by Liz Freeland
I tried, and winced.
“Dislocated,” he declared. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Can you yank it back in place?” the man named Ed asked him.
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Now wait a minute . . .”
“Maybe I could,” the cop said, “exceptin’ it’s a lady’s arm.”
“Is a lady’s arm so different from a man’s?” a third man asked.
The crowd was thinning, and passengers in the stalled train grumbled more volubly. Most people would rather be on their way than witness the drama of my arm. I couldn’t blame them. Given my druthers, I’d have skipped it, too.
“I’ve never manipulated a lady’s limbs,” the cop said primly.
I laughed, but it came out almost as a gasp.
“Heck, Bellevue’s just a few stops down the line,” the motorman said.
“I’ll take her there and let the docs tend to it,” my rescuer said. He hauled me to my feet, earning another shriek from me, but I was better off standing. I might be unsteady on my feet, but at least I wasn’t stuck helpless on the ground like a maimed bug.
“Name’s Ed Blainey, ma’am,” he said.
“Louise Faulk. Thank you so much.”
“Wasn’t nothing—I saw you go forward and just reached out. It was like what you call a gut reaction.”
“Well, it saved my life.”
The cop, growing impatient and more unsure of what he should do, nodded to the motorman. “You can move the train again, Conductor. I’ll escort the lady.”
I got on the train with my policeman and Ed Blainey, who wasn’t going to let me out of his sight. It was like having a benevolent bear watching over me. I winced as the train got under way. Every rattle and shake sent a jolt of pain through me.
Once we got off at Twenty-eighth street, it took a long time for me to critch down the steps from the platform. We made the long block between Second and First in about ten minutes because I was moving so cautiously. It was a relief to turn and see the brick buildings of Bellevue ahead. Before we entered the hospital’s interior quadrangle, the cop stopped at a call box on the street to tell his precinct what had happened, and where he was.
“Once you’re done at the hospital, we can take you back to the precinct and report your little robbery,” he announced when his telephone call was completed.
The idea of going to the police station panicked me. “I can’t do that. I live downtown. I’m halfway there now.”
“Don’t you mind that,” he said. “It’ll just take two ticks to make your statement and you’ll be on your way again.”
“But I don’t have anything to report—I didn’t even see the man who pushed me. I don’t even know if it was a man.”
“It was a man, all right,” Ed said. “One of the others on the platform saw him and ran after him.”
“Yes, but I didn’t see him,” I said.
“But you know what was in your bag.” The policeman shook his head. “Not much chance of it turning up, but if it’s found, you’ll surely want it returned. You’ll have to tell us what was in it, so it can be identified.”
Money-wise, I probably hadn’t lost much. But the bloodstained gloves . . . I could hardly mention those in a police report, could I? And now they were gone, perhaps for good. I could have wept, but not from pain. I’d been on to something. I’d had proof, such as it was, to back up my developing theory of what had happened, but now . . . nothing.
Could it have been a coincidence that I was attacked on this of all evenings? I doubted it. Of course, robberies of this type were not unheard of. Purse snatchers and pickpockets and other sneak thieves were almost as common on the streets of Manhattan as newsboys and bootblacks. People idling on crowded El platforms were especially easy marks, because the thief could melt into a crowd or disappear onto a train car—or the person being robbed could step onto the train before noticing anything amiss.
But how many of these robbers actually took the extra step of trying to kill the person they were stealing from? Because no matter how I tried to deny it, a clear memory of a hand against my back was imprinted on my mind. I’d been pushed. Someone wanted me dead.
The hospital’s teeming waiting room filled me with dread. It reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of Ellis Island, only these huddled masses had more pain and less hope. I would be there all night. Fortunately, my police escort seemed to work in my favor. The charge nurse gave my arm a brisk inspection and waved us in through the double doors and down a hallway to an examination room where a young doctor waited. Tall, pale, and thin, he looked undernourished and dog-tired. Yet he sat up a little straighter when he saw the askew angle of my arm.
