The Pearl Dagger

by L. A. Chandlar

  Fio was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But she didn’t see you at that point, right?”

  Morgan shook her head. “No. I waited there. The whistling in the fog lasted so long. I stayed put until I couldn’t hear her anymore. Then I was about to get up and I had planned on just running full-out all the way up here. I had to tell you who was behind everything! And I was scared, I don’t mind telling you.”

  Ripley must have understood her desperate tone, because he raised his big head and put a giant paw on her shoulder while he gave one big lick up the side of her face.

  “Aw, Ripley! Yuck!” She laughed. “Thanks, buddy. I’m okay.” He put his head back down and she resumed petting his silky ears.

  Kirkland’s chest shook as he silently chuckled. “Good boy, Rip.”

  Morgan took up her story again. “Well, I started to walk away. I went along the side of the building, hiding among the shadows. Then I caught sight of her hooded figure and she looked like she was walking with a purpose, on a mission to do something, so I decided to follow her. Nearby is the shipping terminal where you can buy tickets. It was dark, but it wasn’t that late and it was still open. She walked up to the counter and bought a ticket. After she left, I went up there and asked where she was going.”

  Roarke asked, “They told you?”

  She grinned. “Well, it was a young guy and I asked really nicely.”

  Roarke laughed. “You should become a reporter.”

  She replied, “I’m thinking police officer.”

  “Nice,” said Finn. “You’d be a good one.”

  “Well . . . maybe not,” she said ruefully. “After the guy told me she booked a passage to London, that’s when I got caught. It was her goons. Had to be, because I didn’t recognize them. I know the look of a lot of Venetti’s gang now, and Donagan’s. But these guys weren’t familiar. They spotted me following her and then followed me. Damn, I can’t believe I got caught!”

  “But you were gone for almost two weeks. What happened?” asked Evelyn.

  “Not much. Thankfully, they couldn’t decide what to do with me. Daphne didn’t want to see me. Or maybe let me see her. So she’d give the goons messages. They questioned me, but I didn’t say why I was following her.” Morgan subconsciously rubbed the side of her face that had the black eye. I ached for her.

  “I made up a story about following people who might have money on them, that I’m a good pickpocket so I find wealthy marks. And I am a good pickpocket,” she said with a smirk, but then darted her eyes to Fio, who was looking at her through half-closed eyes.

  She squeaked, “I mean! Used to be a pickpocket. I’m still good at it, but I don’t do it. I was able to demonstrate on them how I do it, so it lent credibility to my story.” She sounded like she was forty, not about sixteen.

  Kirkland was rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger like this all might just be too much for him. Finn patted him on the shoulder in solidarity.

  “They kept moving me to new locations and I was getting desperate. I tried to escape twice, and that’s why they tied the ropes so tight,” she said, rubbing that bandaged wrist. “I was able to pry an old nail from the floor and had just started to try to cut the cords when Roarke found me.” She darted a look at my sleuthing partner and said, “How’d you find me, anyway, Roarke?”

  “One of my informants—shut up, Lane—got word to me that he saw a girl that fits your description at an old, dilapidated school.” I always teased Roarke about his legions of contacts. He’s incredibly connected, so I took his shut up in the playful way that he intended. “He knew the school had been abandoned, so he figured it was likely that it was the girl I was looking for. When he got word to me, we were near the place, so we ran up there and she was alone. We finished cutting the ropes and got the hell out of there.”

  “Morgan, didn’t you say he was wearing a babushka?” asked Aunt Evelyn with an amused look on her face.

  “Ah, well,” replied Roarke. “I didn’t have much time to disguise myself to go unnoticed in that area. So I grabbed an old tablecloth drying on a line and wrapped it around me, then a little scarf around my head. I hunched over trying to look like an old lady. Why are you laughing, Morgan?”

  She snorted, “Aw, Roarke! That pink scarf around your head. I’ll never forget it!”

  Just then, a loud ruckus attacked the front door. Ripley and Kirkland went running.

