Death of Riley (10 page)

“Well, for once Mrs. O'Hallaran doesn't have her facts straight,” I said.‘The police captain was a friend, nothing more, and we've parted company. And as to an honest job—I'll have you know I'm a private investigator. I got this fat lip trying to apprehend a murderer.”

“Go on, pull the other one, it's got bells on,” she said, chuckling.

“You can read all about it in the papers tomorrow, I expect. It was my partner, Paddy Riley, who was murdered.”

“Saints preserve us.” She crossed herself. “What kind of job is that for a woman?”

“More interesting than fish-gutting,” I said. “Now why don't you go and look after Seamus while I get these youngsters their tea.”

I put cold tea compresses on my face all night and by morning it looked almost normal again. At least I didn't look like a woman whose fancy man has just beaten her up! I checked on Seamus, who was now sitting up and had some color in his cheeks. Thank heavens for small mercies. Maybe Nuala would be going home soon and I'd have some peace and privacy again.

I had been doing some thinking during the night. I found it hard enough to sleep in the heat anyway, and with a throbbing face and two restless children, it was nearly impossible. So I had lain there going through things in my mind. I had told Nuala that I was a private investigator yesterday, so now I was truly committed to going back to Paddy's place and proving to myself that I could do the job. And if I was an investigator, a woman of business, then I should look like one. Nobody would take me seriously if I looked like any factory girl in my white blouse and cheap cotton skirt. I still had Miss Van Woekem's two dollars. If I were sensible I would keep them for necessities, but I wasn't going to be sensible. I was going to find a dressmaker and have a costume befitting a serious businesswoman made for me.

And then I was going to solve Paddy's murder. I had no idea how, or where I was going to start, but I was confident that something would come to me as I cleaned up his rooms. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that it wasn't a gangland killing. If a gang had wanted Paddy paid back and silenced, then the stabbing would have been enough. There would have been no need for the desperate search through his papers. And there would have been no need to do it in his office. A quick stab with a stiletto on a busy street would have been more efficient. Someone had been looking for evidence Paddy had gathered recently.

Start with what you know—I almost heard Paddy's voice saying the words. What did I know? Precious little, really—that he had passed something to Daniel in the park, then stood observing a house in Gramercy Park for three days. That would be worth following up. I knew he had gone to Delmonico's, presumably to witness an assignation in a private room; it should be possible to check on that also. Then something happened on the way back from Delmonico's—he had overheard something that had rattled him enough to send me away and start him investigating in a new direction. That would be the key.

I closed my eyes and was close to drifting off to sleep when I remembered the other fact that I knew—Paddy's words to me before he died.‘Too big for me.” What was too big for him?

I drifted into uneasy sleep and dreamed of Paddy wearing a coat that came down to his ankles. “This is too big for me,” he was saying. “You'll have to wear it.”

In the morning I helped the children to wash and dress, impatient to be off and get started. They were painfully slow, with lots of bickering and Bridie crying, before I finally packed them off to find their cousins and set out on my own errands. My first call was to Wanamaker's Dry Goods on Broadway, where I decided that black would be unbearably hot for summer wear and chose a soft beige fabric instead. Then I located a dressmaker, conveniently only a block away, and ordered a double-breasted suit pattern in a manly style. The dressmaker assured me that this was favored by women in commerce. I could come in for a fitting that afternoon and she could have it ready for me by the close of die next day, if I paid fifty cents extra for the rush job. It was worth the fifty cents, even though I probably wouldn't be eating by next week.

Then, deciding it was in for a penny, in for a pound, I spied a printer's shop opposite and went in to have calling cards made. They were also promised for the end of the following day. It seemed that by tomorrow night, I'd be a fully fledged woman of commerce. I tossed back my head and practiced walking down Broadway the way a woman of commerce might stride. I even had to restrain myself from hailing a passing hansom cab!

It was with reluctance that I presented myself to Sergeant Wolski at police headquarters to pick up my own key to Paddy's door. I was dying to ask if he'd found out anything new, but then reasoned that he'd be hardly likely to tell me if he had.

