Oh Danny Boy (6 page)

“There you are,” I said. “Enough to keep you going. And I’ll leave a note for Mrs. O’Shea about buying you some groceries, although I don’t think you’ll get steaks as big as dinner plates. Maybe you should ask Monk to treat you to one of those.”

He held out his huge red hand for the change. “Much obliged, miss.”

“I have people coming to my house for dinner tonight, or I’d keep you company,” I said. “But I have to get home to
cook a chicken. So I’ll come by tomorrow morning, shall I, and see what you’ve found out? I’ll bring you some chicken if there’s any left.”

“Much obliged, miss,” he repeated. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.”

I wrote the note for Mrs. O’Shea, then added a postscript, reminding her to keep Jack’s presence a secret. I felt rather pleased with myself as I let myself out of the house. I had carried out Daniel’s commission. With any luck by tomorrow we’d have Daniel free and out of jail.

On the way home, sitting on a horse-drawn bus that went painfully slowly along Twenty-third, I wondered what else I should be doing to help Daniel. Did I know anybody who could be of use to him or find out who might have tipped off the police commissioner? I didn’t exactly move in high circles. I knew Senator Flynn, of course, but this was not the time to approach him for anything. From what I’d heard, he’d left the area and set off personally looking for his son. And after his improper advances to me, he’d only be a last resort anyway.

So who else did I know? Sid and Gus had a wide acquaintanceship, but mostly of a bohemian nature. I doubted that anyone who came to their house knew the commissioner of police, or any high-powered members of the force—at least not socially. Then suddenly it hit me—I did know a member of the Four Hundred. Miss Van Woekem! I had briefly been her companion before I learned of Daniel’s engagement and discovered that she was Arabella’s godmother. At the very least I could get Arabella’s address from her. I still had a sneaking suspicion that Arabella’s family could well be behind this whole business.

The more I considered the circumstances, the more I thought that this was likely. On the few occasions I had seen Arabella Norton she had shown herself to be a spoiled darling, used to getting her own way all the time. If she felt that Daniel had humiliated her by breaking off the engagement,
then she could definitely have wanted revenge. Daniel thought, somewhat naively, that she wouldn’t go to these lengths, but I wasn’t so sure. He obviously had no idea what evil thoughts we women were capable of concealing beneath those elegant mounds of curls.

But going to all this trouble—the gang member, the bribe, setting up the meeting with the commissioner. If she had wanted his downfall, then why not attack him through the courts? I could answer that one easily enough. She didn’t want to look like a fool. A breach-of-promise suit would expose her to public scrutiny and public pity. And Arabella’s public face was very important to her. I resolved to see her as soon as possible. She may have wanted Daniel to lose his job, his status, everything he had worked for, but surely she wouldn’t have wished for him to lose his life. And that might very well happen if he had to stay much longer in that damp and dreary place.

Did I have time to fit in a visit to Miss Van Woekem this afternoon, before I had to start preparing my dinner? A portly gentleman sitting across from me was wearing a watch chain. I asked him for the time and found it was now only just after three. Plenty of time then. I was in the right area for a visit to Gramercy Park, but in no condition to pay a call on someone as proper as Miss Van Woekem. I was still wearing my muslin, which had become sweaty and crumpled. I was wearing no hat or gloves. Such things mattered to people like Miss Van Woekem, so I had no alternative than to ride the El all the way home. Once there, I took off my muslin, rinsed it out, splashed cold water over my body, and put on the only other summer dress I possessed. In Ireland it would have been called my Sunday dress, worn only to go to church, but I hadn’t done much churchgoing since I arrived in America. No doubt Father O’Reilly at home would say I was going straight to hell. Probably I was.

I combed out my sweaty tangle of curls and tied them back with a white ribbon. A glance in the mirror proved that I was looking halfway respectable as I set out for Miss Van Woekem’s house on Gramercy Park. I’d done a lot of walk
ing already today, and my legs felt like lead. So I looked longingly at the trolley that clanged and groaned its way up Broadway, debated on whether to spend five cents on the fare, then made a mad dash across the traffic to swing myself aboard at the last moment. It wouldn’t help my cause to arrive at Miss Van Woekem’s drenched in perspiration. As I had heard many times when I was sampling the upper-class life on the Hudson, ladies simply don’t sweat. It isn’t done.

