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

“The one in the middle?” I said as disappointment washed over me. “That’s not her.”


“Oh dear. What a pity,” Mr. Tweedie said. “I was so hopeful when I read your letter. We’d dearly like her back, you know. She was the most talented dancer we’ve had in years and quite a looker, too. The young men used to positively fight over her. That’s why we suspected that she ran off with one of them. These girls do it all the time, you know. Think they are being promised home, respectability, security, when in fact the young man has no such intentions. All he wants is a good time. When he’s done with them, they often wind up in the gutter. In fact there was another girl who—”

I turned away from the poster. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Tweedie,” I said, cutting off his rambles. I was so disappointed that I was ready to leave, but fortunately, Daniel asked, “Tell me, Mr. Tweedie, is a man named John Jacob Halsted known to you?”

“Halsted? Why, of course we’ve all heard of him. That’s the young fellow from Yale who robbed the bank and then shot the Silvertons’ butler in cold blood, isn’t it?”

“Did you know him before that? Did he come to your theater?”

“I understand from the girls that he was one of the young men who hung around the stage door,” the manager said. “But the young gentlemen from Yale do so in droves, every night. I can’t say I would recognize his face if I saw it.”

“He drove a smart red motor car,” I said. “The latest model.”

Tweedie nodded. “Yes, I did see a vehicle like that in the alleyway behind the theater from time to time.”

“On the day that Annie disappeared?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t remember,” he said.

We came away subdued and silent.

“I was so excited. I was sure our girl was Annie,” I said at last. “It would have been so wonderful.”

“Not for Annie,” Daniel said. “Because something terrible would have happened to her between leaving the theater and being found in Central Park.”

I nodded.

“Do you think it’s possible that Annie and Halsted might have cooked this up together and that they are now somewhere sufficiently far away, enjoying the spoils?”

Daniel frowned. “I suppose it’s possible,” he said. “In any case, I’m afraid you’re right again and we’re back to square one with the girl. I think you may have saddled yourself with an enormous burden here, Molly. I told you at the time that I thought you were being unwise.”

“Dr. Birnbaum and Mrs. Tucker will cure her between them, I know they will,” I said. “She smiled at Mrs. Tucker today. That’s a huge breakthrough, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t sound like it to me, but if you think so . . .”

“I do.” I glanced up at him. “It means she’s coming to trust us and regard us as her friends. I bet one day she’ll suddenly start talking again.”

“And like most women, she probably won’t shut up,” Daniel said, then dodged as I went to hit him with my handbag.

The return journey seemed to take forever. The weather deteriorated and the heavens opened, peppering the carriage windows with cold rain.

“I was thinking that I should leave the train at the station closest to the automobile wreck,” Daniel said. “I can question them as to whether Halsted was seen there. And then I should check with the steamship companies to see if anyone matching Halsted’s description bought tickets for two to South America.”

“Why South America particularly?” I asked.

“Because it’s where people go if they are running from the law. There are certain countries where foreigners are welcome and no questions are asked.”

“I see.” I stared out at the bleak, desolate landscape and said a silent prayer that Halsted and Annie were indeed enjoying their ill-gotten gains in South America and not lying somewhere in those marshes.

Daniel got off the train, leaving me to cross the bridge into Manhattan alone. I arrived home to be met at the front door by an excited Mrs. Tucker.

“Good news, Miss Murphy!”

“She’s speaking again?”

“No, but you’ve had a letter. Her family has been found.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” I said. “Where’s the letter?”

“On the kitchen table. That German doctor brought it round. It must have come in the second delivery.”

I was already rushing ahead of her down the hall to the kitchen. It was on cheap lined paper, the kind that comes out of a child’s school copy book.





Dear Sir or Madam:

My heart was full of joy when a friend show me your notice in the newspaper. You see, I believe from your description this girl is my betrothed, Anya Bartok. She was expected to arrive from Hungary on a steamship last week. I went to meet the ship but I never found her. She is a simple girl. She comes from my small village and speaks no English.

If you would be kind enough to meet me tomorrow morning at eleven, under the clock at Grand Central Terminus, you can conduct me to her and I will be able to take her home.

Mr. Laslo Baka