Noon at Tiffany's (13 page)

“You have to promise to bring it straight to your mother and tell her that it must be spent on food and nothing else. Do you give me your solemn promise?”

Pearl nodded once, and took off running. At the end of the block, she turned, waved, and vanished from view.

Josie looked around at the drab streets crowded with ramshackle buildings. Nothing was familiar, and there were no cabs in sight, only rickety wagons laden with rags and half-rotten vegetables. She walked in the direction she thought might be Broadway, only to find herself twenty
minutes later back where she’d started. Despite the oppressive heat, a chill swept through her when she realized there were no other women to be seen, and several of the men who passed by had leered and made lewd gestures.

“What yer lookin’ fer, girlie?”

Josie spun around.

The gravel voice belonged to a rickety old man sitting on the steps of a building that looked to be in ruins. His clothes were in no better condition than the buildings surrounding him, and his shoes were little more than strips of leather held onto his feet with twine.

“Excuse me, sir. Could you direct me to the Broadway trolley line? I need to get to Chatham House on East Sixty-sixth Street.”

The old man opened his mouth, revealing a dark cavern full of blackened stumps that were once teeth. The sound that came out of him was more like a squeaky door than laughter. Thinking he might be drunk or afflicted with softening of the brain, she turned to leave.

“Hold on there,” he said, getting his breath. “Yer a ways from the line. We got a Chatham Street, but yer don’t wanna be goin’ down there. You git yerself kilt yer go any farther down that way.”

“Killed?” Her mouth went dry. “Why would anyone want to murder me? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Upon hearing this, he let out another long, dry cackle that ended in a violent fit of coughing. “That’s rich,” he wheezed, dust rising off his trousers as he slapped his knees. “That’s a good story fer the boys.”

Her fear gave way to annoyance. “If you can’t direct me to Broadway, can you at least tell me where I am?”

He pulled back in surprise. “Why, yer in Five Points, lady. The devils what live down this way just as soon cut yer throat if they think yer got somethin’ worth killin’ yer fer.”

Five Points! Her chest tightened. Miss Alling once told her that each morning the police went into Five Points with carts to remove the bodies of people murdered the day before. George called it a “hornet’s nest of evil unfortunates.”

The old man was watching her. “Ya better git on wit ya quick, girlie, ’fore they takes notice of ya.” He stretched out a bony finger and pointed. “Take yerself down this here street. Don’t stop an’ don’t turn nowhere. Broadway’s down to the end.”

Thanking him, Josie picked up her skirts and hurried in the direction he pointed. His squeaky cackle followed her until she broke into a run to get clear of the sound. She slowed only when the pain in her chest became too much to bear.

The first drops of rain fell in heavy splatters. Not wanting to ruin her dress, she ducked into an alleyway where the eaves of the buildings were so close together as to form a protective covering. She leaned against one of the buildings to catch her breath, mindful of the rats that scurried around her, careful not to let them crawl onto her skirts. She had her eye on a particularly aggressive rodent, when a slight change in the light captured her attention. Silhouetted against the light of the alleyway entrance, two boys watched her with predatory interest.

The taller one wore a cheap cap that shaded his face, but not enough to hide his grin. Next to him, a bone-thin youth stood with his head cocked and his thumbs hooked into the edges of his pockets. His eyes were small and ringed with the dark shadows that often branded consumptives.

“Well, well, what have we got here?” The tall boy sauntered toward her, light on his feet. “Looks like we trapped us a fancy lady. What’s yer name?”

Mute with fear, Josie stepped back.

The boy’s lips slid into a cocky grin that transformed into a sneer. “I’ll lay ya odds this here fine lady gots herself a fat purse under them fancy skirts.”

She jumped back at the same instant he leapt at her. He landed so near, she could see the rings of dirt that collared his neck. Screaming for help, she ran further into the alley, hiding in the deepest shadow of the buildings. Somewhere a window banged open—or closed, she couldn’t be sure. Again she screamed, praying her cries wouldn’t be mistaken for a complaining horse or the screech of a cat.

“Gimme yer purse.” He raised a menacing hand, advancing in long strides. “Give it quick, or I’ll give ya somethin’ to be scared about.”

“I lost it,” she lied. “Don’t you think I would have taken a cab if I had money?”

While they mulled over the logic of her explanation, she darted around them, but the older boy was quicker than she anticipated. He pulled her into the crook of his arm and squeezed her neck.

“Yer lyin’! Now gimme yer purse or git hurt.”

She twisted out of his grip and fled, shrieking as she ran. He grabbed for her, missed, and stumbled. She made it as far as the street when the other boy caught the ribbon trim of her sleeve.

With a strength that didn’t seem possible for such a thin body, he yanked her off her feet. Her face smashed into the sidewalk sending a blinding flash of pain through her head. Before she could rise, the first boy was on her, slapping her hard across the mouth. She fell back onto the pavement retching. When she tried to rise, he kicked at her legs until she collapsed.

Closing her eyes so she would not have to witness her own murder, she hoped they’d be quick about it.

Rough hands ripped open the bodice of her dress. Other hands searched her pockets. While they spoke in what sounded like a foreign language, someone lifted her skirts and began unlacing her boots. Her hair was being yanked about, when there came the shrill sound of a whistle followed by a confusion of running footsteps and shouts. The invading hands disappeared.

She lay still until she was sure they were gone. With numb hands, she covered herself with what was left of her bodice and dragged herself to her feet. Rainwater soaked through her torn stockings, and for a brief instant she forgot about the heavy ache in her chest as she tried to make sense of why they had taken her shoes.