  “Morgan, I think your lieutenants have arrived,” I said as the loud noises got closer and louder as they trooped back.

  The first in line was the tall boy, Eric Spry, her second in command. “Morgan,” he said in a rough whisper. She stood up and carefully made her way over to him.

  “I’m okay,” she whispered back. He was usually a wary, always-watching and always-aware-of-people-watching-him kind of guy. But today he looked more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him as he held out his arms to her and encompassed her in a hug that spoke volumes. They must have had quite an interesting history together.

  The rest of the crowd had gone silent watching all this, then Connor, the little rascal with the freckles, frank smile, and tooth missing in front, started giggling. Then he couldn’t take it any longer and yelled, “We missed you!” He ran over and hugged her with a mighty squeeze that must have hit a bit of a bruise somewhere because Eric and I both saw her grimace. Eric’s face went dark with that knowledge, and then Morgan laughed, fiercely hugging the little guy back, which eased a bit of the darkness on Eric’s face.

  There were five more of her crew who had piled in and they all cheered along with Fio. With a backdrop of happy chattering, slaps on the backs, and general merrymaking, we set up the rascals’ scrumptious dinner with enough stew, drinks, and brownies to feed an army.

  I set the living room Victrola with a favorite album by Benny Goodman. Our home was full, friends had been reunited, and we all received sustenance from both the food and the camaraderie.

  Roarke and Finn and I drew to the side for a moment watching Fio and Evelyn trying to wrangle the crew to their seats. Kirkland laughed to himself, enjoying his appreciative crowd that kept asking how much they could have, could they have seconds, thirds, fourths.... When Connor stood next to him, hands on his hips imitating Kirkland’s every move, I spotted Aunt Evelyn eyeing them with a sweet smile. Kirkland was giving a robust lecture on seasoning the meat and vegetables properly while Connor nodded with solemn understanding.

  Finn said, “So, tomorrow we’ll hit the Metropolitan.”

  “Yeah. We have work to do. We need to find any scrap of information on Daphne that we can,” I said.

  “I’ll drive,” said Roarke. “I’ll pick you two up here at eight. Morgan’s doing great, she’ll recover just fine, I think. But she was lucky we got her out, Lane. She was quickly losing her value. They’d have had to come to a decision soon on what to do with her,” he said darkly.

  Finn nodded. “Great work, Roarke. Tomorrow we’ll start the investigation. Pinball games, a dead cop, and now the lunatic asylum. We’ve really gotten ourselves into some deep water this time.”

  Roarke and I just nodded, then I poured us a little more wine.

  CHAPTER 10

  We convinced Morgan to stay the next few nights with us so she could recover. She started to refuse, but the stormy look on Eric’s face made her stutter to a halt and acquiesce. We even talked her into staying in the guest room instead of the front room couch. That’s the thing, above the bruises and the stress of her being missing for two weeks, that convinced me her trials had been far worse than she was letting on. I wondered if we’d ever really know the whole story.

  I awoke bright and early. We had a mission to accomplish.

  As was the case the last and only time I had visited the infamous lunatic asylum, I felt the need to brace myself by preparing mentally and physically. I wore my favorite black trouser suit, the one that Marlene Dietrich would tip her hat to, a white silk blouse, and of course my trusty pearl dagger in it
s slim scabbard that always fit perfectly in the wide belts I preferred. Deep red lipstick for courage and I was ready to go.

  Roarke and Finn met up with each other earlier and I heard the honk of Roarke’s Packard as I raced through the kitchen, grabbing a piece of toast as I downed a quick cup of tea. I threw on my red sweater coat with the matching red fur collar and ran out the door. I hopped in the back and greeted the guys.

  “Hey, Lane, we decided not to notify the hospital ahead of time. If Daphne was allowed out of there, treating it as an undercover office or home base, she must have some people in her employ,” said Roarke.

  “Definitely. Better to surprise them. But how do we get them to let us into her room to snoop around?” asked Finn.

