I was about to say it was okay—I was dressed in some of my father’s old clothes—but before I could answer, Detective Culhane growled, “Do you mind if I take over now, Maude?”
Jeez, what kind of bee was in his bonnet?
Miss Collier, who looked very professional with her black bobbed hair and straight skirt, didn’t seem intimidated, though. She was still laughing. “Sure, Detective,” she agreed. “Go ahead.”
He gave her a long, dark look as he took off his hat, so I saw that he was actually fairly young. And his hair was almost black, like Miss Collier’s. But his eyes were blue—and not twinkling. “Thanks,” he finally grumbled. Then he turned to Miss Giddings. “So, tell me again where you were headed when a shot supposedly rang out of nowhere—”
“It did come out of nowhere!” I interrupted. Detective Culhane clearly still didn’t believe the story we’d told him in the alley. “That’s how it happened!”
The detective, who was rolling up his shirtsleeves as if we were in for a long night, suddenly looked like he was going to commit a murder. He glared at me. “So you saw it, Miss Feeney? Saw the actual killing?”
My shoulders slumped. “No.”
He didn’t say anything else. He just turned slowly back to Miss Giddings, who was still in that awful stained coat. “Tell me the sequence of events again.”
Miss Giddings’s eyes were wide with fear, but she nodded. “As I said, Charles and I—”
Detective Culhane cut her short. “You mean Charles Bessemer—associate of Alphonse Capone?”
What?
I nearly fell over when he sprang that news on us. As everybody in Chicago—even kids—knew, Al Capone was a very dangerous man who’d made millions of dollars selling alcohol, which was illegal because of Prohibition. That’s what the law had done. Made it unlawful to sell drinks like beer and wine anywhere in the United States. But people still bought liquor from crooks—who were called bootleggers. And the worst of the bootleggers was Al Capone, who had a bad habit of killing people who got in the way of his “business.”
If Charles Bessemer worked for Al Capone, then Mr. Bessemer had been a criminal too.
But Miss Giddings would never spend time with someone like that . . .
The reporters in the room were scribbling furiously while I gave Miss Giddings an uncertain look. But she seemed as shocked as I was. Her face was pale, and she shook her head. “No . . . No! Charles was an automobile salesman,” she protested. “He told me that!”
Detective Culhane didn’t really do anything to show that he was skeptical, yet I could tell that he was. And when I looked at Miss Collier, she was rolling her eyes.
Why?
“We were going to get dinner,” Miss Giddings continued, more calmly. “Taking a shortcut through the alley.” Her face got even whiter. “And then I heard something—”
The detective’s voice was sharp. “What? What did you hear?”
“A rustling sound,” Miss Giddings said. “I looked toward it, thinking maybe it was a rat. Or something worse. I hadn’t wanted to go through the alley. Never wanted to go that way!” She looked all around the room, as if she hoped someone would agree when she said, “This city . . . it’s not safe.”
Well, nobody could disagree with that, and some of the reporters nodded. Not Maude Collier, though. She kept her eyes trained on Miss Giddings, who added, “Then I heard a loud bang. And Charles . . .”
She couldn’t seem to finish. Which was okay. We’d been through all of this about fifty times by that point.
But Detective Culhane loomed over poor Miss Giddings, his arms crossed, still challenging her. “How did the gun end up next to you?”
I glanced at Miss Collier and could tell that she mainly found the story entertaining, even when Miss Giddings buried her face in her hands, groaning, “I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Is it yours?” Detective Culhane demanded. “The gun?”
Miss Giddings slowly straightened up. “No. It’s not mine. I wouldn’t have one. I have a boy—a son.” She glanced at me. “He’s about Isabel’s age. It’s too dangerous to have a gun in the house. Boys get curious. Pick things up . . .”
I’d forgotten about Robert. Was he worried? Should his mom have been home by now?
I was so lost in thought that for a second I didn’t even realize that the room had gotten quiet. And when I looked around, I discovered that everyone was staring at me. Including Detective Culhane, who had apparently asked me a question. A new question, which I’d sort of hoped nobody would ever get around to asking.
