Oh Danny Boy

by Rhys Bowen

  “I had hoped that you’d come to the house and let me show you her room, then you’d see for yourself. And you’d know the right questions to ask people at the station and all that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll try to do that for you as soon as I have time,” I said. “I know you must be feeling frustrated that wheels are not being put in motion.”

  “I am. And I am itching to do more myself, if only I had a direction to follow. So let me ask you, Miss Murphy. Now that you’ve heard her story—what do you think could have happened to her?”

  “I don’t know her. If she claims she has run away with a penniless young man, where would she have met him? You know how strictly she was chaperoned at home. You know her interests and at whose houses she was welcome.”

  “I have already done what I can,” she said. “Of course none of our friends entertain penniless young men. I can’t even think of any gardeners or grooms or tutors who have recently vanished from the neighborhood. And Letitia is not the type who would go out riding or shopping alone to the kind of places where she could have met young men. She was well chaperoned and was actually afraid to go anywhere alone.”

  “You mentioned that she might have been abducted by an unscrupulous man. Where would she have met him?”

  “I have no idea. Unless—” She paused and looked up suddenly from her teacup. “I hadn’t thought of this before, but her mother is one of those ladies who does good works and helps at a settlement house here in the city. Sometimes she took Letitia with her, so it’s just possible that the penniless young man or the unscrupulous abductor met her there.”

  “Yes,” I said, “and that is something I can investigate for you.”

  Her face lit up. “I knew it was a good idea to come here.”

  “I can’t promise anything,” I said, “but I have friends who are active at the settlement houses. Do you have Letitia’s picture with you?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said. She opened her purse and produced a framed sepia print. It was of two young girls, sitting side by side on a wicker chair, with a white lapdog between them. One of them was an enchantingly dimpled Arabella Norton, the other a paler, less vibrant girl, her light hair held back from her face with a big black bow, and then cascading over her shoulders. She looked exactly like Mr. Tenniel’s illustrations in Alice in Wonderland, which used to be my most treasured possession.

  “That was taken about five years ago now when we were leaving Miss Marchbank’s Academy,” Arabella said. “But I don’t think we’ve changed much. Except that Letitia now wears her hair up.”

  “It’s strikingly fair,” I said. “You’d expect people to remember if they’d seen her.”

  “Yes, her hair is her finest feature,” Arabella said. “When she wears it up, it’s like a great golden halo. Everyone says she looks like those old pictures of saints.”

  “I wonder how she communicated with this man,” I said. “Have you asked her family whether she received any mail recently?”

  “They are all completely in the dark. Letitia was not a girl with a wide social circle, and her friends were all in the neighborhood. I’m sure her family would have noticed if she’d received letters from someone whose name they didn’t recognize.”

  “You know what I’m wondering, Miss Norton,” I said. “You’re saying she was a quiet, mousy type of girl. When you were together, everyone would pay attention to you, would they not?”

  “I’m afraid they would.” She couldn’t resist a little smile at this thought.

  “Then might this not be an action to draw attention to herself? Maybe she wanted her fiancé to pay her more attention; she wanted to seem more glamorous and exciting. Don’t you think it’s possible that she staged this dramatic event and is now hiding out at a friend’s house or at a hotel in the city waiting for a triumphant return?”

  “Oh,” Arabella put her hand to her mouth, “I never thought of that, but you could be right. That might be in Letitia’s nature.”

  “I could show her picture at suitable hotels in the city.”

  “Yes. That would be wonderful of you.”

  “How soon do you sail for Europe?”

  “Next Monday. I come to the city again on Thursday to pick up my new wardrobe from the dressmaker. I’ll be staying with my godmother, Miss Van Woekem, so you know where to find me.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time, considering the effort I have to put into Daniel’s case.”

  She lifted her purse from her lap. “I should pay you a retainer in advance. Isn’t that what’s normally done in these circumstances?”

