Murder on Washington Square

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SARAH OPENED THE DOOR TO FIND A RAGGED LITTLE BOY on her front stoop. He was fidgeting from one grubby bare foot to the other, either impatient or nervous. He clutched a folded piece of paper to his sunken chest and glared up at her suspiciously.

“You Mrs. Brandt?” he demanded.

“Yes, I am,” she replied, eyeing him cautiously. He might be young in years, but she knew he was as dangerous as a serpent. Obviously, he was a street Arab, one of the hundreds of homeless children who lived on the streets, doing whatever was necessary to stay alive. What on earth did he want and how did he know her name?

“Here,” he said, thrusting the paper at her.

She took it gingerly, still watching him with one eye while she unfolded it. Someone needing her services as a midwife must have hired the boy to fetch her. Usually a family member or a neighbor came to tell her a woman’s time had come, but perhaps they’d had no one to send.

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