“Well, Miss Feeney?” the imposing detective repeated, staring hard at me. “What were Colette Giddings and Charles Bessemer doing right before they turned down that dark alley? What’s the last thing you saw?”
Oh gosh, did I squirm. And I shot Miss Giddings a very apologetic look before I confessed, with a quick, nervous glance at the reporters who’d record every word, “They . . . they seemed to be fighting.”
Chapter 7
“FIGHTING ABOUT WHAT?” DETECTIVE CULHANE ASKED ME. He leaned down, staring harder into my eyes. “Well?”
“I have no idea,” I told him, getting exasperated. “I couldn’t hear anything. It’s windy out there, you know!”
Whatever I’d said made a couple of the adults in the room laugh.
Not Detective Culhane, though. He kept studying me. “So what makes you think . . .”
I gave Miss Giddings another apologetic look. I felt like I was betraying her. Then I told Detective Culhane, “I could see the expression on Miss Giddings’s face. And the way Mr. Bessemer grabbed her arm. But it didn’t look like a bad argument,” I added. “I’ve had way worse fights with the kid next door—pounded him—but it doesn’t mean I’d kill him!”
Wow, did everybody crack up then—except Detective Culhane. Well, Miss Collier didn’t exactly laugh either. She was too busy scribbling in her notebook.
Was I going to be quoted in the newspaper?
Would Butchie McLaughlin slug me for letting the whole city know I beat him up sometimes—even if he did deserve it for calling us Feeneys “poor bums”? Just because my mother accepted his family’s hand-me-down clothes didn’t make him exactly rich!
Regardless, my answer seemed to satisfy Detective Culhane enough that he turned his attention back to Miss Giddings. “Well? Were you fighting?”
“Yes,” she admitted. She looked down at her hands, fidgeting with a ring. A diamond ring I’d never noticed before, all the times she’d handed me money for papers. Was she engaged? “But it was only because I was late. Charles didn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Detective Culhane took a moment to think about that. His voice got quieter. “Did he get angry often?”
There was a long silence. Then Miss Giddings buried her face in her hands and her shoulders started to shake, so I realized she was crying.
Detective Culhane let her do that for a while; then he spoke to the reporters. “Go file your stories. We’re done here. She’s going over to the county jail for the night.”
What?
“You can’t arrest her!” I cried, jumping up. “You can’t!”
But a police officer was already helping a very wobbly Miss Giddings stand up. Still, as she was led away, she managed to beg me, “Please, Isabel. Go tell my son what happened, and not to worry.” She told me her address, which I hoped wouldn’t fly right out of my head. And the next thing I knew, she was gone.
I would go find Robert that night. Of course, I’d do that.
But first I had something else to take care of.
I needed to make sure that Maude Collier didn’t write a story that would lead a whole city—including potential jurors—to believe that Miss Giddings was guilty. Because I knew from reading all of Miss Collier’s other articles that committing a cold-blooded murder in Chicago really could get a person hanged.
Chapter 8
“MISS COLLIER!” I HOLLERED, RACING THROUGH THE POLIC
E STATION, right past an officer who was trying to offer me a ride home. “Miss Collier! Wait!”
She was reaching for a telephone, which hung on the wall, but she turned and gave me a funny look. “How do you know my name?”
“I . . . I . . .” I was out of breath, although I hadn’t run that far. “I sell the Tribune,” I finally wheezed out. “And I read your articles, all the time. You’re famous.”
She blinked about five times, as though I’d surprised her. I was probably one of the few kids who knew about her. I’d never sold a paper to anybody my age.
“Hey, Maude, you gonna call in your story? Because I’d like to use that telephone.”
I looked around to find another reporter watching us, his arms crossed. But Miss Collier didn’t seem worried about keeping him waiting. “Just relax, Tom,” she said. “Nobody reads the Herald-Examiner. You might as well go home to bed.”
