Death of Riley (17 page)

This he did, and it wasn't long before I was shown into Angus's office. He was an attractive young man, slim, dark-haired with the same languid grace as his wife. He rose to his feet as I came in.

“Miss Murphy? I understand that you have something of a most confidential nature to discuss with me—concerning the well-being of my family?”

I nodded. “It is of a most delicate nature, Mr. MacDonald. I should prefer it if…” I glanced at the secretary. Angus waved at him. “Thank you, Biggs, that will be all.”

Angus indicated a leather chair and I sat. “Please proceed. I am most intrigued.”

“I'm not sure if you know this, Mr. MacDonald, but your wife is gathering evidence to divorce you.”

The reaction was not what I expected. He looked, if anything, rather amused. “Elizabeth is planning to divorce me? And how do you happen to know this, Miss Murphy?”

“Your wife had hired a private investigator—a Mr. Riley. He unfortunately died last week. I was brought in to go through the contents of his office and to box everything up so that it could be let to a new tenant.” I had decided on the journey to Wall Street that it might be wise, for the purposes of this interview and my own safety, not to appear too closely linked to Paddy. “Your wife appears to be one of his current clients.”

“So why, exactly, did you come to see me?”

“To warn you, of course.”

“Very charitable of you.” The smile indicated otherwise. “Not hoping to make a little on the side? You haven't found some delicious scrap of incriminating evidence that you'd like me to have, for a price?”

“I found no evidence,” I said coldly. “And I have no personal interest in the matter, sir. I'm just trying to tie up loose ends. I understand that your father is a man of the highest principles and I thought you might want to take steps so that no hint of scandal reached him.”

“Then I suppose I am in your debt,” he said.‘There are, indeed, aspects of my lifestyle of which my father wouldn't approve. But why Elizabeth had to go to the trouble of hiring a private investigator I have no idea. If she had asked me for a divorce, I would willingly have given her one. It wasn't as if we were ever very compatible. We were chosen for each other as a suitable match before either of us was old enough to know better. I'd be quite happy to set us both free.”

“But your father” I blurted out. “Surely he wouldn't approve of a divorce?’

Angus smiled. “Oh, the old man would rant and rave for a bit, but he'd get over it. To tell you the truth, he never really took to Elizabeth. He didn't approve of her spending habits, and she has failed so far to produce an heir.” He got up and extended his hand to me. “Thank you for taking the time to come here, Miss Murphy. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm supposed to be working. My fa-

ther is constantly badgering me to improve my work habits and I suppose I should be seen to be making progress in one area of my miserable life.”

He leaped ahead of me to the door and opened it. “Good-bye,” he said.

I stepped out onto the street to find that the promised rain had begun. A solid downpour, with the rumble of thunder in the distance. I had no umbrella with me and did not wish to ruin my new business suit by getting drenched. So I moved to a pillared overhang of the nextdoor bank and waited, hopefully, for the storm to pass. I hadn't been standing there long when a figure sprinted out of the MacDonald Building, climbed into a waiting automobile and drove away. Even with an overcoat on and the collar turned up, I recognized Angus MacDonald. And as he drove away, I considered something else. Angus MacDonald was dark-haired, lithe, and moved with considerable grace.

S
ixteen

The downpour continued unabated, giving me considerable time to ponder what I had just seen. Could Angus MacDonald really have been the young man who leaped from Riley's window? It was hard to believe—he was the son of a millionaire. Why would he need to do his own dirty work when a hired killer would be well within his means and readily available in a city as large as New York? Then a second question arose: Why would Angus MacDonald need to kill? The news of the impending divorce suit did not seem to cause him any alarm. Indeed he had expressed surprise at the trouble his wife was going to when he would have willingly granted her wish for a divorce. He didn't even seem alarmed at the thought of his father finding out.

