Death of Riley (22 page)

He came across and grabbed my arm. “But I do want to paint you, you silly goose,” he said. “I want to paint you in the nude.”

“In the nude? With no clothes on, you mean?”

“Of course. I told you I wanted to practice life studies. That's what life study means—painting nudes.”

“I couldn't possibly …” I began, but he started laughing. “You'll be perfectly safe, you know. I'm not at all interested in young women like yourself, except as models. And I'm a very trustworthy kind of guy. Ask anyone around the Village. Good old reliable Lennie. Come on, Molly, what do you say? How is an artist supposed to improve if he can't work with live models? And everyone else has posed for me—Sid, Gus, even Ryan.”

“All right,” I said. I had forced myself to take a good many chances recently. One more could hardly matter. I went behind the screen and unbuttoned my blouse with trembling fingers. Was it my imagination or was it very cold in that studio? My eye fell on my straw hat, lying on the chair. Swiftly I pulled out the hat pin that held the silk rose in place and wrapped my fingers around it. If he had been spinning me a yarn and he tried anything indecent, then I was going to be ready.

I came out feeling horribly self-conseious. Lennie was standing at the little table mixing colors. “Go and sit on the stool, please. Watch out how you step on the velvet, won't you. It was horribly expensive.”

I perched on the stool, wishing myself anywhere else but here. Lennie picked up his palette and stood behind the easel, eyeing me critically. “Swing to your left a little. Good. And let your hair fall over that shoulder, and maybe put your hand on your thigh. And don't look as if you're a Christian about to be fed to the lions. I don't see you as a woman, I see you as a design. You can chat away quite normally, only don't move.”

I can't tell you how strange it felt to be sitting in the nude on a cold hard stool talking about the weather and how seasonable it was for the time of year. I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But gradually I did relax, and remembered the point of my mission.

“So tell me about Ryan O'Hare,” I said. “I find him fascinating.”

“You and half the population of New York,” Lennie said.

“You two are good friends, aren't you?”

“I'm not sure Ryan has good friends. I don't think anyone knows the real Ryan,” he said. “Ryan plays the part that is expected of him wherever he goes. But I suppose I am as close to him as he lets anyone get.”

“And you spend a lot of time together, don't you? You go to theaters and bars together?”

“Sometimes,” Lennie said. “When he doesn't have anyone better to take him out. What Ryan really likes is to be whisked into the whirl of high society by the rich and the beautiful. Since I am neither rich nor beautiful, I am usually the last resort.”

“Is Ryan often with the rich and the beautiful then?”

“Whenever he finds a suitable love interest.” Lennie jabbed at his canvas.

“Ryan told me he never stays in love for long,” I said. “Do you think he'll ever find his soul mate and settle down?”

Lennie chuckled. “His soul mate would have to be very rich. Ryan has expensive tastes.”

“So he doesn't have money of his own? I'd have thought, being a famous playwright, he'd be rich.”

“He spends it as fast as it comes in,” Lennie said. “He

needs another Angus MacDonald with an inexhaustible supply of cash. Actually”—he looked up with the hint of a grin—”I told him what he needs is a rich elderly widow. He could marry her, then feed her a steady supply of arsenic.”

He started laughing. “We had a long, earnest talk along those lines, one night when we were both in our cups. We sat there discussing painless and undetectable ways to bump off old ladies.”

“At O'Connor's, was this?” I asked.

“Where else? Now hold still. You moved your head.” And he went on painting.

I tried to hold still, but I couldn't wait to get off that stool. Maybe this was what Paddy had overheard at O'Connor's that night. Ryan and Lennie had been joking, but Paddy had taken their plans seriously. In which case the overheard conversation had nothing to do with his death after all. In which case I was wasting my time sitting on a cold hard stool!

T
wenty

I was stiff and numb by the time Lennie announced that he had painted all he could for one day. He was pleased with the result, though. “Another session and I think we'll have something marketable here,” he said, but he wouldn't show me the canvas. “I never show anyone until it's finished. It's bad luck.”