Gramercy Park looked as delightful as I remembered it, cool and countrified, with its leafy park enclosed in a tall, iron railing and its elegant brick homes. I paused to adjust my hat before I mounted the steps to the front door and rang the bell. I was admitted by the same crisply starched maid, who looked at me with the same disapproving stare as the first time she’d admitted me. The look said clearly that I was really of her class and should be entering via the back door if she had her way.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll see if the mistress is receiving visitors.”

With that she disappeared into the sitting room. I heard the sharp voice boom out, “Of course I want to see Miss Murphy. You should know that, Matilda. Bring her in.”

I passed Matilda with a smile on my face.

“Miss Murphy, what a delightful surprise.” The old lady reached out her hand to me. In the year since I’d seen her she had shrunk a little, her face becoming more birdlike with that fierce, prominent beak and those sharp, black eyes. I took the fragile hand.

“How are you, Miss Van Woekem?”

“Bored, as usual, but otherwise well enough. And yourself? When I heard nothing more from you, I began to wonder whether you had returned home to Ireland or left town.”

“Nothing of the kind.”

“Take a seat, please, do. And Matilda, we’ll take coffee and some of Cook’s gingerbread.”

Matilda shot me another hostile stare as she curtseyed and left the room.

“Now do tell me, Miss Murphy—” Miss Van Woekem
had not let go of my hand. For all its apparent fragility she had a grip like a talon—“are you still pursuing your career as a lady investigator?”

“I am.”

“And how is it going? Any juicy cases to report on?”

“I’m afraid not at the moment. I’ve just returned from a case on the Hudson River.”

“So I heard,” she said dryly. Well, of course she would have heard. I waited to sense her reaction.

“So Daniel Sullivan finally showed that he has some spunk after all,” she said at last. “I was wondering how long he’d allow himself to be led around on a leash by my goddaughter. Quite an unsuitable match. I said so from the very first. But she wouldn’t listen, of course. Always been head-strong.” She eyed me, head tilted to one side, making her look even more birdlike. “No, you’re a far better choice for him, even if you don’t have Arabella’s money. You’re both Irish for one thing. Like should marry like.”

“I’m not intending to marry Captain Sullivan,” I said.

“You’re not? But I thought…”

The coffee and cake arrived. The maid placed the tray on the table between us. “Do you want me to stay and pour, madam?” she asked.

“That’s all right. Miss Murphy can take care of me,” Miss Van Woekem said.

The maid departed with a rustle of starched skirts.

I picked up the coffeepot. “Do you take your coffee with milk in the afternoons?”

“Cream, please. I am still digesting what you just told me,” she said. “I had always assumed that you and Captain Sullivan had some sort of understanding, or would have had had he not been committed to my goddaughter. Did I make a mistake on that? I am most surprised. I’m usually a very good observer of human nature.”

I poured the coffee and handed her a cup. “No, you weren’t wrong. There certainly was—a spark, shall we say—between the captain and myself. But even if I were prepared to forgive his past behavior, Captain Sullivan is in no
position to marry anybody. He has been arrested and is in prison awaiting trial.”

“In prison, you say?” The old lady’s reaction made me sure that this was indeed news to her. “On what charge?”

“On a trumped-up charge, Miss Van Woekem. Money slipped into an envelope to make it appear that he was accepting a bribe. And this in full view of the new commissioner.”

“Mercy me.” Miss Van Woekem put her hand to the cameo at her throat. “In jail for accepting a bribe? From what we hear half the New York police have feathered their nests very nicely in a similar manner.”

“But Daniel says he has never accepted a bribe in his life. Someone is out to discredit him.”

“Has he retained a good lawyer for himself? He should at least be out on bail.”

Good lawyer. Out on bail. Those words echoed in my head. I had little knowledge of the law, but surely this was exactly what Daniel needed right now. I was surprised he hadn’t thought of it himself. “All I know is that his fellow officers have turned against him, and he doesn’t want his father to know of this because of the father’s weak heart. He has asked me to help him clear his name.”

Miss Van Woekem stared at me over the coffee cup. “And how, exactly, do you propose to do this?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “A matter like this is beyond my sphere of experience. But I thought I’d start off by talking with your goddaughter.”