The process involved in getting my arm back into the correct position in the shoulder socket was probably no different at the hospital than it would have been on the subway platform, performed by the cop. As I lay back on an exam table, the doctor fretted his hands about my shoulder and collarbone for a few minutes—watching me grimace in pain each time he tried to manipulate the arm—and then asked me, “Would you like a bit of laudanum for the pain, Miss Faulk?”
I hesitated.
“I recommend it,” he said.
Laudanum. I’d had it once for a toothache and would dearly have welcomed a little of the oblivion an opiate could deliver. Except that the policeman was still waiting to take me to the station, and someone had tried to kill me. I needed to be on guard.
“No, thank you,” I said.
The doctor’s brow crinkled in worry. “If you prefer . . .”
Prefer suffering, he meant.
I wish I could claim to have stoically endured what followed. I can’t. I doubt that poor young doctor’s eardrums have been the same since. But the end result was successful—my arm no longer looked like a broken limb after a tornado. It ached something fierce, but the doctor put it in a sling, had the nurse administer two aspirin, and then sent me on my way.
I had endured the worst, I was sure. While I was gritting my teeth in agony on the doctor’s table, I’d prepared a strategy for how to deal with my kindly policeman. I would simply give him the bare facts of what happened on the subway platform without letting him know what was in the bag—in other words, keeping the gloves out of the story.
That, at least, was my plan until I walked out the door and saw the policeman and my rescuer chatting with Detective Muldoon.
My feet froze even as my stomach somersaulted. What was he doing here? Had he come looking for me? I glanced around, desperately seeking exits, but the corridor had no visible outlets. Behind me were the surgical rooms, ahead of me stood The Inquisition.
Ed Blainey, who’d taken off his cap to reveal an even bristle of jet black flecked with gray, grinned when he caught sight of me. “There she is. Right as rain.”
Hard to believe I looked right as rain or anything else when it felt as though all the blood had drained out of me. Good thing I’d passed up that laudanum. I’d need my wits about me to wriggle past Muldoon. Unless . . .
A troubling thought occurred to me. Perhaps something had happened to Callie, or Otto . . . or was this about Max’s escape?
Muldoon’s gaze followed Ed Blainey’s. From the way his dark eyes bugged, he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. That put some of my fears to rest, at least. He hadn’t come looking for me, and now my appearance had caught him left-footed. I walked toward them, resolved to brazen this out.
“This is the girl you brought here?” Muldoon asked.
“A young lady, I’d call her,” Ed Blainey said.
“Thank you, Mr. Blainey.” I would’ve liked this man even if he hadn’t saved my life. “It was kind of you to wait for me. And you, too, Officer—?” I’d never caught his name.
“MacDougal.”
“Officer MacDougal, you’ve been so kind. But now I’m perfectly fine, so no harm done and—”
“You were attacked, Louise,” Muldoon said.
MacDougal gaped at him. “You know her?”
<
br /> “She’s involved in a case,” Muldoon told him. “The Greenwich Village murder.”
Ed gaped at me. “The Butcher?”
“My roommate was killed.”
His jaw dropped. “And now someone’s tried to kill you!”
Muldoon turned to MacDougal. “You said the girl’s purse was snatched.”
“That’s what I was told,” MacDougal said, almost apologetically. “I didn’t figure it for attempted murder.”
Ed scratched his stubbly jaw. “Me neither, at first, but something’s been bothering me. See, I was standing on the platform, waiting.” He squared himself to reenact the incident, indicating an invisible line between himself and the policemen to be the platform’s edge. “And as the train’s approaching the station, this young lady comes and stands right next to me. Not pushy or anything. But I notice her because . . . well, because she’s pretty, ain’t she?”
MacDougal looked me over as if he was trying to decide. Indignant heat filled my cheeks, and Muldoon’s lips twisted. “Go on,” he told Blainey.
“Not that I was going to get fresh—I’m a married man. But even married men notice things, you know?”
