set. The place was eerie.

  The World’s Fair had been abandoned as quickly as it had sprung up. It was the brainchild of a group of New York City businessmen, conjured up at the height of the great depression. Through its creation, they’d hoped to embody an inspiring dream of the future to lift spirits and ignite prosperity in the city’s besieged economy. Forty-five million visitors had streamed through its gates over two years to witness The World of Tomorrow. Optimism. Passion. The latest technology and brightest minds. Utopia.

  Great companies rolled in from across the world to showcase their most exciting new inventions – nylon, scent-o-vision, color film and air-conditioning.

  Betty and George had brought the children more than once, spending hours milling about the fairgrounds, marveling at the wonders on display. George had been particularly consumed by General Motors’ futuristic diorama of expressways and remote-controlled vehicles, with rooftop platforms for flying machines atop every home and clever gadgets within. Nancy had been terrified by Elektro the Moto-Man, a seven-foot robot that smoked cigarettes and recognized colors. Betty herself had been enamored with the unveiling of the home television, a personal theatre screen that delivered black-and-white images with matching sound inside your own sitting room. The very idea of having such a thing in her home had seemed extraordinary and Betty still didn’t know a soul who could afford one. Then, only a few months after the Fair had opened, war broke. Commercial television production had been banned and engineers directed to assist the war effort instead.

  The effect of the war on the World Fair was swift and brutal. Pavilions for countries with German alliance were abandoned, and Betty had watched as crowds dwindled day by day. Within two years, the gates were closed. Bankruptcy was filed. Rides were sold off to Coney Island and food outlets drew their shutters and moved away. Buildings were demolished.

  For three years now, the World’s Fair ground had been abandoned. The great pavilions and ornate sculptures it had spawned slumbered in neglect and disrepair. War drew the city’s eyes far away.

  Betty walked across the park toward the building on her right. It was tall and concrete, whitewashed and rounded at the edges, with a smooth, futuristic design. She remembered it had once been a pavilion for one of the European countries. Now, unkempt bushes crowded its sides and vines clawed into moss-mottled concrete walls. The paving stones sprouted brown weeds. Betty pushed on the front door. It was unlocked. She stepped into a cavernous foyer. There was nobody there.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she sang. “You don’t want me to get impatient now, do you?”

  “Mrs. Jones.” A door toward the back of the foyer opened. The investigator walked toward her, tipping his fedora.

  “Out for your daily constitutional again, Agent Ratliff? My, my, you do get around.”

  “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “You can do away with the formalities,” Betty said, dryly. “I see our mutual fiend Donald Pinzolo has informed you of my mind-reading capabilities. Bravo for using it in such a conspired way.”

  “Trailing you isn’t easy, Mrs. Jones,” Ratliff said. “You never seem to stop moving.”

  “The devil finds work for idle hands,” Betty said. “I like to keep myself out of mischief.”

  Ratliff raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” He pulled a cigarette and lighter from inside his coat pocket and lit it. “From where I’m standing you’ve been into mischief more than out of it lately. That business in the Bowery? That was a close call.”

  Betty stiffened. “If you knew I was there, why not make yourself known?”

  Agent Ratliff studied her for a moment. He took a drag on his cigarette and smiled. “Why take out a master player in the middle of a game?”

  “Don’t act so smug,” Betty said. “Master player, my eye. I know why you haven’t come after me. It’s because even with Donald Pinzolo’s word, you still don’t know what game I’m actually playing. I’m an unknown quantity, and your boss doesn’t want to risk making a wrong move.”

  “You blindsided us, not gonna deny it.” He exhaled a lung-full of smoke. “Beautiful woman. Powerful. Deadly. I gotta say, this has been an eye-opener, following you. Didn’t expect it.” Agent Ratliff watched her minutely, his eyes taking in every detail. “Bit of a smart mouth, but –” He shrugged.

  Betty rolled her eyes. “An eye-opener for you, a tedious bore for me. I have dinner to cook and children to care for at home, as you well know. Spit it out. What do you want?”

  “I’m delivering a message.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “It’s like you said, Mrs. Jones. You’re still an unknown quantity and my boss doesn’t like it. He does want to know what he’s dealing with.” For a moment there was cold silence.

  “We aren’t alone,” Betty said aloud as she realized.

  The internal door Ratliff had entered from just a few minutes before, opened again. Half a dozen men emerged. They were each wearing a plain suit that barely disguised their bulky physiques. They were clearly special agents, soldiers trained for combat, built like fighting machines. They walked quietly across the floor, surrounding them in a wide circle, leaving Ratliff in the middle with her, like boxers in a ring.

  “Well played,” Betty said, scanning the huge dusty foyer around them. “No witnesses. No escape. You think you’ve caught me like a little mouse in a trap, don’t you?”

  “Like I said, we just need to know what we’re dealing with. No one’s gonna trust Pinzolo’s word alone, are they? The man’s a criminal. He’d say whatever he could to pull a deal.”

  “A criminal you’re willing to put back on the streets.”

  “Better the devil you know,” Ratliff said, with a smirk.

  “You spied on me at Rikers too?” Betty grit her teeth. “Bad form, Agent Ratliff.”

  “Like I said, trailing you isn’t easy. We’ve gotta take any advantage we’ve got.”

  Betty’s mind was working, though her body was still. She dove into each soldier’s
mind, searching for weaknesses, assessing his strengths. The men she usually fought were street tough, they relied on their weapons and brute strength to overcome her. The men surrounding her now were different. They were expertly trained, strategic fighters. Like Chén Qiáng of the Ghost Warriors, the Chinese Triad operation she had fought in her search for the runaway Turk. These men were the best of their kind. Every strike was deliberate, every motion, lethal.

  Ratliff tossed the cigarette down by his shoe, toeing it out.

  “They’re not armed,” he said. “We’re not trying to kill you, Mrs. Jones. If we’d wanted to do that, you’d already be dead.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Betty bit back.

  “This is just a test.”

  “I’m aware they aren’t armed. You seem to have forgotten my other skill rather quickly. The one that allowed you to lure me here in the first place. I already know everything about these men that I want to. Don’t get me wrong, Agent Ratliff. I’m not scared.” She crossed her arms defiantly. “I just don’t see why I should comply. I pose no threat to the government of this country.”

  “No threat?” Ratliff’s laugh echoed throughout the dusty chamber. “Lady, you’re the biggest threat this country has ever seen outside of the Krauts. Who’s to say you’re not going to charm your way into the White House and pull a shiv out from under your skirt.” Ratliff looked at her bare legs, greedily. “Yeah, I know what’s up there and it ain’t silk drawers. Not just, anyway.” He grinned.

  Betty’s chest roared indignantly. “I see your manners are still deplorable, you filthy rodent, Rat-liff,” she spat. “And you know full well I’ve done nothing to jeopardize the security of this country. In fact, I assisted to incarcerate one of the biggest criminals in the city while your lot turned a blind eye. I’m as patriotic as the next person. Now, if you don’t mind, I have dinner to get in the oven.” Betty turned, furious, aiming to push her way past the sentinels blocking her from the entrance door.