“Arabella? Do you think that’s wise? I don’t think she’d entirely welcome a visit from you.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” I said, “but I have to know whether this business started with her.”

“How do you mean?” Her voice was sharp.

“Whether this might have been intended to pay back Daniel for breaking their engagement.”

“Arabella might be a spoiled miss, but she has been brought up properly,” Miss Van Woekem said. “She would never even consider such a lowly action. I’m surprised at you, Miss Murphy.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Van Woekem,” I said. “I meant no disrespect to your family.”

“No disrespect? Suggesting that my goddaughter might be involved in planting false evidence to get an innocent man convicted?” She drew herself up, her hand still at her throat. “I’m afraid I have no wish to continue this conversation. Such thoughts are unworthy of you, Miss Murphy.”

I rose to my feet. “I am sorry I have upset you, Miss Van Woekem. In the circumstances, I think it may be better if I take my leave of you and go.”

Her hand was still on her bosom. “Yes, it may be better before our friendship is irretrievably damaged. Good day to you, Miss Murphy.”

As I had suspected, I had no easy task ahead of me. In fact the words “bitten off more than I could chew” came into my mind as I stepped out onto Gramercy Park. I had been ushered out of Miss Van Woekem’s by a gloating Matilda, without having managed to glean Arabella’s address from her godmother. The old lady’s horror and indignation probably confirmed that the Norton family in general was not involved in plotting Daniel’s downfall. But that still didn’t mean that Arabella couldn’t have arranged a secret vendetta of her own. Whatever her godmother might think, Miss Norton certainly had that amount of venom in her, I was sure. Now I’d just have to head blindly for Westchester County and seek out Arabella for myself. I knew from Daniel that she lived in White Plains, but I had no idea exactly how far away it was or whether it was a big town. And I had invited guests for a dinner that was now less than three hours away. So it would just have to wait for tomorrow.

In the meantime I had gleaned one piece of information from Miss Van Woekem that should be shared with Daniel right away. I made my way along Twentieth Street to Broadway and hopped on a returning trolley. It was full and I had to stand, holding onto one of the brass poles. I grasped it firmly, with both hands, knowing what was about to happen in a couple of blocks. Sure enough, as we came toward Union Square, instead of slowing for the sharp curve, we picked up speed. The passengers, including myself, were
flung to one side as the trolley negotiated the bend. Hats were knocked off, children screamed. There was also an angry shout from the street as a pedestrian had to leap for his life. I peered out to see the men seated in Brubaker’s Biergarten chuckling as usual at this spectacle. It was said they actually took bets on possible fatalities.

After Union Square the trolley continued at a more sedate pace until I alighted outside City Hall and walked down the block to The Tombs. This time gaining entry wasn’t so simple. In the company of Constable Byrne, I hadn’t noticed the uniformed guards who stood outside the building. Now they stepped out to bar my way as I approached the front door.

“Where do you think you’re going, miss?” one asked.

“I need to see Captain Sullivan, who is one of your prisoners at the moment.”

“Visitors allowed once a month,” the guard growled in a most unfriendly tone, “and today ain’t the day.”

“I just need to speak to him for a few minutes, like I did earlier today.”

“This ain’t the Waldorf Hotel.” The man scowled at me. “Like I told you, it ain’t visiting day. Now beat it. Go on.”

“If I could just speak to the sergeant in charge, I’m sure—” I started, but the guard came toward me, looking menacing. “Beat it, I said.”

“You don’t scare me,” I retorted, although in truth he did look rather alarming. “I’m an upright citizen, and I’m not doing anything against the law.”

“You’ll hop it if you know what’s good for you, missy,” the other, kindlier guard said. “There’s no way you’re going to get in through those doors. Why don’t you write your sweetheart a message? Prisoners are allowed to receive mail.”

“Very well,” I said. I crossed the road to City Hall Park and sat on a bench. Then I took out the small gold pencil and notepad I always carried. It had been intended as a dance card for highborn ladies to fill in the evening’s contenders. I had bought it for sixty-five cents at a pawnshop and very useful it had become when I needed to take field notes.

