Murder on Mulberry Bend (22 page)

He looked up warily, showing a black eye and bruised face beneath a layer of grime. Frank had administered some of the bruises, while others were courtesy of his cell mates. The other men would have subjected him to additional indignities as well, unspeakable things he’d never tell a soul for as long as he lived. Frank had tried to warn him last night, but the boy had to learn the hard way.

Frank pulled out the other chair, and the boy jumped at the noise. He eyed Frank as a cornered rat would have eyed a dog. “Are you hungry, Billy?” Frank asked.

The boy nodded quickly.

“I’ll bet you’d appreciate a square meal and a clean bed.”

The boy nodded again, more slowly this time, as if sensing a trick.

“You know,” Frank said thoughtfully, “you ruined a perfectly good suit when you cut my arm. I get mad whenever I think about it.”

“I don’t know where Danny is,” Billy said.

Frank started to rise.

“But I’ve got some ideas where you could find him,” the boy added hastily.

Frank took his seat again and waited.

“What’ll I get if I tell you?” the boy asked.

Frank smiled. “You’re in no position to bargain, Billy boy,” he reminded him. “What you’ll get if you
don’t
tell me is to rot right here. I can hold out as long as you can, but every day that passes gives Danny a chance to hide better and gives you less of a chance of giving me information that will help me find him.”

“What did he do that you want to find him?”

“You can ask him that yourself when you see him in The Tombs,” Frank replied, losing his patience. “Now are you going to talk or do I send you back downstairs?” He started to rise again, but the boy stopped him.

“All right, all right!” he cried, motioning for Frank to sit back down. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Like I said, he might not be in any of the places, but maybe somebody there’ll know where he is.”

Frank reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his notebook and a pencil. Wetting the tip of the lead on his tongue, he said, “Start talking.”

A half an hour later, Frank had only had to cuff the boy a couple times to remind him not to lie. Satisfied he’d gotten all he could for now, he said, “I’ll call the guard.”

“I’m going to The Tombs now, right?” Billy said hopefully.

Frank called the guard and stood back as two burly men came in. “Take him back downstairs,” he said.

“No!” Billy cried and began swearing and fighting as the guards jerked him to his feet. Several blows from the locust sticks subdued him enough to allow the guards to drag him out without too much trouble. He still cursed Frank roundly as his voice faded down the hallway.

Frank looked at the list of locations Billy had given him. None of them were places he could go alone at night, and some would be risky even during the day. He’d need to get some patrolmen to go with him, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. Billy would have to spend another night in the cellar, but he certainly deserved it. And if he’d lied, he’d be even more anxious to make amends tomorrow.

Frank tucked his notes back into his coat pocket and made his way upstairs and out into the street. He’d get an early start tomorrow. Tonight he’d go back to his flat and spend a few minutes watching his son sleep to remind himself why this was all worthwhile.

 

Sarah had spent the day delivering twins to a family who already had five more children than they could feed. The mother was so sickly, Sarah doubted she’d be able to nourish two babies adequately. The babies would doubtless die, and the effort might kill the mother, too. Tomorrow she would return to check on everyone and suggest an orphanage for the infants. They might even be adopted if they were healthy, which meant any delay in placing them would lower their chances.

Convincing the family was often difficult, however. For some reason, people thought it cruel to put an infant in an orphanage, but thought nothing of turning a five-year-old out into the streets to fend for itself. If this woman died, her husband would probably be unable to keep the family together and all of the children would be on the streets. No one wanted to imagine themselves being that desperately cruel in the future, however, so people were reluctant to take steps to prevent it.

Sarah knew of a few good orphanages in the city, but she couldn’t help wondering if Mrs. Wells had contacts someplace. If Sarah could assure the family of the babies’ care, convincing them might be easier. As she left the family’s tenement, she turned her steps toward Mulberry Street.

The weather was unseasonably warm, teasing in its promise of spring. But soon the winter wind would whistle through the city streets, stealing men’s hats and freezing the unfortunates whose only home was a sheltered doorway. As Sarah reached the mission, she heard the sound of shouting coming from inside. Even stranger, the shouter was a man.