I knew that wasn’t true. The Herald-Examiner was the Tribune’s big rival. But the reporter named Tom just grinned. I thought he kinda liked being teased. “Either talk to the kid or call in your story,” he said. “I got an editor waiting.”
Miss Collier still didn’t take her hand off the telephone. “What do you want, Isabel?” she asked. “And it is Isabel, correct?”
If she used my name in an article, I wouldn’t mind if she got it wrong, so I ignored the question. “I need to talk with you,” I said, with a glance at the man from the Herald-Examiner. Lowering my voice, I explained, “I could tell you didn’t believe Miss Giddings. But she’s innocent. I know it.”
I was pretty sure Miss Collier was going to tell me to get lost. But she didn’t. She really looked me in the eyes, and something she saw there, I guess, made her pull her hand away from the telephone. Then she squeezed my shoulder. “Come on, Isabel. Let’s talk.”
Jeez, I hoped I could come up with something interesting, because all of a sudden I was worried. If I didn’t have some big news to share, she might get awfully mad about giving up the chance to tell her story first.
Had I just made things worse for Miss Giddings by wasting a famous reporter’s time?
It seemed possible. And yet I couldn’t exactly say no when Miss Collier asked me, with a smile, the only good question I’d been asked that day.
“Would you like some hot cocoa?”
Chapter 9
THE FILLMORE DINER, ABOUT A BLOCK FROM THE POLICE STATION, smelled like heaven, and my mouth watered as Miss Collier greeted just about everybody in the place. And before we even sat down in a booth, somebody was setting a coffee mug on the table.
“Who’s your friend, Maudie?” the waitress asked, jerking her head toward me. “Never saw you with a kid before.”
“This is Isabel Feeney,” Miss Collier said, taking off a cute cloche hat and shrugging out of her coat. Up close, she was even younger and prettier than I’d thought, with high cheekbones and a perfect smile that made me want to hide my crooked front tooth. “Isabel’s had a long and difficult evening,” Miss Collier added. “So I think some hot cocoa is in order.” She looked across the table at me, arching a dark eyebrow. “And what will you eat, Isabel? You must be hungry.”
I was near starving, but I had only a few coins in my pocket. I was already worried that I’d said yes to the cocoa too fast, before learning if I’d have to pay, so—though I hadn’t lied at the police station—I told a whopper in the diner. “I’m not hungry, thanks. I ate supper.”
Of course, Miss Collier could tell I was lying. She didn’t make a big show out of it, like I was a charity case, though. She just told the waitress, “Well, I am starving, Peg. I’ll take two pieces of apple pie, please.”
We both knew there’d be two forks, too, and although I was concerned about Miss Giddings, I couldn’t help looking forward to some dessert. “Thanks, Miss Collier,” I said. Then, just in case that extra pie wasn’t for me, I added, “For talking to me, I mean.”
“You’re quite welcome, Isabel. And please, call me Maude.”
My eyes got wide. “Really?”
“Sure, why not?”
“I’ve never called an adult by her first name,” I admitted. “Thanks . . . Maude.” It felt strange to say that, but I could probably get used to it. “And you can call me Izzie, if you want. That’s what my friends do.”
Maude’s smile widened. “I’d like that, Izzie.” Then she folded her arms on the table and leaned forward, growing more serious. “So why did you want to talk with me in particular? There were quite a few reporters at the station.”
“But you’re the best,” I said honestly. “I read your stories all the time. You influence thousands of readers. And sometimes you make people look awfully guilty. I don’t want that to happen to Miss Giddings.”
Maude’s eyes clouded over. “Usually the people I cover are guilty, Isabel.” Before I could protest, she suggested, “But tell me again . . . how did you really get mixed up in this whole mess?”
“I was just selling my papers—”
“Yes,” Maude interrupted. “I was surprised when you mentioned that. Not too many girls sell newspapers.”
I almost felt proud of my job for once, because a star reporter was looking at me with genuine interest. Like we shared a bond, both of us working in a business that was mainly for boys and men. Before I got too full of myself, I said, “Yeah, well, I really wish I could be like you. Writing news, not selling it.”
