Murphy's Law (14 page)
I'd start with the boatman and see if he could back up Boyle's alibi, then I'd work from there. It shouldn't be too hard to trace down a fellow Irishman. It seemed everyone knew everyone else in this community. And if his alibi was true, what then?
As I lay there, listening to the snores coming from the next room--hard to tell if they were Nuala's, Finbar's, or Seamus's, although my bet was on Nuala--I went through the whole journey on the Majestic, trying to remember everything I could about O'Malley--who had talked to him, laughed with him, or argued with him. He'd gotten into some heated arguments, but they were only after the men had been drinking and were soon forgotten. The only people with a real bone to pick were myself and Michael. Unless there was someone else who was following O'Malley, biding his time and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. When I saw Daniel Sullivan again, I'd ask to see the passenger list. It was possible that some other names were linked in some way to the case of the Plumbridge Nine. Of course, Daniel Sullivan would probably have checked that already, but it was worth a try.
I remembered O'Malley teasing Michael well enough. Michael had turned red and walked away. He hadn't said a word back. Did that mean he was keeping his anger bottled up inside? My thoughts moved on to my encounters with O'Malley. In a way I was lucky that the killer had chosen that method to dispatch O'Malley. If it had been poison or any more feminine method, I'd have been locked up in the Tombs by now for sure. Half the ship had seen me slap his face and tell him to stay away from me. I remembered how kind Michael had been, how he'd come up to me that first time with Seamus after the lad had gotten into a fight and ... Wait! I sat up, making Bridie stir and moan in her sleep. That was when he got the blood on his jacket and his handkerchief! Why hadn't I thought of it before? The child's nose had been pouring blood. He had loaned the boy his handkerchief and then shoved it back in his pocket. Obviously he had forgotten to wash it out. I'd go to Daniel Sullivan first thing in the morning. Or maybe I'd do some snooping first and then go to him with an impressive bag full of information that would prove Michael (and me) innocent.
I lay back, closed my eyes, and soon fell into an uneasy sleep.
In the morning when I heard Nuala bustling around, clanking pots and pans, I got up right away. I accepted a cup of tea and a slice of bread, then washed at the sink on the landing, put on my clean blouse, and tidied my hair ready to go out. "I'm off to find a job, then," I said.
She nodded approvingly. "If it's the fish market you're heading for, ask for old Kilty. He's the one that will set you right."
It would be a cold day in hell before I'd be asking for old Kilty, I thought grimly. After making Seamus promise that he'd look after his little sister until I came back, I kissed Bridie and told her that I'd return before it got dark. Then I made my way cautiously down those stairs and out into the chill of morning. No snow today but what had fallen yesterday had turned to sheets of ice, making walking treacherous. I was beginning to get an idea of the layout of the town by now. Luckily the city seemed to be built on a thin strip of land, with water on both sides, so that if you walked long enough in any direction, you'd come to the shoreline. That was a comforting thought when it came to getting lost.
Of course at that time I was so naive that I didn't realize there were parts of the city where a woman just didn't go alone. As I cut inland and walked through the neighborhood back streets, workers were hurrying to early-morning shifts. I saw a group of young girls, arm in arm, dancing down the street and into a square brick building. They were laughing and joking with each other--they obviously worked somewhere that didn't fill them with dread, I decided and ran to catch up with them.
"Excuse me." I tapped the nearest girl on the shoulder. They turned around in surprise. They had darker skins than mine, impressive amounts of dark hair piled high under their hats and scarves and liquid brown eyes.
"Are you going to work?"
Most of them looked at me blankly, but one nodded. "S@i. Work."
"What kind of work do you do?"
She indicated the brick building ahead of us, "Shirt--we make shirt." Then she mimed working
at a sewing machine. I had never used one, but I picked things up quickly and I might be able to bluff my way through for a while. And it would certainly beat gutting fish. "Do you think there are any jobs going? Could I come with you to meet your manager?"
She didn't quite understand this, but pointed up the stairs. I went up ahead of them. A large balding man with his shirt sleeves rolled up and a pencil stuck behind his ear was coming out of a glass cubicle at the top of the stairs. He looked at me in surprise.
