Brendan took the bait right away. “That’s Mrs. Tomlinson’s house, wouldn’t you say, Brian?”
“Your mouth’s going to be the death of you, boy,” the older policeman snapped. “You should know better than that. Next you’ll be lending her your nightstick to break in with.”
“I wasn’t doing no harm . . .”
I hardly heard this exchange. My brain was still trying to digest what Brendan had said. “Mrs. Tomlinson?” I said, looking appealingly at him. “You don’t mean the wife of John Baker Tomlinson, do you? I’ve been to her residence. It’s on Fifty-second Street on the East Side.”
“No, this is an older woman—a widow. Maybe it’s your man’s mother.”
Terrific, I thought as we sloshed our way down Sixth Avenue toward the Jefferson Market police station. I had spent an entire evening risking pneumonia, getting myself arrested, and all to watch Mr. John Baker Tomlinson III visit his mother! As a detective it appeared I still had a long way to go.
Two
The Jefferson Market police station was in the triangular-shaped complex that also held a fire station, a jail, and the market itself. It was a mere stone’s throw from my house on Patchin Place and I looked longingly as we crossed Tenth Street.
“Look, Officers, I live just across the street,” I said. “If you’d just take me home, my friends will vouch for me.”
“You’re not going anywhere till morning,” the brusque constable said, giving my arm a warning squeeze. “We’ve been instructed to bring in any individuals behaving suspiciously and a young woman, out alone late at night, counts as suspicious in my book.”
“But I’ve explained what I was doing.”
“You can explain it to my sergeant.” I was shoved into the police station. “When he gets here in the morning,” he added.
“You mean I have to stay here all night?” For the first time I began to feel alarmed. I had been in jail once before and I had no wish to repeat the experience. “You can’t keep an innocent person in jail with no cause.”
“You watch your mouth or I’ll have you for resisting arrest,” the constable said. “Go on. Down to the lockup with you.”
Oh, but I was so tempted to call upon the name of Captain Sullivan. Watching their faces when they realized their mistake would have been worth any lecture that Daniel might give me. But as my mother always told me, I was born with too much pride. I pressed my lips together and said nothing.
I was manhandled down a dank, echoing hallway that smelled of urine and stale beer. I passed a cell full of dark shapes. The shapes stirred themselves as we passed and ribald comments from crude male voices were hurled after me.
“Shut your mouths in there.” The constable rattled his nightstick along the bars. We paused in front of the next cell. It too was fronted with bars instead of a wall and full of more shadowy figures. My heart leaped in fear that I might be locked up with men like those we had just passed. Before I had time to voice these fears, a key was produced, a door within the bars swung open, and I was shoved inside. I half stumbled and was grateful to see myself staring at a delicate foot and a skirt.
“Over here, dearie,” a rasping voice said from the darkness. “Move yer bum over, Flossie. The poor thing looks like she’s about to faint.”
I wasn’t really the type who fainted, but this was not the moment to protest my apparent frailty. I gave a grateful smile and sat on the few inches of bare wooden cot that had been offered to me. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, I saw that my cellmates were indeed of the profession I had been accused of pursuing. There were five of them and they were rouged and powdered with bright red lips and hair piled in ridiculous pompadours. One was wearing a black French corset that lifted her bosoms like overripe melons. No dress over the corset, mind you—just the corset and a shiny black skirt beneath it. The skirt was hitched up as she sat on the floor to reveal black fishnet stockings and high-heeled boots. Flossie on the bench was in a low-cut red satin dress. The other occupant of the bench had her shawl pulled around her and was trying to sleep. In contrast to the others she looked young and innocent, apart from the circles of rouge on her cheeks and the bright lips. I tried not to stare too obviously.
“So what you in for, honey?” the coarse voice asked again. It belonged to the large woman sitting on the floor in the corner, legs spread apart in a most unfeminine pose. She had an ostrich feather sticking from her hair and a feather boa around her neck.