Oh Danny Boy (23 page)

As I walked home along Seventh Street, I sensed that I was being followed. I turned around, but saw nothing but housewives returning home with their shopping, children playing, fathers coming home from work. But the feeling didn’t go away until I reached the busy area of the university with its noisy throngs of students. I crossed Washington Square and looked back at the entrance to Patchin Place before I walked up to my front door and let myself in.

I had scarcely sat down at my kitchen table when there was a thunderous knock at my front door that set my heart racing again.

“Who is it?” I called.

“Who else would it be?” came Sid’s voice.

I opened the door and saw them both standing there, beaming at me.

“Why the secrecy?” Sid asked.

“Because I thought I was being followed home,” I said. “No matter. My vivid Irish imagination, I expect.”

“Come over to us for dinner,” Gus said. “Then we can keep an eye out for suspicious individuals skulking in the alley. We’re getting really good at it, Molly. We’re turning out to be brilliant detectives.”

“You’ll never guess where we’ve been today,” Sid burst out as she took my hand and led me out of my house. “Go on. Ask us.”

“Where have you been today?” I asked, with sinking heart.

“To Newport, Rhode Island, to track down the mysterious young man who had a pash on Letitia Blackwell.”

“You went all the way to Rhode Island?”

“It wasn’t that far. A couple of hours by train,” Sid said. “And a pleasant journey at that along the ocean.”

“And you managed to locate the young man?”

Sid pushed open their front door and dragged me inside. “Absolutely,” she said. “Gus was amazing. She knows everybody, you know. We only had to stroll along the seafront for five minutes before she had located an old friend from Boston. Five minutes after that we had heard all the gossip about what was going on in each of the cottages.”

“Cottages?” I asked, confused.

Sid laughed. “That’s what they call them—their cottages. The fact that all the houses have at least twenty-five bedrooms doesn’t strike them as absurd. Newport is where the rich and famous spend their summers.”

We went through the kitchen and out to the conservatory at the back. There was a jug of lemonade and glasses waiting on the wicker table. Sid motioned me to sit.

“So what about the boy you were hunting? Don’t tell me he’s among the rich and famous?” I asked, as she handed me a glass of lemonade.

Gus looked pleased with herself. “Not a Vanderbilt, but the house is pretty impressive, wouldn’t you say, Sid?”

“Definitely not a pauper,” Sid agreed. “And his mother actually went to finishing school with Gus’s mother, so of course we were invited in for lunch.”

“And you met him?”

“No, because apparently he’s volunteering at a camp for poor city children out on a lake somewhere. His name is Harold Robertson, by the way. He’s the despair of his industrialist father because he shows no interest in going into the family business and only wants to do good. He’s studying divinity and works among the poor in his spare time. She
showed us a picture of him—chubby and adorable, like an overgrown choirboy.”

“Did you find out anything about Letitia?”

Gus nodded. “He had told his mother about this wonderful girl who came to help out at the settlement house, and he said what a pity it was that she was engaged to someone else because she’d be the sort of wife a minister should have.”

“But the mother had never met her,” Sid added. “She said he arrived home quite disgruntled on the day when Letitia must have gone missing. He said they were supposed to go out to Coney Island together to plan the children’s outing for the next day, but Letitia never showed up.”

“And he’s now at a camp by a lake for the summer?” I asked.

“So we gather,” Sid said.

“Far from New York?”

“In the wilds, I believe,” Gus said. “Harold’s mother said it was horribly primitive, and she couldn’t understand what made him do it as she’d brought him up to expect the best.”

“Why do you ask, Molly?” Sid asked, with her usual great perception.

“Because Letitia is not the first girl to disappear after a planned trip to Coney Island. I know of another girl who went there to meet a boy and never came back.”

“You don’t think—you can’t possibly think that Harold Robertson…” Gus exclaimed.

“I’ve never met Harold Robertson, so I don’t know what to believe. I’m trying to piece together a jigsaw puzzle, and so far I’ve remarkably few pieces. Now I have a name, a missing girl, and a planned trip to Coney Island. They all fit very nicely.”

“So you think he could have lured Letitia to Coney Island and then what? Killed her? Hid the body?” Sid was looking at me, her expression half horror, half excitement.

“Possibly not hid the body,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we’ve found out that at least one of those
dead prostitutes killed by the East Side Ripper was not a prostitute at all. She was just dressed up to look like one. So maybe the others weren’t either.”

“That is incredible,” Gus said. “But Molly, what are you doing looking into the East Side Ripper murders? Please don’t tell me it is a case you are trying to tackle.”

“It may have some connection to Daniel’s false imprisonment,” I said. “I’m beginning to think it doesn’t, but I’ve been helping a woman police officer who is involved.”

“A woman police officer? Are there such beings?”

“There are and she is wonderful,” I said. “She started off as a matron, but now she is used on undercover assignments.”

Sid thumped Gus on the back. “There you are, Gus. Our next career move.”