"Hello," I said. "I was wondering if you needed any more workers? I'm hardworking and honest."
He was still staring at me in surprise. "You no Italiano," he said. "This Italiano place. Se non parla Italiano
...," And he spread his hands expressively. "Italiano girl work 'ere," he finished as the girls arrived at the top of the stairs and walked past me, giving me curious stares.
"You're saying you only take Italian girls?"
He nodded. "Italiano girl make shirt 'ere."
"So what do the Irish make, then?" I demanded, feeling annoyed that I wasn't even going to be given a chance.
"Trouble," he countered.
He turned his back on me and walked away down the passage. I walked around some more and tried several other factories and shops. It didn't take long to realize one thing. New York was not an American city. It was a collection of small Italian, Jewish, German, and God knows what else villages, all slapped down next to each other. And Germans only hired other Germans, Jews other Jews. So the sensible thing would be to find out what the Irish did and get them to hire me. I already knew about the fish market, but the idea was not appealing. I passed the vaudeville theater with its banner proclaiming, ""When Irish Eyes Are Smiling"--straight from their phenomenal success in the Old Country." But the theater was shut tight at this hour of the morning and I couldn't think of anything I could do there, anyway. I neither sang, danced, nor told jokes well enough to do so in public. There were saloons and eating houses around the theater, but they, too, were closed tight at
this hour. So I'd do my investigating first and look into a job there later.
I made my way, with more than one wrong turn and dead end and even a close call when a drunk lunged at me from a gutter, to the docks and the pier where we had landed from Ellis Island. I could see the island now, its redbrick towers floating improbably across the harbor, not too far from that other improbable sight, the Statue of Liberty. A group of longshoremen told me where the government launch departed from, along with some crude suggestions about how I could entertain myself and them until it arrived from the island. I told them what they could do with their suggestions, making them roar with laughter, and walked past, my nose in the air.
A little while later the launch pulled into the dock. It was almost empty, apart from a couple of young men in neat uniforms--inspectors probably. No use in asking them if they knew anything about an island guard. I waited around until the crew came ashore--a surly-looking captain and a young boy whose cheeks were red from the bitter wind.
They looked at me warily as I asked my question. were they the crew on the night the man was murdered on the island?
"What do you mean, were we the crew?" the older man almost spat at me. "We're the only damned crew they've got. I'm the master of the ship."
"Wonderful." I gave what I hoped was an impressed smile, although the ship was nothing to shout about--a small cabin behind the wheelhouse and a strip of open deck all around. "Then you might remember which of the guards you ferried across the night before. I'm asking about the guard called Boyle-- a big man, lots of whiskers. Did he ride across with you either the night before or the first boat next morning?"
"How in blazes do you think I know or care who rides across with me?" he snapped. "It's hard enough work piloting my ship past all the traffic in this harbor. I don't notice who gets on and who gets off."
"But you'd notice if someone wasn't wearing his uniform?"
He nodded. "The boy probably would. He's the one who casts off."
I looked at the boy. "Do you know the guard called Boyle? Would you remember whether he
took the last boat from Ellis Island the night before the man was murdered?"
The boy stared at me blankly. "There's a lot of people works on the island, ma'am. They comes and they goes. And when it's cold weather like this, they makes straight for the cabin and stays there. So I couldn't rightly say--"
"And I couldn't rightly care," the old man finished for him. "We gets paid to sail this thing across to the island and back, not to remember who sails in it." He dug the boy in the side. "Come on, young'un. Let's go get some breakfast."
And they walked away from me without another word. So much for my first attempt at interrogation. My respect for Daniel Sullivan rose a little. He seemed to be able to get answers out of people. Of course, he could threaten them with the Tombs, which certainly helped. ...
