sleeping peacefully despite the uproar.
Littlemore's badge got him inside the jailhouse, but it couldn't get Betty out. They stood only a few inches from each other, separated by the floor-to-ceiling iron bars, speaking quietly. 'Your first day of work, Betty,' Littlemore said, 'and you went on strike?'
She had not gone on strike. When Betty arrived at the factory that morning, she went directly to the ninth floor and joined a hundred other girls sewing. There were, however, at least fifty empty stools in front of idle sewing machines. What had happened was this: the day before, a hundred fifty seamstresses had been fired for being 'union sympathizers.' That evening, in response, the International Ladies Garment Workers Union called a strike against Betty's factory. As the next morning wore on, a small band of laborers and unionists gathered in the street below, shouting up to the workers on the floors above.
'They called us scabs,' Betty explained. 'Now I know why they hired me so quick — they were replacing the union girls. I couldn't be a scab, Jimmy, could I?'
'I guess not,' said Littlemore, 'but what did they want to go and strike for anyway?'
'Oh, you wouldn't believe it. First of all, it's hot, like a furnace. Then they charge the girls rent — for everything: lockers, sewing machines, needles, stools to sit on. You don't get half the pay they promise you. Jimmy, there was a girl there worked seventy-two hours last week, and she made three dollars. Three dollars! That's — that's — how much is that?'
'Four cents an hour,' said Littlemore. 'That's bad.'
'And that's not the worst thing either. They lock all the doors to keep the girls working; you can't even go to the bathroom.'
'Geez, Betty, you should have just left. You didn't have to go and picket, with people smashing windows and all.'
Betty was half indignant, half confused. 'I didn't picket, Jimmy.'
'Well, what did they arrest you for?'
' 'Cause I quit. They told us we'd go to jail if we quit, but I didn't believe them. And nobody was smashing windows. The policemen were just beating people up.'
'Those weren't policemen.'
'Oh, yes, they were.'
'Oh, boy,' said Littlemore. 'I got to get you out of here.' He beckoned to one of the guards and explained to him that Betty was his girl and wasn't part of the strike at all; she was in the lockup by mistake. At the words 'my girl,' Betty looked down at the floor and smiled with embarrassment.
The guard, a pal of Littlemore's, answered penitently that his hands were tied. 'It ain't me, Jimmy,' he said. 'You got to talk to Becker.'
'Beck?' asked Littlemore, his eyes lighting up. 'Is Beck here?'
The guard led Littlemore down the hall to a room where five men were drinking, smoking, and playing a noisy game of cards beneath a flickering electric bulb. One of them was Sergeant Charles Becker, a bullet-headed fireplug of a man with a powerful baritone. Becker, a fifteen-year veteran on the force, worked the most vice-ridden precinct in Manhattan, the Tenderloin, where the city's glittering casinos and brothels, including Susan Merrill's, mixed with the gaudiest lobster palaces and vaudevilles. Becker's presence at the jail was a stroke of good fortune for Littlemore, who had spent six months as a beat officer in Becker's squad.
'Hey, Beck,' Littlemore called out.
'Littlemouse!' boomed Becker, dealing cards. 'Boys, meet my little brother detective from downtown. Jimmy, this here's Gyp, Whitey, Lefty, and Dago — you remember Dago, don't you?'
'Dago,' said the detective.
'Couple two-three years ago,' Becker told his cronies, referring to Littlemore, 'this guy solves a pump-and- jump for me. Hands me the perp' — this was pronounced poyp — 'who's been paying the price ever since. They always pay the price, boys. What you doing here, Jimmy, bird- watching?'
Becker heard him out, nodding, never taking his eyes from the poker table. With the roar of a man who savors a grand display of magnanimity, he ordered the guards to let out the detective's bird. Littlemore thanked Becker profoundly and hurried back to the cell, where he collected Betty. On their way out, Littlemore poked his head into the card room and thanked Becker again. 'Say, Beck,' he said. 'One more favor?'
'Name it, little brother,' replied Becker.
'There's a lady in there with a baby. Any chance we could let her out too?'
Becker stubbed out a cigarette. His voice remained casual, but the jocularity of Becker's cronies suddenly came to a halt. 'A lady?' asked Becker.
Littlemore knew something was wrong, but he didn't know what.
'He's talking about Susie, boss,' said Gyp, whose real name was Horowitz.
'Susie? Susie Merrill's not in my jail, is she, Whitey?' said Becker.
'She's in there, boss,' answered Whitey, whose real name was Seidenschner.
'You got something going with Susie, Jimmy?'
'No, Beck,' said Littlemore. 'I just thought — with her having a baby and all — '
'Uh-huh,' said Becker.
'Forget I said it,' Littlemore put in. 'I mean, if she — '
Becker bellowed to the guards to let Susie out. He added to this command several choice imprecations, expressing outrage at a baby's being locked up in his jail and yelling that if there was 'any more babes' in the lockup in future, they should be brought directly to him. This remark produced a gale of laughter from his crew. Littlemore decided he had better go. He thanked Becker a third time — this one generating no reply — and led Betty away.
Tenth Street was nearly deserted. A breeze stirred from the west. On the jailhouse steps, in the shadow of the massive Victorian edifice, Betty stopped. 'Do you know that woman?' she asked. 'The one with the baby?'
'Kind of.'
'But, Jimmy, she's a — she's a madam.'
'I know,' said Littlemore, grinning. 'I've been to her place.'
Betty slapped the detective across the jaw.
'Ow,' said Littlemore. 'I only went there to ask her some questions about the Riverford murder.'
'Oh, Jimmy, why didn't you say so?' asked Betty. She put her hands to her face, then his. She smiled. 'I'm sorry.'
They embraced. They were still embracing a minute later, when the heavy oaken doors to the jail creaked open and a shaft of light fell on them. Susan Merrill was in the doorway, burdened with the baby and a hat of enormous proportions. Littlemore helped her out the door. Betty asked to hold the baby, whom the older woman willingly gave over.
'So you're the one who sprung me,' Susie said to Littlemore. 'I guess you figure I owe you something now?'
'No, ma'am.'
Susie cocked her head to get a better look at the detective. Reclaiming the baby from Betty, she said, in a whisper so faint Littlemore could hardly hear it, 'You're going to get yourself killed.'
Neither Littlemore nor Betty responded.
'I know who you're looking for,' Susie went on, the words barely audible. 'March 18, 1907.'
'What?'
'I know who, and I know what. You don't know, but I know. I ain't doing nothin' for free, though.'
'What about March 18, 1907?'
'You find out. And you get him,' she hissed, with a venom so violent she put a hand over the baby's face as if to protect her from it.
'What about that day?' Littlemore pressed again.
'Ask next door,' whispered Susie Merrill, before disappearing into the gathering dusk.
Rose swept us out of the apartment — a kindness on her part. She certainly didn't want Freud involved in cleaning up. As for Brill, he looked as numb as a soldier with DaCosta's syndrome. He would not be coming to dinner, he said, and asked us to make an excuse for him.
Jones took the subway to his hotel, which was farther downtown and less expensive than ours, while Freud,