  “Please don’t, Miss Norton.” I put up my hand to stop her. “I shouldn’t feel right. I really can’t tell you how much time I’ll be able to devote to your cause or what possible chance of success I’d have. All I can say is that I’ll do my best, but it’s not easy rushing all over the city in this summer heat.”

  All the time we had been speaking, I had felt increasingly unwell. Now my stomach was churning dangerously. I took a hurried gulp of tea in the hope that the warm liquid would calm my insides, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

  “If you will excuse me, Miss Norton, but I have to rush to another appointment,” I said and helped her to her feet. “I am honored at your trust in me. I hope I will succeed.”

  “If you do succeed, I will be in your eternal debt,” she said, grasping my hand fervently. “I simply can’t sail for Europe not knowing the truth about her. It will spoil my entire vacation.”

  I tried to extricate myself from her grasp politely. With a supreme effort of will I shepherded her to the front door and thanked her for coming.

  “You have my telephone number on my card, don’t you? And you know Miss Van Woekem’s address.”

  “I’ll do my best, I promise, Miss Norton.”

  “You are really so sweet, Miss Murphy. I’m sorry I misjudged you.” She took my hands into her own.

  “And I you.” I managed the reply and received a light brush of a kiss on my cheek. The moment the door was closed, I fled to the privy and was horribly ill.

  FIFTEEN

  When I had finally finished vomiting, I leaned against the cold stone of the privy wall until the dizziness passed. There was no question now about my current condition. The panic I had managed to hold at bay returned. How could I hope to get anything done if I was going to be so hopelessly frail and ill all the time? Women at home in Ireland were always having babies and never seemed incapacitated like this. I recalled my own mother, who must have gone through five or six pregnancies. Some of them had resulted in miscarriages, three of them in my brothers. But she had done her normal work around the house until the day of her confinement.

  I stood there, hugging my arms to myself, finding it hard to breathe as the panic threatened to overwhelm me. I was at a crossroads of my life. I couldn’t handle all this alone. However loath I was to do it, I should tell Sid and Gus the truth. I made up my mind to go and tell them later that afternoon, after I’d had a rest and felt somewhat restored. I took off my dress, sponged myself down with cold water, and lay on my bed. A refreshing breeze was coming in through the window. It was peaceful and calm. I tried to sleep, but my brain was still racing.

  I worried what might happen if my condition worsened and I was confined to bed. I had to be strong and well enough to complete the task set for me. Getting Daniel out of jail had to be my priority for all our sakes. I sat up and tried to think clearly. At least Arabella had given me a new direction to explore. Someone who was delighting in Daniel’s downfall. Someone who had come to the prison to see for himself. It was so obvious now she had mentioned it that I felt ashamed of myself. I wasn’t really much use as a detective, was I? This spurred me into getting back to work. I went downstairs again and took out pen and paper. Find out who has come to the prison asking after Daniel or wanting to visit him, I wrote. Go out to Coney Island. Find out about the horse doping at the racetrack. Meet the officers who have taken over the cases from
Daniel. Find out if they have discovered any more about the East Side Ripper.

  And, of course, now I had extra work to keep me occupied if I could spare a moment from Daniel’s case. I had imprudently told Arabella that I would show her friend’s picture at the settlement houses and at the sort of hotels where a young girl would stay alone. Just how was I going to find the time and energy to do that?

  It was all so overwhelming that I sat there, staring at the paper, and for once wished myself back home in Ireland. Oh, to be sure, every day was a hard, physical grind, with lots of laundry and cooking and beating rugs and sweeping up mud. But I had been safe there. I knew what to expect of every day. Then I reminded myself of the reason I had been forced to flee to America. I hadn’t been safe at all.

  “It’s no use sitting here sniveling like a weak ninny,” I told myself, sounding suspiciously like my mother.