Her hand went to her neck, and then to her head. Her grandmother’s locket, along with her hat and gold hatpin were gone. She moaned long and loud, until it became a cry of pure despair. When she lifted her head, to her amazement, the old man who had given her directions was on the other side of the street, shouting and waving at someone in the distance. She stumbled toward him smiling, glad for the sight of someone familiar.

She was only a few feet away when a bolt of pain ripped through her, chest to spine. Falling onto the cold mud of the street, she tried for one last breath before allowing the darkness to take her.

The women looked up from their work, delighted to see Mr. Belknap making his way toward Miss Wolcott’s worktable. A furtive tug of sleeves traveled from one woman to the next. There was talk that Miss Wolcott and Mr. Belknap were stepping out, and although there was some skepticism,
they built on anything that involved romance, especially when it was between one of their own and one of the higher-ups.

As if on cue, each girl held up the glass she was cutting, feigning a sudden deep interest in its translucency. Clara glanced up, momentarily baffled by the sight of twenty-one women peering at her through pieces of colored glass.

Mr. Belknap greeted her with his customary courteous manner, though the slight pinch around his eyes betrayed the fact that he was there on a grim errand.

She squared her shoulders. “I’m disappointed Mr. Tiffany has chosen not to come himself,” Clara said in a low voice, “but as you’ve been sent to do his dirty work for him, please dismiss me and get it over with. I’ll vacate my post as soon as I’ve packed my personal belongings.”

“Dismiss you? I’ve not come to dismiss you.” He turned his back to the girls, who were now openly gaping at them, and spoke in a whisper. “Clara, I need to speak with you privately. It’s urgent.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pulled her into her private workroom and firmly closed the door behind them. From his somber expression, she surmised he had come to tell her something that would change her life. A quiet sadness settled inside her, preparing her for the news he was about to give.

“Please get your coat and hat. I’m here to accompany you to Chambers Street Hospital. I have a private cab waiting outside. I’ll explain what little I know on the way.”

The floor seemed to spin out from under her. “It’s Josie,” she whispered. “Is she dead?”

“No, but she’s been in some sort of an accident.” Henry lowered her to a chair and began chaffing her hands.

“An accident? But why would they bring her from Brooklyn to a hospital in Manhattan?”

“Didn’t Josie come with you into the city this morning?”

“Of course not. She would never …” She shook her head. “There must be some mistake. Perhaps it isn’t Josie at all. Who told you this?”

“A messenger boy was sent from the hospital. I assumed Josie, or someone who knows her, told them where you worked.” He helped her to her feet. “We need to go. There’s no time to waste.”

An irrational urge to scream welled up inside her, and for a moment,
she thought she might come unhinged enough to give in to the impulse. Instead she removed her apron and carefully folded it. Fighting down the dread, she took her jacket and hat from the closet, and without pausing to put them on, walked through the workroom.

The girls stared after her, each one aware that something was terribly wrong. Miss Griffin waved her hand. “Miss Wolcott? Aren’t you feeling well? Where are you going?”

Clara stopped. “Carry on with what you’re doing, ladies,” she said without turning to face them. If she saw the concern in their eyes, she would break down, and until she knew for certain what awaited her, it was better to remain numb. “When you’ve finished with that, I trust you to select your own pieces and cut them. If you need help, Mr. Bracey will assist. Do your best—just as you always do.”

T
HE STREETS WERE
a blur as the cab raced through the city. She stared out the window trying to make sense of what Henry was telling her. That her sister would have gone to Five Points was inconceivable in and of itself, let alone that she’d gone without a chaperone.

The moment Henry handed her down from the cab, she ran to the hospital entrance, imploring a God she was not entirely sure of to let her sister be alive. Inside the lobby she stopped a young nurse pushing a cart stacked with folded bed linens.

“May I help you, Miss?”

“Word has reached me that my sister, Josephine Wolcott, was brought here a short time ago. Can you please tell me where I might find her?”

The nurse screwed up her face in an effort at concentration. “You don’t mean the one who came in from Five Points?”

“Yes, Josephine Wolcott. Please, will you take me to her?”

The nurse’s neutral expression changed to one of undisguised disgust. “I’m sure I couldn’t help you,” she said, pushing past her. “You’ll have to speak to the matron about that one. I don’t cater to them that’s in the common ward.”

Clara stepped in the path of the cart, stopping it with her foot. “Excuse me.” Her voice was firm. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. My sister has been injured in an accident. I wish to see her immediately, or, if that isn’t possible, I want to speak to the doctor treating her or to the matron in charge.”

“I’m sure I don’t know where Miss Grennan is at the moment.” The nurse pushed around her and was about to continue on her way when
Henry appeared at Clara’s elbow.

Stony-faced, he placed a hand on the cart. “You will find the ward matron or the doctor and bring one of them to us without further delay. If someone with authority isn’t here within five minutes, I will personally see to it that you’re dismissed before the end of the day. Do you understand?”

The nurse curtsied. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just that the girl who came in was …” she glanced at Clara, curtsied again, and hurried off, leaving her cart in the middle of the lobby.

Clara clutched Henry’s arm. “I’m frightened. What if Josie’s dead?”

“She isn’t. You were summoned to the hospital; the dead are taken to the police station.”

A heavy woman in an immaculate white apron appeared on the other side of the lobby. The enormous ring of keys that hung from her waist clanked rhythmically against a foot-long crucifix. Her graying hair was held back by a white linen scarf, after the fashion of Catholic nuns.

She made her way toward them with a light step that belied her large frame. The young nurse trailed sheepishly behind her. “I’m Miss Grennan, the ward matron here,” she said with a trace of an Irish brogue. “Would you be the ones inquirin’ after Miss Wolcott?”

“I’m her sister, Clara Wolcott. Please tell me she’s all right.”

The woman peered over the top of her spectacles. “You say you’re her sister?” There was doubt in the question.