Death of Riley (35 page)

“Holy Mother of God! Of course I'm not scouting out places to rob. If you'll just let go of me, I can produce any number of respected citizens who will vouch for me. In fact if you take me to your police station, I'm afraid you're going to look very foolish because I happen to be a good friend of—” I bit my tongue and left the rest of the sentence hanging. I was dying to see their faces when I told them that their own Captain Daniel Sullivan could vouch for me, but I wasn't going to use his name every time I was in a jam. He'd be only too delighted to remind me yet again that I was playing with fire and no good would come from trying to be part of a man's world.

“A good friend of whom, my dear?” the large officer asked. “The mayor, was it? Or the governor? Or maybe our new president Teddy himself?” He grinned at the other policeman again and dug him in the ribs.

“You'll see,” I said, determined not to lose my dignity. Then I added, as they began to manhandle me away, “And please put me down. I am not a sack of potatoes. I have two good feet and can walk on my own.”

“Just as long as you don't try to do a bunk on us,” the large officer said.

“Do the Dusters ever use women?” Brendan asked we started to walk away. “I know the old Gophers had some terrible fierce women working with them, but I don't know that much about the Dusters.”

“They're getting very tricky these days. No knowing what they'll try next,” the other officer said.

The rain had eased off and the street lamps were reflected in puddles.

“Who are these Dusters?” I asked.

“The Hudson Dusters? You've never heard of them?” Brendan sounded surprised. “This is their territory, west of Broadway all the way to the Hudson.”

“Are they some kind of gang then?”

“One of the biggest—along with the Eastmans and the Five Pointers, of course.”

“That's enough, Brendan. She knows very well who the Dusters are. I'll wager one of their squealers will identify her for us in the morning.”

I heard the sound of a front door slamming behind us down the street and looked around to see a tall figure in a long greatcoat and top hat hurrying in the direction of Fifth Avenue. It looked like Mr. Tomlinson but I had now missed seeing him come out of the house. Since one of my captors liked to gab, I couldn't resist asking, “So that house I was watching, the one with the two bay trees in pots beside the front door you don't happen to know who owns it?”

Brendan took the bait right away. “That's Mrs. Tomlinson's house, wouldn't you say, Brian?”

“Your mouth's going to be the death of you, boy,” the older policeman snapped. “You should know better than that. Next you'll be lending her your nightstick to break in with.”

“I wasn't doing no harm…”

I hardly heard this exchange. My brain was still trying to digest what Brendan had said. “Mrs. Tomlinson?” I said, looking appealingly at him. “You don't mean the wife of John Baker Tomlinson, do you? I've been to her residence. It's on Fifty-second Street on the East Side.”

“No, this is an older woman—a widow. Maybe it's your man's mother.”

Terrific, I thought as we sloshed our way down Sixth Avenue toward the Jefferson Market police station. I had spent an entire evening risking pneumonia, getting myself arrested, and all to watch Mr. John Baker Tomlinson III visit his mother! As a detective it appeared I still had a long way to go.