Sarah felt the surge of excitement and forced it down. She didn’t want to frighten Ella with her enthusiasm. “Do you remember who told you about this Will?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly and too certainly. Ella knew perfectly well, but she wasn’t going to say, at least not in front of Ingrid.
“What else do you know about him? Do you know what he looked like?”
“Good-looking, I heard. Nice clothes, but I don’t know more than that. Oh, he always had plenty of money to spend, too. But that’s all I know.”
Sarah fought back a sigh. She didn’t want Ella to think she was disappointed. Actually, the information was quite valuable. There just wasn’t enough of it.
“I remember!” Ingrid said suddenly and a bit loudly, startling herself. She looked around quickly to see if anyone else had noticed. No one had.
“What do you remember?” Sarah asked.
“Will. I remember now. Luisa met him at Coney Island. She talked about it for weeks. Said he spent more than five dollars on her that day!”
Five dollars would have been almost a week’s salary for Luisa, and a lot of money for a working man as well.
Ella’s expression was tight and disapproving. “Shut your mouth! You don’t know anything about it.”
“Yes, I do!” Ingrid insisted indignantly. “He gave her a present, too, I think. What was it, now?” She screwed up her face as she tried to remember.
“Luisa didn’t take presents from men,” Ella informed her in a tone that allowed for no argument.
Now Sarah understood. If Luisa had taken gifts from men, that would make her a Charity Girl. Ella didn’t want her sister’s reputation harmed any more than it had been already.
Ingrid glared at Ella, but Ella wouldn’t back down. Her sister wasn’t going to be labeled a whore.
“Do you think she saw him again after that day at Coney Island?” Sarah asked carefully.
Ingrid glanced at Ella before replying. “I wouldn’t know,” was all she would say.
Sarah turned to Ella. “If you remember anything else about him, please let me know. It could help catch Luisa’s killer,” she reminded them. She only hoped that was incentive enough.
FRANK KNEW HE was probably going to make a fool of himself. He didn’t know the first thing about schools or education, particularly education for children who were deaf. And his son was deaf. He’d confirmed that with a trip to a doctor-a doctor Sarah Brandt had said was competent enough to make a judgment-who’d said nothing could be done for Brian’s hearing. Born deaf. That was the final verdict.
He’d been interested in Brian’s foot, too, but Frank wasn’t going to let just any doctor take care of that. When he felt he had built up enough credit with Mrs. Brandt that she owed him a favor, he’d ask her to make him an appointment to see her surgeon friend. Until then, he was going to see what he could find out about educating a deaf child.
Not that he believed a deaf child could be educated. If you couldn’t hear, how could you learn to do anything else? And of course Brian also couldn’t speak, which made it impossible for him to make himself understood, either. The whole thing seemed pretty hopeless to Frank, but he was willing to find out more. Maybe there was something he didn’t know. One or two things, anyway, he thought with some self-directed amusement. He hadn’t known there were schools for the deaf, for instance. Mrs. Brandt had him on that one.
The sign over the door on Lexington Avenue said NEW YORK INSTITUTE FOR THE IMPROVED INSTRUCTION OF DEAF MUTES. Deaf Mutes. That was Brian, all right. Frank liked the way it said “improved,” though. That must mean they used the best methods here.
Inside, the place was eerily quiet. The halls were empty and still, which he supposed was the way any school was when classes were in session. Here, of course, there would be no need for noise at all, since the students couldn’t hear it anyway. He entered the first room he came to, which was obviously an administrative office of some kind. A young man sat behind a desk, carefully transcribing a letter when Frank walked in. He looked up and smiled politely. He looked to be less than twenty, his face still spotted and his body thin with immaturity.
“I’d like to talk to someone about my son,” Frank said, conscious he was speaking louder than normal. Or maybe it just sounded that way because the place was so quiet.
“Sit down, please,” the young man said, although the “please” sounded more like “peas.” He indicated some chairs beside the door, and Frank took a seat while the boy disappeared into an inner office.
In a few moments a round man with a shiny bald head and a fringe of black hair beneath it came bustling out of the inner office, followed by the young man.
“Hello, hello,” he said, extending his hand as he approached Frank. “I’m Edward Higginbotham. May I help you?”
“Frank Malloy,” Frank said, rising and taking the man’s hand. It was warm and sweaty, but then the day was warm and sweaty. “I’d like to talk to someone about my son.”
“Your son is deaf?” Mr. Higginbotham said.
“Yes,” Frank said, amazed at how much it cost him to admit it aloud. He’d already admitted it silently, but confessing to a complete stranger was more difficult than he could have imagined.
“Well, then, come right in. I’ll be happy to answer all your questions, and I’m sure you have a few, don’t you?”
He didn’t wait for Frank’s reply. Indeed, he didn’t seem to expect one. He was too busy bustling right back into his office. Frank followed obediently.
The inner office was more elaborately furnished than the outer one. There was a rug on the floor and a nicely made wooden desk. The window looked out on an alley, but at least there was a window.
“Please sit down and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Malloy,” Mr. Higginbotham said, taking his own seat behind the desk.
Frank settled himself, and Mr. Higginbotham waited until he was comfortable to ask, “How old is your son, Mr. Malloy?”
“He’s three. We just… I didn’t realize he was deaf until… just recently.”
Mr. Higginbotham nodded sagely. “His mother didn’t notice anything peculiar?”
“His mother died when he was born.” Another costly admission.
Mr. Higginbotham looked suitably grave. “I’m sorry to hear that. Who cares for the boy, then?”
“My mother.”
“An elderly lady?”
“She’s not so old.”
“And did she not notice anything unusual about the boy?”
“We thought he was feebleminded.” Yet another costly admission. Frank was starting to feel a bit sick to his stomach. “He didn’t understand what you said to him, and he didn’t speak.”
“A common mistake,” Mr. Higginbotham agreed. “I could tell you stories about so many deaf children who were institutionalized as idiots when they were of perfectly normal intelligence. But you, Mr. Malloy, have avoided that fate for your son by recognizing his true condition. May I ask how you came to identify it?”
“A… a friend noticed. She brought it to my attention. I don’t spend much time with the boy because of my work. I’m a detective with the police department.”
Mr. Higginbotham straightened a bit at this, although not enough to give offense. “I see,” was all he said. “And you’ve had him examined by a doctor?”
“Yes. The doctor said he was probably born deaf. There’s nothing to be done for him.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Malloy, much can be done for him. We cannot make him hear in the usual sense, of course, but we can certainly educate him and teach him to communicate with others. We can even teach him a trade.”
Mrs. Brandt had mentioned that, but Frank still found it hard to believe. “But if he can’t hear…”