“Dear Daniel,” I wrote in tiny letters because the cards were small. “They won’t let me see you again. Have you hired a good lawyer? If so, why aren’t you out on bail? I have met You Know Who and sent him to the right places. More tomorrow. M.”

I addressed it to Capt. Daniel Sullivan, currently being held in The Tombs. But when I tried to hand it to one of the guards, I got the same hostile response.

“What do you think we are, your lackeys or a damned messenger service? You’ll send your message through the U.S mail like everyone else.”

“You two are about as friendly as a couple of gargoyles,” I said.

“If you made it worth our while, we might consider it,” the unpleasant one said, giving me a knowing look.

The irony didn’t escape me. Every other employee of the New York justice system was apparently open to bribes. The one who wasn’t now sat in a jail cell. Which made another idea flash through my mind: Was this some kind of payback because Daniel had witnessed another officer taking bribes, maybe had reported him? Another avenue to pursue.

Anyway, I wasn’t about to grease the palm of either of these two individuals.

“Don’t worry yourselves,” I said primly. “I’m sure the postal service will do a splendid job of delivering my message.” And I turned my back on them.

So I had no alternative but to purchase an envelope and a stamp, mail the note, and return home in a frustrated mood. The heat may have had something to do with it. Until I came to New York I had never imagined that a city could feel so unpleasant in the summer. The air was as heavy and oppressive as a hot, wet blanket. Sweat ran down into my eyes, and I felt that I didn’t even have the energy to put one foot in front of the other and make it home.

When at last I did get home, I poured myself another long glass of lemonade before I had the strength to attack that chicken. In truth I was in no mood for a dinner party. My mind was in a turmoil, and the heat had left me feeling like a
wet rag. But I wasn’t about to deny my friends their meal. By seven the table was laid; the chicken cooked, chilled, and dismembered, lying on a platter surrounded by lettuce and spring onions. I had even gone the whole hog and purchased a tomato, all splendidly wrapped in foil. I gathered that no smart salad should be without one these days. At the last minute I whipped up mayonnaise. Only just in time. The bell rang and my guests arrived. I had set the table for two guests, but a third figure stood in the shadows at the doorway.

“Molly, dear, how good of you.” Gus came in, arms open to give me a kiss on the cheek. “What a treat. Sid was only saying this morning that she felt too lazy to cook and we’d have to have bread and cheese, and then your lovely invitation arrived.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Sid said, before I could comment on the third figure, “but Ryan dropped in unexpectedly a few minutes ago. He seemed so dejected that we had to bring him with us. There will be enough for one extra, won’t there?”

And that Irish rogue of a playwright, Ryan O’Hare, stood staring at me hopefully. What could I say? Of course there would be enough.

“He’s going through a terrible time, Molly,” Sid said, not letting Ryan speak for himself. “Some despicable person has stolen his idea for a new play and is producing it at Daley Theater this fall. Can you imagine the gall?”

Ryan entered, looking the picture of dejection, although I remembered that he was an actor as well as a playwright. “I feel wounded to the heart, cut to the quick, and all other metaphors that apply.” In deference to the heat he was wearing a white cotton peasant shirt, open at the neck, with wide frills at the wrists, and baggy pantaloons. For Ryan this was no more unconventional than usual, but the resemblance to Lord Byron was startling.

“How did he get his hands on your idea, Ryan?” I asked, as the latter deposited himself in my one and only armchair without being invited. “Was it someone you had confided in?” From what I knew of Ryan, he did a lot of confiding.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “I hardly know the man. And what I do know of him, I don’t like. He has no taste in clothes. He wears tweed, my dear. Never trust a man who wears tweed.” He paused and made a dramatic gesture. “He stole it, the blackguard. Or someone stole it and gave it to him.” He looked up with sudden interest and waved a finger at me. “You’re a detective, Molly. You can find out for me how Ben Archer got his hands on my play. And when we have proof, I’ll sue.”

“I don’t think I can do that, Ryan,” I said. For one thing, I had no time at present; for another, Ryan would not be able to pay me for my services; and for a third, I half suspected that Ryan may well have divulged his idea while in his cups. He was known to talk awful rubbish when drunk.

“You won’t do it for me, Molly? I am devastated, cut to the quick.”