So I agreed to come back the next morning and walked home briskly, trying to restore the circulation to my legs. In a way I was relieved to have solved the mystery of the overheard conversation and to know that Ryan and Lennie were not involved in Paddy's death. It would appear, then, that his death had nothing to do with Ryan, for which I was glad. But that meant that I didn't know where to go from here. If either Angus MacDonald or his father had hired a killer, then I couldn't go delving into the New York underworld to unmask him. This made me realize how useless I was as an investigator. Paddy would have known where to go and whom to question. He had contacts in all the gangs. He moved on both sides of the fence, as Sergeant Wolski had said. He was lucky to have that facility. On the other hand, it might have been the cause of his death.

So it looked as though I would have to leave the investigation of Paddy Riley's murder to the police. From my brief conversation with Daniel a week ago, he had hinted that he had been looking into the case himself, and that a dangerous element might be involved. I told myself I was well out of it. If I started probing around, asking questions about gangs and hired killers, I might well wind up dead myself.

I stopped at the post office on my way home, to see if any letters had come for Paddy. I had asked the post office to hold any mail, but until now nothing had shown up. So I was surprised to find two letters. One contained a check for a hundred dollars, along with a note in slanted green ink apologizing for the delay in paying the fee. The other was from a Mrs. Edna Purvis of White Plains, asking him to call on her at his earliest convenience to discuss a matter of extreme delicacy. A new divorce case, obviously. I was tempted to call on Mrs. Purvis myself and take on the case as the junior partner in the firm. Then I reminded myself that I hadn't been at all successful in solving Paddy's murder. I had better stop these foolish aspirations right away and find myself a sensible job I could do well. At least I now had contacts in the Village. Sid and Gus knew everybody. And if everything else failed, I could always make my living as an artist's model.

That night I woke from a deep sleep with a jolt. I had been dreaming again about Paddy's coat. “It's too big for me. You take it,” he was saying. I lay there, shaken, and unable to sleep. Was there something I had missed? Had I been too quick to dismiss Ryan and Lennie's little joke? Now that I analyzed it calmly, I had to admit that the scenario did not ring true. Paddy was an experienced, streetwise detective. He had lived on both sides of the law. Overhearing two men discussing how to poison an old woman would not have upset him to that degree, and it wouldn't have been a case he couldn't handle either. All he had to do was see Daniel and pass on his suspicions to him. Whatever Paddy had overheard that night at O'Connor's, it was something quite different.

The next day, after my session with Lennie, I went to see Paddy's former landlady.

“I'm glad you turned up again,” she said. “I want to get that room cleaned out and the first of the month is coming up.”

“I'll help you,” I said. “I'll see what things I'll need to carry on the business and you can have the rest.”

“Carry on the business?” She looked alarmed. “You're never thinking of carrying on Paddy's work, surely? That's no job for a woman—dirty, dangerous. I can't tell you how many times he told me about narrow escapes he'd had. What's more, I can't tell you how many times I had to patch up cuts and bruises when he got himself into a fight. You find yourself a nice husband, dearie, and leave that kind of work to the men.”

“All the same, I'll take his disguises, in case someone else wants to take over the business,” I said. I didn't let on that his office building had burned. I took down the box of wigs and makeup, some items from his desk, including the roll of film and the negatives, and the long flowing cape. It might come in handy if I ever needed to disguise myself as a man. I helped Mrs. O'Shaunessey put the rest of his stuff into boxes and watched the gleam in her eye as she worked out how much she could get from the usedclothing merchants.

Then I carried my bounty home. As I passed O'Connor's I saw Dante and Hodder crossing the street toward the saloon.

“Hey, Molly. Drinks all around tonight. Ryan's finished the play,” Hodder called.

“He appeared, pale and wraithlike, but still alive, saying that it's the best thing he's ever written—a work of utter genius,” Dante added with a grin, “and he expects all his friends to be at O'Connor's to tell him how clever he is. Typical Ryan. Never get the medal for modesty.”

“So tell the girls, will you?” Hodder said. “Ryan will want them there, I know.”

