Death of Riley (7 page)

“You went back into crime?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I'd promised Mr. Schlessinger when he brought me to America. A proper Bible-fearing gentleman he was. He made me swear on the Bible that I'd never resort to crime again. I couldn't go against that, could I? But I decided I could use my knowledge on the right side of the law. I do a bit of undercover work for the police from time to time, and I've got my own nice little business here. It's not for everyone, but it suits me fine.” He broke off, staring at me with his head tilted to one side. “I can't think why a pretty girl like you would want to do it, though. About time you got married and settled down, isn't it?”

I looked down at the remains of the meat pie. “I came over here alone. I have no one. I want to be dependent on no one.”

“I saw you with Captain Sullivan …”

“He's just a friend, and he can't be anything more,” I said. “I think I could do this job well if you'd give me a chance.”

“There are plenty of other jobs you could do. It's a big city.”

“I've tried some of them. I don't want to work in a factory. I don't want to be a servant. I'm not very good at taking orders and being humble, I'm afraid.”

“So what put this stupid idea in your head?”

“When I left Ireland, there were all these people who

wanted to know what had become of their loved ones. A woman gave me a letter, in case I should meet her boy. I thought I could trace some of those lost loved ones for them.”

“And if they didn't want to be traced?”

“It would be up to them if they got in touch again.”

“Never make any money doing that,” he said.

“Oh, so you do think I could make money doing other kinds of detective work?”

“I didn't say that. Women are bad news. They talk too much. They can't keep secrets and they let their hearts rule their heads.”

“So did you, just now,” I said. “You demonstrated your skill to me, instead of throwing me out. So you must have a soft spot in that hard heart of yours.”

“Irish blarney,” he said, but he didn't look too upset.

I got up and picked up the box and newspapers, depositing them in the can in the corner. “I could make this place look really nice for you,” I said. “I've kept house all my life. I could handle your appointments so that you wouldn't miss any clients when you were out on a job. And you could teach me what you know.”

“I knew I should never have let you in through this door,” he said.

“I'll make you a proposition.” I perched on the packing case opposite him again. “Give me a week's trial. You don't have to pay me. If you are not satisfied with me at the end of a week, you show me the door. I'll go and never trouble you again.”

“You are a persistent young woman,” he said. “What did you say your name was?”

It was dark by the time I left Paddy Riley's place. As I crossed from west to east on Eighth Street, I began to appredate the advantages of being dressed as a male. A woman out alone in the dark is constantly on guard, ready for drunken men staggering out of saloons, ribald comments from layabouts on street corners, or worse. Nobody paid any attention to a barefoot lad coming home from his day's labor. I remembered what Riley had told me and tried to think like a boy. I shoved my hands into my pockets, swaggered a little and even attempted to whistle.

By the time I was close to home my feet were really aching again and those cobblestones dug into every soft spot on my soles. I'd have to practice going barefoot more often, somehow, and thus toughen up my feet again if I wanted to make use of this disguise. I had just trodden in an unexpected pile of horse droppings when I looked up to see Daniel Sullivan coming toward me. He must have been to my house again. I was in no mood to confront him. I ignored the warm horse manure that clung to my feet, resumed the swagger and the whistle and walked toward him. He passed me within a couple of feet and didn't look at me twice. I didn't look back until I reached my front stoop. Then I stopped to clean off my feet, as best I could, on the scraper. My heart was still racing as I ran up the steps. If I could fool Daniel, then I had the feeling that I might be pretty good at this one day!

It was only when I had washed the grime from my person and stood at the open window in my camisole, letting the cool night air caress my bare arms and neck, that the negative aspect of my encounter with Daniel struck me. There would be no more visits to look forward to, no more Sunday strolls in the park, no more times when he took me in his arms and set me on fire with his kisses. I was going to have to throw myself into my work so intensely that I had no time to think or to feel.

