Death of Riley Page 4

  “I need to learn more before I can set up on my own. I plan to apprentice myself.”

  “Apprentice yourself? To whom?”

  “I have connections.” I wasn't going to betray what my possible future employer had been doing in Gramercy Park.

  Miss Wan Woekem held out her hand to me. “You have spunk, I'll say that for you. I wish you well, Molly Murphy. Come and see me from time to time. I'd like to hear of your progress. It would liven up an old woman's tedious days.”

  “Very well,” I said. I reached into my pocket. “Oh, and here are your two dollars back. I won't be needing the suitable dress after all.”

  She closed my hand around the dollar bills. “Keep them. Your wages.”

  “Oh, but I couldn't possibly—” I began.

  “Wages earned,” she insisted. “Good luck to you, Molly Murphy.”

  Then I was coming down the front steps into Gramercy Park. Last night's storm had dispelled the stifling heat, leaving a crisp blue sky and a fresh breeze. The smell of jasmine wafted from the gardens. A maid was sweeping front steps and the swishing noise echoed from the tall buildings around the square. A milk cart approached with the neat clip-clopping of hooves and then the reassuring clink of milk bottles as the milkman made a delivery. It was strange, but I felt as if I'd stepped into a new world. I ran down those steps, ready for anything.

  My first disappointment came as I crossed the street. My future employer was not in the gardens. I slipped through the fence and went around carefully, in case he was hiding behind a shrub, but the only occupants were two nursemaids who walked side by side pushing their charges in high wicker prams. After a careful search I had to admit to myself that he wasn't there. I sat on a bench and waited. It was, after all, early in the day. Maybe his vigilance didn't start until after a hearty breakfast. I waited and waited. The cool morning melted into uncomfortable midday sun. At last I admitted to myself that he wasn't coming.

  I left the garden by the way I had entered and went to find the constable on Fourth Avenue. He was standing under the awning of a corner grocery shop, looking redfaced and sweaty.

  “Not more trouble, miss, I hope?” He brought up his nightstick to touch his helmet to me.

  “Not at all, officer. The man, Paddy, you called him, hasn't appeared today. I was wondering if you knew where I could find him.”

  “And what would you be needing to find him for, I'd like to know, miss? Not to lodge a complaint, I hope. I did tell you he was harmless.”

  I leaned closer. “I understand he is a private investigator.”

  The constable glanced around worriedly, as if I had given out this information to the world and not just to him. “You're not thinking of making trouble for him, miss? I swear to God the man wasn't doing any harm.”

  “I might have work for him.” I gave him something close to a wink. This was an outright lie, but I'd become so good at lying recently that it seemed a shame to let the skill get rusty.

  He leaned closer to me now. His breath smelled of onions and I wondered if he'd had them for breakfast. “If Paddy doesn't want to be found, then nobody's going to find him, although I believe he operates out of a place on lower Fifth Avenue.”

  “Fifth Avenue!” I had been here long enough to know that Fifth Avenue was the haunt of swells.

  “A man in his job needs an address where the clients won't be afraid to visit him, doesn't he?” the constable said. “But in truth Paddy's on the lower part of it—the part that's seen better days.” He stared out across the street. “Of course I remember it when Fifth Avenue was Fifth Avenue, right down to Washington Square. Only the real nobs lived there.”

  “You wouldn't happen to know where on Fifth Avenue?” I asked hopefully. The day was heating up by the minute and I, of course, had come out without my hat again.

  He shook his head. “That's not part of my beat, miss. Below Fourteenth, anyway.”

  “Thank you, officer. You've been very helpful,” I said.

  “Always glad to send business in Paddy's direction,” he said. “Tell him Constable Hanna sends his regards.”

