City of Orphans Read online

  “You know what? I just like coming up here to see how big the city is. Someday—don’t care how long it takes—gonna fly round the whole thing. You could come, if you’d like. Or maybe get on one of those ships and go someplace. Take you, if you want. Emma and I come up here too.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to talk.” Maks suddenly grins. “And guess what? She’s teaching me to dance the two-step. But you know what I keep thinking?”

  “What?”

  “If Emma’s gonna be in prison, it’ll kill her. Kill the whole family.”

  Later, in his bed in the front room, Maks tries to think ’bout what it would be like to get on a ship. Where would he go? But his thoughts soon return to Emma, wondering if Mr. Donck can really help. Wondering what he was writing. Willa, asleep, clutches her doll.

  43

  Just about when Maks is falling asleep on Birmingham Street, Mr. Donck has a visitor in his office on Delancey.

  “Good evening, Bartleby!”

  With a start, Donck looks up from his writing. It’s Mr. Packwood, the Waldorf detective who arrested Emma. He’s dressed like a gentleman: fine frock coat, vest, and silk tie, boots polished to a bright shine.

  Donck puts one end of his speaking tube into his ear. “Ah, Philip,” he says. “Thank you for coming. Forgive me for not rising.”

  “Bartleby,” says Packwood as he considers the room, “why do you insist upon dwelling in the most miserable of conditions?”

  “We can’t all live the way you do,” Donck growls as he puts his rag to his mouth and coughs.

  “Someday you must visit me at the hotel,” says Packwood. “That is,” he adds, “when you get some decent clothing, clean yourself up, and stop coughing. To be honest, I don’t think Mr. Boldt would allow you to step through our doors. Not the way you are now. Did you know, he won’t allow any of his employees to have beards, mustaches, or even side-whiskers?”

  “Who’s this unpleasant man?” Donck says.

  “Boldt? The excellent German gentleman who runs the hotel. I assure you, Mr. Boldt will do anything to satisfy the needs of his guests. Just today a short gentleman found the chairs in his room too high. Mr. Boldt had them lowered.”

  “You mean he cut the furniture’s legs?”

  “Just so. And last week a guest wished her pillows overstuffed. Nora Foley, our chief housekeeper, took care of that. Mr. Boldt has even installed that Prussian invention—showers for the staff.”

  “What’s a shower?”

  “Like standing under a waterfall. But inside. Keeps the staff clean.”

  “Pha! Disgusting.”

  “It’s good business, Bartleby,” says Packwood. “Of course, for the staff—such as me—Mr. Boldt does no more than what he believes necessary. Bartleby, is there no place for me to sit?”

  “If I had chairs, my clients would sit and talk my head off. Better to keep them standing. They leave sooner.”

  “I’m glad to learn you still have clients. And a head. How does your work progress? Still writing trash?”

  Donck waves a hand over his writing. “Penny a word.” Then, after a moment, he adds, “People seem to read it.”

  “I suppose it can’t do any harm and it keeps you alive,” says Packwood. “Now then, my old friend, cab and horse are waiting outside. They don’t like your neighborhood. Neither do I.”

  “I would have thought you still carried a pistol.”

  Packwood mutters, “Only for my office. Not yours. Come now, Bartleby, I’m here because you asked me to come and we’re old friends.”

  “Friends . . .”

  “Quite so,” says Packwood. “I even bring you greetings from my sister, who—”

  “I don’t want to hear!” roars Donck, his face turning red.

  “As you wish,” says Packwood. “Now, what’s so urgent that you insisted I come immediately?”

  Donck glances at a piece of paper and reads what he’s written: “Emma Geless.”

  “How in the world do you know about her?”

  “My rooms may be slovenly, Philip. I may be growing deaf. Your sister once rejected my offer of marriage because I was too poor. I’m quite ill, but my mind remains keen. For a while, anyway. What do you know about this Emma Geless?”

  “Age sixteen. Immigrant child. Don’t know where from. Housemaid at the hotel. A gold watch and chain were taken from one of our guests. I found the chain under her dormitory pillow.