“Hold it,” I said, laughing. “She’s very smart, but she’s not having an easy time of it. The male officers resent her and don’t trust her, and right now she’s in the hospital, having been deliberately run down by a horse and carriage.”

“So you are taking over while she’s out of commission?” Sid asked.

“Not really. Just helping out,” I said. “She made me promise that I wouldn’t go alone to the Lower East Side.”

“Thank heavens for that,” Gus said. “So do tell us—do you have any suspects in mind? Do you think it’s a pillar of the community, as Dr. Birnbaum suggested?”

“I think it’s someone who is clever and likes taking risks,” I said.

“Do you really think it’s possible it could be Harold Robertson?” Sid asked. “He’s certainly a pillar.”

“We should find out exactly where that camp is, and then we can determine if he could get to Coney Island and back with ease,” Gus said.

“But why Coney Island?” Sid asked. “If he wants to lure girls to their deaths, why not Central Park? Why not the Palisades on the other side of the Hudson? I should have thought that Coney was the last place where one could get a girl alone and be able to kill her. It’s absolutely seething with humanity at this time of year.”

“He could take her to a hotel room,” Gus suggested. “There are plenty of cheap hotels in the Brighton Beach area.”

“But what respectable girl would go to a cheap hotel room with a strange man?” I asked. “Certainly not Letitia Blackwell.”

“She’s right,” Sid agreed. “This is an enigma.”

“I suggest we eat.” Gus got up and headed for the kitchen. “You’ll join us, of course, Molly.”

Visions of Gus’s latest attempts at vegetarian cooking floated before my eyes, but I couldn’t find a polite way to refuse. “Thank you, I’d love to,” I said.

“We’re having pork chops,” Gus called back from the ice chest.

“Pork chops? I thought you had become Buddhists.”

Sid grinned. “We decided we weren’t the meditating types. After we went out sleuthing for you that day, we agreed that we are women of action, and women of action need good red meat to sustain them.”

“Ryan will be disappointed,” I said, “after he’s invested in those saffron robes.”

The pork chops must not have agreed with me because I had the dream again, the first time for a couple of weeks. This time it was more nebulous, with the laughter, the water, the blood, all blending together into a deep feeling of dread that had me waking, drenched in sweat. I went downstairs and saw from the clock that it was four-thirty. Hardly worth going back to sleep, even if I could.

Instead I got up, washed, dressed, and made my way over to Mrs. Goodwin’s house by first light. I wanted to make sure that I got my hands on any letters that came in the morning mail. Seventh Street was quiet and deserted. Unfortunately there was no sign of a policeman as I stood outside the Goodwin home and put my key in the door. Was I being stupid, going into a house where there had recently been a prowler, and maybe a dangerous prowler at that? But I had to have that mail. I opened the front door and stood in the hallway, waiting for my sense of danger to sound out a warning. No alarm went off in my head. I left the door ajar as I went to the back parlor and checked the desk again. Nothing had been moved since last night.

I was just closing the desk when I heard a noise. Someone was coming down the hall. I froze, looked for somewhere to hide, and found nothing. Before I could do anything more sensible than grab the letter opener, a man came into the doorway. He started when he saw me.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

I recognized him then.

“Detective McIver,” I gasped. “You gave me an awful shock.”

“Likewise,” he said. “Now do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

“Mrs. Goodwin gave me her key,” I said. “She wanted me to come and pick up her mail for her.”

He was still eyeing me suspiciously. “That’s odd because I have Mrs. Goodwin’s key in my possession,” he said. “And why would the mail be anywhere other than on the doormat?”

“Ah,” I said. “Well, I can answer both of those. She told me to collect the key from her neighbor, which I did. But I found her front door open, so I came in and saw that someone had been at her desk. That’s when I alerted the police that someone had broken in and asked the constable to tell you and Detective Quigley. I thought the break-in here might have something to do with the case you’re working on and the reason that Mrs. Goodwin was run down, you see.”

“Yes, I do see.” The scowl eased a little. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I came to check on the place on my way to work this morning and found the front door open. Naturally I suspected…”

“That I was a burglar,” I finished for him.

“And who exactly are you?” he asked. “The last time we met, you were introduced as Dr. Birnbaum’s assistant, but you are clearly not German or Austrian, unless they now speak with an Irish brogue.”

“No, that was a piece of subterfuge, I’m afraid. I’m a friend of Mrs. Goodwin,” I said, deciding not to mention my connection to Daniel, “as well as of Dr. Birnbaum. I was particularly interested in this case; and then, of course, there was Mrs. Goodwin’s tragic accident, so I’m doing what I can to help her.”

“Very commendable,” he said. There was no smile in his eyes. “And who exactly are you?”

“My name is—” What name had I given to Quigley? My real one? Delaney? All the lies were coming back to haunt
me. I opted for the truth. “Murphy,” I said. “Molly Murphy. You can ask Mrs. Goodwin to vouch for me.”

“If she’s well enough,” he said. “She took a turn for the worse last night.”

“She did?”

“Yes, she was unconscious again when I stopped by this morning.”

