Free Fallen Women by Sandra Dallas Page A

murdered.”
    “And this is the first time you’ve talked to her?” Beret was displeased. Could the authorities really be that slow? Her uncle had assured her this case was a priority. She couldn’t help but wonder if the police even bothered to solve the murders of victims who were less important than a judge’s niece.
    “The second.”
    “It is early for a brothel to be astir. I can’t help but wonder if the madam is up yet.”
    “She wasn’t when I left.”
    “You may be crude if you want to, Detective, but I think we will get along much better if we are courteous to each other.”
    “This is a police investigation, not a class in deportment.”
    Beret would take her lead from the detective. She lifted her head a little. “Quite right. Shall we be on our way?” She stood and started across the room, aware of the smirks directed at the detective sergeant. She wondered how long it would be before he accepted her. Perhaps never.
    Outside, Mick told her, “I hope you’re used to hoofing it. The department doesn’t pay for hacks or even streetcars.”
    “I am quite used to walking.”
    He nodded and set off at a fast clip, and when he’d gone half a block, he turned around as if expecting to see Beret lagging behind, but she had kept up the pace. “I can walk as fast as you can, Detective, but doesn’t it make sense for us to walk together so that you can tell me of any developments?”
    He slowed only slightly. “There aren’t any, not since yesterday, at any rate.”
    “You’ve already talked with the madam, you said. Why is it necessary to interview her again?”
    They had reached a corner, and Mick suddenly took Beret’s elbow and propelled her across the street, past hacks and carriages and delivery wagons. Surprised at the courtesy, she nodded her thanks. “The drivers can be treacherous along Larimer Street, but I suppose they’re no worse than New York.”
    “Have you been there?”
    Mick nodded but didn’t elaborate. “I talked to Miss Hettie only once, the day we found your sister’s body. I want to talk to her again, now that she’s had time to think about the murder.”
    “And has she had time to find alibis for herself and her girls?”
    “She already had them. What I’m hoping is she’ll give us the name of your sister’s mac. Miss Hettie hates pimps. I’m thinking if Lillie, that is, Miss Osmundsen, had one, Miss Hettie might be willing to talk about him now. She wouldn’t the day your sister was killed. These madams, they don’t admit to anything. Why, I bet if you gave her a thousand dollars, she still wouldn’t give you the names of your sister’s customers.” He paused. “But I guess you already know that, you being a mission lady.”
    Beret ignored the taunt. She was used to such remarks. “Can’t you compel her to?”
    “To remember something she can’t remember? How would I do that?”
    “I see your point.”
    Beret held her tongue then. It was clear the detective wasn’t going to confide in her any more than he had. She was grateful he hadn’t skipped out on her. They hurried up Larimer Street, past cafés and rooms to let, a millinery, a hardware store, then a block of gambling halls in striking buildings of carved stone and stained glass. Beret paused to glance inside, and Mick told her those were the places the macs hung out—the Arcade, Murphy’s Exchange, and two or three others. If Miss Hettie gave them the name of Lillie’s macquereau, they would come back and look for him there. Beret shivered to think those were the men her sister had slept with. She studied the few customers visible from the street but saw no one who was swarthy. It was early, however. The men probably didn’t gather until later in the day.
    They went on, past the Windsor Hotel, an elegant five-story stone castle with cast-iron porte cocheres that would have drawn admiring glances even in New York. Beret had been inside, with her sister, on previous visits to Denver when