  I was glad that Fifth Avenue wasn't too far away. I'd already worn out one pair of soles in this city and it was always a big decision whether to squander five cents on the trolley or the elevated railway when the distances were great and the weather was too hot for walking. I continued down Fourth Avenue until I reached Union Square and then intended to cut across on Fourteenth Street. I was only halfway across the street when I realized I had made a bad decision. With its bell clanging furiously, a trolley car bore down on me, coming at a speed I had thought impossible for trolley cars. I had to pick up my skirts and sprint for it as the trolley swung around the sharp curve. I glimpsed the startled faces of its passengers as it passed me with inches to spare. When I reached the sidewalk and stood catching my breath, I heard laughter and spun around. A group of men was sitting outside Brubacker's Cafe and they were obviously enjoying themselves at my expense.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I muttered, giving those men a haughty stare.

  “My, but you're fleet of foot, young lady. We were wagering two to one that you wouldn't make it,” one of them called to me, an inane grin on his unshaven face.

  “You must have a death wish, young lady,” another, more sympathetic-looking man said. “Only fools or those who are tired of this life cross at Dead Man's Curve.”

  “Dead Man's Curve?” I wondered if they were pulling my leg.

  “The trolleys have to speed up around the curve because they lose the cable if they don't. I reckon there's a near miss here every day …”

  “And a fatality every week,” the annoying man added.

  “And you sit here making bets on it?” I snapped. “Have you nothing better to do with your lives?” Then I stalked on with my head held high.

  As I turned onto Fifth Avenue and saw it stretching ahead of me with the arch on Washington Square just a mirage in the heat haze, I realized what a task I had set myself. I couldn't possibly check every building for seven or eight blocks. Even if Paddy had a brass plate outside his front door, I didn't know his last name, so that wasn't going to help me much. I walked slowly down the first block, examining the buildings on either side of me. They were big and imposing. If Constable Hanna thought that lower Fifth Avenue had seen better days, then the better days must have been grand indeed. These were still clearly the homes of the well-to-do. There were carriages with uniformed coachmen waiting outside and even a couple of automobiles. Surely Paddy wouldn't be found in one of these houses?

  As I continued southward there were indeed signs that the tone of the area was slipping. Some of the bigger houses had been divided up into flats, to judge from the many plates beside the front door. I began by examining them, one by one, but soon gave it up as impossible. Paddy was an Irish nickname, but the man hadn't sounded Irish. If anything, he had sounded English—so there was no point in searching for an Irish surname.

  Then I came up with a bright idea—I'd ask at the local cafes. He'd have to eat somewhere, wouldn't he? The only problem was that there were no eating houses on Fifth Avenue. It was all respectably residential, with the odd church thrown in. I tried Eleventh Street going west and then east, but with no luck. By this time my feet were tired, I was hot and thirsty and ready to give up. Did I really want to be an investigator so badly?

  I continued along East Eleventh in the hope of finding a soda fountain. With Miss Van Woekem's two dollars in my pocket I could certainly treat myself to a cool soda. There was a drugstore on the corner of University and I was about to go in when I heard the voice.

  “’Ere, watch what you're doing with them clippers! Do you think I want to wind up bald?”

  A barber's pole hung outside a small dark shop beside the drugstore. I peered inside. He was facing away from the street, so I couldn't get a good look, but a brown derby hat was hanging from the hatstand. I moved out of sight and stood on the street, wondering what to do next. I co
uld wait on the street for him to come out, introduce myself and tell him my plan, or I could follow him back to his office so that I could demonstrate that I had aptitude for the job. The latter appealed to me more. I stood under the drugstore awning pretending to be examining the display of foot powders and patent medicines in the window until I heard a cheerful “Thanks, Al. Cheerio, then, until next time.” Again I noted that strange accent that was a mixture of Cockney and New York.

  Out of the corner of my eye I watched him leave the barber's. I let him get a good way down the street before I followed him. He was walking fast and I had to run to catch up as he headed onto Fifth Avenue, going south. I turned the corner after him, then shrank back as he stopped to buy a newspaper. He set off again. I followed. I was doing rather well at this, I decided. It was a pity there weren't shop fronts to duck into, but I managed to blend into the shade every time he stopped, pausing as if I were checking the numbers on the houses.

