by Rhys Bowen
My smile had faded. “I’m an investigator, Constable,” I said. “He expects me to prove his innocence.”
I didn’t wait for his reply as I walked away. It wasn’t until I’d gone a block or two, not noticing in which direction I was going, that the full force of those words hit me. Prove his innocence, when by his own admission he was guilty of setting up a prizefight? But surely that kind of crime would only result in a fine? I started to walk faster and faster. I thought about those rumors that Constable Byrne had mentioned—Daniel being in the pay of a gang, tipping off the gang, a fellow officer getting killed. Either Daniel didn’t realize how deeply he was in trouble, or he was keeping the worst from me.
I stopped walking when I came to a busy intersection and realized I had walked up Center Street all the way to Canal. I knew what I’d find if I turned right and headed toward the East River. I’d come to Walhalla Hall, locally known as the Walla Walla, an innocent-enough-looking building but frequented by the Eastman gang. I paused, catching my breath, as a horse-drawn trolley went past, then a dray loaded high with sacks of flour. There was no way I’d want to face those unsavory characters again. I remembered Monk Eastman’s comical derby hat perched above that round moon face, the ridiculous pigeon that sat on his shoulder. All in all a harmless-looking figure until you noticed the brass knuckles he always wore and the great brutes lurking as his bodyguards. Then I remembered the Hudson Duster I had had arrested, not realizing who he was. Enough brushes with gangs to last a lifetime. I’d be very happy to stay well clear and let Gentleman Jack have all the dealings with the underworld.
The traffic cleared. I picked up my skirts and hurried across. I was still shaken by Daniel’s condition. I couldn’t leave him to rot in that cell. I would do everything I could for him. At the very least I would pass on the message to Jack Brady, and then I might just pay a visit to Arabella Norton to verify my own suspicions that she or her family were the ones who had set the dogs on him.
The thought of facing Arabella was only slightly more desirable than a visit to the Eastmans. Our previous brief encounters had not left me with any warm feelings toward her. I don’t suppose she had many toward me. I can’t say I blamed her. She probably thought that I’d stolen her beau away from her, when that wasn’t at all true. It was Daniel who had conveniently kept from me the fact that he was engaged to another woman. As soon as I learned the truth, I had broken off all contact with him. Well, not entirely all contact. That one time on the Hudson River…I tried to push it from my mind and headed for the Bowery, resolved to buy my chicken, cook supper, and stay detached.
There was already a long line coming out of the door of Grossman’s Kosher Butchers by the time I reached it. The sun shone fiercely on the back of my neck as I waited in line. As I moved into the interior of the shop, the heat was stifling today. The line seemed to be progressing at a snail’s pace. The smell of dead flesh, sawdust, and blood made me come over queasy. I shut my eyes and swallowed down bile. That’s what happens when you drink Sid’s coffee on an empty stomach after a sleepless night, I told myself, and was very glad when my turn came to step up to the counter.
I made my purchase and pushed my way out of the door and into the fresh air. Unfortunately the day was already another scorcher. The air outside was about as warm and stinking as a cesspit. A carthorse had just laid a large pile of manure, and the smell of it competed with the odor of frying chickpeas from a passing pushcart. Trolley bells clanged; children squealed. Although the typhoid epidemic on the Lower East Side had died down, the threat was always there in this heat. Some passersby still held handkerchiefs to their mouths and noses and hurried, heads down.
I made for Washington Square as fast as I could and didn’t stop until I was standing under the sweet shade of trees, feeling the cool spray from the fountain floating toward me. Usually I relished the noise and bustle of the city, but I found myself thinking back with longing to the wild coast of county Mayo, where the summer days were never too hot and always tempered with a fresh breeze from the Atlantic Ocean.
I found a place on a bench in the shade and sat there for a while watching small boys climbing into the fountain until they were chased off by a red-faced policeman. I took out my own handkerchief and mopped my forehead. This whole day had been most disturbing so far, first the dream and the sleepless night and then the news about Daniel. It was no wonder that I longed to be somewhere more peaceful and secure.
