Murder on St. Mark’s place

They shook their heads.

“It didn’t seem important then.” Bertha sighed. “We didn’t know… what was going to happen.”

“Maybe…” Sarah hesitated, wondering if she dared do what she was thinking. “Could you take me there with you the next time there’s a dance?”

“There’s a dance every night,” Hetty said, surprised she wouldn’t know that.

“Every night?” Sarah could hardly credit it.

“Well, maybe not there, but somewhere,” Lisle corrected. “I think there’s one at the Harmony tomorrow, though. The Barn Stormers are having it,” she added, naming a local social club.

“On a weeknight?” Sarah asked in surprise.

“I told you, there’s dancing every night,” Hetty reminded her.

“Were you planning to go?” Sarah asked, then immediately realized how cold she sounded. “I mean, if you wouldn’t feel…” She let her voice trail off, knowing she was making it worse.

Bertha and Hetty looked away, uncertain. Plainly, they were leaving the decision up to Lisle.

“Why would you want to go?” Lisle asked her suspiciously.

“I… I told you I knew Gerda slightly. Last spring, another girl I knew was killed. The police weren’t able to solve the case, so I helped, and we were able to find the killer. I don’t think the police will be very interested in solving Gerda’s murder, either, and I don’t want her killer to go free.”

“You solved a murder?” Hetty asked, fascinated and seeing Sarah in a whole new light.

“A police detective helped me,” Sarah admitted, wondering what Malloy would have to say to that. He’d probably say that she had helped him, which was more correct but less likely to impress these girls.

“You said the police didn’t want to solve it,” Lisle reminded her shrewdly.

“They didn’t. In fact, this detective was ordered to stop the investigation. That’s why he needed my help. I’ve already asked my friend to look into Gerda’s case, but he didn’t think much would be done.”

The girls nodded sagely. “They didn’t care about them other girls that was killed,” Hetty said. “Why should they care about Gerda? She wasn’t even an American.”

A very good point, and Sarah knew she didn’t have to say so. The girls, young as they were, probably knew more about the realities of life than she did.

“Will you take me to the dance?” Sarah asked.

“You won’t find out nothing,” Lisle warned her.

“You might be surprised,” Sarah said, feeling the familiar surge of emotion. Not excitement, surely not that, but something closer to power and purpose. A feeling she hadn’t experienced since the other time she’d worked so hard to find a young woman’s killer.

“You’re way too old for these dances,” Hetty pointed out unkindly. “They’ll think you’re somebody’s mother.”

Sarah ignored the flash of annoyance she felt. After all, she was nearly twice their age, so she shouldn’t feel insulted.

“You’d have to fix yourself up some, too,” Lisle said. “You need some flash if you want to get noticed.”

“I don’t want to get noticed,” Sarah assured her. Just the opposite, in fact. “I only want to look around and see who comes to these dances.”

“You think he’ll be there? The killer. I mean,” Bertha asked uneasily.

“He must go to these dances. How else would he find his victims?” Sarah pointed out. “And I hope you girls are being careful.”

“We’re always careful.” Bertha sniffed. “We go in pairs. If a girl has a friend with her, they can help each other out, in case a fellow gets too friendly.”

Sarah decided not to point out that having a friend hadn’t saved Gerda. “Then you’ll need a fourth person along, won’t you? So you each have a companion. Why not take me?”

Lisle was considering. She didn’t know whether to trust Sarah or not, but she must also know that Sarah was the only person who had displayed the slightest interest in finding Gerda’s killer-and the killer of several other young girls, too, if what they had told her was true. If nothing else, at least Sarah would be able to prevent these girls from making the same mistake Gerda did in going out with someone she didn’t know.

“We’ll take you, then,” Lisle said at last, “but you’ve got to get some flash whether you want it or not. It won’t do for you to be so plain. You’d draw attention to yourself for that, won’t you?”

Sarah thought perhaps she was right. “And what, exactly, must I do to get some flash?” she asked with a smile.

FRANK MALLOY FOUND the man he wanted slumped over his desk in the detectives’ office. The large, untidy room was crammed with desks which were usually deserted because their owners were out on cases. Bill Broughan could be counted upon to spend as much time as possible at his desk, however. He avoided work whenever he could.

“Broughan!” Frank shouted right beside the sleeping man’s ear.

Broughan jerked awake, blinking furiously until he brought Frank’s face into focus. “Malloy, I’d kill you for that, but if I move that sudden, my head’ll explode.”

“Bad night?” Frank asked without much sympathy. He’d had a bad night himself. He could thank Sarah Brandt for that.

Broughan clamped both hands on his head, as if he really were trying to keep it all in one piece. “My nephew Andrew had a baby boy yesterday. We was celebrating till the wee hours.”

“Congratulations to the proud father,” Frank said with more courtesy than sincerity. He didn’t know Bill’s nephew. “Look, Bill, somebody asked me about a case, the one where the girl was wearing red shoes.”

Bill squinted, as if the act of trying to remember caused him pain. Broughan was a portly man, his round face flushed from too many years of “celebrating.” His thinning brown hair was mussed, as if he hadn’t combed it this morning. He probably hadn’t. There was a yellow stain on his lapel. “Oh, yeah, the red shoes,” he recalled after a moment. “German girl. Hadn’t been here long, from what I heard. Damnedest thing. I never heard of nobody wearing red shoes. Not even a German. You ask me, she got ’ em whoring. Who else would have red shoes?”

Frank agreed, but he didn’t want to say so. He’d get more information if he argued with Bill. “A friend of mine knows the family. Says they’re respectable.”

“Maybe they are, but that never stopped a girl from whoring if she needed money.”

Frank couldn’t argue with that, no matter how much he thought it might help him get information. He sighed. “This friend of mine, she wants to know if you’ve got any idea who killed this girl.”

“She?” Broughan asked, his bloodshot eyes brightening with interest.

“She who?” Frank asked, feigning innocence.

“You said your friend who wants to know is a she.” His face squinched up in the effort of thought. “This friend wouldn’t be that blonde who come to the station for you that time, would it? The one the sergeant locked in an interrogation room?”

Frank was never going to live that down, but maybe he could get it to work in his favor this time. Even if this might be even harder to live down. “Yeah, well, you know how women can be when they get started on something.”

“Frank, you devil, you.” Broughan rubbed his hands in glee. “You never said a word. How long has this been going on?”

Frank gave him a disdainful glare. “I’d tell you if I thought it was any of your business.”

Bill frowned. “This must be serious. You thinking about getting hitched again? She know about your kid?”

“Look,” Frank said, growing impatient and more than a little annoyed, “right now I just want to make her happy by telling her you’re going to arrest somebody for killing this girl.” That much was true. If he could make her happy by solving this case, he wouldn’t have to see Sarah Brandt again.

Bill rubbed his temples with both hands, closing his eyes against the pounding that must be going on inside his head. “Wish I could help you, son, but nobody’ll ever find out who killed that girl.”

“Why not?” Frank figured he already knew, but if there was the slightest hope, he wanted to grasp it.

“I told you. She was a whore. Or the next thing to it,” he added when Frank was going to protest. “Out every night dancing with her friends. You know what goes on at them dance halls. Lots of strange men, some stranger