S
even

The first week came and went and there was no mention of terminating my services; in fact, Paddy even agreed to pay me a very modest amount. But as the days went by I was no closer to finding out how a private investigator actually worked. I understood that most of his business came from divorce cases and involved standing around for long hours, watching and waiting to witness assignations with “the other woman.” If he was lucky, he'd capture the two of them together on camera. He owned one of those new Kodak Brownies—neat little contraptions, no bigger than a cigar box, that could take pictures without ever having to go under a hood. I couldn't vouch for the quality of the pictures. He kept them well away from me, as he did all the details of his cases. I didn't ask questions and bided my time. The trick would be to make myself indispensable first.

During that first week, I swept and scrubbed out the place-—and believe me, it took some scrubbing! I tidied his papers into neat piles, threw away mountains of rubbish, and then attempted to file the papers away. I had discovered that the back room contained a big oak filing cabinet. I opened it and tried to get a sense of Riley's filing-system. Before I had a chance even to look at the file headings, there came a great roar behind me.

“What the bleedin' hell do you think you're doing, woman?”

I jumped up and spun around. I had never seen Paddy Riley look angry before.

For once even I couldn't think of a smart answer. “I— I was just trying to see how your filing system worked, so that I could file your papers for you.”

“Snooping, that's what you were doing.”

“Absolutely not. You've got a tower of papers the size of a skyscraper on your desk and they should be filed away somewhere. This is a filing cabinet. I was trying to be helpful, that's all.”

We stood there, glaring at each other.

“That filing cabinet is off-limits,” he said, but more calmly now. “That's where I keep the information on my cases. It is all strictly confidential, you understand. The top families in New York come to me on the understanding that what I find is between me and them.”

“I don't see the point in having an assistant if you don't want any help,” I said. “How am I supposed to be any use to you if you won't share any information on your cases with me?”

“The answer to that is simple. You won't be any use to me—not beyond what you're already doing. Clean up and run errands, that I can tolerate, I suppose, but I'm not sharing my cases with you. You'd have me out of business in a week. Women can't keep their mouths shut to save their souls.”

“You have a very poor opinion of women,” I said. “Is that why you've never married?”

“Who said I'd never married?” He walked past me and slammed the open file drawer shut. “I was married once. Pretty little thing. Actress. She ran off with another guy.”

“Aha. So that's it!” I smiled triumphantly. “That's why you're down on all women—because you couldn't trust one of them. Well, I've had bad enough experiences with certain men, but it doesn't make me think that all men are scoundrels.”

“Hmmph.” This seemed to be his standard expression when I'd gotten the better of him. “I'd be obliged if you'd stay out of this room.” He motioned me to the door. “This is my inner sanctum, so to speak. Tidy up the outer office all you like, but leave my inner sanctum alone.”

“You had a weeks-old pork pie in here,” I commented over my shoulder as I swept out. “You'll be attracting mice.”

“Speaking of pork pies”—he reached into his vest pocket—”You can go to the delicatessen on Broadway and bring me a liverwurst sandwich for lunch. Get yourself something too. And while you're out, find a locksmith and tell him to come round this afternoon. I'll have a lock put on that filing cabinet, for my own peace of mind. Go on, move them plates of meat.”

I looked around, confused. “What plates of meat?”

“Plates of meat—feet. Cockney rhyming slang,” he said, grinning at my discomfort. “Blimey, you'd never have lasted two minutes in London if you didn't speak the language.”

“Since I've never been to London, the matter has never arisen,” I said haughtily, “and I would have made sure I only mixed with higher-class people who didn't have to use slang.”

Instead of being annoyed, he laughed out loud. “You're a rum one, I'll say that for you. Plenty of spunk. Go on then. Take them plates of meat down the apples and pears.”

I smiled too as I went down the stairs. I had the feeling that Paddy might even learn to like me someday.

I was coming out of Katz's Delicatessen with liverwurst for Riley and cold roast beef for myself when I stood aside to let an automobile go past. I swear they were becoming more common in the city every day, making crossing the streets even more hazardous. As if streetcars and galloping hansom cabs weren't hazards enough! But instead of roaring past, this automobile screeched to a halt and Daniel jumped from the driver's seat. He was wearing a cap and motoring goggles and I didn't recognize him until he yelled out my name.