At last, suitably rested, I deposited the chicken in the meat safe at home and set out to find Gentleman Jack Brady. Usually I covered great distances on foot around the city, having been used to walking miles at home. But I had done enough walking in today’s heat. I paid the five cents to ride the Sixth Avenue El up to Twenty-third and then sat patiently on the horse-drawn trolley along Twenty-third out to Ninth Avenue. It was a pleasant neighborhood of middle-class respectability, unlike either Greenwich Village or the Lower East Side, which were my usual haunts. Housewives were out scrubbing front steps and polishing brass door knockers. Children were playing with tops or jacks on the sidewalks. I passed a little girl, solemnly pushing a doll’s carriage, and thought about Bridie. However much I rejoiced in my present lack of responsibility, I really missed her sweet little face.
It was easy enough to find Ma Collins’s Boarding House, since the sign was painted in unsteady letters over the front door. I knocked, waited, and the door was opened by a sour-faced woman who seemed to be the epitome of landladies: hair pulled severely from her face, hard eyes, hard mouth, and the look of a perpetual smell under her nose.
“Yes?” she demanded. “If it’s one of my boarders you’re looking for, I don’t allow my gentlemen to receive lady callers.”
“I am looking for one of your gentlemen,” I said, “but only to give him a message from a friend. I assure you I have no designs on any of your boarders.”
“Which one is it?” she asked, still barring the door with her hand resting on the doorpost.
“You have a Mr. John Sykes staying here, I understand,” I said. “I’d like a word with him in private, if you have a parlor where we could talk.”
“He’s not here,” she said.
“When do you expect him to return?”
She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Gone. Done a bunk, if you ask me. Not that I care. Room was paid for a week in advance.”
“He’s gone, you say? Has he taken his things?”
“Didn’t bring much to start with. Just one carpetbag and that’s gone.”
“And he didn’t say where he might be going?”
She shrugged again. “Didn’t say a word. Ate his breakfast with the other boarders. I was down in the scullery doing the washing, and when I put the lunchtime meal on the table, he didn’t show up. And Millie, who helps me with the beds, said that his stuff had gone.”
“Oh dear.” I stood staring at her, not sure what to do next. “Do you have any kind of home address for him, anywhere I might find him?”
“What’s he done, run out owing you money, or worse?”
“I’ve never even met the man, but a friend of mine needs to pass him an urgent message, and I agreed to be the messenger, that’s all.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you, miss,” she said. “I have to get back to my pie now, or I’ll have burned the crust.” Then she shut the door. This was a complication Daniel couldn’t have foreseen. He had told me that Jack Brady had to lie low because his face would be recognized. Maybe somebody had recognized him, and he’d had to make a swift getaway. So where would he have gone? If he was still waiting for Daniel to set up his fight, he wouldn’t have gone far. My next step should be to go to Daniel’s rooms and see what I could find there. Maybe I could leave a note for Jack Brady with Daniel’s landlady, in case he showed up looking for Daniel.
I walked around the corner to West Twenty-third and the brownstone where Daniel had rooms.
“Why, if it isn’t Miss Murphy! How lovely to see you again, my dear,”
Mrs. O’Shea exclaimed as she opened the door. “It’s been a long time since you boarded with us. How have you been faring?”
“Not too badly,” I said. “And yourself?”
“Can’t complain either, except for this terrible business with the captain. I expect you’ve heard about it or you wouldn’t be here.”
I nodded. “I gather the police came to search his rooms.”
“They did indeed. Acted as if he was the worst criminal in creation. ‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ I told them. ‘Captain Sullivan’s the finest gentleman on the force,’ but they just pushed me out of the way. Louts, the lot of them.”
“Did they find anything?”
She shook her head. “They took some papers away, I believe, but they weren’t here long. And as for poor Captain Sullivan, I don’t even know what’s happened to him.”
