Death of Riley (15 page)

“So he was with you for a long time then?”

She sucked through her teeth. “Must be at least twenty-five years. I was a young woman and Mr. O'Shaunessey was working on the docks when he first came to us. Himself has been long departed, God rest his soul.”

“Mr. Riley also thought highly of me, as I did of him.” I paused, wondering which tack was best to take. “The police are looking into his murder, of course. I take it they've been round here.”

“Yes, some young whippersnapper demanded to search the place. I don't know what he was looking for, but he didn't find nothing. Only stayed a couple of minutes. He told me to touch nothing in Paddy's room because they might be back, but when—that's what I'd like to know. I'd like to get his stuff cleared out of there, so that I can rent out the room again.”

So much for Paddy's substitute mother.

“I presume he paid his rent through to the end of the month?” I couldn't help inquiring.

“Always paid up regular. A real gentleman.”

“So the room is officially his until the end of the month anyway.”

She gave me a strange sideways look, as if I were a sweet puppy that had just bitten her. “That's right, I suppose,” she admitted. “But it's going to take time for me to clear out his things.”

“I'll be happy to come over and help you, when the police give you permission,” I said. “And if you don't mind, I'd like to take a look at his room now.”

“What for?”

“Now that I'm left alone to run the business, there are certain papers I can't find at his office,” I said. “I just wondered if he'd left them here. Things like bills I am supposed to pay.”

“I don't recall seeing any papers, but you're welcome to take a look if you like. I just need to do the last of this washing-up, then I'll take you there.”

I offered to help, was rejected and waited until the last pot had been hung on the hook over the stove. Then I followed Mrs. O'Shaunessey as she huffed and puffed her way up the narrow staircase. Paddy's room was as dark and depressing as the kitchen had been. The window opened onto a narrow courtyard. It was over-furnished with a heavy wardrobe and a chest of drawers that took up most of one wall. There was also a small desk against the far wall and a single bed, unmade and untidy. I stood there, looking around, trying to take in the fact that Paddy had chosen to stay in this place for more than twenty years, when he could have afforded better. Maybe his bond with Mrs. O'Shaunessey was real. Maybe—I allowed myself to go further—there had been some mutual comforting going on, Mr. O'Shaunessey being dead these many years now, God rest his soul. Otherwise I saw no reason for him to stay.

As I started to examine the room in detail, something else struck me. There was nothing personal in this room at all—no photos, no mementoes, not even a picture on the wall. Paddy Riley had lived in that room for more than twenty years and not bothered to put his mark of identity into it. At that moment it finally hit me that this had been a person who really was alone in the world. No ties, no family, nothing. And on the heels of that thought came a second. This case will not warrant a proper investigation. There is nobody who will make sure justice is served, unless I do it.

I opened drawers aimlessly. The first one contained neatly arranged pairs of socks, the second neatly stacked underwear. Since Paddy himself was obviously not a neat person, the drawers must have been arranged by Mrs. O'Shaunessey—which would account for why he had hidden his savings at his office.

“Not found any papers yet, have you?” she asked, eyeing me suspiciously as I closed a drawer that obviously could not have been expected to contain papers.

“Not yet,” I said. “Tell me—you must have a pretty good idea of what Paddy kept in here—” Bad mistake. She bristled. “If you think I have time to go snooping through my guests' belongings …”

“Oh, I wasn't implying that at all, Mrs. O'Shaunessey. I merely meant that you did his laundry, so you'd obviously be in and out of this room with piles of washing.”

“Well, yes. I'd be in and out all the time. And I tried to keep his clothing neat as best I could. Not the tidiest of gendemen.”

“You should have seen the mess at the office when I first arrived.” I smiled like a fellow conspirator.‘Took me a full week to get the papers in order. So I wondered if you could tell me if the police actually found anything of importance here and took it away with them?”

She considered, then shook her head. “I can't think that they did. You know, the young officer was only here a few minutes and I'd swear he wasn't carrying anything when he left.”

“So there is nothing missing? This is how his room always looked?”

