Free Fallen Women by Sandra Dallas Page B

their uncle had escorted them to the hotel. They had taken in the rotunda with its glass ceiling and marble floor and admired the three staircases, although Lillie, superstitious, had said she would never use the “devil’s-head” staircase, which threw a shadow on the wall like the head of Satan. Beret wondered if Lillie had climbed it after all, perhaps to visit some john. She would have to stop thinking of Lillie that way, imagining the men who paid to sleep with her sister.
    Instead, Beret concentrated on that afternoon with their uncle. He had ordered champagne and strawberry ices. Lillie had been young then, perhaps twelve, and she had begged Beret to let her taste the champagne. Beret had given in, of course, then watched in astonishment as Lillie drained her glass. The rest of the afternoon, Lillie had been as bubbly as the champagne. If Lillie had gone into the Windsor in the past few months, had she remembered that day when they were so carefree? Beret desperately hoped that Lillie had kept a few good memories of her sister.
    Mick turned, and Beret followed him to Holladay Street. “A strange name. Is it purposely misspelled?” she asked.
    “Named for Ben Holladay of the Holladay Overland Mail and Express. There’s talk the city will change it. Mr. Holladay’s friends don’t want the most notorious street in the West named for him.”
    “Change it to what?” Beret asked.
    “Market.”
    When Beret raised an eyebrow, the detective explained, “There is a wholesale market at the other end of the street.”
    They walked another block, and Mick stopped in front of a sedate brick house whose only adornment was iron cresting on the roof and a shuttered two-story bay window. “This is it, Miss Hettie Hamilton’s House of Dreams,” Mick said.
    Beret was taken aback. The building, which was set back only a few feet from the street, looked like the home of a middle-class merchant. It was neatly kept and hardly ostentatious, with its conservative porch and heavy front door set off by a transom, nothing like the elegant sin palaces she had observed in New York, with their carved-stone trim and crystal windows covered by heavy draperies. “I thought my sister was in one of the better bagnios.” The idea of Lillie working in a second-rate house tormented Beret, who knew firsthand how prostitutes spiraled downward from bawdy houses to cribs to the streets. At least Lillie hadn’t lived long enough for that indignity.
    “This is one of the better houses. There’s not a one that’s better. But don’t worry. The outside’s deceptive. Wait till you see what’s inside. It’s much nicer and bigger than it appears. These are all whorehouses along here.” Mick waved his arm at the plain buildings around them that Beret had missed.
    He started up the steps, but Beret hung back, until he asked, “You’re game, aren’t you? Or have you changed your mind?” He almost smirked at her.
    “Of course I’m game,” she replied, and he rang the bell.
    After a time, a large colored woman opened the door. “We ain’t open, sir … oh, it’s you, Mr. Mick.” She looked past the detective at Beret but said nothing more.
    “Is Miss Hettie up?” the detective asked.
    “She up. You want talk to her?”
    “I do.”
    “I’ll see if she want talk to you.” The woman started to close the door, but Mick stuck his foot inside, and he followed her into the house, Beret behind him.
    The place was stuffy, sour smelling, and Beret was tempted to find a handkerchief and cover her nose, but that surely would offend Miss Hettie, so she took a few breaths through her mouth, lagging behind Mick as she glanced up the staircase near the door, then peered into the rooms along the corridor. She had helped prostitutes escape from the cribs and brothels in New York and was curious to see how Denver’s nests compared to them. There was a front parlor with a piano and easy chairs, a velvet banquette that she assumed was for the girls.