I wasn't sure what to do now. I hung around the dock area a while longer, wondering who else might have noticed whether Boyle did or did not take that last boat back to the city. All we knew was that he had signed out on the island. That didn't mean he had left with the other members of his shift. So that would be the next thing to find out. I'd have to be back here when the last boat of the day docked and ask his fellow guards if they remembered. Of course, if Boyle was among them, it would make it not only difficult but dangerous. I had been regarding this as an academic exercise and it suddenly struck me-- if Boyle was the killer and he found me poking my nose where it wasn't wanted, I'd be in a lot of danger. So maybe I'd better start with a more subtle approach. I would need to find out where he lived. Daniel Sullivan would know, but I wasn't about to go asking him.
Just as I was chilled to the marrow and about to head away from the waterfront I noticed two men in Ellis Island watchman uniforms making for the moored government launch. I ran up to them.
"Excuse me, but you work on the island, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am," one of them said. They were young, freshfaced men and they were looking at me suspiciously as if they weren't sure of my motives.
"I wonder if you know a guard called Boyle. Big man, lots of whiskers."
"Bully Boyle? Yes, I know who he is," one of them said.
"Bully?"
"Just a nickname. I think his real name is Bernard, isn't it, Dan?"
Dan nodded.
"You wouldn't have been on the same shift as him the night before that murder on the island, would you?"
"What's this all about?" the other man asked. "I'm trying to help a friend of mine. The police have him locked up in the Tombs at the moment. I just wondered if either of you took the same boat as Mr. Boyle the evening before the murder."
"I might have," the first, friendlier, one said. "I think we were on the same shift, but I really can't tell you whether he was on the boat with us. It's been so cold lately, we all make for the cabin and stay there. It's a tight squeeze so I really only noticed the men right next to me. Why are you interested in Mr. Boyle?"
"Because the police think that someone might have borrowed his uniform to commit the crime." This was an outright lie, but I didn't want Boyle to think he was suspected.
The men looked at each other, then the first one shook his head. "Sorry, but I really can't be of help. At the end of the shift I'm so tired, all I can think of is getting home and putting my feet up."
"Would either of you happen to know where Mr. Boyle lives? Maybe I could go and talk to him myself."
"I have a feeling he lives in Hell's Kitchen," one said, looking at the other for confirmation.
"Somewhere around that area," the other confirmed. "A lot of the Irish guys seem to live there."
"And where would I find Hell's Kitchen?" I wondered for a moment whether they were pulling my leg. Surely there wasn't really a place called that?
"You just follow West Street along the docks until you get to Twenty-third. It starts around there. Between the Hudson and Eighth Avenue. It's quite a way from here. I'd take the El if I were you."
"The L?"
"The elevated railway. See the steam coming up over there? That's the train stopping at the Hudson Street Station. And I wouldn't go there
alone, miss. It's not the sort of neighborhood a young girl like yourself should be wandering around in."
I couldn't say I had no money for the elevated railway and nobody to call upon to go with me. Seamus would probably come with me if I asked him, but he was working from sunup to sundown. And I wasn't about to wait for Sunday. I'd have to take my chances now.
"Thank you for your concern, sir," I said. "I won't do anything foolish."
Then they went on their way down to the harbor, and I started up West Street, along the edge of the Hudson River.
Fourteen
I walked to the place they call Hell's Kitchen. It was a long way, but without money for any kind of fare, walking was my only option. The soles of my boots, none too new to start with, were starting to let in icy water and my toes felt bruised and numb. I'd have to find a job soon. I wouldn't get through the winter. I followed the waterfront, dodging around piles of merchandise, drays loading and unloading, and more than one improper suggestion.
It seemed to go on forever, block after endless block. I had never realized before how big a city could be. And all those tall buildings rising before me. And I could see that Michael had been right--wherever I looked, there were new skyscrapers being built--great steel frames towering into the sky like giant spiderwebs, sometimes with just the upper floors filled in, so that at first glance the masonry appeared to be hanging in midair, suspended by magic. At least it wasn't snowing, I told myself to keep my spirits up. Because, to tell you the truth, I was a little alarmed about what I might find in Hell's Kitchen. I had read Dickens. I knew all about the London of Fagin and that was what I was picturing now-- cutthroats, pickpockets, and worse. After all, Ballykillin had been a sheltered life. A few men got drunk and beat their wives on Saturday night, but apart from that it was a peaceful kind of place. If you don't count Justin Hartley, that is.