MacDougal nodded. “I’ve heard that rumor.”
Ed frowned at his sarcastic tone, and I liked him even more. “Well, so this young lady’s standing there, same as me, sort of glancing down the track expectant-like, when all the sudden she just jerks forward.”
“Did you see anyone shove her?” Muldoon asked.
Ed shook his head. “No, sir, I didn’t. I was too busy watching her flying out over the track. I used to play baseball—maybe you wouldn’t know it to look at me, but back in the day I was a quick man on second base. So I darted my hand out and yanked her back by the arm.” He shrugged sheepishly. “Guess I yanked a little too hard.”
“I’ll never think so,” I said.
MacDougal considered the man’s words. “I still don’t figure it for attempted murder. Just a purse snatch. She lost her balance.”
“That’s what I thought, too, at first,” Ed said. Bless the man, but I dearly wished he’d let the subject drop. “But I been standing here thinking. A thief would grab her bag—here, I’ll show you.” This time he moved me over to demonstrate, while he played the part of purse snatcher. He mimicked stealing up behind me and grabbing the bag off my arm—luckily, my good right arm. When he tugged at my sleeve, I turned a little. “See? Doing that would spin the lady around so’s she’d see him. But this thief was tricksy. He didn’t want her to see him, so he grabbed her purse”—Ed took hold of the sleeve covering my forearm—“then he pushed her forward.” With a shove—almost from the same place in my back that the attacker had used—I was propelled forward, coming to a halt just a few inches from Muldoon. “See?” Ed asked. “She never saw who did it.”
“And neither did you,” MacDougal said. “You’re just slinging hash.”
Muldoon wasn’t so scornful, though. His gaze never left my face. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I could feel my color rising again.
“Were you pushed?” he asked me.
Practiced as I was becoming at skirting the truth, I simply couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye and tell him a bald-faced whopper. “I might have been,” I admitted. “But perhaps the purse snatcher just hit me by mistake and—”
“What did the thief steal?” Muldoon asked.
“My satchel.”
“What was in it?”
“Oh, the usual things. A little money. My comb, a handkerchief. A library book . . .”
“Do you have any reason to think you might have been followed?” he asked.
Was I so transparent? I attempted an innocent shrug.
His face darkened. “Louise, what else was in your purse?”
I swallowed. “Nothing of any value.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll have to think.” I’d wanted to talk to Callie about all this before I spoke to the police about the gloves. I owed her that, surely.
Muldoon sighed and turned to MacDougal. “I’ll take her off your hands. This is a matter for downtown, I think.” He took my arm—my good one. “Come on.”
“Hey now,” Ed Blainey protested. “This young lady’s done nothing wrong.”
“I just need to ask her some more questions and get a description of this purse snatcher,” Muldoon assured him.
“I didn’t see him,” I said.
“Maybe not, but I suspect if we jog your memory, you might realize you didn’t need to see who it was to know who it was.”
To MacDougal’s amusement, and over Ed Blainey’s protests, Muldoon began to tug me away from the others.
I resisted. “Is anyone in your family an avid reader, Mr. Blainey?”
It was a shot in the dark, but the man’s craggy face broke into a smile. “I got one daughter. Always has her nose in a book.”
“My aunt is an author. If you go to her house on Fifty-third Street, I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to sign a few books for your daughter. And perhaps you could tell her what happened, and that you saw me being dragged away by Detective Muldoon?”
Muldoon made a disgusted sound, but Mr. Blainey nodded and then winked at me for good measure. “I’ve got to head back uptown anyway.” I could have kissed his bristly cheek for that lie. Instead, I gave him Aunt Irene’s address.
“Who’s this aunt?” MacDougal demanded. “Famous author?” He pivoted to Muldoon. “Sounds fishy to me, sir. Could be a newspaper scribbler.”
Muldoon shook his head to warn MacDougal off any conspiracy theory that might be brewing in his noggin. “She writes novels. Irene Livingston Green.”