Thinking Mrs. Wells might need assistance, she hurried up the front steps and let herself in without knocking.

Once inside, she realized the shouting was also in Italian.

“Please, Mr. Donato,” Mrs. Wells was saying very calmly and patiently. “I can’t understand you unless you speak English.”

Mr.
Donato!
Could it be Emilia’s father? The doors to the parlor were open, and Sarah saw a middle-aged man dressed as a laborer confronting Mrs. Wells. He stood only a few inches taller than she, but his body was thickened by years of hard labor. He was shaking his fist in her face, but miraculously, Mrs. Wells didn’t seem the least bit concerned for her safety.

“You have money,” Donato was saying. “Give money for bury Emilia!”

“I told you, we’re all very sorry about Emilia’s death, but the mission simply doesn’t have money to spare for something like that. I dearly wish we could help, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take care of her yourself.”

“No have money to bury!” Donato informed her. “You have money. You bury!”

Mrs. Wells still betrayed no hint of apprehension. She stared Donato straight in the eye. “I cannot help you,” she said loudly. Many people believed they could make those who didn’t speak English understand them if they shouted. “And if you don’t leave, I’m afraid I shall have to summon the police.”

He may not have understood much else, but he knew the word “police.” He stiffened in alarm and muttered something unpleasant in Italian. Then he turned on his heel and hurried from the room. Sarah stepped out of the way just in time to avoid being run over. He hardly spared her a glance.

“Mrs. Brandt,” Mrs. Wells exclaimed in surprise. They both winced as Donato slammed the door behind him. Then Mrs. Wells managed a small smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s no wonder,” Sarah said, coming into the room. “You were otherwise engaged. Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, although she did look a bit pale. “That was Emilia’s father. He’s naturally upset. It seems he inquired about her body at the city morgue and was told she’d be put in a pauper’s grave unless he claimed the body.”

“I gather he can’t afford to bury her himself.”

“No, and he just wouldn’t accept the fact that the mission doesn’t have money for that sort of thing, either.” Mrs. Wells sighed and sat down in one of the chairs. Obviously, the encounter had upset her more than she wanted to admit. “I’d like nothing better than to give Emilia a Christian burial, but it just isn’t possible.”

“Funerals are more for the living, I’ve always believed,” Sarah said by way of comfort. “The dead certainly don’t need them, but it helps the mourners accept the loss better.”

“We did have a memorial service for her with the other girls,” Mrs. Wells said. “That was all I could do, since her family is Catholic and wouldn’t attend a service here anyway.”

“Then you mustn’t feel guilty,” Sarah said. “You’ve done what you could.”

“Thank you for your encouragement, Mrs. Brandt.” Mrs. Wells smiled her sweet smile. “Now, was there some reason you stopped by or were you just sent by an angel to rescue me from Mr. Donato?”

Sarah began to tell her about the twin babies and their family, but even as she spoke, she was thinking about Emilia being buried in a pauper’s grave. Sarah didn’t want that either, and she was certain she could figure out some way to help her family.

S
ARAH HOPED MR. DONATO HAD RETURNED TO HIS home after his encounter with Mrs. Wells. If not, she’d have no idea how to locate him. Searching the saloons in the neighborhood would probably be fruitful, but that was a task Sarah wasn’t prepared to handle.

Mulberry Street was crowded with men returning home after their day’s work. The street vendors were doing their last rush of business, selling what remained of their foodstuffs for the evening meals. Housewives bartered in loud voices for the best deal, and children ran and shouted, glad for a few more moments of freedom before being called in for the evening.

Sarah took the winding alley that led to the rear tenement where the Donatos lived. She looked up, trying to find their windows and judge whether anyone could be at home. It wasn’t dark enough yet for anyone to be wasting a candle or gaslight, so she had no clue. Her only option was to trudge up the stairs and find out for herself. She only hoped Mrs. Donato wasn’t there alone. She wasn’t quite sure what her welcome would be under those circumstances.

