“I can’t help you there, but we do have a couple of ghosts who like to wander about.”
“You mean the worker who fell off the scaffolding in the Reading Room when it was being built?” She smiled. The ghost was a common legend among the staff, although no one she’d known had ever seen it firsthand.
“The very one.” Mr. Babenko picked at the dry skin on his hands. “I meant what I said, you know. About the people closest to the Berg Collection being the prime suspects.”
“You mean Claude and Marlene?” The timing of Marlene’s new job had to be a coincidence. Marlene was devoted to the collection, to its preservation. As for Claude, Sadie had been keeping a close eye on him ever since the theft.
“Not just Claude and Marlene,” Mr. Babenko replied. “You, too, Sadie. You, too.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
New York City, 1913
I said give the bag here!”
Laura stepped back, deeper into the tenement apartment, even though every instinct told her to make a run for the door, get away from the menacing creature standing before her.
But doing so meant going past him, and he’d easily block her way with his bulk.
“Look, I’m a student reporter from Columbia, just visiting, really. Your son”—she looked over at the boy—“asked me to come up. There must’ve been some kind of mistake?” She hated the way her voice rose at the end of the sentence.
The mother of the family cowered while her husband roared at Laura. “What? You’re a reporter? What kind of reporting do you think you’re doing? Going to write up a sob story about our sad little family, hungry and cold?” He leered at his wife. “I say we toss this one out the window.”
“No one will be tossing anyone.”
The statement came from somewhere near the front door, behind the man, whose head swiveled like an owl’s at the sound.
“Mr. Marino, stand down. Now.”
A woman, tall and commanding, pushed past him, giving him a good shove as she did so. Her shoulders were wide, her brown hair parted in the middle and pulled back in a bun so tight Laura wondered if she didn’t get headaches. A necktie was secured around her neck by a stiff collar, and she wore round spectacles that lent her an owlish air. Something about her seemed familiar, but in Laura’s relief at the rescue, she was unable to figure out what.
“Everyone leave except me, the mother, and the babe.”
The boy handed over the baby to the newcomer, and the gang of children skipped out, delighted at the reprieve from work. The larger ones jostled the younger ones, who barely stayed on their feet as they all funneled through the doorframe. The father, grudgingly, disappeared into the back room off the kitchen after looking Laura up and down like she was a side of beef swinging on a butcher’s hook.
Once he was gone, the woman surveyed the space, nodding. “You’ve kept the window open, well done, Mrs. Marino.”
“I’m sorry, I should go,” said Laura. The other students would be heading back to Columbia now, armed with quotes and stories, while she’d almost gotten killed.
“You say you’re a reporter?”
“Well, a student reporter. From Columbia.”
“Then you stay, take notes. Write the story. No one else is interested.”
Laura didn’t dare say no. She’d never seen a woman take charge like this, with no hesitation, ordering everyone about as if she were the captain of a sea liner.
“Sit there.”
Laura dutifully took a seat at the head of the table.
“The baby isn’t eating much,” offered Mrs. Marino, who slumped in the chair opposite Laura. Now that her family was gone, she seemed smaller, sadder. Lost.
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday.”
The woman placed the baby in Mrs. Marino’s arms. “Talk to her.”
Mrs. Marino guffawed. “Why? She can’t talk back.”
“Go ahead, say something. Anything.”
Mrs. Marino looked out into space, like she was trying to come up with a phrase. She shrugged and then finally obeyed. “Are you sleepy?”
In response, the child smiled.
The mother looked up, pleased.
“Well done, Mrs. Marino.”
“I’m sorry, may I ask your name?” Laura said, pulling her notebook out of the satchel.
“Dr. Potter. I work for the city.” Dr. Potter took the baby from Mrs. Marino and placed her carefully on the tabletop. With a practiced efficiency, she undid the child’s swaddling and performed a physical examination. “We’re executing a new program, where newborns are visited within a day of delivery, with regular follow-ups.” The baby let out a giggle and Dr. Potter giggled back. “Mrs. Marino, can you let this reporter know what I’ve been yammering on about these past few months?”
The woman leaned forward, suddenly eager to win the doctor’s approval. Dr. Potter had that effect. She took up space without apologizing for it, like a huge pine among saplings.
Mrs. Marino counted on her fingers. “Let fresh air into the rooms. Bathe her every few days. Don’t give the baby beer. And I told the others to stop playing in the gutter, like you said.”
“Well done. You’re my star pupil today, I have to say.”
The mother beamed.
“Do you pick her up when she cries?” asked Dr. Potter.
The mother threw the child a guilty glance. “I never did with the others. My own mother said you have to ignore them, or they’ll grow up to be weak.”
“Human contact is essential for a child’s development.” Dr. Potter’s answer was swift and emphatic, as if she’d said it a hundred times before. “Comforting your baby is perfectly fine.” She finished up and handed the baby back to her mother. “Try nursing her now.”
“What is this new program all about?” asked Laura.
“We’re trying to reduce child mortality. Starting in this district. I’m a medical inspector.”
“Never seen an inspector before you lot showed up,” offered Mrs. Marino.
Dr. Potter didn’t seem surprised. “The ones I’ve met—all men, by the way—had a habit of faking records of their home visits. Never mind that last summer, fifteen hundred babies died, either from tainted milk or overswaddling. The basics of childcare can save thousands of lives. I lead a group of inspectors who have been doing home visits, actual home visits.”
“Have you seen an improvement?” Laura asked.