“He’s in The Tombs,” I said, and nodded as she gasped in horror.
“Holy Mother of God.” She crossed herself. “What on earth could he have done to warrant that?”
“Nothing. Someone’s out to get him,” I said. “They planted evidence. That’s why I’ve come to see if there’s anything I can do to help him. I wondered if I could see his rooms? I expect they’ve taken away anything useful, but it couldn’t hurt to look, could it?”
“It certainly couldn’t. That poor man. It makes my blood boil after what you told me. Come on in, do. And take a glass of iced tea with me first.”
I accepted readily.
“I’m also looking for one of Captain Sullivan’s friends,” I told her, as she put the glass in front of me at the parlor table. “A big chap, going by the name of John Sykes, I understand. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
She nodded. “A man like you describe came here with Captain Sullivan, about a week ago it must have been. A big, burly man, ugly as sin. We just exchanged pleasantries as they went up the stairs.”
“So you don’t know where I might find him now? He hasn’t come by since then?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of. But he could have come by when I wasn’t here. I’ve been over at my sister’s house a lot this week. She’s laid up with a confinement—her tenth child, can you believe? I thank the Lord over and over that he let me stop at three.”
We nodded in womanly understanding. I rose to my feet. “Well, thank you for the iced tea, Mrs. O’Shea. Most welcome in this hot weather. And if I could go up to Captain Sullivan’s apartment?”
“Of course. I’ll find you the spare key. I’m just on my way out again, so if I’m not here when you’re done, put it in the jar on the hall table.”
“I will. Thank you again.”
I took the key and climbed the stairs. It was an odd feeling, letting myself into Daniel’s apartment. It was a long time since I had been here—a year maybe, but memories flooded back. How much had happened in a year. I stood taking in the unique smell of the place, that combination of pipe tobacco mixed with furniture polish and maybe a hint of grilled chops or steak. A completely manly smell to complement the room. Dark, polished furniture, shelves of books, an easy chair by the fireplace, pipes lined up in a rack on the mantel shelf. It was easy to see that these were bachelor’s quarters, with no woman’s touch to brighten or soften the tone. I ran my hand fondly over the back of his armchair. I had sat here once and he had perched on the arm beside me and…“Stop this at once and get on with things,” I said, pushing such thoughts from my mind.
I began with the big oak desk in the window. I felt strange going through Daniel’s personal papers and had to remind myself that less friendly eyes than mine had perused them before me. A bundle of letters from his mother, tied with red ribbon, bills all paid on time, nothing useful or incriminating. The living room turned up nothing, so I went on to the bedroom that opened from it. It felt even stranger to be standing in Daniel’s bedroom, looking at the neat, burgundy silk eiderdown on his massive mahogany bed. I walked past it and started with the bedside cabinet. When I opened the top drawer I uncovered a snapshot wrapped in a silk handkerchief. I took it out and felt the tears springing to my eyes. It was the picture that Paddy Riley had taken of Daniel and me, strolling in Central Park last summer. How relaxed and content we looked together, with my arm slipped through Daniel’s and an absurdly proud smile on my face. What a lot had happened to us since then. I slipped it into my purse, just in case more policemen came to pry.
I searched some more and was gratified to note that there was no portrait of Arabella in evidence, which just shows you of what base thoughts we women are capable. I was going through his chest of drawers, noting how neatly he kept everything folded, in contrast to myself who was messy by nature, when I sensed, rather than saw, a movement behind me. I spun around, but nobody was there.
Too much imagination, I thought, but I felt as tense as a coiled watch spring. I was conscious of being alone in the big house, of being trapped upstairs in a back room with no way out. Cautiously I closed the drawer and turned around. Then I made my way back to the bedroom door. Again, with that sixth sense for danger, I felt a presence behind me. I spun around and this time I was sure that something had moved in the darkened bathroom beyond.
