“I can’t get a cab up there. Too narrow for the horse and he don’t like backin’ up,” the driver said testily.
“Then go as far as you can,” she said. He looked at her police uniform and didn’t argue. There was a police constable standing guard at the entrance to Patchin Place. He was about to stop us but recognized either me or Mrs. Goodwin. The rest of the backwater was deserted except for another constable standing guard over what must have once been my home.
“I have to see for myself. I won’t be a moment,” I said. “Nobody’s around.”
Mrs. Goodwin sighed. “Then be quick. Your husband wouldn’t want you risking your life again, you know that.”
I handed Liam to Mrs. Goodwin. He promptly squalled and reached for me. Hardly an unobtrusive visit then. I swung myself down quickly and hurried toward my house. The brick façade still stood but there were black gaping holes where windows had been. The front door was burned and blistered and hung open and beyond it nothing that I could recognize as mine—just a pile of blackened rubble, still smoking in places. I tried not to picture Aggie’s charred body.
The constable put out a hand. “You can’t go in there, Mrs. Sullivan. It’s not safe.”
“What if there are some of my things that can be salvaged?” I asked. “My jewelry? Crockery? Anything?”
“You’re not the one to do that,” he said. “You’d better ask your husband. All I know are my orders are to let nobody in.”
I turned away and climbed back into the cab. We said nothing as we left Greenwich Village and went up Fifth Avenue. Liam had stopped crying and now clearly enjoyed the new sights and sounds. For me it felt as if I was passing through a dream world where ladies in elegant dresses and parasols strolled as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Why should they? They all had homes to return to. At last we turned east along Fifty-seventh Street and came to a halt outside an imposing brick house, with a flight of steps leading up to its front door and bay trees growing in pots on either side. Mrs. Goodwin descended first, took Liam from me as I climbed down. I went up those steps with great reluctance. This arrangement had been made in such a hurry and I wondered whether the occupants of the house, the lieutenant’s sister and her husband, had really had time to think their kind gesture through.
How would I react if Daniel had said to me, “I’m bringing a strange woman and her child to stay with us. An Italian gang has already tried to kill them once by bombing their house. They may well try again if they find out she is here”?
The knock on the front door reverberated and soon it was opened not by a maid but by a pretty young woman in an exquisite gown. She held out her arms to me.
“My dear Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “Come in, do. What an ordeal you’ve been through.” She half dragged me into the house. Mrs. Goodwin hesitated on the doorstep.
“And this is Mrs. Goodwin, a fellow detective in the police force, who was kind enough to accompany me here,” I said.
“Of course. I’ve heard all about you from my brother,” the young woman said. “The men are secretly impressed by you, although they would never say so to your face.”
Mrs. Goodwin actually smiled. “Kind of you to say so.”
“Come in, do,” our hostess insisted. “Take some tea with us.”
Mrs. Goodwin shook her head. “I’ve already been up all night on duty, so if you don’t mind, I’ll bid you both farewell and head for my bed.”
I took her hand. “Thank you so much. You’ve been very kind.”
“Not at all. Glad to help,” she said gruffly as if trying to hold back any display of emotion. “Good luck to you, Molly, my dear.” She went down the steps, waved, then got back into the cab, leaving me in the front hall with the lieutenant’s sister.
“This is so good of you, Mrs.…” I began, realizing that I still didn’t know her name.
She laughed. “I am Dorothy, but I’m usually known as Dodo. And when my brother telephoned me with your terrible news I told my husband that you had to come to us without delay.”
“I hope he didn’t object,” I said warily.
“My husband adores me, Mrs. Sullivan. And do let me call you by your first name—I try to dispense with too much formality under my own roof, although my husband, whose upbringing in lofty circles was rather more formal than mine, sometimes frowns upon the liberties I take.”
I smiled at her. “You may certainly call me Molly,” I said. “I have a group of friends who abhor formality so the use of first names isn’t at all strange to me.”