Maude cocked her head. “Really?”
I nodded, hardly noticing that the waitress was slipping cocoa and pie under my nose. I got the feeling that Maude didn’t think my dream was stupid. “Yeah,” I confided. “I think your life must be really exciting.” My cheeks got flushed a little, but I admitted, “And I like to write.”
Maude wrapped her hands around her mug, warming them. “Tell me more.”
“Well, I don’t go to school anymore,” I said through a mouthful of pie, because even an important conversation couldn’t distract me forever. “I just make up stories sometimes, for fun. And I learn a lot by reading the Tribune. Like how to write quotes and use punctuation . . . stuff like that.”
“I’m impressed, Izzie,” Maude said. “Very impressed.”
I wasn’t used to compliments, so I just shrugged. “Anyhow, I think you’re about the luckiest person in the world. You get paid to write about all kinds of interesting things, and you’re famous on top of that.”
“I do enjoy my work,” she agreed. “But it’s not always easy being a woman in a man’s sphere. Most newspapers don’t even allow women to cover news. Women have to write about fashion, cooking, and things like weddings. Or they’re assigned to do stunts—”
“Like Nellie Bly, going around the world in eighty days,” I said. “I know all about her.”
“And there are lots of other ‘stunt girls,’ who do dangerous things, then write about them,” Maude continued. “But it’s very rare for women to cover crime and other news, the way I do. Most news reporters are men because editors think women are too fragile to see blood.”
“Like we did this evening.” All of a sudden the pie didn’t taste as good, and I got quieter. “It was pretty awful.”
“Are you all right, Izzie?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.” I knew we were getting off track, and I had other things to do that evening—like go see Robert—but I had to ask, “So how’d you do it? How’d you get the job if newspapers don’t usually hire lady reporters?”
Maude opened her mouth to answer. Then she no doubt remembered that if she wanted to keep writing about crime, she needed to get back to that telephone. “I’ll tell you some other time. All right? I promise.”
I was used to adult “promises”—which were never kept unless they involved me getting some kind of punishment—but I sort of believed her. Maybe because she was sliding her slice of pie across the table, without a word, so it joined my already empty plate. How could I not trust a woman who gave me two pieces of pie? Then, unfortunately, she too
k out her notebook and asked me a question I should’ve been prepared for—instead of daydreaming about being a big-shot journalist.
“So, what can you say to convince me that—unlike almost every other woman on Murderess’s Row—this Miss Giddings is innocent?”
Chapter 10
IT FELT AS IF THE TEMPERATURE OUTSIDE HAD DROPPED TEN degrees while I’d been in the diner with Maude, and I ran down the street to keep warm, looking for the address Miss Giddings had given me.
Five thirty-one Throop Street.
I also ran because the neighborhood was dark and quiet, with most lucky families snug inside their little brick or wood-frame houses. I didn’t want to be the second person killed in a lonely spot that night.
And as I hurried along, I tried to recall details from my talk with Maude.
Had I convinced her that Miss Giddings was innocent?
Looking back, it seemed like Maude had listened to me.
But had she ever come right out and said she believed me?
Maybe not, but we were friends, right?
It was too late to worry. I’d finally found the right address, and I bounded up onto the porch of a small brick bungalow. Raising my fist, I banged on the door, without even thinking about what I’d say to Robert. Which is probably why, when a pale, thin kid about my age opened the door just a crack and peeked out, the moonlight glinting off his eyeglasses, I blurted, “Let me in, Robert. We gotta help your mom.”
Chapter 11
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” THE PALE KID’S EYES were big with fear, and he kept the door almost shut, just peeping through the crack. “What happened to my mother?”
“She’s okay,” I promised. Then I realized that wasn’t exactly true. “Kind of okay.” I had been sweating inside my wool coat, and I started shivering now that I was standing still. “Can I come in, Robert?” I hesitated. “You are Robert, right?”
Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter Page 2
