Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

The full implications of this statement didn’t hit me until we were leaving Bellevue Hospital after Mrs. Goodwin had put through a telephone call to summon back Detectives Quigley and McIver. She was walking rather fast, and I had to break into a trot to keep up with her. I gathered she didn’t want to be anywhere in sight when the detectives showed up again. I suspected that she had exceeded her authority by a mile, but I wasn’t going to let her lose face by suggesting this. Besides, she was now my partner in crime, and I admired her pluck.

“That girl never was a prostitute then,” I blurted out, somewhat naively, as I’m sure the fact had dawned on her immediately.

“Someone dressed her up to make us think that she was, and then dumped her on a street known to be frequented by streetwalkers. What a cruel and horrible trick. Why, I wonder?”

“The man is clearly deranged,” I said. “He enjoys killing young girls. I wonder if the others really were prostitutes?”

“The doctor is applying for an exhumation order,” she said. “We may know more when they dig up the bodies of the other girls.”

“Will there be enough—left?” I asked, skirting around this distasteful subject.

“Enough to go on. Hair and height and body build. The last one was scarcely a week ago, so the body should still be pretty much intact. The others will be less well preserved, but they can match hair samples these days. If the others turn out to be young girls with no ties to prostitution, then they must have families and friends. Someone will be missing them.”

“Unless he preys on young girls who have run away from home or come alone as immigrants to the New World,” I said. “When I first arrived here, I knew nobody. Not a single person would have missed me if I had been taken off by a stranger. Maybe he promises work to new arrivals, a safe place to stay?”

She sighed. “That’s possible. But there have been five of them so far. Surely just one will have made a friend, someone who might come forward if we put a notice in the newspapers.”

“If they read English,” I said. “But there’s one thing I’m thinking—that first girl who was killed this way. The one who was found under the boardwalk at Coney Island. I understood she was indeed a real prostitute, identified by her pimp. One of her fellow streetwalkers might even have seen the man she went with that night.”

“So you think we should go out to Coney Island and inquire?” she asked.

“Definitely.”

“I’m supposed to report into the station by noon,” she said. “And then I’m ready to go home and fall asleep. I’ve been on duty all night.”

“I could do it,” I said.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t want you going out there alone. In the police force we always work in pairs. Safer that way. We have plenty to do in the meantime—placing that advertisement in the papers and seeing if any girls have been reported missing. That’s something I can do before I go home.”

I sighed. “We still seem so much in the dark. What we are really looking for is a depraved monster who preys on young girls. How will we ever find him in a city this size?”

“He’ll make one slip. They always get too cocky in the end or annoyed that the police are too slow. He’s dumping those bodies on the street to taunt us. One day he’ll dump a body where someone will see.”

“I don’t want to wait for that day,” I said. “It will mean more girls have to suffer this fate. Do you feel too tired to go on to Saint Vincent’s Hospital? Maybe she did say something—anything to give us a clue.”

She nodded. “All right. We’ve just got time if I’m to report in by noon. I don’t want them panicking and sending out search parties for me.” She almost sprinted for the El station. I had to admire her stamina. She had been on duty all night, and she was still going strong. Myself, I was already flagging under the heat of the day, and I was at least ten years her junior. I struggled to keep pace with her as she leaped aboard a departing train. The carriage was jam-packed and we had to stand, swaying in rhythm as the carriage creaked and groaned its way down First Avenue, blowing noxious smoke in through open windows. Of course we’d have to be traveling on one of the lines that hadn’t been electrified yet.

By sheer force of will I managed to keep going until we reached Saint Vincent’s Hospital. I knew my way around that somber place well enough. Bridie had almost died from typhoid here, and I had visited her every day. A pang of longing for her and her brother swept over me.

Sabella Goodwin strode purposefully down the tiled hallway until she reached the stone-faced, white-coifed nun in charge of the admitting desk.