Death of Riley Page 19

  “So you do intend to join our little group?” The young woman wasn't going to let up. “You are remaining in New York for a while, aren't you? You could be instructed in how to pursue the fight when you go back to Ireland. More soldiers are needed on that battlefield, you know.”

  “Are women now supposed to fight?” I asked. “Frankly, I find the petticoats too hampering.”

  The young woman glared at me. “Emma fights,” she said. “And not all fights involve weapons. Words can be weapons too. Instructing the masses how to rise up against their oppressors—opening the eyes of the blind to the corruption and greed around us—those are ways we women can fight. Are you with us or not?”

  I glanced across at Ryan, hoping to catch his eye. Now that I had met Emma, I had no wish to stay longer. I found these people rather alarming and pathetic. I certainly had no wish to be one of them. And I was beginning to feel very uneasy. Maybe I was just sensing the girl's hostility, but I started feeling as if I couldn't breathe. I couldn't wait to get out into the fresh air again. Just when I couldn't stand it any longer and was thinking up a way to excuse myself, Ryan seemed to tire of them also. He drained his glass of tea and got to his feet. “Well, I must be going, Emma darling,” he said. “I must make sure this adorable creature gets home safely before midnight, or she will turn into a pumpkin.” He leaned to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Do let me know where you will be and I promise to write. Will you be going home to Rochester? I'll be heading to the wilds of upstate New York myself in a week.”

  He scribbled down her address on the back of an envelope, then put an arm around my shoulders and steered me out of the building. As we left, I could feel eyes on my back.

  “So what did you think?” he asked as we set off back toward Washington Square. “Isn't she a hoot?”

  “Why didn't you warn me?” I said. “Those people are anarchists, aren't they?”

  “Oh, very much so. They meet at Schwab's and talk about taking over the world. Death to all tyrants.”

  “How on earth did you get involved with them? Surely you were never an anarchist yourself?”

  We paused to let a hansom cab clatter past on the cobbles. “I was introduced to Emma when I first got here. For a while I was rather entranced—she has that effect, you know. It seemed like rather a noble cause to blow up that fat old tyrant Victoria, especially after what she did to me. But the enthusiasm soon wore off. Victoria died and nobody could feel violent about poor old Edward. Anyone who has to do what his mummy tells him until he turns sixty should at least be allowed a few years of fun, ruling the British Empire, don't you think?”

  “So you're no longer part of that group?”

  “I never really was, but don't tell them that. But I do find them rather amusing, don't you? Good for a giggle, wouldn't you say?” He looked at me, eyes sparkling. “They are all so bloody earnest. They publish their little left-wing newspapers, they organize strikes and protests, they go to jail and come out feeling like martyrs—”

  “But are they actually dangerous, do you think?

  They're not planning to start a revolution in this country, are they?”

  Ryan laughed. “America's already had one revolution. I can't see the inhabitants wanting another, can you? And we are supposed to have government for the people and by the people already. No, I think the comrades over here are more concerned with wealth. Too many rich people. Too much inequality.”

  “Your friendship with Angus can't have gone down well, then.”

  We exchanged grins.

  “Luckily I am a law unto myself. Nobody knows what to make of me, so they keep quiet and leave well enough alone.”

  We turned onto Sixth Avenue.

  “You really don't have to see me all the way home,” I said. “I'm sure I'm perfectly safe from here.”

  “Nonsense. I wasn't raised a gentleman for nothing. And besides, Sid and tJus might still be up and could be persuaded to make me a cup of coffee. I still have the taste of that disgusting tea in my mouth.”

  Ryan's mention of Sid and Gus had me thinking— Ryan had said that those people we had just met were involved in extremist newspapers and women's rights. Sid had told me she wrote articles on women's rights for certain journals. Was it possible that she was somehow involved with them? And as we picked our way through the debris around Jefferson Market, yet another thought came into my head. Until now I had not been able to suspect Ryan of any involvement in Paddy's Riley's death, because he had seemed so lovable and harmless. Now I saw that he also had a dark side. That cryptic remark, “Saw RO with LC at O'Cs” and the words that followed it showed that Paddy thought he was dangerous. And Paddy had lived only a day after writing those words.

