Death of Riley (6 page)

“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 supposed, 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.”

She looked disappointed, then suspicious, as I attempted to hurry past before she thought up any more questions. I wasn't quick enough.

“Just a minute,” she said, grabbing at my arm. “I've been doing a spot of cleaning out and I've come across some old clothes that maybe the young boy upstairs can use. He's beginning to look like a ragbag with no mother to keep an eye on him, and our son Jack was always very careful with his clothes. Not a harum-scarum like most boys.”

She darted into her sitting room and reappeared with a neatly folded pile of clothing that smelled strongly of mothballs. “Here you are.”

“Thank you. Seamus can certainly use them.”

I carried them upstairs. “Shameyboy? Look what I've got for you,” I called. No answer. Usually the children came rushing out when they heard my feet on the stairs. I opened the door of their room and found it empty. That must mean that they were off with their cousins again, swimming in the East River. I found this latest pastime rather dangerous and I'd expressed my worries to their father, but he didn't seem to mind. He seemed to think their cousins would keep an eye on them. Children did need to find ways to keep cool and have fun during the long summer days, and half the ragamuffins on the Lower East Side did it. Also, girls weren't permitted to strip off and swim like the boys, so my only worries for Bridie were that she'd fall in by mistake, be run over by a delivery cart or crushed under a pile of dockland freight. As I reminded myself yet again, they weren't my children.

I stood in the hallway that served as our communal kitchen, staring down at the pile of clothing. On the top of the pile was a boy's cloth cap—the kind of cap worn by every newsboy in the city of New York. A rather preposterous idea was forming in my head. I went straight into my room and tried on the cap. It took a while to get all my hair tucked into it, but once it was finished, an impish, cheeky face looked back at me from the glass on the wall. Excited now, I examined the rest of the pile. The knickers looked as if they might fit. I discarded my skirt and petticoat, then struggled into them. They were tighter than I'd hoped and came only to my knees instead of around midcalf, which was where most boys wore them, but they might do. There was no jacket big enough for me, but there was a white Sunday shirt. I tried that with the knickers and the cap. The result wasn't bad. I thanked providence for my boyish figure, usually so despised by fashion and connoisseurs of beauty.

Of course, I looked too clean for a boy. I've never met a boy yet who can fail to get dirty within half an hour of getting dressed. But that could be remedied. I'd wait until twilight and pay another visit on P. Riley, Discreet Investigations!

S
ix

As I prepared myself that evening, I realized that I had another problem—my feet. No boy would ever wear a pair of pointed button boots, and they were my only footwear. It was no use trying to borrow from Shameyboy next door. He only had one pair of boots and they were on his feet. I'd have to do what many poor youngsters did— go barefoot.

The hardest part of the assignment was sneaking out of the house undetected. Luckily Sergeant O'Hallaran had returned home for his dinner. I heard them talking in their kitchen as I slunk past. Once outside, it wasn't hard to find a puddle and get myself good and grimy. I set off for Washington Mews, my swagger marred by the hard cobblestones on my bare feet. I'd run barefoot as a child, but that was a while ago now and my feet were sore and throbbing by the time I reached Washington Square. My first tap on P. Riley's door brought no answer. I was angry and frustrated at having gone to such trouble and walked so far for nothing. But I hung around in the mews, listening to life in the city going on around me until darkness began to fall. I was just about to give up and go home, defeated, when I saw him. He came around the corner, clutching a cardboard box which, judging by the greasy stains already appearing on it, contained his dinner.

I took a deep breath, then stepped out to greet him as he started to climb the steps. I didn't want to risk surprising him and being attacked again. “Evening, mister.”

He stopped and turned to look at me.

Another deep breath. I forced my voice as low as it would go. “The lady next door says you need a‘prentice. I'm bright and willing, mister.”

“And your name is?”

I hadn't thought of that one. “Uh—Michael, sir. My friends call me Mike.” The first name that came into my head.

“Then you'd better come upstairs, Mike,” he said, giving me the cheeky grin.

He was smiling, pleased to see me. I couldn't wait to reveal my true identity to him and watch his astonishment.

I followed him into the dark room and waited while he lit the gas bracket on the wall. “Now then, uh, Michael,” he said, still grinning. “What makes you think I'd want to employ you?”

“I told you, mister. I'm willing and ready to learn. And honest, too.”

“Not quite honest,” he said, clearing off an area of his desk and putting the box down on some newspapers. “What was your name earlier today, Michael?” He took a sudden step toward me and yanked off the cap. Red hair spilled over my shoulders.

“I'll give you top marks for persistence,” he said. “Now, for the love of Pete, would you go away and leave me alone? Don't try any more stupid charades with me. I'm losing my patience and my good humor.”

“How did you know?” I asked. “I thought I looked quite real.”