  I remembered Roarke’s dimples coming in real handy last time. I smirked at Roarke in the rearview mirror.

  “Shut up, Lane,” he snickered.

  “Let’s just say that the attending nurse was easily swayed by Dimples here,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.

  Finn chuckled. “Last time, I was sitting outside there just down the street for quite some time, wondering what on earth you could be doing in there,” he said.

  I recalled that day, that first meeting with Daphne Franco. Her theatrical posture, draped across her bed, long white-blond hair cascading down her back, all topped off with a dramatic trans-Atlantic accent taken right out of Mutiny on the Bounty. When Roarke and I had the mock interview, we were digging around for clues to see if she was linked with the current crime syndicate. At the time, we had no idea she was Eliza and Tucker’s mother. But what made my skin crawl was when she swiveled her gaze to me, recognizing me as the daughter of her enemies. The thin veneer hiding something lurking behind there came crashing down. Her eyes dilated, thin veins popped to the surface of her pale face, and she let herself be racked with a maniacal laughter that bordered on the hysterical. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  My eyes locked with Roarke’s in the mirror. “I know,” he said, reading my look of wariness and nodding. “I remember that first meeting all too well.”

  “That good, huh?” asked Finn.

  I leaned forward and clasped my hands along the back of the front seat, resting my elbows on it. “So, fellas, what’s our plan this time? I’m thinking Roarke can get us access, but what’s a good cover story?”

  “We don’t need a cover. We have me this time,” said Finn with a determined half-smirk. “My badge will get us in. She’s wanted, don’t forget, now that we have Morgan’s eyewitness account.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “I wonder if we should follow a subtler course, though. If there are people working with her or for her, I wonder if we might be able to uncover more if they didn’t know that we’re involved in police matters.”

  “True,” said Finn.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  “Oh boy,” said Roarke just as Finn said, “Oh no.”

  I patted their shoulders and said, “Leave it to me.”

  We took the Queensboro into Queens, past the factory with the tall white and red smokestacks, then circled around to the only bridge onto Blackwell’s Island. The morning light reflected off the shining buildings of Manhattan in amber and rose, the East River sparkled with its vivid blue in the cold sunshine. Despite the beauty of the surroundings, the island had its own special brand of sinister atmosphere. It was a land of the lost; nothing healthy and thriving was here. Every person was imprisoned and isolated either from illness, poverty, or a criminal mind. As we crossed the bridge onto the island, I felt an ache like we were leaving something dear behind and I missed it already.

  Main Street ran right down the middle of the island, the only street on the slim strip of land. Metropolitan was near the north end, closer to the lighthouse. As we drove, I got my story straight in my mind.

  We all got out of the car and I said, “Okay, just follow my lead and use your dimples, Roarke.”

  As we walked up to the front door, the octagonal tower looking down upon us with distaste, Finn pointed to a strange-looking circle behind the bushes. “That’s ominous.”

  “What is it?” I asked, unable to see it fully from where I was standing.

  Roarke said, “It’s a life net. The fire department uses it to catch people jumping out of buildings.”

  I could easily imagine wanting to jump out of those threatening windows above us. We got to the front desk, and as luck would have it, the same receptionist was there. By the look of the blush on her cheeks, she remembered Roarke. Perfect.

  Finn chuckled low as he caught the pink on her cheeks and Roarke’s.

  In a good, thick Southern accent that seems to appear when I’m trying to be covert, I greeted her. “Hello, my name is Sissy McGraw and these are my colleagues Bobby Drake and Neville Darling.” Finn started to laugh, then turned it into a snort-cough. “We were here just a couple of months ago to interview Daphne Franco, as our readers are keen to hear about the lives of the famous actors here in New York City. Would she be available for a follow-up interview?”

  The nurse receptionist had a moment of indecision. She said, “Well, this is most uncommon, but Mrs. Franco is one of our, uh . . . special patients.” I bet. “She’s actually not . . . available . . . at the moment.” She busied herself with looking at clipboards, flipping pages up and down.