  He crossed Tenth Street, then Ninth, then Eighth. The arch on Washington Square was now clearly visible, blocking the end of the avenue, its marble facade glinting in the sunlight. I paused to admire it and when I looked back, Paddy was no longer ahead of me. I ran. He couldn't have gone into any of the houses—it would have taken time to mount the steps to the front doors. And he surely hadn't reached Washington Square. Then I noticed a narrow alley going off to my right. I ran down it and found myself in a cobbled court that must have formerly been a mews. Some of the low buildings still had stable doors. Some had been converted into living quarters. I spun around as I heard the sound of a door closing. It had come from above my head. Then I noticed a flight of rickety steps going up the side of the first mews cottage. I went up. The door was not properly latched. I tapped on it. “Hello? Paddy?” I called.

  The door swung open and I peered in. I saw a large untidy room, a desk buried under mounds of paper and a half-eaten sandwich. But the room was empty. Cautiously I stepped inside.

  “Hello. Anyone here?” I called again.

  Suddenly I was grabbed from behind and a hand clamped over my mouth.

  Five

  “All right,” a voice hissed in my ear, “out with it. Who sent you?”

  “Let go of me.” I tried to force the words through his fingers around my mouth. I jerked my elbow backward in what I hoped was the region of his stomach and heard a satisfying exhale. Not for nothing had I grown up with three brothers. I wrenched myself out of his grasp and spun around on him. “Holy Mother of God! Is this the way you always greet prospective clients? It's a wonder you do any business.”

  “Go on with yer,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. “You're no more a prospective client than I'm the man in the moon.”

  “And how can you tell that?”

  “By the clothes, love. There's no quality in the fabric. It takes money to hire my services.” Now that I had time to study him I reconfirmed my first impression of dapper. He was well turned out in a suit that had seen better days. His shirt had a clean starched collar. His face must have been quite handsome once but now sagged so that he had a bloodhoundlike mournful appearance. This disappeared as he gave me a cheeky grin, then the wary look returned.

  “So come on, out with it. Who sent you? If it's the Five Points Gang using their womenfolk to deliver messages again…”

  “If you think I look like a gangster's messenger, then you must have poor eyesight or be a very poor judge of character,” I said coldly. I was rapidly making up my mind that this man would make a worse employer than Miss Van Woekem.

  “Sorry, miss. No offense meant,” he said. “You can't be too careful in my business. The last lady who came on a friendly call from a gang had a six-inch blade down her boot—and she intended to use it as soon as my back was turned.” He was squinting at me with narrowed eyes set in a hollow, pinched face. “Wait a second. I've seen you before, haven't I? I've got a good memory for faces. It will come to me in a tick.” He held up a finger. “Hold on, it's coming. Central Park.”

  “With Captain Sullivan,” I added. “You were pretending to be a photographer.”

  “Whatcha mean, pretending?” he asked, but he had relaxed now. “I supplement my income from time to time.”

  “And conveniently pass messages to Captain Sullivan,” I added triumphantly.

  “Well, I'll be blowed. I must be slipping in my old age.” He nodded approvingly. “You've got good eyes in your head, I'll say that for you.”

  “I have. And my good eyes noticed you slipping out of Gramercy Park by way of a loose iron railing on Monday, and standing in the same gardens on Tuesday, watching a house through binoculars.”

  The suspicious look had returned. “Surely Captain Sullivan didn't send you? No, he'd never involve women when it comes to work.”

  “You're right. He didn't send me.”

  “Then what do you want from me? You don't work for Miss Le Grange, do you?”

  “Who?”

  “Kitty Le Grange. The lady whose house I was watching. Pfew, that's a relief. That would be three days' work down the drain if they knew I'd been keeping a record.”

  “A record of what?”

  “None of your business.” He touched his finger to the side of his nose. “Mum's the word. So they didn't send you?”

  “I don't work for anybody,” I finally managed to interrupt, “and if you'll shut up for a second, I'll tell you why I came here.”