  I stared at the list again. The next day was Sunday. Half of lower Manhattan would be spending it at Coney Island. Maybe I should, too. I didn’t think I’d be able to persuade Mr. Atkinson to take me to Daniel again soon, so I wrote two letters. One was to Daniel himself, one to the lawyer, both asking the same questions: Who had come to visit Daniel? Who had asked after him? I planned to go and ask those same questions of the desk sergeant at The Tombs. I also realized that I should follow up on Daniel’s suggestion and see if I could find out who was really employing Mr. Atkinson. That would mean finding a time to talk with his secretary when her boss wasn’t in the office, or, even more ideally, having a chance to go through his books when neither of them was there.

  There was no point in trying this on a Saturday afternoon. A lawyer’s office would probably close early if they worked at all on Saturday afternoons. Half day Saturday had become all the rage, I gathered. I’d just have to wait until Monday. I put my two letters into envelopes, found stamps for them, and went out, hoping to make the last collection of the afternoon, as there was no post on Sundays. As I passed Sid and Gus’s house I felt a pang of guilt. I was just putting off the evil hour when I would have to tell them the truth. I had been making all kinds of excuses for delay. I don’t know why I was so afraid to tell them. After all, they were the least judgmental people I had ever met. They didn’t care two figs for the rules of society. They would probably throw themselves instantly into the role of adoring aunts. But I knew they would somehow think less of me, and I was already ashamed of my own weakness.

  Still, it had to be done. They would be hurt if they found out later that I had kept such an enormous secret from them. And God knows I needed support right now. I would do it tonight, as soon as I returned from my errands, as soon as I had thought out the words to say….

  As always on Saturday afternoons, the town was in festive mood. Those people who only worked half days on Saturday were out shopping. Two children skipped by me, a few paces ahead of their parents, each clutching an orange. The parents smiled fondly at their excitement. As they came to Sixth Avenue, the husband took his wife’s arm to help her across the road, and I noticed that she was to have another child soon. I hurried past them. It seemed that everywhere I looked, fate was mocking me.

  I was just fishing for my key to open my front door on my return home when the door opposite opened and Sid stood there, hands on hips. “And where have you been, you sly creature?” she demanded. For a moment I thought she was serious until I saw the twinkle in her eyes. “Gus and I have been absolutely dying to hear about the demon Arabella’s visit. We waited patiently until we were sure she must have departed, and then we found that you had slipped out without telling us a thing, leaving us in the most horrible suspense. So put that basket inside and then come straight over. That’s an order, by the way, because we have more guests. And you’d have never forgiven yourself if you had missed them.”

  “You have other guests? My, but you have had a busy day.” Privately my brain was racing, wondering who could possibly have turned up now, possibly looking for me. After Arabella Norton, all things were possible.

  Sid hovered behind me while I put the basket of groceries on my kitchen table, then escorted me across Patchin Place as if I might be about to do a bunk.

  Gus met us in the hall. “You’ve found her! Well-done, Sid.”

  “I gather you have more guests?” I asked.

  “I know. What a thrilling day. Miss Norton, of all people. You could have knocked us down with a feather when she told us her name. Of course we wanted to protect you, in case she had come with evil intent, but she said she bore you no malice and had come asking for your help.”

  “Yes, she wants me to find her friend who has vanished,” I said.

  “Maybe Sid and I could help you,” Gus said, her face lighting up in that delightfully elfish way. “We seem to know a lot of people in common with Miss Norton, don’t we, Sid?”

  “We do seem to,” Sid agreed. “Just give us our assignment, and we’ll be at your beck and call.”

  “That would be a godsend,” I said. “I didn’t know where I was going to find the time to fit in Miss Norton.”

  “You know we’re always dying to play at investigators and to keep an eye on you when you get yourself involved in dangerous missions,” Gus said. “Come on through and you can give us our briefing.”

  “I thought you said you had guests.”

  “They’ll want to hear, too,” she said. She leaned close and whispered. “Ryan has brought his new friend to meet us.”

  “Is he still in Buddhist monk’s robes?” I paused, as she led me through the house and out to the conservatory.

  “No, he is very properly dressed like an English gentleman—or should one say an Irish gentleman?”

