Fallen Women

by Sandra Dallas

  “I do.”

  “I’ll see if she want talk to you.” The woman started to close the door, but Mick stuck his foot inside, and he followed her into the house, Beret behind him.

  The place was stuffy, sour smelling, and Beret was tempted to find a handkerchief and cover her nose, but that surely would offend Miss Hettie, so she took a few breaths through her mouth, lagging behind Mick as she glanced up the staircase near the door, then peered into the rooms along the corridor. She had helped prostitutes escape from the cribs and brothels in New York and was curious to see how Denver’s nests compared to them. There was a front parlor with a piano and easy chairs, a velvet banquette that she assumed was for the girls. Lillie would have sat there stroking her long blond hair.

  A Turkish room was next to it, decorated with Arabian rugs and heavy figured draperies, silk fabric on the walls, cushions ornamented with large tassels scattered over the floor, couches and ottomans. The room smelled of tobacco and spilled liquor, and Beret wondered if the windows were ever opened. She hurried to catch up with Mick, passing a dining room where the remnants of a banquet had been left on the table, a chair at its head overturned, and found herself in a large kitchen at the back of the house.

  Four women sat around an oilcloth-covered table, eating eggs. Beret recognized Elsie, who gave her a hard stare, and she decided to act as if they had not met. Two others were Elsie’s age, women with sleepy eyes and uncombed hair, and they stared at Beret, bored, as they ate. One put out her cigarette in her plate and rose, stretching like a cat and letting her robe fall open to reveal she wore nothing beneath it except for white stockings held up by rosebud garters. She traced a tear in a stocking with her fingertip and said, “Come on, Rose, you said you’d mend my stocking.” Her companion dipped a piece of ham into her egg and ate it, then picked up a coffee cup, and together, they went down the hall to the staircase.

  “Well, Elsie, ain’t you got nothing to do?” asked the fourth woman, who was obviously the madam, Miss Hettie.

  Elsie, in no hurry to leave, spread jam on a piece of toast, shoved it into her mouth, and chewed.

  “Well, ain’t you? And where’s your manners anyway, cramming in food that way? What’s a gentleman to think if you eat like that?”

  As Elsie stood and tightened the sash of her robe, she cocked her head at Mick and said, “Whyu’t you come see me later, Mick? Whyu’t you?” Without looking at Beret, she left the room, pausing at the door, but the madam flapped her hand to shoo her away.

  Miss Hettie had not risen from the table. Clad in an old robe whose lace ruffles had yellowed, she looked a little yellow herself; her face without its layer of powder was sallow. Her hair was a hideous red, almost the color of blood, and the hands that peeked from the yellowed ruffles that adorned the sleeves of the robe were clawlike. Beret noticed that even at that early hour, the madam wore half a dozen rings, diamonds mostly and good ones it appeared. A diamond cross was at her throat. Her earrings were diamonds, too—four-leaf clovers, not stars. Miss Hettie gave Mick a resigned look, and ignored Beret. “Coffee?” she asked him.

  “Thanks.”

  The colored woman glanced at Beret, who nodded, and the woman brought two cups of coffee in good china cups with saucers. Then she cleared the plates from the table. “You want me to tell them other girls they can wait for their breakfast?” she asked, and Miss Hettie told her yes.

  “Might as well sit down,” the madam said. “Who’s that?” She didn’t look at Beret but merely pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “You didn’t bring me fresh fish, did you, Mick? That one ain’t so fresh.” She gave a hoarse chuckle and cocked her head as if waiting for Beret to react.

  “This is Miss Osmundsen. Miss Osmundsen, you are in the presence of Miss Hettie Hamilton, the queen of Denver’s demimonde.” With a flourish, he indicated Miss Hettie.

  Beret felt the introduction insulting to both Miss Hettie and herself and said quickly, “I am Lillie Brown’s sister.”

  Miss Hettie raised herself up and looked directly at Beret for the first time. “You don’t say.” She scrutinized her—in a way that she must look over the girls who applied for jobs in the house, thought Beret, who did not blanch. “You don’t look like her. You look more like a salvation biddy.” She seemed to remember herself then and said, “Your sister was a real nice girl. I’m sorry she crossed over.”