“Oh no, and they said she was doing so well.”

“Head wounds are funny things,” he said. “And broken ribs can penetrate the lung or even damage the heart.”

“I’ll go to see her if they’ll let me,” I said, “after I’ve collected her morning mail.”

He stared at me, went to say something, then realized I wasn’t about to move and he couldn’t throw me out.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Please make sure you lock the door after you when you go. We don’t want any more break-ins, do we?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “And I’m so glad to see you’re taking this seriously. I’m very concerned for Mrs. Goodwin’s welfare. I suspect she may have stumbled upon some connection with the East Side Ripper without knowing it, and he is now trying to get her out of the way.”

“You could be right,” he said. “But if you are, then heed the warning yourself. This is a man who doesn’t play games. Winding up with your face bashed in is not the most pleasant way to exit this life.”

He gave me a long, hard stare before turning on his heel and leaving me alone in the hall. A few minutes later the morning post fell onto the mat. There were four more letters about missing girls. Three of them didn’t seem to have any relevance to the case. One was an emigrant from Germany who was supposed to have come through Ellis Island, then taken the train to her family in Albany but had never arrived. One had clearly run off with a young man her family did not want her to marry. One was from a young man wanting to be reunited with a former sweetheart. But the fourth was from an Italian, a Signor Rosetti. His daughter Rosa had not come home from work in a garment factory last week. He was out
of his mind with worry. He had spoken to her friends and all he could establish was that she seemed excited when she left work and hurried off, as if she had somewhere special to go. He had been to the police, but they hadn’t seemed very interested. He enclosed a snapshot. It was of a group of four laughing girls, each with luxurious dark hair around her shoulders, standing at the edge of the ocean. On the back he had written: “My daughters. Rosa is on the right.”

I remembered that impressive dark hair falling out from under the sheet at the morgue. This could well be the victim we had seen. I imagined that poor father, still living in hope, not knowing that his daughter was lying on a marble slab, having died in such horrible circumstances.

I put the letters into my purse, let myself out, and locked the door carefully behind me. Then I made my way straight to Saint Vincent’s Hospital. The same sister I had encountered on the first occasion was on duty today.

“You again.” She gave me that withering stare. “I thought I told you yesterday that she wasn’t allowed visitors yet.”

I leaned closer. “Look, Sister,” I said in a low voice, “this is a police matter of great importance. You know that Mrs. Goodwin is a member of the New York police force, don’t you? And you’ve heard of the East Side Ripper?”

“I should say so,” the nun answered. “That poor girl was brought in here only a few days ago.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Well, Mrs. Goodwin was working on that very case when she was run down. I was helping her, although I’m not officially with the police. I have some letters with me that Mrs. Goodwin must see as soon as possible. So if you don’t let me see her, you’ll just be hindering us in solving this case, and the Ripper will claim more victims. Is that what you want?”

She looked surprised. I remember the nuns in school looking the same way when I sauced them back. Then she nodded. “Very well,” she said. “You can go up, but it’s up to Sister Mercy whether she lets you see her patient or not.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And don’t worry. I want the best for Mrs. Goodwin as much as you do. I’ll not put her in any harm.”

With that I went up the stairs and along the hall to Mercy Ward. There was no constable outside this morning, but I pushed the door open to see Sister Mercy herself sitting at the patient’s bedside like a watchdog. She sprang up instantly.

“I don’t know how you sneaked up here, but there’s no point in it,” she said. “The poor dear is unconscious again.”

I looked down at Mrs. Goodwin’s white, tranquil face on the pillow.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you that. She was doing so well yesterday evening, talking about getting up and trying to walk, she was. And then suddenly we couldn’t rouse her. We called the doctor, and he was mystified too.”

“Is it possible she was drugged?” I asked.

“By whom?” she demanded. “You can see how strict we are about letting in visitors. And the medicines are all kept in a locked cabinet in the orderly room.”

“What about the morphine she was given for her pain? Was any of that left lying around?”

“Lying around?” she demanded. “We are very strict about the keys to the drug cabinet.”

“But the doctor who examined her couldn’t come up with an explanation for her sudden relapse into unconsciousness?”

“Head wounds are funny things sometimes,” she said, echoing McIver’s sentiments.

I continued to observe the patient. Her breathing was steady and regular. There wasn’t anything I could do until she woke up.

“I’ll come back later,” I said. “Hopefully she’ll have regained consciousness by then. If she wakes, tell her that Molly has some news for her. And in the meantime…” I paused, giving her what I hoped was a meaningful glance, “you’ll keep a good eye on her, won’t you?”

“She won’t be out of my sight,” Sister Mercy said, and I realized that she might have had the same sort of suspicions as myself. I felt better knowing I was leaving Mrs. Goodwin in good hands. I certainly had plenty to occupy me until she
awoke, not the least of which was my duty to Daniel. I needed to warn him about Mr. Partridge’s visit and to let him know what I had found. I also just needed to see him again, to make sure he was all right.