The reporter gave him a quizzical look. “Haven’t you heard, Mr. Chaplin?”

“Heard what?”

The reporter thrust the newspaper into his hand, pointing at the headline:

Child Actress Brutally Murdered in Chicago Amusement Park

Chaplin stared blankly at the words. “I know nothing about this. Who is she?”

The reporter jabbed his thumb at the girl in the grainy photograph. “‘Maria Walewski, twelve years old,’” he read, “‘meeting the star Charles Chaplin at the Essanay movie studios in Chicago a few hours before her death.’ How did you know her?”

“I don’t.”

He pushed past them toward the entrance to the station, the reporter shouting after him as Chaplin yanked the door open and hurried inside.

“Mr. Chaplin?” Another man rose from a bench and walked toward him. A policeman. “How was your journey?”

“My journey was fine.” Chaplin looked over his shoulder to see the newspaperman racing toward them, the photographer at his side fumbling with his camera. “What the hell’s going on? Have those men lost their minds?”

The policeman strode past him toward the reporters. Chaplin considered bolting but thought better of it. Moments later, the two men were headed for the exit, the photographer walking backward as he snapped a photograph.

“The train station manager said we could use an empty office here,” the policeman said as he returned, his tone apologetic. “I’m with the Niles police. This way, if you please, Mr. Chaplin.”

Chaplin started to protest, then saw that people were gathering to stare at him. Without a word he followed the policeman into a small unfurnished room at the far end of the building.

“Captain Farina, police department,” the man said, closing the door behind them and extending his hand. “I apologize for this inconvenience, Mr. Chaplin, I know you’re very busy. I’ve seen a number of your movies—my wife loves them. I do, too,” he added, “though I work with some men who hate how the police always look so stupid.”

“Tell them it’s Sennett’s fault.” Chaplin forced a smile. He felt a buzzing in his ears; his hands had gone cold. Panic—he’d experienced it as a boy, when his mother sent him to the workhouse, and later when she entered the Cane Hill Asylum. He removed his cigarette case and offered one to Farina, who accepted it. “What’s going on, Captain?”

“You probably haven’t heard. I know the train was delayed out of Wichita, so you won’t have seen the papers.”

“Not since yesterday morning.”

Farina stroked his mustache. “Well, a girl was killed back in Chicago. Young girl, smothered to death inside an amusement park ride.”

Chaplin recoiled. “Jesus Christ! How horrible.”

“It is. A young Polack girl. She was only twelve. Chicago police say she was at the studio with you on Saturday, working on a movie.” He drew a notebook from his pocket and studied it. “S and A Studios, they said.”