  “Thank you.” Beret closed her eyes for a moment. The remark had been kind, even if the madam hadn’t meant it. But why should she? Miss Hettie had known Lillie only as a whore, not as the lovely young woman she had been. But which one of them really had known Lillie better?

  “You come to shut us down, have you?”

  “I am helping Detective Sergeant McCauley find my sister’s killer.”

  Miss Hettie gave a deep laugh, her voice throaty from too many cigarettes. “Oh, you are, are you? I didn’t know Denver had lady cops. What do you think about that? Detective Sergeant McCauley.”

  Mick shrugged. “Her uncle is Judge Stanton.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Beret knew the woman was lying. A madam would know every judge in the city, if not personally, then by reputation.

  “Miss Osmundsen would like to hear how you found her sister’s body.”

  Miss Hettie stretched, letting the sleeves of her robe fall away and reveal the veins and heavy cording of her arms. When she saw Beret staring at them, she quickly pulled down the sleeves so that only her hands, gnarled as roots, showed. She took a sip of her coffee and rolled herself a cigarette, licking the paper shut, then waiting for Mick to strike a match and light it for her. She inhaled, drawing the smoke into her lungs, then coughed. “You can’t tell her yourself, Mick?”

  “I’ve got a few more questions when you’re done.”

  “All right, then. Like I told Mick, me and the girls were out.” She spoke in a monotone, as if she’d been expecting she would be asked again about the murder and had practiced her words. Then she related how she had found Lillie. The story was longer this time—Miss Hettie couldn’t help but try to shock Beret by telling her details of the whorehouse operation—but it differed little from the one she’d told Mick the day Lillie’s body was found.

  Beret didn’t interrupt her, but when Miss Hettie was finished, the young woman asked, “You don’t know who could have killed her?”

  “Well, I’d have told Mick if I did, wouldn’t I?”

  “Perhaps after thinking about it, you have an idea.”

  “I don’t.”

  “What about her patrons?” Beret took her first sip of the coffee and found it very good. She knew that food in the best whorehouses was both tasty and nutritious. After all, the girls had to keep up their strength.

  “None of them could have done it. We’re not open that early in the day.”

  “Lillie could have let someone in.”

  “Naw, the ladies know I wouldn’t like that. I check out my customers. I don’t allow nobody I don’t know to come in this place.”

  “What are the names of Lillie’s johns, then?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You said you knew everyone who came here.” Beret refrained from sending a look of triumph to the detective.

  Miss Hettie cleared her throat and stuck a fork into her egg yolk, letting the yellow run over the plate. “Well, they don’t give me their business cards, if that’s what you mean. Lady, you don’t know nothing about the business.”

  “I know a great deal about it,” Beret retorted, without explaining.

  Miss Hettie scraped the yellow to one side. “Well, I didn’t keep track of who goes with Lillie.”

  “Didn’t you? How was my sister paid, then? Don’t you collect before the customers go upstairs—five dollars for a quick date, thirty for all night?” Beret was glad Mick had told her the prices.

  Miss Hettie stared at Beret, then crossed her arms. “I ain’t giving any names.”

  “I told you she wouldn’t,
” Mick interjected.

  “Perhaps you can shut her down.”

  “For what reason?” Miss Hettie flared. “With what I pay you tin badges, I got protection. Go on, tell her, Mick. Ain’t nobody going to shut down the House of Dreams.”

  Beret let that pass and asked, “Was Joseph Summers one of my sister’s regulars?”

  Mick, who had been leaning back in his chair as if enjoying the exchange between the two women, sat upright as Miss Hettie’s mouth dropped. “Who’s he?” she asked, as her face turned bland.

  “So he was, then,” Beret said, congratulating herself on the reaction.

  “How do you know about him?” Mick asked, and Beret could tell the detective was impressed. “Next to Senator Tabor, his father’s the richest man in Colorado.”

  Beret didn’t answer. “And what about the older man, the one who wanted to marry my sister?”