  Twenty–Two

  I didn't sleep well that night. As I lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the muted noises of the city, I still couldn't believe that Ryan was involved in anything dangerous and subversive. I wasn't even sure that he was the RO mentioned in Paddy's notes. He obviously wasn't closely connected to the group we had met tonight. Some of them didn't even know who he was. So why was I lying awake and worrying?

  I got up and paced the floor. Ryan couldn't be involved in anything dangerous. It just wasn't like him. Sid and Gus had described him as a little boy who played with one toy, then dropped it for a new one. Even if he had had a fleeting interest in anarchism and had toyed with the idea of blowing up Queen Victoria, it would have been just a passing fantasy.

  “Is something wrong, Molly dearest?” Sid asked me as I sat at breakfast next morning. “You look as if you carry a burden on your shoulders.”

  “I didn't sleep well last night,” I admitted.

  She nodded wisely. “An evening with Ryan can do that to a person.” She leaned across and rested her hand on my sleeve. “Look, Molly, I know it's none of my business, but you're not thinking of falling for him, are you? Because if you are, I'd like to save you from possible heartbreak. For one thing, Ryan isn't exactly—” She broke off, considering how to phrase it.

  “Interested in girls?” I finished for her. “Yes, I know that.”

  “That doesn't mean that he isn't a terrible flirt with anything that walks on two legs,” Sid went on. “He knows how to flatter and make a person feel wonderful. I just don't want you entertaining false hopes.”

  “Thank you, Sid, but I don't,” I said. “I find Ryan quite delightful company, but I know him to be quite fickle.”

  “Fickle is a good word for it.” She nodded again, seriously, and leaned forward to pour herself a thimble-sized cup of coffee.

  “Do you think I run a risk by being associated with him, then?” I phrased the question as cautiously as possible.

  “Only that Ryan uses people as playthings. If you are this week's favorite, you will surely be discarded by next week.”

  “So you don't think that Ryan might have … a dangerous side?”

  She looked amused. “Jack the Ripper in disguise? Whatever made you ask that?”

  I attempted a laugh. “He seems too good to be true.”

  “As long as you don't trust him any further than you could throw him, you'll be just fine. And as I said, by next week he'll have forgotten all about you, unless he wants something.”

  The conversation left me feeling a little better. Sid and Gus, after all, knew Ryan well. If he was involved in any shady activities, surely he'd have dropped hints to them. Ryan didn't seem the type who would hold his tongue too successfully. But I decided it couldn't do any harm to ask a few more questions. So after breakfast I presented myself again at Lennie's studio. Lennie was delighted to see me.

  “My lovely model has returned to me,” he said. “I finished the first sketch of you last night. As soon as the paint dries, it's off to a gallery to make me rich.”

  “I don't know if I like the thought of myself hanging in someone's gallery without any clothes on,” I said.

  He laughed. “You'll be the toast of New York. You'll have suitors battering your door
down.”

  “Hardly a comforting thought,” I said, and removed my clothes behind the screen.

  “So how was your adventure with Ryan last night?” Lennie asked, as I perched on the stool and he draped fabric around me. “He took you with him to visit Emma, didn't he?”

  “It was interesting,” I said.

  He chuckled.‘They are a rum bunch, aren't they? That Emma creature and her followers. I have no idea what he sees in her. He usually goes more for glamour and status. And yet, if she snaps her fingers, he comes running.”

  “Have you ever been to one of her meetings?” I hadn't forgotten that his initials were L.C.

  “Me? You wouldn't catch me wasting my time with a group like that. I have no wish to overthrow society. I like things the way they are. Give me enough money to buy paint and beer and a good pastrami sandwich at the delicatessen and I am content.”