“You’re doing an awful lot of cutting to the quick tonight,” I said, not able to stifle my smile. “I’d like to help, Ryan, I really would; but I’ve a big case I’m working on right now, and I’ve no time. In addition to that I don’t think this is something you’d ever be able to prove. Ideas are swapped, shared, and borrowed all the time, aren’t they?”

“It’s true, Ryan,” Sid said. She had perched herself on one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s not yours until you’ve applied for copyright, surely.”

“I still want to know,” he said sullenly. “I won’t rest until I know who betrayed me. There is no way in Hades that a buffoon like Ben Archer could have come up with anything as witty and sophisticated as my play. In fact, there are few in the civilized world who can match my wit and wisdom.”

I glanced across at Sid and shared a smile. Modesty was never Ryan’s strong point.

“Have you engaged a lawyer, Ryan?” Sid asked. “I should have thought that was the obvious thing to do.”

Ryan spread his hands in a dramatically hopeless gesture. “Alas, one needs funds to retain a lawyer. At this moment I am not exactly flush.”

“Can’t you do anything to help him, Molly?” Gus asked.
“You are an investigator, after all. And what is this big case you’re working on? You haven’t mentioned it to us. In fact, only this morning you were talking of becoming a schoolmarm in Nebraska.”

“Molly, a schoolmarm in Nebraska? Never!” Ryan said. “I won’t allow you to leave civilization for life in the wilderness. You can’t dislike our company that much, surely.”

“I adore your company, as you very well know,” I said. “There seemed to be too many other complications here in New York. Now I fear my complications have only increased. Daniel Sullivan is in jail.”

I hadn’t meant to tell them. It just slipped out.

“Daniel the Deceiver in jail?” Gus asked. “What on earth has he done? Or has Miss Norton had him rounded up for not paying enough attention to her?”

Which shows that we women all had the same suspicious minds. Their thoughts had also gone immediately to Arabella.

“It’s a trumped-up charge,” I said. “He was caught accepting what looked like a bribe from a gang member, but he says he never accepts bribes. Someone is out to have him ruined.”

Sid’s face became grave. “And you are making it your mission to rescue him? Oh no, Molly. No, no, no. Please tell me this is not the big case you’ve just mentioned. You are not thinking of helping him?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to.”

“I don’t understand you, Molly,” Sid said. “One minute you tell us that he is the most odious man on earth and you never want to see him again, then you go running to his side the moment he summons you. That is how I expect the weaker members of our sex to behave, but not you.”

I flushed. “I can’t turn my back on him when he needs my help, Sid.”

“I should have thought a spell in jail would be good for him. Give him time to mull over his failings.” Sid crossed her legs with finality.

“People die in The Tombs.” I was conscious of raising my
voice. “The conditions are awful in there, and I’m not going to let him die.”

“And what about you, Molly?” Gus asked in her calm, sweet voice. “Surely Daniel Sullivan wouldn’t expect you to put your own safety at risk? Gangs, bribes, false evidence—it all sounds highly dangerous and quite beyond your sphere of experience. Your common sense must tell you that you can’t get yourself mixed up in this kind of thing.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be personally involved in that side of it. Daniel has a friend who is going to talk to the gang tonight. By tomorrow I should know more.”

Gus reached across and took my hand. “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish,” she said. “Apart from everything else, there is a maniac at work on the Lower East Side, killing young women and dumping their bodies in the street, in case you’ve forgotten. There was another one in
The Times
today.”

“Prostitutes, Gus, dear,” Ryan said, waving a frilled wrist. “Nobody could ever mistake our Molly for one of those.”

“If she’s snooping in the wrong place at the wrong time they could,” Gus said, fixing me with a firm stare. “Leave it to his lawyers and his friends in the police force, Molly.”

“But he has no friends in the police force, that’s the trouble,” I said. “They’ve all deserted him. There’s no one except for a half-addled prizefighter and me.” Then, to my horror, I did what I had never done in public. I started to cry. This whole day had been too much for me.

Of course after that they were instantly kind and sweet, fussing over me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hastily collecting myself. “I don’t know what came over me. Let’s have Ryan pour the wine and sit down to dinner, shall we? I’m sure I’m worrying over nothing and everything will sort itself out just fine.”

Unfortunately I didn’t believe my own words.