I thought about running, but there was no point in it. I had to face him sometime, and maybe a busy street was better than at home.

“Where on earth have you got to these past days?” he demanded, removing the goggles as he approached me. “I've been worried about you. All Mrs. O'Hallaran would say was that you were out, and Miss Van Woekem told me you'd changed your mind and no longer worked for her. And you didn't answer the notes I left for you. What is going on?”

“Maybe I misunderstood the nature of our friendship, sir,” I said, “but in the circumstances I feel it wiser that we should have no further communication with each other.”

“What are you talking about? What have I done to offend you?”

“Maybe I found the small matter of an undisclosed fiancee somewhat offensive,” I said. “I am sure Miss Norton would not wish you to waste any more of your time with me. Now I must return to work or my employer will wonder what has happened to me. Good day.”

I started to walk away.

“Molly, wait, don't go, please,” he called after me. “Let me explain.”

“What do you think I might not understand about the word fiancee?” I asked. I had been so controlled until now and was shocked to hear my voice crack. If I stayed here any longer I would let myself down and start to cry. “There is only one meaning to it, as far as I know. I may be a common peasant girl, but I was educated in French.”

I started to run.

“Molly, please!” I heard him call after me.

“Go away and stop following me,” I shouted back. “I wish never to see you again.”

He didn't attempt to pursue me any further.

I worked like a crazy woman for the rest of the day. I thought Paddy would be pleased with the way his place was looking, but he didn't respond with anything more than a grunt until late in the afternoon he finally exploded. “Will you stop for a moment, woman, you're exhausting me just looking at you. If you polish that floor any harder you'll have us both going arse over tip every time we cross the room.”

“I need to be busy,” I said.

“Well, you're in my way. I have to get myself dressed for my appointment at Delmonico's.”

“Delmonico's, eh? You do move in elevated circles.”

“I'm not planning to eat there,” he said. “A certain gentleman will be dining there tonight in one of the private dining rooms. Delmonico's will have an extra waiter on duty. You can watch me transform myself. Wait here.”

He disappeared into the back room and reappeared wearing a waiter's tuxedo and white apron. “Now all it needs is the application of the finishing touches.”

He opened a box and took out a neat black toupee, parted in the middle, which he placed on his head.

“Now for some facial hair,” he muttered and held up a waxed black mustache. “Trick of the trade, my dear, is to have one distinguishing feature—a beard, a mustache, a monocle, an unusual hat, even a flower in the buttonhole. That is all that people will remember about you. He squeezed out a ribbon of spirit gum and applied the mustache. The transformation was most impressive. He had gone from a colorless old man to a rather flamboyant and younger waiter.

“How can you get away with something like this? Surely they know all their waiters?”

He grinned—that cheeky Cockney grin. “Those poor devils are so run off their feet that they haven't got time to notice a new face. I've done it enough times to know how to make myself unobtrusive. The secret is to look busy. Look as if you're supposed to be there and you've got an important job to do. I pick up something like a candle, or a vase of flowers, or a couple of glasses, cross the floor with them, into the private room. Diners never ndtice what the waiter is doing, especially not these diners. They'll be too engrossed in each other. I'll fiddle about in one corner, take a picture if I can, and then depart.”

“How exciting. I'd like to try that.”

“They don't have women waiters.”

“They have slim young men and you've just shown me how to apply facial hair.”

“Over my dead body.” He looked up and glanced at me from the mirror. “Now go on, clear off home. I've got work to do.”

On the way home the despair I had been keeping at bay since my afternoon encounter with Daniel finally threatened to engulf me. I would not be seeing Daniel ever again. I suppose until that moment I had hoped that the whole thing was a ghastly mistake. At the back of my mind was a fragile hope that I had somehow misunderstood, that Daniel would laugh and say, “What fiancee? I have no fiancee.” But he hadn't.