The Cutthroat

“Mr. Bell, I’ve really never felt the need to recruit. Young ladies come to the Grove Mansion as volunteers.”

“Nick.”

“Why don’t I parade my girls by you? You can see with your own eyes that they could work in any house in New York. They work here because they want to.”

“Nick. The Van Dorn Detective Agency was not founded yesterday. Cheap pimps hunt poor farm daughters who can only afford steamers and trolleys at ferry piers and trolley stops. High class resorts like your ‘Ritz of the Tenderloin’ troll Pennsylvania Station and Grand Central for the class of girls who can purchase a railroad ticket to run away from home. I am looking for one particular well-off girl. I know she came by train. I know she arrived at Grand Central because she journeyed from Connecticut. I want to know who to interview at Grand Central. And I am running out of patience.”

“Patience?” Sayers got indignant. “Isaac! You helped me, a long time ago, and I helped you. I call us even steven.”

“Isaac instead of Mr. Bell? Sounds like you’re paying off ever-bigger friends at Tammany Hall.”

“It would pay you to remember how to get along in this town. How dare you barge into my house, making threats?”

“Threats?”

Isaac Bell stood up, draped a big hand on the glass cabinet, tipped it forward, and slammed it down to the floor, shattering glass and smashing ceramics.

Sayers gasped in disbelief. “Do you know what those cost?”

“That was not a threat,” said Bell. “Who is snagging girls at Grand Central?”

Sayers reached for his voice tube.

Bell said, “If you call Skinner, you’ll need a new doorman. That’s not a threat, either.”

* * *

The bordello procurer at Grand Central ran his operation from Nyren’s, a fancy station shop that sold French perfume, kid gloves, and silk scarves. Exquisitely dressed and barbered, he had the kindly, twinkly-eyed manner of an unmarried uncle. “May I help you, sir? Something for a young lady friend, perhaps?”

“I don’t have a young lady friend.”

Nyren delivered an indulgent wink. “Well, until you get one, why not something nice for your wife?”

“What I want,” said Isaac Bell, “is a private conversation in your back room with each of your young gents who waylay girls off the trains and steer them in here.”

The twinkle hardened with an edge like limelight. “I don’t know what you are talking about. If you haven’t come to make a purchase, please leave my shop.”

“But first I want to talk to you, Mr. Nyren. I’m looking for this girl.”

He held out Anna’s picture.

Nyren pretended to study it. “I still don’t know what you are talking about, but I never met this girl.” Then, in an act that made the tall detective believe him, he dropped his mask long enough to leer, “I can assure you I never forget a pretty face.”

“I will watch your shop for you while you round up your young gents. One at a time.”

“I will call a policeman.”

“I will, too,” said Bell, “and it won’t be one of the New York Central rail dicks you paid off. It will be his boss.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“A friend of the young lady’s family. Get them in here — now!”

Three swaggered into the shop, one at a time as Bell ordered. They were young, well dressed, and it was not hard to imagine a frightened girl falling for their polished manners and charming smiles. Bell greeted each politely. “I’m not here to put you out of business. I’m looking for one particular young lady and I would appreciate your help. My appreciation will take the form of a monetary reward.”

“How much?”

“One hundred dollars,” said Bell. The figure, two months’ earnings for a day laborer, captured their attention. “Have you seen this girl?”

Two shook their heads. The third said, “I remember her.”

“When did you see her?”

“Let me think… Month ago. Maybe five weeks.”

The time was right, and Bell asked, “Did you speak?”

“Tried to. She wasn’t buying any.”

“What happened?”

“She just brushed past like I wasn’t there and kept going.”

“Did one of the other boys accost her?”

“No. Only me.”

“How do you know?”

“I followed her out on the street.”

“Did you really? Which way did she go?”

“Across 42nd.”

“West?”

“Yes.”

“How far did you follow her?”

“Fifth Avenue.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“She was walking like she knew where she was going. Or knew what she wanted. So I figured, this is not a girl I could convert.”

Bell remained silent, and the brothel recruiter added, “Want to hear something funny?”

“What’s that?”

“I saw her a few weeks later — last week.”

“Where?”

“Over on Broadway. She was strolling with an old swell. You tell me what she’s about.”

“What did he look like?”

“Old.”

“Stooped over? Bent?”

“No. Tall guy like you.”

“What color was his hair?”

“Gray.”

“Beard?”

“No, just a mustache.”

“What color were his eyes?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t that close. Say, maybe I could go now? Maybe you could give me a piece of that hundred?”

“Maybe I could,” said Isaac Bell. “You called him a swell. What was he wearing?”

“Homburg and a cape. Looked like he walked straight out of the operetta. Even had a gold-headed cane.”

“Frock coat under the cape?”

“No. More like a pinchback.”