I hurried on home and was exhausted by the time I dropped the packages on my bed. Why had I bothered to bring all this stuff? Fake beards and noses and eyeglasses—when would I ever need them? The cape, though, might be very welcome this winter. I remembered how cold I had been last winter and the cape was of good wool, with only a few moth holes in it. I put it on, looked at myself in the mirror and twirled around, watching it fly out. Then something bumped against my leg. I felt for pockets, reached in, and my hand closed around something hard and square. It was Paddy's camera.

I stood turning it over in my hands. I knew I should hand it over to the police, but I didn't want to. If there was a vital clue in one of those pictures, then I wanted to know about it first. I'd have the film developed, then I'd hand over the pictures when I'd looked at them. After all, the police had searched Paddy's room. If they hadn't been clever enough to find the camera, that was their hard luck.

I ran out again and asked around until I located a photographer's studio. Its proprietor agreed to develop and print the film for me. I should come back in a week. Never having been the most patient of souls in my life, I begged, pleaded and urged for him to do the developing on the spot, but he refused. He was booked solid with important clients for the next few days—clients who paid good money. My litde job would just have to wait.

I thought of looking for another photographer, but came away resigned to patience. A week, after all, was not the end of the world, was it?

Meanwhile I had other things to keep me busy. My conscience had been bothering me about my desertion of Seamus and the children, considering my current good fortune. However much I reasoned with myself that they were not my responsibility, Bridie's little elfin face kept appearing before my eyes. And I had not even given a thought to how Seamus was faring either. If he didn't make a full recovery, there would be no job for him. So I bought a basket of good, nourishing food, then added a wooden top and a hair ribbon as extras and set off for my old abode.

Nuala was sitting on the stoop, fanning her vast body.

“So yer fancy man has thrown you out then, has he?” she asked triumphantly.

“I just stopped by to see if your cooking had managed to poison the children yet,” I said, brushing past her. “And to pay my respects to Seamus. I hope he's still making a good recovery.”

“As good as can be expected,” she said cautiously. “Seeing as how there is precious little money to buy him the good food he needs to build up his strength.”

“I've brought a chicken and some grapes,” I said. “That should help.”

“Well, that's might decent of you, I have to say,” she said, following me into the house. It was the first word of praise for me that had ever passed her lips. Seamus was sitting up by the window, but still looked the shadow of his former self. I put the chicken on to boil so that he could have broth as well as meat and handed him the grapes. He was pathetically grateful.

“So good of you, Molly,” he said. “The doctor says I'll be able to go back to work, but I seem to be weaker than a kitten.”

“You need fresh air and exercise,” I said.

“Not with weather like this. It's all I can do to drag myself across the room. It feels like the whole world is melting,” he said.

“You're right aboutthat, but it's September tomorrow. This kind of weather can't last forever, can it?” I looked around. The place was awfully quiet. “Where are the children?”

“Out with my boys, swimming in the East River, I expect,” Nuala said, standing, hands on her hips, in the doorway behind him. “That's what they do when it's too hot to stay indoors.”

“I hope Bridie's not thinking of swimming in that filthy river,” I said. “You should forbid her, Seamus.”

“Oh let the little body have her fun,” Nuala said. “All the children do it.”

Seamus half nodded agreement, so there was nothing for me to say. I left them, tempted to go and check on Bridie myself, but returned to Patchin Place feeling strangely discontented. I had been glad to hand over my responsibility for the children, but now I was finding that it wasn't easy to let them go.

Then that night, all worries about Seamus's little family were put from my mind. I had delivered Ryan's summons to witness his triumphal return to society at O'Connor's saloon. By eight o'clock all his friends were dutifully assembled when the door of the tavern was flung open. Ryan's style of dress was always more flamboyant than was usually seen on the streets of New York, but tonight he had surpassed himself. He wore a black opera cape lined with scarlet satin, top hat, purple silk cravat at his neck with a large diamond in a stick pin, and he carried a silver-tipped cane. He stood in the doorway waiting for the full effect to be realized upon his admirers.

“My children, I have arisen,” he said, holding out his arms. “I am here to report a great victory. The task is ended. The play is finished. The battle is won. Ryan O'Hare has triumphed.”