Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)

I spent a miserable night, tossing and turning, consumed with guilt. I had had a chance to save Jessie and instead I had delivered her to men who could have no good reason for carting her away. And Daniel wasn’t around just when I needed him. A fine sort of assistant he was turning out to be—running home to his parents when we were in the middle of a case. You can see my state of mind was not quite rational. When I get upset I’ve been known to blame everybody, including myself.

At first light the next morning I was up and pacing. How was I going to find those men again in the whole of New York City? They had given me a Brooklyn address—was at least the Brooklyn part of it genuine? And even if it was, what hope did I have of locating two men who would fit the description of half the immigrants in the city. Well, not half the immigrants—the older man especially had been well dressed, had well-manicured nails and a good quality cloth for his overcoat, and carried an expensive-looking cane. And he ran his own business, although I remembered he had skirted the question about what kind of business that was.

I tried to make myself something to eat, but I couldn’t swallow. In the end I decided to go across the street and see if Sid and Gus were awake. Not only were they awake but their house smelled of freshly brewed coffee and Sid had already been out to get French rolls from the bakery. Of course they invited me to join their breakfast.

“We’ve been up for hours,” Sid said. “Gus is in a painting mood and went straight to her easel. I positively had to drag her away to eat breakfast. If I didn’t take such good care of her, she’d starve.”

I had to smile at this because Augusta looked to be far from starving.

“Sid does exaggerate,” Gus said, returning my smile. “You can tell which of us is the writer.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast,” I said, “but I had a horrible time sleeping last night.”

“Of course you did. You’re worried about that girl,” Gus said. “Have you passed along the details of those men to the police?”

“To my friend Mrs. Goodwin,” I said. “I know she’ll do what she can, but how does one track down two immigrants in New York City?”

Nobody could answer this.

“Have a hot croissant and some coffee, you’ll feel better,” Sid said, pushing a plate in front of me. I tried to eat, but I couldn’t. The New York Times lay on the table beside me. While they ate I thumbed through the pages, glancing at the headlines. Then I paused, reading a small article on an inside page: “Police raid Italian gang headquarters. Leading Sicilian crime figure taken into custody.” And underneath was an engraving of a man who looked very like the uncle who had come to visit me.

“That’s him,” I shouted, almost making them spill their coffee. I tapped the paper with my finger. “I’m almost sure that’s him. The older one who came to pick up Jessie.”

Sid peered over my shoulder. “ ‘Salvadore Alessi. Known to his gang members as the Don. Ruled over a brutal gang in which disloyalty was rewarded with death. Thought to be responsible for variety of crimes in and around New York, including protection rackets, bank robberies, and contract murders.’ ” She glanced up at me. “This does not sound like a very nice man, Molly.”

“And he’s got Jessie.”

“Given his reputation, one should conclude that Jessie is probably no longer alive,” Sid said gently. Gus gave a little gasp.

“I’ve got to know,” I said. “At least the police can give me the address.”

“Molly, you are not going to the house of an Italian gang.”

“It’s says this Don man, this gang leader, was taken into custody,” I replied. “At least I can find out if the police found a girl in the house when they raided it.”

“I’d assume the gang had more than one house and a dozen places where they could have hidden her if they’d wanted to keep her alive,” Sid said. “But why would they want to keep her alive?”

“Why would they want to kill her?”

“They suspect she knows something, perhaps,” Gus said. “She saw something that night. They fear she could identify them if she regains her sanity.”

I got up. “I have to go,” I said.

“Molly, you cannot go looking for a violent Italian gang.” Sid held my arm. “For heaven’s sake, be sensible. Go and tell Captain Sullivan if you must and then let him deal with them for you.”

“Daniel’s still away,” I said, feeling close to tears. “He went to his parents’ house and hasn’t yet returned. Mrs. Goodwin will help me, if I can find her. She’s probably still at work. She works a night shift. Thank you for the breakfast. Sorry, I’m not hungry.”

After this torrent of words I fled, dashed home to get my cloak, and then took the trolley straight to police headquarters on Mulberry Street. There I found the officers to be as unhelpful as I always remembered them.

“The matron, you mean?” one of them said. “Have you looked in the shelter next to the Tombs? That’s where you’d find her.”