“Except that I usually made the bed when I had a chance. But the policeman said to leave everything exactiy as it was, so I did.”

I went through the desk. There was a new roll of film in one drawer, plus some packets of negatives. I'd take those when I could. No sign of the camera, though. And not much else of interest. A receipt from a cleaner's, an out-of-date calendar, some postcards and a map of Manhattan, which I'd also appropriate.

I closed the desk and went over to the wardrobe, feeling Mrs. O'Shaunessey's eyes boring into my back. A good dark suit, a heavy winter coat and several items that must have been for disguises—a long flowing cape, a top hat. I lifted a box down from the top shelf and found it to contain wigs and makeup. I'd have to make sure I got my hands on that when the room was finally cleaned out.

I closed the wardrobe again and handed Mrs. O'Shaunessey my card. “Please send someone round to let me know when the police say you can clean out the room. I'll come and give you a hand. It's too much work for one person. Some of this stuff, like the wigs and makeup, really belongs at the office, but I should think there's probably some items here that you could sell— make yourself a bit of extra money.”

She was as readable as a book. “Mercy me, I'd never thought of that. Happen you're right.” She looked pink and pleased.

“Did Mr. Riley have many visitors?” I asked as we descended the stairs again.

“Visitors? I can't say I ever recall visitors. A private person, Mr. Riley was. Kept himself to himself. Only lived for his work, didn't he?”

“He seemed to. Such a sad life.”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

We reached the ground floor. “So you don't happen to know if there was anywhere he met up with friends—a particular tavern he liked?”

“Mr. Riley was not what you'd call a heavy drinker,” she said firmly. “He liked the occasional tot, though. I believe he stopped off at O'Connor's on the way home from time to time.”

“O'Connor's?” My heart beat faster. “And where would that be?”

“Oh, just around the block. Corner of Greenwich and Christopher.”

“You wouldn't happen to remember if he told you he stopped off at O'Connor's two nights before he was killed?”

She shook her head. “He came in very late, both that night and the last night of his life. I was already in bed when I heard his key in the lock. I called out,‘Is that you, Mr. Riley?’ and he said it was.”

“Did he sound quite—normal?”

“If you mean was he drunk, Mr. Riley hardly ever overindulged. But, now that you mention it, he was quite short with me that first night. Usually we had a pleasant little exchange as he passed my room on the stairs. But that night I called out,‘Is that you, Mr. Riley?’ and he said,‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, it's me.’ And that's all he said. No good night. No nothing. And that was unusual for him. Always had good manners around me, Mr. Riley did.”

I opened the front door. “Thank you, Mrs. O'Shaunessey. You've been most helpful. I'll look forward to coming to give you a hand getting that room cleaned out, so that you can relet it as quickly as possible.”

“Most kind, my dear. I'd appreciate that.”

I left her waving after me in a most motherly fashion. I was learning, slowly but surely, how to keep my mouth from running away with me!

I came to the end of the block and turned left, up Greenwich Street. Another elevated track ran along it and the noise of a train, rumbling overhead, drowned out the city noises beneath. I passed storefronts until I came to O'Connor's saloon on the corner. Even at midday it sounded pretty lively inside. I hesitated on the threshold. No woman of any reputation would go into a tavern alone. The last time I had tried it, seeking information, I had been subjected to ribald comments and forced to deliver a few kicks to the shins before I made my getaway. I wasn't anxious to go through that again. I steeled myself, wishing that I had a spare hatpin about my person for defense, and went in. The fug of smoke made it difficult to see in a poorly lit room, but I could make out groups sitting around several of the tables.

Two young men, interestingly attired in student garb—one in an Oriental smoking jacket, the other in a peasant smock—were being served at the bar. I waited patiently in the shadow for them to be served before approaching the landlord. As I stood there, a voice to my right exclaimed, “But darling, I thought you knew all the time it was I!” and the group around him burst into noisy laughter.

I looked across to see the same beautiful young man I had noticed in Washington Square.

