“Guilty? What on earth for?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked in amazement.
“I’m not sure. Ever since I visited the mission, I’ve had this feeling that I’m not doing anything important with my life.”
“That’s nonsense! I’m sure there are hundreds of mothers in the city who think you’re doing something extremely important.”
Sarah frowned. “Bringing babies into the world alive is just the beginning. Think about how many infants are abandoned or killed and how many children end up living on the streets because their families throw them out.”
“You can’t save them all, my dear. One person can only do so much.”
“That’s just it. I don’t feel that I’m doing anything at all.”
“What could you possibly do?”
This was what Sarah had been fretting about and why she’d asked her neighbor to come over. “I was thinking perhaps I should volunteer to help out at the mission, the way Mr. Dennis’s wife did.”
The older woman frowned, considering. “What did Mrs. Dennis do there?”
“I’m not sure. I think she may have taught the girls needlework or something like that.”
“Do you do needlework?”
“Heavens, no, but I could teach them something I do know. Like hygiene, how to keep themselves and their homes clean and free of disease. Things like that.”
“Don’t their mothers teach them those things?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked in all sincerity.
“Many of them don’t have mothers,” Sarah said tactfully. She didn’t want to explain all the reasons the poor lived in squalor. Mrs. Ellsworth’s opinion of “foreigners” was already low enough.
“In that case, I’m sure they would appreciate knowing such things. In fact, I’m surprised they don’t already have someone teaching those things at the mission.”
“Perhaps they do. I guess I’ll find out when I offer my services.”
“Is that what you wanted my advice about?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked. “Because if it was, I don’t think I was much help!”
“You were a tremendous help,” Sarah assured her. “I think I just needed to hear someone else say it was a good idea.”
“My dear Mrs. Brandt, I’m sure you’ve never had a bad idea in your life,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with a smile as Sarah picked up the pot and began to pour their tea.
Thinking of the ideas she’d had yesterday, about visiting Emilia’s family members to find out who might have killed her, she smiled in return. “I’ve had my share, I promise you.”
“Oh, look,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, pointing at the tea leaf floating on the surface of Sarah’s cup. “That means you’re going to have a visitor.”
“Can you read my tea leaves to find out who it will be?” Sarah asked good-naturedly.
Mrs. Ellsworth closed her eyes and pretended to go into a trance. “I see a man who asks a lot of questions. He’s a man who puts criminals in jail. And I also see that he is very fond of you.” She opened one eye and peered at Sarah slyly. “And you, I think, are very fond of him.”
“I think,” Sarah said, “that from now on, I will only serve you coffee.”
Frank was getting tired of Mulberry Bend. Once again he came in the early evening, just as the sun was setting. He’d spent most of last night with Ugo Ianuzzi and learned enough to know the Black Hand probably had nothing to do with Emilia Donato’s death. Except for the weapon used – a thin-bladed stiletto – nothing else pointed to this group.
Emilia’s father was a laborer on the garbage scows, men who were known as rag pickers. They’d acquired this nickname because while their job was to level the loads of refuse as it was loaded onto the barges that would carry it out to be dumped into the sea, they were also allowed to pick through it for anything that might be of value to keep and sell. Most of what they found was rags, which could be cleaned and fashioned into rugs or stuffed into furniture or mattresses. The “cleaning,” of course, usually consisted of merely hanging the rags on clotheslines and letting the rain and sun do their work. Men who did this kind of labor owed their jobs to padroni, men who had managed to get the contract from the city and hired laborers to do the work. Mr. Donato, as a lowly laborer, was hardly powerful enough to arouse the interest of the Black Hand, much less inspire them to murder his daughter in some vendetta.
From what he’d learned of Emilia’s brother, he was a crippled beggar, likewise unlikely to have been involved with the Secret Society. Emilia’s lover Ugo, while a bit more successful, paid his protection money and kept in the Black Hand’s good graces. Even if he didn’t, killing his discarded mistress would hardly intimidate him.
That left the pimp who had exploited Emilia. Ugo had said his name was Lucca. Nobody seemed to know his last name. He wasn’t industrious or successful enough to keep a brothel. He exerted himself only to seduce young women and coerce them into prostituting themselves. Then he was content to live off the earnings of his latest victim.
Lucca had a tiny flat in one of the old Dutch houses, according to Ugo. Frank found the place easily enough. The elements had scoured the wooden siding clean of paint years ago, and the planks were now warped and rotting. Some of the windows hung crooked in their frames, the glass threatening to slide out with the slightest encouragement. Lucca rented part of the attic, which meant Frank had to trudge up the filthy, rickety stairs to the third floor. Halfway up the final flight, he could hear an argument going on above.
A woman was pleading and crying while a man was shouting and threatening. Frank could tell this easily, even though he didn’t understand a word of the language in which they conversed. He’d heard countless arguments just like it in many languages, and they were always the same. He quickened his step, hoping to interrupt it before its inevitable conclusion, but he wasn’t fast enough. The sound of flesh striking flesh, followed by a cry of pain and hysterical weeping, came to him just as he reached the top of the stairs.
The man’s voice rose to be heard above her weeping, shouting a warning and another threat. Frank reached the door and pounded on it before he could strike another blow.
“Open up,” he shouted. “Police.”
The door opened immediately, and the man stared back at him defiantly. He wore dirty trousers with the suspenders hanging down around his hips, and a yellowed undershirt. Although slight of stature, he’d planted himself squarely in the doorway and glared at Frank as if daring him to make trouble for what was obviously nobody else’s business.
“Lucca?” Frank asked and saw the instant of surprise register on the man’s face before he could collect himself.
“Not here,” he claimed, lifting his chin impudently. He was vaguely handsome, the way a snake can be called beautiful, no matter how dangerous it might be. The woman was still sobbing pitifully in the background.
“Maybe the lady knows where he is,” Frank suggested mildly, tilting his head to look over Lucca’s shoulder. He could see her sitting on the bed, cradling her cheek in one hand and rocking back and forth to comfort herself.
“She know nothing,” Lucca insisted. “Not here. Come back later.”
Frank looked him up and down. He wasn’t a big man, and what weight he had was soft. “I don’t want to come back later,” Frank said, still not raising his voice. That was why Lucca wasn’t prepared when Frank lunged at him. In one swift move, he threw the man off balance, caught his arm, and twisted it around his back. He propelled Lucca across the small room and slammed him face-first into the wall.
The woman screamed. Frank spared her a glance and was surprised to see she was no more than a girl, probably only fourteen at most. She stared at Frank, eyes filled with terror, her tears forgotten. “Get out of here,” he told her.
She blinked, either too frightened to understand or else she didn’t speak English. “Tell her to get out,” he said to Lucca, twisting his arm a little higher to encourage his cooperation.