It felt strange to go up those steps to Paddy's place again. My mind kept replaying the picture of what I had seen when I opened the door yesterday. What if the murderer had come back and was waiting in the back room to finish me off? That thought had never struck me until now—that I, too, might be in danger. Surely nobody knew that Paddy had taken on an assistant. It wasn't the kind of thing he'd have gone around boasting about to his pals, of that I was sure. The man who struck at me yesterday could hardly have gotten a better view of me than I did of him. So I should be safe enough. Even so, I tapped on the door and called, “Is anyone in there?” before I turned the key in the lock and went in.

If anything, the place was in more disarray than I had left it. So much for the police taking Paddy's papers to look through. My eyes went to the empty chair at the table. I half expected to see him still slumped over and was surprised by the physical jolt of loss. I hadn't expected to become fond of him.

“Don't worry, Paddy,” I said out loud. “I'll find out who did this and bring him to justice, I promise. I'll show you that I was worth training.”

I started picking up papers, glancing at them before putting them on the table or throwing them into the trash. It was hard to know what to keep. There were newspaper clippings that seemed of no significance to me, posters advertising prize fights and new plays, and Paddy's recent correspondence I had so neatly stacked for filing. As I moved the chair, I noticed the dark brown stains on the seat—Paddy's blood. I bent to pick up some bloodspattered papers under the chair, touching them with distaste, and found I was looking at Paddy's little black notebook. I couldn't believe that the police hadn't even wanted that! I opened it excitedly and then saw why it had been discarded. It was written in a foreign language that I didn't recognize. This was a shock. How an Irishman who grew up in London had acquired facility in a strange foreign tongue, I had no idea. But I put the notebook into my bag for future study.

In the back room the file cabinet still stood there, righted again, but unopened. I took out the little silver key, put it into the lock and turned it. Then I saw why the police hadn't managed to open it, if they had indeed tried. It was a complicated lock attached to a rod which went down through all the file drawers. The locksmith had done a good job. I pulled out the rod and slid the top drawer open.

I took out the first folder. “Client Edgemont” was written across the top of it. That was the only clear word in the entire file. The pages inside were full of cryptic notes. “July 28th: LE observed leaving A at 10.45 am. LE observed entering GP. LE observed at MSG, Rooftop Restaurant, with KL.”

Obviously I had work ahead of me.

I flipped through the first few folders. Divorce cases, by the look of them. Then I came to a folder with a big red stamp across the front of it—CASE CLOSED, FEE PAID IN FULL. Only a few current cases then. Not an overwhelming number. If the case had been closed, then Paddy had already shared any damaging information—unless it was as Sergeant Wolski suggested, a revenge killing. In which case, the killer wouldn't have been searching so desperately, would he? If only Paddy had trusted me enough to share information with me—but then I, too, might have been dead by now, I reminded myself.

I went back to the first folder. Client Edgemont had an address in England. In the depths of the folder I found the client's letter. There was a crest embossed on the envelope. The address was Eaton Square, London, and the sender was a Lady Clarissa Edgemont. She wanted Paddy to check into the activities of her husband, the roving Lord Edgemont, whom she believed to be in New York.

That must have been the assignment in Gramercy Park. “LE observed entering GP. House of K”—Paddy had mentioned Kitty Le Grange, whose house he had been observing. This wasn't going to be as complicated as I had feared. I had some facts to start on—I could visit the famous Kitty and find the roving Lord Edgemont. Although I couldn't see that this kind of case might lead to murder. Would a roving English lord feel it necessary to hire an assassin to stop news of his assignation with an actress from getting back to London? If she was wellknown and they had been seen together, it was probably common knowledge. This sort of thing happened all the time, if one were to believe the daily papers—look at the Prince of Wales, now the new King Edward. The whole world knew of his lady loves, but his wife didn't seem to mind. At least it gave me somewhere to begin.

