“That’s horrible,” Rebecca said in a low voice

“The Triangle fire was a horrible event in our history, which is why I have dedicated myself to this important scholarship,” Ruth said, her hand on her bosom for emphasis.

“I don’t think I can tell you anything more about this, but it’s good that you’re pursuing it,” Rebecca said. It was hard to keep despising Ruth Zion. “How did they get away with having children work there? Weren’t there child labor laws by then?”

“The laws were a joke. They hid the children in the bins of scrap material when the inspectors came. Everyone knew about it. The inspectors were corrupt.”

“Did the owners know? Blanck and Harris?”

“Of course they did! Harris walked through the ninth floor several times a day, according to numerous eyewitness accounts. He could hardly have been unaware of the children.”

“How did the children vanish?” George asked. “Why were there no survivors and no record of victims, either?”

“Those are important questions,” Ruth replied. “I don’t know. Is it corruption? If so, what else did the corruption cover up? Were the police paid off? The fire inspectors? Nobody knows.”

“I wish I could help you with that,” Rebecca said finally, breaking a long silence punctuated only by the faint whirring of Ruth’s tape recorder, “but I don’t think my grandmother knew anything more than you do. And you’ve got that in your transcripts. You discussed this with her.”

“I agree, in this instance,” Ruth said, “that it’s another dead end. I could tell when we talked that your grandmother cared about those children, and about Rose Gottlieb—that it was still painful for her to discuss them, as she was clearly very distressed about that aspect of the fire. But as you know, I am convinced that your grandmother did not tell me everything she knew, to say the least, which is why I am here today.”

“I’m not going to talk to you about your outrageous theories about payoff money,” Rebecca said a little too abruptly and a little too loudly.

“We can return to that, then,” Ruth said. “And I can tell you about my three verified secondary sources, which may persuade you to confide in me. I have the interview notes right here.” She bent down to extract a folder from her old-fashioned lawyer’s satchel of the sort George recalled calling a douche bag in junior high school, because only the nerdiest boys in his class carried their books in such briefcases. It occurred to him that perhaps Ruth was carrying her father’s briefcase. “The most significant, I think, is what I have from the granddaughter of Elsa Weiss, who was the bookkeeper for Blanck and Harris for the four years after the fire—”

“We’re not returning to it,” George said. “She just told you it’s not up for discussion. Drop it.”

Ruth looked at them, first one and then the other. She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and then, suddenly, she smiled triumphantly. “So, you found it! I knew something was there! Where was it? In that safe-deposit box? Did she keep it in cash all these years? Was there a written agreement? I heard there was, but I couldn’t verify it.”