As I stood, watching the rain get heavier by the minute, I had to admit that my efforts in the field of detective work so far had been far from stellar. I had followed up on the only three cases that Paddy appeared to have been working on, and I had met three dead ends. Lord Edgemont was about to go home to his wife in England, the embezzler at the import company had already absconded with the kitty before Paddy was killed, and

Angus MacDonald seemed rather relieved that his wife wanted to break up their marriage. Either these cases had nothing to do with Paddy's death, or I was not skilled enough to have asked the right questions. I was frustrated at my own lack of skill. If only Paddy had stayed alive a little longer, I could have learned so much from him. Now I wasn't sure that I had the potential to be an investigator. If I couldn't solve this case, then I had better think about a rapid change of profession.

A hansom cab pulled up to let out a passenger. I decided to be reckless for once and sprinted to seize it.

“Where to, lady?” the cabbie asked.

I wasn't sure anymore. I had exhausted all my leads. It seemed likely that Paddy's death had nothing at all to do with any of these cases. I hated to admit it, but Sergeant Wolski was probably right. Paddy had betrayed one of the violent city gangs and had paid the price. I decided to go back to Paddy's office and see if there was anything I had overlooked, but then I'd just have to give up and leave any detecting to the police.

As we splashed northward along Broadway I felt guilty at this wanton extravagance with Paddy's money, especially since he had been so frugal in his own lifestyle. So when the downpour eased when we were level with Bleecker Street, I signaled to the cabbie that I wanted to stop and hopped out. This was a mistake as I stepped straight into a deep brown puddle and emerged dripping to the ankles, the hem of my new suit sodden. I seemed to be doomed to make a mess of anything I undertook these days.

With these gloomy thoughts hovering over me, I reached Washington Square. Just as I entered the square, a torrent of students swept out of the main entrance of the university building and they flooded into the square, talking, laughing. I remembered that I was still in possession of the little black book and needed to find a language professor to translate it. I fought against the tide of students until I realized that they were vacating the building for their lunch hour. Their professors would also have gone to lunch, and I too was remarkably hungry. So I put off my task and followed the mob until I found a caf6 with an empty seat in it. It was one of the little French cafs that cluster in the backstreets around the square. It had speckled-mirrored walls and a high counter around the perimeter. I climbed onto a stool at the counter and ordered the plat du jour for eight cents. While I waited for it to arrive, I observed with interest the animated conversations going on around me. There were heated arguments about politics and literature and even the prospect of votes for women. How passionate they were about everything. How I envied them. The conversation broke off briefly as a fire engine galloped past. I hadn't heard the bell tolling this time, but maybe the noise of the students had drowned it out.

“It's all right, Freddy, you didn't succeed in blowing up the chemistry lab—it's going right past,” one of the young fellows shouted. There was noisy laughter and conversation resumed again just as my plat du jour arrived. It was a thick beef stew with vegetables, more suited to the cold of winter than a muggy summer day, but it was tasty enough and I managed to clean my plate as effectively as the students around me. Then, feeling daring, I ordered a cup of caf6 au lait, wanting to be part of this lively scene for as long as possible. As I fished for my coin purse, I spied the little black book and brought it out. I cast a hopeful glance around the room, wondering if one of these educated young people might provide the answer for me.

It fell open at the last written page. “Was OR htiw CL taSC'O.”

Still as incomprehensible as ever. What foreign tongue might use the English word WAS? After this the script became hurried and agitated. This last page was what Paddy had been writing when I had come in on him. “Was OR htiw CL ta SCO.” This last word intrigued me. I muttered it out loud to myself a few times. I knew Italian and Spanish had words that ended in
o,
but surely not an apostrophe then
o.

I put the book down on the counter as the waitress leaned across to deliver my coffee. I took a sip, enjoying the rich frothy taste. As I stared at myself in the mirrored wall, my gaze wandered down to the black book on the counter. In the mirror I could read one of the words, HTIW had become WITH.