I looked at the second folder. Similar to the first but with a New York address. A Mrs. Angus McDonald wishing to bring divorce proceedings against her husband. The name was vaguely familiar. Another name I had read in the papers. Wait a minute. Wasn't McDonald the railroad baron? But he was an old man with whiskers. A relative, maybe. Also easy enough to check into and not a likely motive for murder. New York millionaires were hopping in and out of marriage every day.

The third was a little more promising. The owner of a big import and export business had noticed profits were not as high as they should have been and suspected one of his clerks of embezzling. Now we were moving into more turbulent waters. The threat of losing a job and going to jail might drive a hitherto respectable young man into a desperate act. The only question was—would he have killed so neatly and efficiently? There was nothing for it but to wade through the papers and see what evidence Paddy had managed to come up with.

I was squatting on the back-room floor, looking through the case folders, one by one, when I heard a sound. Someone was coming up the steps. I scrambled to my feet, cursing as my shoes got themselves tangled up in my skirts, then stood, ready for action. Probably the police coming back to look for more clues. Not necessarily the police, however—anyone could have been watching this place and seen me go back inside. And that someone could have been waiting for a chance to find the door unlocked. Until now I had felt angry and upset about Paddy's death, but I hadn't felt personally threatened. Now I realized my folly. I had not locked the front door behind me, if, indeed it could be locked from the inside. I hadn't checked the window to see if it also was locked. I was a sitting duck.

The tread on the stairs was not the heavy plod of police boots. I waited. A moment of silence. Then the slightest click as the door handle began to turn. I looked around for something I could use as a weapon. No cane in sight, not even a vase I might break over his head. Nothing except clothing hanging in a neat row on hooks. Paddy's disguises, obviously. I looked to see if I could hide myself behind them, but they hung well clear of the floor.

A squeak sounded as the door opened slowly. Through the crack in the door to the inner room I saw a dark shape enter, silent and stealthy. I could hear his breath. I held my own and shrank back against the wall, out of sight. I stared at a cloak on the wall. I inched my hands toward it and lifted it down. Then all I could do was stand there, waiting. He would come in here in the end. If I was in luck and he had left the front door half-open, I might be able to startle him enough to make my escape past him. If not…

I tried to let my breath out with no sound. It was becoming hard to breathe at all. I could hear his footsteps and the rustle of papers as he examined the piles I had made in the other room. I heard the footsteps cross the floor and a rattle as he checked the window—opening it for a second escape route if necessary, I concluded. It might also provide a second escape route for me, if I was bold enough and agile enough to cross a couple of rooftops and leap down like the young man had done. I could have done it back home in Ireland when I had run around barefoot and kept up with the boys. Now I was out of practice and hampered by petticoats and pointed shoes. Still, it might be worth a try.

The footsteps left the window again and came closer. He was coming into this room. I held the cape ready. A dark shape filled the doorway. A surprised intake of breath and a muttered exclamation as he saw the open file cabinet. As he reached out for the folders I had left on the floor, I seized my chance. I threw the cape over his head, gave him a hefty shove and pushed past him. He gave a grunt and lurched forward. I was out, free, making for the door, but not fast enough. He lunged at my feet and felled me like a tree. This time was not as painful or violent as yesterday's attack had been, but I went over, unable to stop myself and he was instantly on me, pinning me to the floor with horrible strength.

“Okay, let's get a look at you, scum,” he growled in a terrifying voice, wrenching my hand up behind my back and grabbing at my hair to force my face from the floor.

“Let go of me or you'll be sorry.” I tried bravado. “The police will be coming back here any minute. They know I'm here.”

The pressure that was wrenching up my arm relaxed instantly.

“Molly, what the devil are you doing here?” Daniel Sullivan asked.

T
en

Daniel's face was ashen as he took my arm and helped me to my feet. “I could have killed you,” he muttered. “Are you all right?’

“I think so. Once my heart starts beating again, I'll be fine.”

“And just what do you think you are doing here?” He sounded angry now.

I was so flooded with relief and the sheer joy of being close to him again that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “Cleaning up,” I said. “I came to clean up the place.”