Oh Danny Boy

by Rhys Bowen

  “Someone should question the local inhabitants, but not you or me,” she said. “This is a police investigation.”

  “You’re with the police. You told me.”

  She looked just slightly embarrassed. “Yes, but I’m not officially assigned to this case. In truth they only use me for undercover observation where a male officer would be too obvious. They’ve yet to trust me with a real detective’s work.”

  “Then this is a good chance to prove yourself,” I said. “Look, they’ve nobody out here. What harm can there be in asking a few discreet questions before the men show up? And you’ve already nabbed the cigar butt.”

  She grinned. We were fellow conspirators. “I like your style,” she said. “As I said, I’ve already checked the official brothels on the street to see if any girls are missing, so you take that tenement and I’ll take this one. Then we’ll work our way down to the end of the block. The vehicle came up from Canal, because the wheel tracks are on this side of the street. The man wouldn’t want to risk causing any kind of traffic holdup.”

  “Right you are,” I said. “I’ll tackle this place then.”

  “And I the one directly opposite. Report back here.”

  And off I went, followed, like the Pied Piper, by a string of inquisitive children. “So who lives here?” I asked, and room by room, I made my way through the house. Many of the apartments only had windows that looked out to the back of the building, or worse, to the air well in the middle of the building. That meant another window or a brick wall, literally two feet away. I heard they had just passed a new law saying that tenements had to have better ventilation and an inside toilet, but I couldn’t see City Hall making anyone tear down existing buildings or correcting these pitiful air ducts.

  At last I came to the apartment where the skinny child lived, whose name I had by now found out was Kitty. Her mother was home, stirring a huge pot of laundry over a gas ring with a big wooden spoon. Her sleeves were rolled up and her forearms red and raw from the soda in the washing tub. She scowled as the children spilled into the room, sweeping me in with them.

  “What in the world—” she began, but they twittered around her like sparrows.

  “Mah, she’s come about the body. You know, the woman what had her face bashed about?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs…” I said, when I could get a word in edgewise, “but we’re wondering if anyone in this apartment was up and around at five this morning, which was when the poor girl was dumped on the street.”

  “Up and around?” she glared at me, her lip curled up scornfully. “With a man who has to be at his shift digging the subway by six, and a couple of girls off to the sewing shops, I don’t know where we’d be if I wasn’t up and around by five.”

  “So was it possible you might have seen something from your front window? You have a good view of the street.”

  “Oh sure. And I’ve the time to sit behind my lace curtains, sipping my morning coffee, and peeking out at the world, haven’t I? It’s like a zoo in here, in the mornings. Crazy. The man’s yelling for his boots and his breakfast at the same time. Me father wants something else, and the girls want their lunch pails. No, I can safely say that I didn’t look out of the window. Not until we heard the commotion.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “The kids rushed to the window, and the police had arrived and they were in the process of carting her off to the morgue, I suppose. Several of them were lifting her into the back of a Black Maria and off they went.”

  “But you didn’t hear or see any carriage come down the street before that. A carriage, not a hansom cab.”

  “Carriage, you say?” She sniffed. “Can’t say you see too many carriages down this street. If a gentleman wants a visit to one of the houses here, he comes incognito, on his own two feet, or in a cab at best. It’s not likely he’d have his coachman drop him off.” She sneered again. “And if he can afford a coachman, then there are better and cleaner houses up around Forty-second Street, so I hear. And even fancier ones on Fifth Avenue itself.”

  This, of course, was true. I thanked her. “And if anyone does remember anything about this morning, any of your neighbors saw a carriage stop, or a man behaving suspiciously, then here’s my card. One of the children can find me, I expect, and there will be a tip for him.”

  “What are you, a lady detective?” she asked.

  “Something of the kind. Helping the police to stop these horrible killings.”

  “About time. I worry for my own daughters. Fifteen and seventeen they are; and if they were coming home on a dark night, who’s to say the brute might not mistake them for that kind of woman?”

  “Who’s to say indeed?” We nodded at each other with understanding. “You wouldn’t catch me walking here alone and in the dark.”

  “What’s all this commotion? Can’t a man have a moment’s peace anywhere?” a rasping voice demanded and an old man came into the room. He was bent over like a shepherd’s crook. “Who’s she?” he demanded. “Not the rent collector again?”

  “She’s been asking questions about the streetwalker who copped it today.”

  “What for?”

  “Lady detective, apparently.”

  I looked at him. He stared back with bloodshot, tired eyes.

  “You didn’t happen to see anything yourself, did you?” I asked. “This morning, around five?”

  “I was sleeping like a babe, up on the roof,” he said. “I always takes a cot up on the roof in this weather. Can’t sleep, packed in like sardines down here. They’d all sleep better too, but she won’t let the kids up on the roof, just in case something happens.”

  “Up on the roof?” I asked. “And you didn’t hear any of the commotion when they found the girl?”

  “Oh yes, when they found her. Shouts and whistles and horses galloping up.”

  “But you weren’t woken by galloping hooves earlier? A carriage, maybe?”