  “Definitely the latter, if you don’t want a crack on the head with a shillelagh.”

  She chuckled. “Look who we found, Ryan, dearest,” she announced, as we came upon two men relaxing in wicker chairs. The glass doors were open onto the garden. A large jug of some kind of punch stood on the wicker table next to a vase of roses. It presented a wonderfully rural scene in the middle of the city.

  The two gentlemen rose to their feet.

  “Molly, I was quite desolate when we tapped on your door and nobody was home.” Ryan came around the table to plant a kiss on my cheek. “I have told Fritz so much about my adorable friends that he insisted on meeting you. So let me introduce you: Miss Murphy, this is my dear new friend Fritz Birnbaum, Dr. Fritz Birnbaum, lately of Vienna.”

  I took in the neatly trimmed blond beard, the pale face, the light eyes, the immaculate dress. The doctor and I both reacted at the same time.

  “Dr. Birnbaum!” I exclaimed at the same moment that he said, “Miss Gaffney.”

  “Miss Gaffney?” Ryan demanded.

  “You two have already met. How splendid,” Sid said. “Have some punch.”

  “Dr. Birnbaum and I met at Adare, Senator Flynn’s house on the Hudson River,” I said. “Unfortunately at a most difficult time.”

  “Indeed yes. Poor Mrs. Flynn. I feel so responsible. I wish I could have done something to save her.” His English was fluent, although delivered with a pronounced German accent.

  “We all wish that, Dr. Birnbaum,” I replied.

  “But you—you were her cousin, were you not?”

  “Not really,” I said. “As you have been told, my real name is Molly Murphy. I am a private investigator. I was sent to the Flynn mansion to pose as the senator’s cousin.”

  “Gott im Himmel! So foul play was suspected from the first?”

  “There was such a web of lies and deceit at that place that it was hard to tell what was suspected,” I said tactfully. “Now I just pray that the Flynn family finally finds some peace.”

  “I join you in your prayer,” Dr. Birnbaum said.

  “Let’s have no more talk of gloomy things.” Ryan waved an elegant hand between us. “Today is for happiness and goodwill among friends.”

  “So you already know that Dr. Birnbaum is a real-life alienist, Molly?” S
id asked.

  “Yes. He was brought to Adare to treat Theresa Flynn.”

  “He has been giving us the most exciting insights into the mind of the East Side Ripper,” Gus said. “Positively spine tingling.”

  “Really?” I tried not to sound too interested. “And what conclusions has Dr. Birnbaum come to? Can you tell us what kind of person the killer is, Doctor?”

  “Not the kind of person you might think, Miss Murphy. I did research in Vienna with my mentor, Professor Freud. Mass murderers are rarely obviously depraved and violent people. They are often models of the virtuous life. They are professional men, pillars of the community.”

  “Pillars of the community? Hiring prostitutes?” Gus said in surprise.

  “Perhaps he did not hire the women for the normal purpose, but lured them away with the intention of stamping out vice and punishing them for their sins,” Sid said.

  Birnbaum nodded. “That is indeed a possibility, Miss Goldfarb. But I’m inclined to think that such crimes of passion are driven by baser motives. You’d be surprised, Miss Walcott, how many supposedly virtuous men are married to a socially correct wife but get their pleasures elsewhere.”

  “I suppose so,” Gus said. “But most men don’t end up by making killing a part of their pleasure.”

  “They often lead lives where all emotional outlets have to be suppressed. But inside this fire rages. The first time the killing is accidental, but it gives them such a rush of excitement that they have to duplicate the feeling. And the need to kill becomes more and more intense, just like a drug.”

  “But surely it would take a base and violent man to disfigure a woman in the way described in the newspapers?” Sid asked.

  “There are several reasons for wanting to disfigure a victim,” Dr. Birnbaum said, gravely stroking at his neat, blond beard. “I’m afraid this is not a suitable topic for mixed company, however. I have no wish to make the ladies swoon.”

  This produced merry laughter from Sid and Gus.