“You thought you looked quite real?” He started that soundless chuckling, his body shaking silently. “Let me point out a couple of minor details, my dear. Look at your hands, to start with. Have you ever met a boy who didn't have dirt under his fingernails? And your feet? Oh, you've got them nice and dirty, but see how the little toe is pressed against the next one? That comes from years of wearing pointed shoes. Ever see a boy wearing pointed toed shoes? And then there's the smell of mothballs. Very odd that your clothes were stored away until this very moment, don't you think?”

I nodded. “So I have a lot to learn, I know. That's why I want you to teach me.”

“Do you think what I know can be taught?” he demanded. “If you hadn't slipped up with those details, I'd still have caught you out. You know why? Because you didn't think and react like a boy. You came up the steps daintily, one hand on the rail. A boy would have taken them two at a time, probably, and he'd always be alert. A boy in the city is used to being on the lookout for danger. He's had plenty of cuffs around the head and he doesn't want another one. And when he's on an errand like this, trying to convince me that he can do a man's job, he'd show a touch of bravado. You can't just dress the part. You have to get inside the head.”

“How did you learn all this?” I asked.

“Me? I've had a lifetime on the streets, my dear. Nothing sharpens skills like survival.” He brushed off his greasy hands. “Let me give you a little demonstration.”

He went through into a back room I hadn't noticed before and closed the door behind him. While I was waiting, I looked around. Under the clutter was a sparsely furnished room, the table being the only piece of real furniture. I went across to look out of the back window, which opened onto more outbuildings and another alleyway filled with garbage cans. I jumped when I heard a tap at the front door.

“Mr. Riley?” I called. “Someone at the door.” Then I went to answer it.

An elderly Jewish man stood there, bearded, dressed in the long black coat and tall black hat I had seen so often on the Lower East Side. “Mr. Riley? Is he, perchance, at home?” His voice was little more than a whisper and there was a touch of European accent. “It is a matter of great urgency, great delicacy, you understand.”

“Just a minute. I'll go and get him,” I said.

I went and tapped on the door to the inner room. “Mr. Riley. Someone for you.”

“I don't think you'll find him in there,” the Jewish man said. Before I could answer, he'd peeled off the long straggly beard and Riley himself stood there grinning at me.

“That was truly amazing. And so quick, too. I never suspected…”

“Of course you didn't. However, if I was using that character on Essex or Delancey, I'd have to play my cards right. I don't speak much Yiddish, you see. I'd soon be caught out.” He took off the hat and coat and hung them on a peg on the wall.

“But how did you learn all this? Who taught you how. to do the makeup?”

“A long story, my dear.” He looked at me, long and hard. “Tell you what. After all the trouble you've gone to, the least I can do is offer to share my supper with you.”

“Thank you. You're very kind.” I'd have stayed if it had been tripe or pig's feet—my two least favorite foods. Anything to keep me there a moment longer.

He spread out a piece of newspaper in front of me on the desk and motioned for me to pull up a packing case. “Got a bit behind with the paperwork,” he said.

“Which is why you need an assistant,” I reminded him.

“Hmmph,” he said, cutting the meat pie in half and putting some on a piece of newspaper for me. “Have to use your fingers. Sorry about that.”

“Your name,” I began. “It's not really Riley, is it? You're a Londoner, not from Ireland.”

“That's where you're wrong. I was born in Killarney.”

“Then the accent is a fake? It's very convincing.”

He chuckled. “No, the accent's real enough. I was born in Killarney but we left when I was two. My parents were clever enough to use the little they'd saved to get out during the Great Famine. They got as far as London. Maybe they'd have done all right there, but they didn't hold up long enough. They were both dead by the time I was ten. So I was out on my own on the streets.”

“That's terrible. What did you do?”

He took a big bite of pie and wiped the gravy from his chin with the back of his hand. “What did I do? I learned to survive, that's what.” He leaned over confidentially. “Did you read that famous book by Charles Dickens?
Oliver Twist
—that's its name. Know the Artful Dodger?—that was me. I turned myself into one of the best pickpockets in London. They used to say that I could take away a toff's handkerchief in mid-sneeze and he'd not notice.”

“So you were a criminal. What brought you to the other side of the law?”

“Fate, I suppose you could say. In the end I got caught, as most criminals do. I would have been put away for life, only this American gentleman was visiting London prisons, wanting to see how he could improve the lot of the poor prisoners. I suppose I must have looked young and angelic, because he took a fancy to me. He persuaded them to give me a second chance and let him take me to America. So that's how I got here. He had me taught a

trade—printing, it was, but I never really took to it. So when I finished my apprenticeship, I tried my hand at a lot of things, including going on the stage. I wasn't much good at it, to tell you the truth, didn't have the voice, but I liked the theater. I worked as a dresser for a while—that's where I learned about makeup and disguises. Then I decided it was a pity that I couldn't put all the tricks I'd learned on the London streets to good use.”