  Miss Hettie was cagey now. “Mr. Moneybags. Every whore talks about him. I can tell you, lady, if he was real, your sister wouldn’t have been working here. Now, are you done with your questions? There’s a religious meeting in town. It’s a convention of real pious men, and they’ll be wanting to get their ashes hauled after all their praying and carrying on. If Jesus knew what those boys did when they visited the House of Dreams, he’d get down off the cross. I got work to do. It ain’t easy being short one girl like I am. I got to find me a replacement.” She looked Beret up and down, then waved her hand in dismissal.

  “There’s one more thing, Miss Hettie,” Mick said.

  The two women stared at Mick, because he no longer seemed amused, and his voice had turned hard. “I want the name of her mac.”

  “She ain’t got one. I told you that.”

  “Yes she does, and you know who he is.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do. And Miss Osmundsen and I will sit here until you tell us.”

  “You just do that.” Miss Hettie stood, but Beret grasped her hand and pulled her back down.

  “Detective Sergeant McCauley, I am concerned for the safety of the other girls in this place,” Beret said. “I fear the man who killed my sister may return. Could you arrange to station a patrolman at the entrance of the House of Dreams until we find the man responsible? I’m sure Miss Hettie would want that protection for her girls.”

  Mick grinned at Beret. The smile lit up his whole face, even his eyes, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. “Why, that’s a first-rate idea, Miss Osmundsen. You don’t mind, do you, Miss Hettie? I know you’ll want to protect your boarders—and those gentlemen of God, too.”

  Miss Hettie scowled as she played with her rings, twisting them around her gnarled fingers. “I don’t know she had one for sure. I wasn’t lying to you, Mick. But I seen her once or twice with one of the gents from the Arcade. He’s dark as an Oriental, built like a boxer, not much taller than you.” Hettie nodded at Beret.

  “His name?” Mick asked.

  Hettie looked away and sighed. “I ain’t sure of his real name. He goes by Teddy Star.”

  Beret let out an involuntary, “Oh!,” and the other two turned to her.

  “Most of the girls have a fancy man. You shouldn’t be surprised,” Mick said.

  Beret closed her eyes for a second to steady herself. Of course she knew the prostitutes had pimps, and she should not have been surprised that Lillie had had one, too, but confronted with that name, she almost lost her composure. The closeness of the house with its sour smells turned her stomach. She nodded and rose slowly, extending her hand to Miss Hettie as if ending a social call. “You have been very kind. I know my sister’s death has been a strain on you, too.” And then she asked, “May I see my sister’s room?”

  Miss Hettie glanced at Mick. “I ain’t found anybody to replace Lillie, so it ain’t been cleaned.”

  “That’s all right,” Beret said.

  “You sure you want to? It’s not something pretty,” Mick said.

  Beret straightened her back. No, she didn’t want to see the room where her sister had died, but she had to. Maybe looking at the place where Lillie had been murdered would help her come to terms with the death. “I’m sure of that, Detective.”

  * * *

  The two followed the colored woman down the long upstairs hall, Beret aware of the women watching them from behind half-open doors. “This her room, but I guess you know that, Mr. Mick. I’m Mae. You need anything, you ask. I liked Miss Lillie. She treated me nice, not like some.” She glanced over her shoulder at a door that was slammed shut in her face.

  She turned to go, but Beret asked suddenly, “Would you show me where my sister kept her clothes? I should like to see them.” Mick gave her an odd look, for surely Beret had spotted the clothes hanging in the open wardrobe.

  Mae went into the room and pointed at a door. “In there.”

  “Thank you,” Beret said, then slowly opened her bag and took out a five-dollar gold piece and toyed with it. “What can you tell me about the gentlemen who favored Miss Lillie?”

  Mae looked at the coin, then glanced out the open door. She lowered her voice. “There’s one or two partial to her. That Mr. Joey Summers you mentioned, he one of ’em.” She chuckled. “His daddy, I think he the old man that want to set her up. I heard you ask Miss Hettie ’bout that. Didn’t want to marry her, though, ’cause he already got himself a wife.”

  Beret gasped.

  “He not such a nice man, not to me, anyways. He treat me like I chicken scratch. But he bring Miss Lillie pretty things—chocolate and silk stockings and such.”