“Myrtle in Springtime? Shy Fern?” The officer’s face went slack. “That Irene Livingston Green?”
My astonishment was only slightly less than Muldoon’s. Or slightly less obvious.
“My ma’s a bookworm,” MacDougal added sheepishly.
Muldoon snorted. “Sure she is.”
I gave Ed Blainey Aunt Irene’s address, and MacDougal said he’d go, too—“just to show him the way.”
Mixed feelings warred within as I watched those two men stroll away. At least I wouldn’t disappear into police custody with no one knowing where I was. On the other hand, I was now alone with Muldoon. And he didn’t look pleased.
“Wait here,” he said, and darted into the street to hail the black cab chugging in our direction. The driver pulled up and yanked the brake, then hopped out. He wore a duster and cap and opened the door for Muldoon, who waved me over.
“A taxi?” I asked.
“You’re hurt, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I’m also penniless, now that my satchel’s gone.”
He stopped short of rolling his eyes. “Just get in.” He turned to the cabbie, who was still holding the door. “Charles Street. Sixth Precinct Headquarters.”
I climbed into the cab and pushed myself toward the far side. Muldoon came in after me, shut the door, and placed his hat on his knee. He seemed larger in the small space. We both faced forward, stiff and formal in the dark interior.
A block or two of silence was all I could take. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve been following me, Detective. Your being at the hospital was quite a coincidence.”
“Nothing really seems like a coincidence where you’re concerned,” he said. “You appear to be tangled up in all sorts of troubles. I imagine you’re no stranger to hospitals.”
“I’ll have you know I haven’t been to one since my uncle chopped his pinky finger off with a meat cleaver.”
“Your uncle the butcher?”
“I suppose it’s a professional hazard.” I frowned. “Why were you at the hospital?”
“Robinson got stabbed. That’s our professional hazard.”
A horrible possibility struck me. “Was he hurt while you were hunting Max?”
“You heard about the escape?”
“I was at the flat this afterno
on. And then I went to the Jefferson Courthouse jail to see what had happened. I asked after you, but some big galoot named Flynn said you weren’t around.”
“You were looking for me? Why?”
I wasn’t certain how much I should tell, so I deflected his question with one of my own. “Was Detective Robinson working on my case—I mean, Ethel’s murder?”
He shook his head. “Yours isn’t the only criminal case in town, unfortunately.”
The cab made a sharp right turn, and my free hand pushed down on the dimpled upholstery—inadvertently mashing Muldoon’s hand. I withdrew mine quickly, as did he.
“Is Detective Robinson going to be all right?” I asked.
“The doctors think so. They sewed him up and are keeping him there awhile.”
“Maybe we should buy him some fruit.”
“I took him a sack of oranges.” He must have noticed my blink of surprise. “You think a detective can’t be thoughtful?”
The memory of his speaking so kindly to Dora after the funeral came back to me. “I know you can be. You only act gruff.”
“It’s not an act.” His lips turned down. “Most of the time.”
I smiled.
“Who pushed you, Louise?”
The question caught me off guard, as it was intended to. My smile faded. “I don’t know.” Not that I didn’t have suspicions. “Why would I necessarily have known the culprit?”
“You really believe a man just so happened to target you as a good candidate for purse snatching?”
“Why not?”
He gave me a shrewd up-and-down glance. “You don’t wear jewelry or particularly fashionable clothes. That shirtwaist looks fine on you, but your skirt has the look of something you sewed yourself, assuming you’re not a very able seamstress. Your hem’s wavy.”
I touched my skirt self-consciously. His assessment should have ruffled me, but I was fascinated. Everything he said was true. The shirt was a Callie cast-off, and the skirt was one I’d made the spring before I’d left home. I’d had to adjust the waist twice, but I hadn’t thought to fix the hem, even though Callie had complained about it. I would never have expected Muldoon to notice such details.
“When was the last time you carried any more than a couple bucks on you?” he asked.