  He looked rather surprised at being spoken to this way. “All right, keep your hair on. Go on then.”

  “I think you and I can help each other.”

  “Information? You've got information that's worth money?”

  “Holy Mother, it's hard to get a word in edgewise around here. And my mother always told me I had the gift of the gab. I want you to hire me.”

  “As what?”

  “An assistant,” I said. “Look at this room. It's a disaster. I could keep things clean and neat for you and you could teach me the business.”

  “What business?” The suspicious look had returned.

  “Your business. I want to learn to be an investigator.”

  He started laughing silently, his scrawny body shaking with mirth.‘That's a good one. A woman investigator. Now I've heard everything.”

  “And why not, I'd like to know?” I faced him with my hands on my hips. “I'm sharp, I'm obviously more observant than you, and I think I've got a knack for it.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?”

  “I tailed you all the way from the barbershop.”

  “You wouldn't get two yards, tailing somebody like that,” he said. “I spotted you as I came out of the barbershop door and my sixth sense told me you were hanging about for no good reason. So I kept tabs on you all the way down Fifth. Why else do you think I stopped to buy a paper?”

  “Oh.” This was somewhat deflating, but I wasn't going to let him see that. “So I need practice. I'll get better with good instruction.”

  “Not from me, you won't. There's no way on God's earth I'd employ a woman.”

  “So you like working in a pigsty, do you?”

  This made him pause for a moment and scan the room with his eyes. “I didn't say I couldn't use help from time to time. In fact, if you could find me a bright and willing young lad, I wouldn't mind taking on an apprentice. But no woman. This can be dangerous work, my dear. You'd get us both killed first time you opened your mouth.”

  He left me and walked across the room to his desk. “Go on, run along home. I've got work to do.” He pulled out a rickety chair, sat down and began writing notes.

  I had no alternative but to leave. This time I noted the grimy brass plate at the foot of the stairs, P. RILEY DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS. An Irish name. Then why did he sound like an English Cockney with a touch of the Bowery thrown in? It seemed as if I'd never know now.

  I left the mews and started back across town to East Fourth and my attic apartment. Exactly what was I going to do now? I wondered. Money was, indeed, a factor. I suppos
ed, as a last resort, I could always go back to Miss Van Woekem and tell her that I'd made a mistake. I considered this for a second before I decided that starvation was preferable to having to see Miss Arabella Norton or her despicable fianc6 ever again.

  When I spied a cafe on the corner of University Place and West Fourth, I threw frugality to the winds and decided on coffee and a bun to cheer myself up. It was almost midday now and the coffee house was crowded. The noise level was intense and I looked with interest at the clientele. They were all young and dressed in an interesting diversity of styles, from flowing capes to wellpatched tweed. It took me a moment to register that they were all students and the building opposite was New York University. I took my coffee and bun to a stool at the counter which ran around the wall and sat there, listening in on as many conversations as possible. After a life that had been so solitary I gazed in envy at these tight-knit groups of people not much younger than me. There was even a sprinkling of women among the men—seriouslooking girls in dark colors and glasses, who were not afraid to speak their opinions and enter fully into the debates. If only that could have been me, I'd have liked nothing better. I sat listening, long after the coffee and bun had disappeared, then followed them out when a bell tolled and they hurried back across the street, clutching piles of books.

  The walk home along Fourth seemed particularly long and empty.

  Mrs. O'Halloran appeared by magic as I let myself in through the front door.

  “You had a visitor,” she said. “Captain Sullivan.” She must have noticed the color draining from my face because she went on hurriedly, “Don't worry. I told him you were not at home, just like you wanted.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Has there been a falling-out between you and the good captain?” she asked, blocking my way as I sought to go up the stairs. “Such a lovely man, I've always thought. Made me wish I was younger and single.”

  “Captain Sullivan and I were nothing more than acquaintances. He was kind enough to help a fellow Irishwoman get established in a new country. Nothing more than that,” I said. “Good day to you, Mrs. O'Hallaran.”