  He shook his head. “Galloping hooves? This ain’t the Wild West, lady.” His skinny body shook with silent mirth. “The brewer’s dray and the occasional hansom cab. Black Maria whenever they decide to raid one of the houses or one of the clients gets a little too lively. That’s about it.”

  “So a carriage and pair might have woken you?”

  “Might have. Didn’t.”

  “To tell you the truth,” his daughter said, stepping back into the conversation, “you could have knocked me down with a feather when the kids said there was a body down there because the police have been camped out on that corner since the first body was found on the street. How your carriage got past the police, I don’t know.”

  “Neither do I,” I said, resolving to find out which officers had been assigned to the corner this morning and whether they might have been dozing on duty and not wanting to admit it. Mrs. Goodwin had similar thoughts when I met her to compare notes. “These young men are not all as dedicated as we’d like them to be. But I was here myself this morning. That’s what baffles me.”

  “Could she possibly have been thrown from an upstairs window or a roof?” I suggested. “The tire tracks might be just coincidental.”

  She looked up at the rooftops, considering. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Then she could have been brought over rooftops from another street altogether.”

  She nodded, glancing up and then down. “If she was dropped from a height, the body will show signs of considerable bruising, especially if she was, as you say, still alive. And it would be a miracle if the fall didn’t kill her outright.”

  “We’ll never know unless we see the body for ourselves,” I said.

  She looked at me, half excited, half doubtful. “Are you suggesting that we go to the morgue and take a look?”

  “You are a police officer, after all,” I said. “Look how you found that cigar butt. What’s to say there’s not something else they’ve overlooked.”

  She shook her head. “Did anyone ever tell you that
you were trouble?” she demanded.

  “Constantly. Since I was born.” I grinned, and she returned the smile.

  “Well, come on then. No point in hanging about,” she said, and set off at a lively pace toward Canal Street.

  TWENTY

  As I hurried to keep up with Mrs. Goodwin, a thought struck me. “Wait,” I called, grabbing at her blue serge sleeve.

  “You’ve lost your stomach for the morgue after all?” she asked, turning back to me.

  “It’s not that. It’s just that the two detectives in charge of the case might still be there. They took an alienist with them but wouldn’t let me come along. So I don’t think they’d take it too kindly if I turned up while they were there.”

  She gave me a suspicious frown. “And how, in heaven’s name, did you think they’d invite you to join their little party?”

  “Because I know the doctor in question. He was willing to let me accompany him as his assistant. He understood how important this is to me. But the snooty one of the pair, Detective Quigley, absolutely said no. No women allowed.”

  “I understand that this is important to you, but what did you really hope to gain by going to the morgue? What do you think the sight of a dead body can tell you?”

  I sighed. “I wish I knew. Maybe I’m chasing at straws. But someone worked very hard to bring about Daniel Sullivan’s disgrace. Someone must have had a very good reason. So I’m thinking that either it was Police Commissioner Partridge himself who wanted Daniel out of the way, or somebody who didn’t want a particular case solved. He was only working on two cases, remember. It could be something to do with the doping at the horse track, but then even if a doping scandal came to light, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. However, we’ve just seen carriage tracks and a cigar butt on Elizabeth Street. What if we’re dealing with an important man who doesn’t want to be unmasked? A man of substance who has this unnatural bent to murder prostitutes?”

  She stared at me, long and hard. “Why don’t we go and have a cup of coffee first, and then you can tell me how far you’ve got. Maybe I’ve a way to help.”

  We had just turned onto Canal when I espied a young man coming toward us, his derby hat set at a jaunty angle above an innocent and angelic face. At first glance he looked like a well-dressed bank clerk on his day off, but I knew better. I had met him once before, to my cost. He went by the name of Kid Twist, and he was Monk Eastman’s right-hand man and enforcer. But encountering him in broad daylight, in the middle of a busy street, was too good a chance to turn down.

  I nudged Mrs. Goodwin. “Wait a moment. We have to talk to that man. Maybe he can help us.”

  “Do you know who that is?” She clutched at me and held me back.

  “Of course. It’s Kid Twist. I’ve had dealings with him before. But who would know better about missing prostitutes in the area? And what can happen to us here in the midst of this crowd?”

  Her face was a mask of hate. “It’s not just that. The Eastmans killed my husband—they and their cronies. They beat him to death. I won’t rest until they are all behind bars or dead themselves.”

  “I can understand you’d feel that way,” I said. “Believe me, I’d want justice too, if it had happened to my man, but I can’t let this chance slip through my hands. You wait over here, if you don’t want to have to face him. I’ll be quite safe, and you can keep an eye on me, in case he tries anything.”

  She let me go, reluctantly. I dodged between delivery wagons and ran to catch up with him. “Kid. Mr. Twist. Wait a second,” I called.

  He turned around, eyed me suspiciously. “I’ve seen your face before,” he said. “Whatta you want?”

  “I need to talk to you for a moment. It’s about these prostitutes. Another one was found dead this morning.”

  “Yeah. Dat was too tragic. What about it?”

  “I just wondered—well, I know you work with Monk Eastman, and I know he controls most of what goes on around here.”

