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

“No, today is important day,” the uncle said. “Today we take cab.”


He hailed a hansom and helped me in with great courtesy. The nephew scrambled in behind him.

“So where do you live?” I asked.

“Brooklyn. We live Brooklyn. Nice house. Backyard. Good place for girl.”

“Is her name really Annie?”

“Anya,” he says. “Sometime we call her Anni. Is affectionate little name, no?”

The cab ride seemed to go on forever. I kept telling myself that these were good people. They were well dressed. They had enough money to take care of her. She would be fine. From time to time I glanced at the younger one. He had a beaky nose and dark, sad eyes. But he seemed mild enough. He had taken off his gloves and I noticed that his hands were not those of a laborer.

“What kind of work does your nephew do?” I asked.

“He work for me,” the old man replied. “I own a business.”

“What kind of business?”

He looked at me scornfully for a moment. “Trade. Buying and selling.” Then he laughed and patted my hand. “You a young lady. What you know about business?”

“I run one,” I said. “I own my own detective agency.”

I thought he looked startled for a moment, then he chuckled again. “You—a detective? What you look for, lost *cats?”

“Actually my agency is quite successful,” I replied haughtily. “I located you, didn’t I?”

“Anya will not have to work.” He dismissed me with a wave of his kid-gloved hand. “My family will keep her safe and well fed. You can be assured of that.”

Another long silence.

“So tell me again, how you find her?” he asked. “Was it just chance?”

“Pure chance. I was walking through Central Park, with my gentleman friend, and we stumbled upon the body. I thought she was dead. She wore no cloak. Only dainty evening slippers. But we managed to revive her and brought her to the nearest hospital. Then the hospital didn’t want to take care of her any longer, so I had her brought to my place.”

“Central Park?” he said. “This is far from ship. How does she get to Central Park, I ask myself. She can tell you nothing of this?”

“She doesn’t speak,” I said. “She appears not to understand.”

“Ah. She will understand Hungarian and tell us what happened to her. You are kind young lady. We thank you.” He nodded to me graciously.

We pulled up at last at the entrance to Patchin Place.

“Nice house. Small,” the uncle said.

He picked his way in his polished patent shoes through the remaining slush to my front door. I let them in. They stood in my hallway, looking around.

“You say she remembers nothing?”

“Nothing. The doctor who is treating her says she has experienced a very traumatic event.” I saw this might be beyond the scope of his English. “Something very bad happened to her.”

“Exactly what I tell you. Some rat try to make her do bad things.”

“She’s up here, in the bedroom. Do you think she will know you?”

“Me she will not know. I came to America when she is little girl. My nephew, she will know him, I am sure. He left our village five years ago to work in Vienna. He work there until I tell him to come to New York. When he want wife, I say take nice girl from our village and the girl’s father arrange with me. But she should remember his face, I hope. He has not changed much in five years.”

I led them up the stairs.

“Tell me,” I said. “Was Anya a dancer?”

“Dancer? No. Her parents have bakery. Make bread. Good girl.”

I opened her door and went in. Mrs. Tucker was sitting beside her.

“Dr. Birnbaum has kept her mildly sedated,” I said. “He gave her something to make her sleep a lot.”

They came to stand beside me. I heard the intake of breath.

“It is her. Thank God,” the old man said and crossed himself. The nephew did likewise.

“You’re sure?”

“I would know her anywhere. She look just like her mother. When I was a young man her mother and I were sweethearts.”

I touched her hand. “Anni? Something wonderful has happened. Here is Laslo, come to take you home. You remember Laslo?”

Her eyes opened and focused on the young man bending over her. “Anni?” he said, then rattled off a string of Hungarian at her. She stared at him blankly.

He took her hand. She shrank away from him, looking scared, and grabbed at Mrs. Tucker for support.

“She may not remember anything at all,” I said. “In which case she won’t remember you or where she is or why she’s here.”

“Tragic,” the old man said. “So sad. What she needs is to be among her own people. I am sure she will soon recover, God willing.”