  Mick had been looking back and forth from Mae to Beret. “And what about her mac? What’s he like?”

  “Mr. Star?” Mae turned and glanced out the door, because Miss Hettie had called her name. “I got to go. Miss Hettie skin me alive she find me talking to you.” Mae snatched the coin and dropped it into her apron pocket and went out of the room, leaving Mick and Beret staring at each other.

  “Two generations of Summerses?” Mick said at last. “Doesn’t that beat all!” When Beret turned away, he added, “I’m sorry. I forgot for a minute she was your sister.”

  “Yes, well…” Beret turned her back and used the tip of her finger to wipe away a tear. The idea of Lillie sleeping with both father and son disgusted her, and Beret closed her eyes, as if to block out the vision she had of such depravity. Beret began to wonder if she had loved her sister too much to see her faults. She cleared her throat, and asked, businesslike, “This is where you found her?”

  The sheets had been removed from the bed, but the mattress was stained with blood. Beret touched it with her fingertip, then examined the finger, but the blood had long since dried.

  “She’d been covered up with her robe. That’s odd, don’t you think?” Mick asked. “He’d stabbed her like that and then covered her up.”

  “As if he knew her,” Beret said.

  Mick considered the remark. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Has the room been straightened?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice, but it wouldn’t surprise me if the girls have gone through it. I don’t see any five-dollar gold piece on the dresser.”

  Beret went to the bureau and opened the drawers. Lillie had never been neat, and the contents—underwear, stockings, gloves—were in disarray. Beret couldn’t tell if Lillie had left them that way or if someone had rifled through them. “Did the police take her personal effects?”

  “There weren’t many, and we offered them to the judge. We pried open her trunk, but the only thing in there besides clothes and jewelry and a few trinkets was an envelope addressed to her at Judge Stanton’s house. That’s how we found out who she was. The judge was pretty shaken up when we told him. Mrs. Stanton, too. The clothes are here because Mrs. Stanton didn’t want them.”

  “No letters? That’s odd. Lillie always saved such things. She was sentimental.” Beret went through the bureau again, slowly, but found nothing. On a whim, she turned over the drawers to see if anyt
hing had been attached to the underside. She searched the room, the wardrobe, looked into the pockets of Lillie’s dresses, and was ready to give up when she reached under the mattress and touched something. As Mick watched, Beret drew out an envelope that was spattered with blood.

  He grabbed it. “Let me see that. I’m the detective,” he said.

  “But I found it,” Beret cried. The envelope had belonged to her sister. Beret had the right to it. She reached for the envelope, but Mick held it away from her and opened it, removing a sepia carte de visite, a small photograph mounted on cardboard. Mick studied it, then with a look of pity, he handed it to Beret. She clutched the photograph, then dropped it onto the floor as she covered her face with her hands. Mick picked it up, stared at the portrait of a young woman in a sable jacket, her hands tucked into a matching muff, then put it into his pocket.

  “The woman, it’s you,” he said. “She kept a picture of you. Why, do you suppose?”

  Beret didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Instead, she put her hands over her face and wept.

  Chapter 6

  Beret wiped her face on a handkerchief and mumbled an apology, which Mick shrugged off. Then the two went through the room once again, searching under the mattress, under the carpet, the inside of the wardrobe, the linings of dresses, but found nothing more to interest them. Beret put the dresses over her arm, and as the two started down the hall, she stopped at the door where she had glimpsed Elsie and handed them to the prostitute. “You may have what you like in Lillie’s room. I don’t want anything,” Beret told her.

  She and Mick went out and stood on the porch a moment, Beret gulping in the air, which was gray and sooty from coal smoke but still better than the air inside the whorehouse. The visit had overwhelmed her, and she took a moment to compose herself. A man walked past, eyeing Beret, but Mick gave him such a fierce look that he went on his way, muttering over his shoulder, “Too scrawny anyway.”

  “This has been difficult for you,” Mick said. “I’ll understand if you want to call it quits for today.”

  “Will you do so, too?”

  “I get paid to do this,” he replied. “I’m going to look for your sister’s mac.”