F
ourteen

“Paddy Riley?” The genial smile faded from the landlord's face in response to my question. He had heard the news of Mr. Riley's demise—such a shame. Of course he had been a regular. He visited the tavern most evenings for a shot of Irish whiskey. Always the one drink, though. Sometimes he sat with other customers, sometimes alone. I tried to take his mind back to Monday last, but he shook his head. “Every day's pretty much like another. As you can see, we're a popular place, especially with the young crowd these days. We're always run off our feet until closing time. No chance to notice who is here and who isn't.”

I asked about Paddy's friends and acquaintances, but again he shook his head. “He chatted with other regulars. Just generally joined in the conversation, if you know what I mean. There was nobody you'd say was his special crony.”

That pretty much summed up Paddy's life.

“Did he sometimes come here in one of his disguises?” I asked.

“I suppose he might have done.” Quite the most unobservant landlord in New York City.

“He would have been dressed as a waiter, last Monday night.”

The landlord pursed his lips in concentration. “He might have done. But again, Mr. Riley wasn't one to draw attention to himself.”

“And you didn't happen to notice anyone special in here when Mr. Riley came in dressed as a waiter? No unusual people who might have upset Mr. Riley?”

He shook his head. “I'd have noticed any kind of upset. I don't allow any fighting. Look, miss. Like I say, we always get a good crowd. It's noisy, but there's no harm in it, if you get my meaning. Rarely have to throw anyone out.”

I glanced back at the table where the beautiful young man was holding court, waving his hands in the air while he described something and those around him howled with laughter. I was interested to see that the table contained both men and women. This was unusual in itself. The tavern was normally the province of men, and yet Mr. Riley, the famous woman hater, had chosen this one to take his evening drink.

“I see you allow women to drink with men in here,” I commented.

“Oh, yes. It's only recently, since all the artists and intellectuals started moving into the area. Only a certain type of young woman, mind you. No painted hussies off die streets. The ones we get are very respectable—regular bluestockings, most of‘em.”

I made the mistake of glancing around again and caught the beautiful young man's eye. To my mortification, he winked. As winks go, it was wonderful—as if we two alone were sharing a private joke. But I found myself blushing like a schoolgirl and hastily turned away.

I leaned across to the bartender. “That man. The one at the table in the corner who is talking so loudly. Who is he?”

The landlord laughed. “You must be the one person in New York who doesn't know him. That's Ryan O'Hare, the playwright. One of your countrymen. Surely you've heard of him?”

Not wanting to appear a fool, I replied, “Ryan O'Hare. Of course.”

“He comes in here quite often when he's in the Village. They say he has a play opening at the Daley Theater—it was to have been the Victoria, but he thought that would have been a bad omen, considering …”

“Considering what?”

“Why—the reason he left England, of course.” He looked at me as if I was stupid and I didn't like to question him further. If Mr. Ryan O'Hare was as famous as indicated, I could find out everything I needed to know about him in the back editions of the New York newspapers. I added that mentally to the list of things to do at the library on Monday.

Like all good Christians, I observed Sunday as a day of rest. The fact that I couldn't proceed with any of my investigations on a Sunday also had something to do with it. I could visit neither of Paddy's outstanding cases until Monday morning. A long weekend stretched ahead of me, with no Sunday strolls in the park to look forward to. Before Seamus's accident I had always accompanied the little family to mass, even though I wasn't the most religious person in the world.

On this particular Sunday I had planned to take the two little ones to church in their father's absence, then maybe out for an ice cream. Those plans were thwarted when I arrived home on Saturday afternoon to find bedlam reigning in my own room. Shamey and Bridie were there, as were their three boy cousins, Malachy, Thomas and James, and they were leaping over my furniture with feathers stuck in their hair.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What's going on here!” I clapped my hands and the children froze.

“We're playing red Indians,” Bridie said, giving me her most innocent smile. “Aunty Nuala plucked a chicken and there were feathers.”

“If you want to run around like savages, you go outside and find the nearest park,” I said, wagging a stern finger at them. “You know better than to play that kind of game indoors, and especially in my room.”

“Sorry, Molly.” Shameyboy tried an endearing smile.