When she reached the third-floor landing, she could hear two men arguing in Italian. One of the voices sounded like it might be Mr. Donato’s. Sarah crept up more quietly, in case she decided she didn’t want the men to see her. But when she reached the top of the stairs, she saw that Mr. Donato was arguing with his son, Georgio.

Georgio’s organ rested on the kitchen table, and he sat in one of the chairs, his crutches on the floor beside him. Mr. Donato was pacing the small kitchen, gesturing angrily. Mrs. Donato was nowhere in sight. Sarah took a deep breath, walked up to the open doorway, and knocked loudly on the door frame.

Donato broke off in mid-sentence, and both men turned to her in surprise.

“Excuse me for intruding,” she said with the polite smile her mother had taught her years ago. “I’m Mrs. Brandt, and I was a friend of Emilia’s.”

Both men recognized her from their earlier encounters and pointed, shouting accusations she couldn’t understand. She clutched her medical bag in front of her and kept smiling until they paused for breath.

“I understand you’d like to give Emilia a decent burial,” she said into the first moment of silence. “I thought perhaps I could help.”

“Why you want to help?” Georgio asked suspiciously.

“I told you, I met Emilia at the mission. I was also ... well, the police asked me to identify her body.” Sarah’s voice caught at the memory, but she forced herself to go on. “I can’t forget how she looked, lying there, and I’d like to see her put to rest properly.”

“Mission lady no pay,” Mr. Donato reported. “You pay?”

“I’ll certainly help as much as I can. Have you spoken with anyone about making arrangements?”

Mr. Donato exploded into a babble of furious Italian punctuated by violent hand motions. Sarah listened with a frown, trying to pick up a word here and there that might give her a clue as to what had made him so angry, but when he was finished, she was as baffled as ever. She looked at Georgio questioningly.

“Mama go to priest,” he said. He said the word “priest” as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Sarah said. “Maybe the church can help.”

Donato said something in Italian and spit on the floor.

Sarah jumped, unable to check her reaction. This time she looked at Georgio in wide-eyed amazement.

“Priest no bury a Dago whore,” he explained bitterly.

“But Emilia had changed. She wasn’t — ”

“No,” Georgio interrupted her impatiently. “Priest no care. No bury Dago. Hate Dago.”

This didn’t seem right to Sarah. “But you’re Catholics, aren’t you? Wouldn’t the priest do something for you, if not for Emilia?”

“No, he hate Dagos,” Georgio repeated angrily.

“Then why don’t you go to another church?” she asked, horrified.

“All priests Irish. All hate Dagos,” Georgio explained impatiently. “You understand now?”

Sarah was afraid she did, only too well. “Would the priest bury Emilia if he was paid?”

Georgio shrugged. “She still whore,” he reminded her.

“Whore,” his father spat, then muttered something in Italian.

His son’s face grew scarlet with fury, and he lunged to his feet, nearly forgetting he couldn’t support himself. Grasping the table to keep from falling, he shouted something about his mother.

Donato grabbed his head with both hands, babbling something and howling in anguish. His face was almost purple.

“Mr. Donato, you must calm down,” Sarah cried in alarm.

Neither man even seemed aware of her presence. Donato was frantically trying to explain something to his furious son, who was screaming invectives at him. Then, as Sarah had feared, Donato made a strangled sound and pitched over. Georgio instinctively reached out to grab him, but with only one foot to balance him, he merely succeeded in breaking his father’s fall as they both collapsed onto the floor.

Sarah was beside them in an instant, rolling Mr. Donato on his back and helping Georgio untangle himself from his father.

“What is wrong?” Georgio demanded as Sarah checked the older man’s pulse.

“I don’t know yet. It could be anything.” She threw open her medical bag and dragged out the stethoscope.

“What is that?” Georgio demanded, but Sarah didn’t take time to explain.

She fitted in the ear pieces and pressed the bell to Donato’s chest. Miraculously, his heartbeat was strong and regular, although much too rapid. “His heart seems fine,” she reported, then lifted his eyelids to check his eyes. Before she could do more, he moaned and his eyes fluttered open.