“The boy claims to have spoken to him,” said Bennie in exasperation. “This notebook—would a murderer really keep a record of his crimes, then leave it in a fortune-teller’s booth? Can you remember anything else he wrote in it?”

“No! But what kind of person writes about killing a woman, then stuffing her down a chimney? Or sealing up a cat inside a wall?”

Bennie stared at him, then burst out laughing. “Edgar Allan Poe, for one. There’s a cat walled up with a body in ‘The Black Cat.’ And an ape kills a woman and hides her down the chimney in ‘Murders in the Rue Morgue.’”

Francis flushed. “Are you joking?”

“I am not.” Bennie wiped his eyes. “Sounds like that notebook belongs to someone aping Poe—forgive the pun.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’m certain Poe wrote the stories I just mentioned, and a few others about women being buried alive. Look, there’s no way of knowing whether this notebook belongs to our man. If it does, he’s extremely careless. Maybe he’s getting reckless as time goes on.”

Bennie gulped a mouthful of coffee. “I’m betting it’s a vagrant, Francis, and that notebook belongs to some kid who spends too much time reading ghost stories. Maybe the boy who found the body.”

“It’s not him,” Francis snapped.

Bennie shrugged. He tipped back the rest of his beer, retrieved his satchel, and stood. “Thanks for the tip about the Monahan girl.”

“What will you do with those?” Francis pointed to the satchel.

“Sell a million papers.” Bennie grinned again, then grew serious. “Look, unless someone comes forward and reports a child missing in Dreamland the day of the fire, we can only speculate about what they found at Coney Island. Girls get killed all the time. It’s the way of the world, Francis. Nothing we can do about it.”

He tossed some change on the table for his breakfast. Francis did the same, and the two returned outside. The grey early morning had grown dark, the sun obscured by bruised clouds that portended storms.

“I’ll be in the park soon as it opens,” said Bennie as they walked back toward Western Avenue. “So point that boy out to me, will you? Just a few words with him, that’s all I want. I’d like to talk to his ma, too.”

He gave Francis a sidelong glance, but the policeman said nothing.

Chapter 66

Chapter 66

DISTANT THUNDER RUMBLED as he walked along the North Branch, the stagnant air bearing a faint scent of offal from the stockyards miles away. At the crook of the river, tramps had set up an encampment cobbled together from planks and moldering canvas. Four of them crouched around a smoky fire, Gypsies or unemployed brick workers who’d wandered down from the Sicilian ghetto. They watched him pass, their unshaven faces silent and suspicious, as though he was the outcast.