  “Naturally, I had her arrested. She was arraigned and now sits in The Tombs awaiting trial. What else is there to say?”

  “And the watch?”

  “A Breguet.”

  “Indeed! Worth a fortune. Did you find it?”

  “No.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “The girl probably gave it to the boyfriend who put her up to the job. No doubt, that chain was her reward. Her real reward will be time in prison.”

  “And the boyfriend?”

  “No idea.”

  “But you’re convinced a boyfriend exists?”

  “Usually the case.”

  “As certain that the girl is guilty?”

  “The evidence was there.”

  “Beyond a reasonable doubt?”

  “She claims she’s innocent. But, Bartleby, you know as well as I do, they all claim that. The truth of the matter is, the watch chain was found—”

  “Do you know her boyfriend’s name?”

  “Not the slightest idea.”

  “If you believe in his existence, don’t you want to find him? Don’t you want to recover the watch? Doesn’t the man who lost it want it back? Breguet watches are unique. Very expensive. Pull that from your pocket and everyone knows you’re a wealthy man. No wonder someone stole it. But . . . taken by a sixteen-year-old immigrant girl from nowhere? Pha!”

  “She could pawn it.”

  “Such a watch would be easy to find. I promise you, whoever took it still has it. Didn’t you give the victim reason to believe that you would try to find it? Don’t you wish to protect the reputation of your new hotel?”

  “Well, yes, all of that, of course, but—”

  “Then what have you done, Philip,” Donck shouts, “other than arrest that poor, ignorant girl?”

  Packwood is quiet for a while, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “Nothing,” he says. “Not really.”

  “Exactly,” shouts Donck. “You took the easy way! Pha!” His effort brings him a coughing fit. When he recovers, he says, “I intend to give you the means of recovering that watch and your reputation.”

  “My reputation is fine.”

  “Not with me,” snaps Donck.

  Packwood gives a mock groan. “Am I to hear about your illustrious Dutch ancestors again?”

  “I intend to tell you what I know. Then you must tell me what you know. Finally, I shall inform you what you must do.”

  “Are you giving me orders, Bartleby?”

  “Pha!” says Donck. “Once a Pinkerton, always a Pinkerton.”

  “ ‘We never sleep,’ do we?” says Packwood, smiling as he repeats the agency motto.

  “It’s as I prefer it. So let this be as it was,” Donck says. “Listen to your old chief. This shall be my last case. Your orders, Philip: Find the watch and you will have the thief. The real thief.”

  “Find the watch,” repeats Packwood with a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

  “To that end, I’m going to send a boy for you to put on your staff.”

  “A boy? Why?”

  “I need him to look about your hotel.”

  “Who is he? Your client? Your apprentice?”

  “He’s the brother of the girl you arrested. Name’s Maks. We’ll call him Brown. Maks Brown.” Donck snorts. “He’s . . . he’s my boy detective.”

  44

  Okay. It’s next morning. Wednesday.

  First thing, Willa and Maks take the boys to school, then return home to fetch Mama. By the time they get to her, she’s made up a package of fo
od for Emma: bread and sausage wrapped in a sheet of newspaper.

  When they get to the prison, the doors are already open. Mama, holding Emma’s food tight in both hands, is very nervous. “Is it terrible in here?” she asks Maks at the top of the steps. “Are you sure they’ll let me see Emma? What if they won’t?”

  “It ain’t nice,” he warns her. “But she’ll be glad to see you.”

  Willa announces she’ll wait outside.

  Maks looks at her. “You gonna wait?”

  “Promise.”

  “Keep your eyes open,” Maks warns. “You don’t want ’em to see you alone.”

  Willa, understanding, holds up her stick.

  Mama, who barely listens to what the kids are saying, whispers, “It’s such a big building.”

  As she and Maks go forward, she clutches his arm while keeping her eyes looking down. Maks can feel her trembling.

  When they get to the entry doors, the policemen ask the same questions they asked Maks the day before. When they answer, they’re given tickets.

  The first hard moment comes when Mama is told to go into the room where women are searched. It frightens her, but it’s over soon.