  “So you really think that Ryan is under her influence, do you?” I asked, staring past him out of the window, so that I wouldn't appear too interested. Pigeons were settling on the coping opposite. I watched their fluttering and strutting. “It was hard to tell from one brief visit last night. He wouldn't really do something stupid if she commanded him to?”

  “What sort of stupid thing did you have in mind? Hurling a bomb like the anarchists do in Europe?”

  I attempted an unconcerned laugh. “No, I can't see Ryan hurling a bomb.”

  “And what would he wish to blow up? America has welcomed him with open arms and he displays no interest in going home to take up the Irish cause. What made you ask that question?”

  “Nothing. Forget that I asked it.”

  Lennie daubed on paint in silence.

  “Although he did consider blowing up Buckingham Palace once,” Lennie went on. “But I think he only toyed with the idea for the drama it caused. You know Ryan. He lives for the dramatic.”

  I left the studio two hours later. If Lennie was really the LC mentioned in the black book, then he was a superb actor. I could swear, from talking to him, that neither he nor Ryan could possibly be involved in anything violent or dangerous.

  I was about to head home when, on a whim, I turned left instead of right and made for the house on West Eighth Street where Emma was staying. I had noted the address when Ryan wrote it down the night before. I knew I was taking a risk going to see her, but I decided I would be safe if I seemed to be naive enough.

  An elderly foreign-looking woman with a plain round face and vacant blue eyes opened the front door. “Ya?” she said.

  “I understand that Emma Goldman might be staying here?” I said cautiously.

  She ushered me inside without saying a word, leaving me unsure whether she was a landlady or a friend, or whether she spoke any English. I was shown through to a sitting room where Emma was reading correspondence.

  She looked up with interest. “The little Irish miss. I didn't expect to see you again. Don't tell me you have had a change of heart and wish to join our little group?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I'm not sure how to put this, but I'm interested in Ryan's relationship with you and your group.”

  “Ryan's relationship with me? By that, I presume you are implying intimate relationship.” A rather wicked smile spread across her face. “You are jealous! I never believed for a second that tale about being a cousin from Ireland. You want him for yourself.”

  “I may be naive, but I'm not thick enough to believe that I could have Ryan for myself,” I said. “It was mere curiosity that brought me here. I was so surprised when he took me to meet you last night. I just couldn't believe that Ryan had ever been connected to a group like yours.”

  “You're right,” she said. “He might have played at being a member of our little set for a while, but the novelty soon wore off—as it always does with Ryan.”

  “But you still exert a very strong influence over him. I saw his reaction when he heard you were in town.”

  “Yes,” she said calmly, “I have that effect over quite a number of people, so I am given to understand. You are obviously not affected by my magnetic personality.”

  “But Ryan is such a strong personality himself,” I said. “It seems hard to believe…”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Ryan is a very weak personality. Why else would he constantly need to play a part and never let his true self show through? If he stops playing at being Ryan O'Hare, world-famous playwright and manabout-town, for one second, the whole world will collapse around him.”

  “So he could be influenced by someone like you.”

  “Not for long. He has the attention span of a two-yearold, as you must have noticed. And if by your statement you insinuate that he would rush off to London and assassinate King Edward at my behest, then you are sadly mistaken. Ryan likes to be comfortable. Prisons are notoriously uncomfortable. I know. I have been inside quite a number of jail cells in my life. And hanging is even more uncomfortable, so I'm told.” She looked at my worried face and laughed. “Is that what you concern yourself about? That your precious Ryan will risk his life for me? No. It will never happen. Why would he need to strike such a blow? He has his words. They are more effective as weapons than any bomb. See what happened when he wrote the play about the British royal family? The whole country was in an uproar, just over a few silly words.”

  She leaned back in her chair and cradled her head in her hands. “This is what I try to get through the heads of those earnest young people who surround me wherever I go. If you want to change the world, use words—they are powerful. Blow up one tyrant and another will step forward to take his place. But write a clever piece that is published in a newspaper and the masses will read it.” She paused, almost as if she was waiting for applause. “Ryan unfortunately is completely taken up with his new play. He is choosing to waste his talent on fame and fortune.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You are quite right. I'm sorry. I should never have troubled you.”