  “He’s very active in the community, sure,” he said with heavy sarcasm.

  “So those girls? Did they work for him? Do you know who they were?”

  “I didn’t hear about no girls going missing,” he said.

  “And if they came from one of the houses around here, you would have heard?”

  “Yeah, I’d have heard.”

  “And what if they weren’t from one of the brothels, if they were real streetwalkers who took men to one of the cheap hotels?”

  He stared at me, as if seeing me for the first time. “Nice girls like you ain’t supposed to know about things like dat. It ain’t good for you.”

  “I’m an investigator, Kid. I know about many things that aren’t good for me.”

  He eyed me warily. “Investigating what? Who’s killing whores? What for—some kind of newspaper story?”

  “Something like that,” I said. I didn’t think he’d be overly helpful about saving Daniel’s skin. “And I imagine you’d want this case solved as quickly as possible, too. It can’t be too healthy for Monk to have his territory crawling with police day and night.”

  He looked at me in surprise, then he grinned. “You can say that again.”

  “Okay. So if they were real streetwalkers, not part of a brothel, would Monk have heard when one of them disappeared?”

  “There ain’t much that gets by Monk on his own turf. All the girls have their protector, and dose guys pay their protection money to Monk. So do dose hotels you’re talking about. Yeah, he’d have heard.”

  “So I’m wondering”—I took a deep breath—“and I’m not accusing you of anything, you understand. Just curious. If a girl wasn’t behaving properly, if she wanted to escape from that kind of life, might somebody make sure that she didn’t?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re asking me whether Monk would order to have a girl killed because she didn’t do what she was told?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m wondering,” I said.

  He laughed. “Dat’s not how it works. Dose girls, they’re our assets. We want them alive, well, and working.”

  “If they were trying to run away?”

  “Where would they run to? When they land up here, it’s at the bottom of the heap. There’s nowhere left to run. And if they needed teaching a lesson, one of the boys would slap them around a bit, without damaging the assets, you understand.” He paused then said thoughtfully, “And if she don’t listen good after that, then maybe she’d wind up floating in the East River. But I don’t know nobody who would be dumb enough to dump a body in full view on the street. What’s the sense in it?”

  He was right. What was the sense in it? The only answer was that the killer was getting an added thrill from knowing he was baffling the police. Maybe he had been close by and watching…. I felt my skin prickle when I remembered that we had been into those tenement buildings. Had he been watching us then? Still there was no point in asking the children if they’d seen a strange gentleman on the street. There must be a steady procession of them, night after night.

  “Listen, Mr. Twist,” I said, “if the Eastmans find out anything about these girls, would you let me know? The sooner we catch this man, the better for all of us. Young Malachy knows where I live. You can send a message with him.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You working with da cops?”

  “Not at all. You could say I’m working in competition with the cops.”

  “Then you better watch your own skin, girl. Cops around here don’t take kindly to having their toes stepped on.”

  “I’ll be careful. So will you tell me like I asked?”

  He nodded. “All right. Monk certainly ain’t too thrilled about having the police in his backyard.”

  I gave him my most winning smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate our little talk.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” He tipped his bowler.

  I almost skipped back across the street.

  “Well, that’s taken care of,” I said, trying not to look too
pleased with myself. “The Eastman gang knows nothing about these girls.”

  “So he tells you,” Sabella Goodwin snapped. “They’re a bunch of low-down, dirty scum, the lot of ’em. They’d swear on the body of their grandmother and look you full in the face and lie.”

  I put my hand on her arm. “Look, I can understand how you feel about them. I’m no champion of them myself. I almost got kidnapped by them once. God knows where I’d be now if the police hadn’t raided at that moment. But they are the ideal ones to help us if we want to solve this.”

  We started to walk toward the Bowery.

  “Monk Eastman has a finger in every kind of criminal pie in the Lower East Side,” I continued. “If one of his girls had wound up dead, he’d want to know who did it, wouldn’t he? Someone would be messing with his assets, as Kid Twist so nicely put it. So I wanted to find out if they were Monk’s girls.”

  “And are they?”

  “That’s the odd thing. Kid says they haven’t heard of any girls going missing, which must mean they’re brought in from somewhere else.”

  “Another part of the city, you mean?”

  “Daniel says the first dead girl who fit this pattern of killing was found under the boardwalk at Coney Island. So maybe our killer preys on Coney Island prostitutes but now finds it more exciting to dump them on city streets.”

  “This is something we should share with the detectives in charge,” Sabella Goodwin said.

  “I’m sure they must have thought of it themselves and wouldn’t take kindly to being told how to conduct their case by a couple of women.”

  She grinned. “Quigley wouldn’t, that’s for sure. Conceited young fellow. He’s planning to go to the top in a hurry.”

  And might have found Daniel stood in his way? The thought flashed across my mind.

  “What about McIver?”

  “He’d like to go all the way to the top on Quigley’s coattails, I reckon,” she said. “He’s certainly bright enough, but lazy. Quigley’s meticulous, by the book. McIver’s the opposite—any means to get to the end. It will get him into trouble one day.”