It crossed my mind that I might have surprised a burglar, helping himself to Daniel’s things when he was away. Then I reasoned that Mrs. O’Shea was hardly likely to have admitted a burglar. Daniel’s windows were shut and the only way in was through the front door and up two flights of stairs. Whoever or whatever it was, I wasn’t stupid enough to go and investigate. If someone was in there, I’d try to pretend I hadn’t noticed and simply leave. Afterward, I could keep watch to see who emerged.
All would have been fine, except that I glanced back once more just as I was leaving the bedroom. This time I saw him in the mirror. He was standing behind the bathroom door, a huge dark shape with one arm raised and holding some kind of weapon.
FIVE
I turned and fled, blundering in my haste against the washstand that stood beside the door. Unfortunately my foot caught against one of the legs of the washstand. It teetered and fell, the china jug breaking as it crashed onto the floor, sloshing water over my feet and legs. I lost my balance and stumbled forward, expecting to feel that blow to the back of my head at any moment. When hands grabbed me, I attempted to struggle to my feet.
“You’ll not get away with this, you know!” I shouted. “Mrs. O’Shea is downstairs. I’ll scream and she’ll come running up here and her big sons with her.”
“It’s all right, miss. Take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you,” said a very deep voice. “Don’t be scared. Here, I’ll help you up.” And I was deposited on my feet.
I turned to look at my attacker.
“You were waiting behind the door to clobber me. I saw you in the mirror,” I said.
“I didn’t know who it was,” the man replied. “I heard someone come in, and I was ready to defend myself in case they were coming for me.”
Now I was able to breathe again, I took in the great bulk, the ugly face with its twisted, flattened nose, and I knew who he must be.
“It’s Gentleman Jack, isn’t it?” I asked. “Daniel sent me to find you. I’m so glad you’re here. I’m Molly Murphy, a—a friend of Daniel’s.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Murphy,” he said, in that deep rumble, and extended a huge, meaty hand. The handshake itself couldn’t have been more gentle.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “And how come the landlady doesn’t know you’re in the house?”
“I’ve been hiding out,” he said. “I thought the police had been tipped off that I was in the neighborhood and were looking for me. Daniel gave me a key in case I needed it. I came to find him, but I don’t know where he’s gone. He hasn’t been home since I got here. I’ve been waiting for him to come back.” He sounded a little like a petulant child.
“He’s not likely to do that,” I said. “He’s in jail.”
“In jail? Because of me?”
“Partly,” I said and told him what I knew. “So you see,” I concluded, “somebody’s deliberately trying to get him in trouble.”
“Oh, no. That’s terrible. I’ll go to them and tell them it was all my fault. I was the one who asked him to set up the fight.” He had actually started for the door. I grabbed his arm. It was like gripping onto a rock.
“I don’t think that would do anybody any good. They’d arrest you too, more than likely.”
He must have seen the sense in this, because he changed direction. He went across to the window, moving with surprising grace for one of his size and bulk, pulled back the net curtain, and peered down at the street below.
“So I was right to run the other day. They were looking for me.”
“You’re lucky the police didn’t catch you here,” I went on. “They raided the place a few days ago and took away anything they could use against Daniel.”
“But why? Why would his pals do that? I thought he was a popular guy.”
“I thought so, too,” I said. “There is a rumor flying around that Daniel tipped off a gang to a police raid, and one of the officers got killed.”
“Daniel would never do that,” he said, shaking his big bony head. “Daniel’s the best pal a guy could have. I’d trust him with my life.”
“I know,” I said, thinking privately that I was glad Daniel had proved trustworthy to somebody. I bent to pick up the pieces of the shattered jug and deposited them into Daniel’s rubbish bin. “So we have to get to work, you and I. We have to find out who might have put that money in the envelope and tipped off the commissioner as to where a bribe was being passed.”
“How are you going to do that?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea. Talk to the gang member to start with. Ask him who gave him the envelope.”
“Yeah. Right. Okay.” He frowned at me. “What envelope?”
“The one that had the money in it.”
“Oh yeah. That one. And why were they giving it to Daniel again?”