  “You still haven't asked me if I had an intimate relationship with Ryan.” Again the wicked smile. “I didn't, but it might have been very nice.”

  I came away from Emma Goldman feeling quite reassured. She was right. Ryan's new love was his play. He wouldn't do anything that might jeopardize its success. If Paddy thought he had heard Ryan and someone called LC discussing something dangerous, then he had been mistaken. I had nothing to worry about at all.

  It was with a lighter heart that I took the streetcar up Broadway to the Daley Theater where Ryan's play was being rehearsed. I hadn't been through this part of the city before and found it very exciting, with billboards advertising new plays and electric lights winking from theater marquees. “The Belle of New York.” “ A Doll's House, by Mr. Ibsen.” So many plays I hadn't seen, so many exciting tilings still waiting to be done. The city was like a giant banquet spread before me, and I had only yet had a chance to nibble at the first course.

  The Daley Theater looked spendid from outside, with ornate pillars and an impressive set of glass front doors, but its marquee was dark and its front doors firmly locked. I went through an alley and discovered a side entrance. I opened it and found myself in a dark, narrow passageway. I could hear voices on my left and followed the sound until I could see light. I was standing in a backstage area and could just get a glimpse of the backs of several actors on the stage. No sign of Ryan, though. As I stood there, unsure what to do next, a girl came past me, wearing a paint-daubed smock and carrying a large paint pot in her hand.

  “Hey, what are you doing? You shouldn't be here,” she hissed at me.

  “I'm a friend of Mr. O'Hare's. He invited me to watch a rehearsal.”

  “Did he? Well, he's in a foul mood today—the cast aren't word-perfect on Act Three and they open on the road in a couple of days—so I'd stay out of his way, if I were you. If you want to watch, go down there and through the pass door. That will take you to the house.”

  I hadn't any idea what house she was talking about, but I followed her dir
ections, pushed open a heavy door and found myself in the darkened theater. The only light came from the stage. In the gloom I could make out gilttrimmed balconies and the huge chandelier in the ceiling. I felt my way back along an aisle and found myself a seat at the back of the stalls, beside an ornately decorated pillar. I had never been in a theater before and was rather overawed at the magnificence around me. The seats were soft plush, and there was a Greek mural over the stage. It would have been an entertaining place to visit even if there had been no play to watch.

  The play also proved to be entertaining. Having come in halfway through the Second Act, I couldn't catch up with the whole story, but it seemed to be a satire about a small fictitious country that had locked its doors to the rest of the world and refused to admit that any world existed outside of its borders. In the behavior of the despotic emperor I noticed several references to Queen Victoria, and in the behavior of the citizens of Nowheria a wicked caricature of American isolationism. “We're all right, so damn the rest,” as one character said.

  The Second Act finished, and we moved into the troubled Third Act, which Ryan had only just completed. I could see the poor actors struggling with their lines and heard Ryan's voice, offstage, “Get it right, for God's sake, Ethel. Is it too much to ask that an actress learn her lines?”

  “I was prepared to learn lines back in April, Ryan,” she replied coldly, “only the lines weren't there to be learned.”

  The act continued. Not quite as funny as its predecessor, but deeper. I was sitting lost in the enhancement of watching a real play for the first time, when I felt suddenly cold, as if a door behind me had been opened and let a draft come in. I turned around. The doors to the foyer were all closed, but I still felt chilled. As I turned back, I thought I saw a movement, as if someone had ducked behind another pillar. My skin prickled. Somebody was in the darkened theater with me.

  “Don't be stupid,” I told myself. Any one of the cast could have popped through to take a look at the play from the audience's side. Maybe one of the set builders was taking a break. I peered into the darkness, but there was no sign of the other person. Nobody sitting in another seat. And yet I could still feel a presence. Call it my Celtic gift of second sight, if you will, but I have always had the ability to sense when danger was near. I was sensing it now.