  “They even looked through the food,” says an astonished Mama.

  Maks, not talking, leads the way to the women’s prison. It’s cold and gloomy, the way it was yesterday. The same hollow cries, shrieks of misery, the stink of people, the swaggering guards, the crowded lower floor. Mama stares round with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Who are all these people?” she whispers to Maks.

  Maks, trying to act as if knows, says, “Lawyers. People selling food to prisoners.”

  He don’t wait but leads Mama to the top cell level. She climbs the steps slowly—like a little kid—one step at a time, holding tightly to Maks and the side rail. He’s hoping Emma’s cell door will be open.

  When they find it closed, Maks calls out Emma’s name.

  She’s at the far back of the cell, as if hiding. Hearing Maks, she stands up, looking dirtier, more dismal than before.

  When Mama sees Emma, she’s so startled, she cries out. At first Emma brightens at the sight of Mama, but when they get close, she starts to cry. Mother and daughter hug each other through the bars and start talking Danish.

  Maks sees Mama slip Emma a dollar. He don’t know where she got it, but he supposes it’s Monsieur Zulot’s rent money.

  Maks, sure they want to be alone, walks off a bit, leaning over the balcony and watching the people milling below. Don’t take long before he spots Donck on the first level. The detective is talking to a man, tapping him on his chest as if scolding him, even as he’s holding up his listening tube.

  The other man, looking annoyed, turns and walks away. Donck shakes his head, walks down the hall, and leaves.

  Mama tugs on Maks’s sleeve. “Maks, she hasn’t eaten all day. Can I go to some of those people down there and buy something?”

  “Want me to?”

  “I’ll do it. She wants to talk to you.”

  Maks goes back to the cell. When Emma puts out her hands, he holds them.

  “I found someone to help you,” he says right away.

  “Who?”

  “A detective. Name is Donck. When I come back tomorrow, I’ll tell you how he’s gonna help. But I didn’t tell Mama. So don’t go telling her.”

  Emma says, “You asked me yesterday if I could remember anything unusual happening at the hotel before I was arrested.”

  “Did you?”

  “Just something small.”

  “What?”

  Emma tells Maks this story: “At the hotel my job is to clean rooms on the ninth floor. We start at nine in the morning. You’re supposed to knock to make sure no one’s in the room. See, when we clean, the guests can’t be there. And we always keep the door open. The hotel has strict rules ’bout that. The chief matron, Miss Foley, is always checking to make sure we do things right.

  “Sometimes when we’re cleaning, a guest comes back. Because they forgot something or they need to change clothes. When that happens, we’re supposed to leave. Wait outside till the guest goes.

  “The day before I was arrested, I was cleaning one of the rooms and a gent came in. He must have been a guest in that room ’cause when he sees me, he apologizes for interrupting. Guests aren’t always so polite. Says he forgot something.

  “Right away, I says, ‘I’ll wait outside.’ But he says, ‘Pay no heed to me, young lady. Just go on with your fine work. I’ll be but a moment.’ Talked fancy like that. ‘Thank you, sir,’ I says, and kept working.

  “As he was leaving—ain’t more than a few minutes—he says, ‘You’re doing an excellent job here. If you tell me your name, I’ll praise you to the management.’

  “That’s a good thing, so sure, I told him my name, and he left, and I went on with my work.”

  “But what happened?” Maks says, baffled.

  Emma, disappointed by Maks’s reaction, shrugs. “We don’t get praised by guests very often. It’s the only unusual thing I remember.”

  Before Maks can say anything more, he sees Mama coming back along the balcony. She’s got a jug of water, which she gives to Emma. The girl drinks greedily.

  Mama and Emma make their good-byes with lots of hand-holding, hugs and kisses, as well as promises to return. Then Mama and Maks go back out the way they came in—Mama being quiet—and hand their tickets to a policeman. When they get outside, the first thing Maks does is look for Willa. She’s sitting on the steps.

  Since Mama wants to walk alone, Willa and Maks stay a few steps back.

  “When you were inside,” Willa says in a low voice, “I saw Donck come out.”

  “Yeah. I saw him too.”