  “Well, you do think she would like another interview, wouldn’t she?” I asked, knowing Daphne ate up that kind of attention, insane and criminally minded or not. “And I can’t imagine she’d be happy that we left.”

  The nurse’s eyes grew wider, knowing she’d probably be in trouble if she didn’t handle this properly. “I have an idea,” I said. “How about this. How about you take us on a tour of her abode. We could give the story an angle on how this Hollywood honey lives and the people around her. We could feature you a bit, too, sweetie. You have great bones and those eyes! Like Dorothy Lamour. . .” She clearly liked that idea and was enjoying the flattery.

  “Well, let’s see,” she said, consulting the clock. “I think I can make that work. But let’s be quick about it, I don’t think Dr. Davis would like me taking you up there. But he’s never interested in magazines and papers anyway. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, he’s with patients for the next thirty minutes. That should give us a good fifteen minutes just to be safe.”

  We made a big show of getting all her pertinent information and the spelling of her name. Roarke brought his camera, so Finn took the notes while Roarke took a photo of her and I conducted an interview. Then we began the journey to Daphne’s room.

  Just like last time, despite the rather scary myth of the lunatic asylum, it really just looked like another hospital. Except for the rounded staircase that went along the inside edges of the octagonal tower. We went up those and I spotted a picture on the wall. I don’t know why it gave me the heebie-jeebies, but it was a photo of the nurses all standing along the staircase, in circular rows, looking stoically at the camera. It was supposed to be cheery, I suppose, since you could see the top of a Christmas tree in the middle. But it was not cheery in the least. There was something sad and sinister about the stoic looks surrounding the holiday tree. We kept going up and up. My anxiety was growing and I jumped as I heard a random scream echo from somewhere. Finn put his hand on the small of my back and said softly, “It’s pretty eerie in here, isn’t it, love?”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve read some books about these places. There isn’t a lot of science behind their methods yet. And it doesn’t take much to get someone committed. I wonder how many people here really need to be here,” I said with a shudder. As I recently learned from our last case and from facing the ghosts of my past, the one thing that I feared most was loss of control. And there was nothing that scared me more than being incarcerated in a place like this against my will.

  People truly feared mental illness, and that’s what made it easy to commit someone. I
t was this very institution that the famous female reporter, a hero of mine, Nellie Bly, infiltrated to report what was going on. She was in here for ten days and received torturous ice baths; all the women were forced to sit silently in a row on hard benches over twelve hours a day; there were abuse at the hands of the nurses, filthy rooms, raging illnesses spreading around, and rotting food. Once Nellie got herself in, she no longer pretended to be insane. But the saner she spoke and acted, the more they thought her unstable. It became impossible to convince anyone of her sanity. After her newspaper’s lawyer arrived to get her out of there after her predetermined ten days ended, she wrote the big story and became a major player in investigative journalism. No one had gone to such lengths before.

  After that, this particular place became better appointed. I still feared for the people here, but I hoped that they received better treatment after the article and the state awarded a significant amount of money to help the mentally ill in their care.

  We got to the top of the stairs and the nurse looked back at us. I caught something that raced across her face. Had she heard us? What did that look mean? It meant something; the hackles on my neck were rising. Daphne obviously came to realize who we were last time after recognizing me at the end of our interview. Did she caution the staff about us? But then the nurse turned on an easy smile and started in with a rehearsed tour guide voice.

  She pointed out rooms of interest as we went. We made our way down the long, tiled hall, our footsteps clipping along. The doors had a staunch, heavy look to them. There was no doubt that they were all locked. We passed several patients here and there; one was in a straitjacket.

  “Something feels weird, Finn,” I whispered, turning my head to the side.

  “Yeah. But is it just the place?” he whispered back.

  “I don’t know.” Roarke was doing a great job talking up the nurse and he did indeed use those dimples of his. He even increased his flirting with an occasional small gesture of touching her arm, or putting a solicitous hand on the small of her back.