Suddenly it hit me. This wasn't written in a foreign language at all. Paddy himself had given me the clue when he had spoken about Cockneys speaking entirely in slang. He had been raised on the streets of London, where the delivery boys and apprentices hid their conversations from their masters by speaking what was known as backslang. I had heard of it and read about it in books, but I had never encountered it in my own life until now. I understood that backslang consisted of ordinary words pronounced backward. So the word “saw” became “was.” It had been simple but effective as a secret language of the Cockneys in London and was equally effective here. If the book was lost or stolen, most New Yorkers would be as stumped as I had been. The first sentence on the page now read, “Saw KL with LE at DELS.:” Kitty and Lord Edgemont at Delmonico's. Of course. Then I went on. The next page was scribbled hastily but there was a bold black doodle in the left margin. It looked as if Mr. Riley had attempted to draw a bull. “Saw RO with LC at O'CS.” This one made no sense to me. I hadn't come across an RO or LC in his cases, but if I guessed correctly about O'CS, then Paddy had indeed stopped off at O'Connor's on his return home that night, and had overheard something that disturbed him. I worked out the words, one by one, and came up with the following: “Can't believe what I heard. Just talk? Wouldn't go through with it? Not the type. Should check, tell someone.”

Suddenly I felt quite exposed, sitting reading this at the counter. Paddy had wanted me to summon Daniel Sullivan. He had muttered as he lay dying in my arms that it was too big for him. I closed the book, shoved it into my purse and hastily finished my coffee. The first thing now was to take another look at Paddy's office, to see if any of his cases contained mention of RO or LC.

The sky had cleared while I had been eating, and steam was rising from wet sidewalks. I crossed the square, entered Fifth Avenue and turned into the alleyway. A group of young boys was playing on the cobblestones. As I started up the steps to Paddy's office, their playing ceased and they became unnaturally quiet. I turned to look at them and found they were staring at me.

“You can't go up there, miss,” one of them called to me.

“Why not?”

“It ain't safe. You might fall through the floor.” “The firemen said no one was to go in,” another boy chimed in.

“The building was on fire?”

Delighted, excited faces looked up at me and they all started yelling at once …‘There was flames coming out of the window and everything. You shoulda seen it. And then the engine come and the hoses went
whoosh
and there was a whole lotta smoke.”

“When was this?” I asked with a sinking heart.

“Why, they only left half an hour ago. If you'd been here earlier you'd a seen it all.”

Half an hour ago—the fire engine I had seen galloping past. I ignored the boys' warning and pushed open thedoor. The place stank of smoke, but the back window was wide open, so there was plenty of fresh air coming in. The front office wasn't too badly affected, although walls were singed and blackened and the piles of papers were now reduced to charred scraps. I went through to the back office, treading very cautiously, as the firemen's warning had been valid. The floorboards here were blackened and scorched. They might indeed easily give way. It was here that the fire had raged. Where the file cabinet had been there was a blackened, sodden pile of ash.

I stood staring at all that was left of Paddy's world. My first thought was annoyance that I hadn't come straight here from the cab, and thus maybe averted this disaster. Then reason took over and I reminded myself that I had been fortunate. I could easily have walked in on a man who had killed once and who would not hesitate to kill for a second time. For it had to have been Paddy's killer who had done this. He had tipped over Paddy's file cabinet on the first occasion, in a frustrated attempt to get inside. And now he must have returned, just to make sure that no evidence remained.

But evidence of what? I had taken the three folders on his only active cases and they had all proved to be relatively harmless. A closed case would be of no interest to anyone, as Paddy would already have turned over the information to his clients. None of it made sense, and yet I wished I could have had that second look. Maybe I had overlooked something—a secret file hidden among the rest? Anyway, there was no point in moping about it. It was too late now. Paddy's records were effectively destroyed.

“What do you think you're doing here?” a voice behind me demanded.

I jumped a mile, realizing I hadn't heard footsteps on the stairs. Surely a good detective is always on guard— clearly I was lacking in many ways. Sergeant Wolski was standing in the doorway, eyeing me coldly. Come to think of it, I don't think he had any other expression, but it was definitely chilling.

“I heard about the fire and came to see for myself,” I said. “How about you?”

“It should be quite obvious that this place is no longer safe,” he said. “I want you out of here right now. Until the building owner is notified and decides what he wants to do with this wreck, nobody is to enter. Do you still have your key?”