  “I don’t think he even saw me. He seemed to be thinking very hard. And . . . I also saw a couple of Plug Uglies.”

  Maks stops. “They do anything?”

  “Soon as I saw them, I moved up by the doors. Where the policemen are. I had my stick, so maybe that’s why they left me alone. But one of them shouted, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get you soon.’ ”

  “They’re following us,” says an uneasy Maks. “Watching where we go.”

  He tries to put his mind back to Emma, going over that story she told him. Didn’t make any sense.

  As they head back to the tenement, Maks notices how dank the air is, how it smells of smoke. And it feels like rain is coming.

  He’s thinking, Nothing’s right.

  45

  Soon as they get Mama home safe, Maks and Willa horse it over to Newspaper Row, back behind The World building. The usual knot of newsies is there but bunched up in one big crowd. No games. No fooling. Lots of fuming, fussing, and angry, nervous talk.

  “What’s the matter?” Maks asks Toby.

  “Plug Uglies,” says the kid. “They beat up four guys last night. Burned all their papers.”

  “Anyone get hurt?”

  “Abe got his arm busted.”

  Everybody understands the newspaper ain’t gonna help. And cops? Forget ’bout ’em.

  Maks hears one kid say, “That Bruno, you know what? He ain’t gonna back off till he bosses us.”

  And it don’t help knowing rain is coming. Rain always makes newsies twitchy. No fun peddling papers when it’s pelting.

  The bell rings. Mugs line up while the papers are dished. Maks grabs his bundle. Then he and Willa head uptown, Maks reading the headlines as they go.

  “Anything good?” Willa asks.

  “Not bad. A town was wrecked.”

  “Where?”

  “Says . . . Eng-Land.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t matter.”

  Soon as they get to Maks’s corner, he starts hustling: “Extra! Extra! Read all ’bout it! ‘Town of Sandgate Wrecked! Citizens Driven from Homes in Panic!’ Read it in The World! The world’s greatest newspaper. Town in panic! News like you love it! Just two cents! Only two cents!”

&
nbsp; The rain starts. Ain’t much at first, mostly spatter, but it gets colder, too. The rain and cold make people move faster, which ain’t good for selling. Besides, people don’t buy wet papers.

  But Maks, being near the El station steps, got a good place. It’s partly protected and people keep coming. Helps having Willa there too. She stays by the pickle shop—they have an awning over the door—and that keeps the papers dry.

  More rain and then thunder thumps, making people jump. Sales are slow, but by sometime after seven, Maks dishes his last sheet. Soon as he does, he and Willa start running toward Donck’s rooms.

  By then it’s dark, cold, the rain coming steadily. In the gray wet, the only bright spots are red lamps—like bloodshot eyes—set on the streetlight posts so people can find fire-alarm boxes.

  Splashing through street puddles and mud, Maks clutches his pennies in his pocket. They hear one drop. They get on hands and knees and search till Willa calls, “Got it!”

  Then they’re up and running again.

  When they get to Delancey Street, they go right to Donck’s door. Maks knocks. He hears coughing and gasping ’fore he hears anything else. Then a voice yells, “What is it?”

  “It’s us. Maks and Willa.”

  “Come in!”

  They enter into the same mess as before, the rooms cold, smelling of sour mold. Books in their cases looking like crumbling bricks. Rain drumming ’gainst the windows while water wiggles down an inside wall.

  Donck is sitting behind his desk by his glowing lamp. Pen in hand, he’s hunched over his papers, writing furiously, his bald head the only bright spot in the gloom.

  Willa and Maks stand in the doorway, their hair dripping. At their feet puddles gather.

  The detective shifts round and stares hollow-eyed at them. “Ah! The boy detective. You look as bad as the trash you read.”

  Maks says, “You told us to come back.”

  “So I did.” The detective throws down his pen—spattering ink—picks up his listening tube, and holds it out. Immediately, he starts coughing, so much that he has to slap a hand over his mouth. Blood seeps through his dirty, stubby fingers.

  Maks stares, horrified. He glances at Willa to see if she’s seen it. Her eyes are big.