Murphy’s Law

by Rhys Bowen

  Just as I was chilled to the marrow and about to head away from the waterfront I noticed two men in Ellis Island watchman uniforms making for the moored government launch. I ran up to them.

  “Excuse me, but you work on the island, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” one of them said. They were young, fresh-faced men and they were looking at me suspiciously as if they weren’t sure of my motives.

  “I wonder if you know a guard called Boyle. Big man, lots of whiskers.”

  “Bully Boyle? Yes, I know who he is,” one of them said.

  “Bully?”

  “Just a nickname. I think his real name is Bernard, isn’t it, Dan?”

  Dan nodded.

  “You wouldn’t have been on the same shift as him the night before that murder on the island, would you?”

  “What’s this all about?” the other man asked.

  “I’m trying to help a friend of mine. The police have him locked up in the Tombs at the moment. I just wondered if either of you took the same boat as Mr. Boyle the evening before the murder.”

  “I might have,” the first, friendlier, one said. “I think we were on the same shift, but I really can’t tell you whether he was on the boat with us. It’s been so cold lately, we all make for the cabin and stay there. It’s a tight squeeze so I really only noticed the men right next to me. Why are you interested in Mr. Boyle?”

  “Because the police think that someone might have borrowed his uniform to commit the crime.” This was an outright lie, but I didn’t want Boyle to think he was suspected.

  The men looked at each other, then the first one shook his head. “Sorry, but I really can’t be of help. At the end of the shift I’m so tired, all I can think of is getting home and putting my feet up.”

  “Would either of you happen to know where Mr. Boyle lives? Maybe I could go and talk to him myself.”

  “I have a feeling he lives in Hell’s Kitchen,” one said, looking at the other for confirmation.

  “Somewhere around that area,” the other confirmed. “A lot of the Irish guys seem to live there.”

  “And where would I find Hell’s Kitchen?” I wondered for a moment whether they were pulling my leg. Surely there wasn’t really a place called that?

  “You just follow West Street along the docks until you get to Twenty-third. It starts around there. Between the Hudson and Eighth Avenue. It’s quite a way from here. I’d take the El if I were you.”

  “The L?”

  “The elevated railway. See the steam coming up over there? That’s the train stopping at the Hudson Street Station. And I wouldn’t go there alone, miss. It’s not the sort of neighborhood a young girl like yourself should be wandering around in.”

  I couldn’t say I had no money for the elevated railway and nobody to call upon to go with me. Seamus would probably come with me if I asked him, but he was working from sunup to sundown. And I wasn’t about to wait for Sunday. I’d have to take my chances now.

  “Thank you for your concern, sir,” I said. “I won’t do anything foolish.”

  Then they went on their way down to the harbor, and I started up West Street, along the edge of the Hudson River.

  Fourteen

  I walked to the place they call Hell’s Kitchen. It was a long way, but without money for any kind of fare, walking was my only option. The soles of my boots, none too new to start with, were starting to let in icy water and my toes felt bruised and numb. I’d have to find a job soon. I wouldn’t get through the winter. I followed the waterfront, dodging around piles of merchandise, drays loading and unloading, and more than one improper suggestion.

  It seemed to go on forever, block after endless block. I had never realized before how big a city could be. And all those tall buildings rising before me. And I could see that Michael had been right—wherever I looked, there were new skyscrapers being built—great steel frames towering into the sky like giant spiderwebs, sometimes with just the upper floors filled in, so that at first glance the masonry appeared to be hanging in midair, suspended by magic. At least it wasn’t snowing, I told myself to keep my spirits up. Because, to tell you the truth, I was a little alarmed about what I might find in Hell’s Kitchen. I had read Dickens. I knew all about the London of Fagin and that was what I was picturing now—cutthroats, pickpockets, and worse. After all, Ballykillin had been a sheltered life. A few men got drunk and beat their wives on Saturday night, but apart from that it was a peaceful kind of place. If you don’t count Justin Hartley, that is.

  There had been few signs of life during the last mile or so. Buildings had few windows on the ground level and many of those were closed tight with bars or shutters. No friendly, open store-fronts as there were in the Lower East Side neighborhoods I had come from. When I finally saw an open saloon on a street corner, I plucked up my courage and went inside. It was dark and dingy, with a row of stools lined up at a high bar all along one side. It stank of stale beer and smoke, but at this hour it was, mercifully, almost empty.

  “Hi, there, sweetie-pie,” a man sitting at the bar called as he spotted me. “Come on in and let me buy you a drink, girlie.” His words were slurred and he was eyeing me with blurry hope.

  “Thank you but I’m not here to drink,” I said. “I’m just asking for directions and nowhere else seems open around here.” I looked around at the other men. “I’m looking for a district called Hell’s Kitchen. Have you any idea how I get there?”

  The men looked at each other, grinning.

  “Hell’s Kitchen you’re wanting?” the barman asked. “And what would a young lady like yourself be wanting there?”

  “I’m looking for a man who is a guard on Ellis Island. His name is Boyle. I’m told he lives in Hell’s Kitchen.”

  “And what’s this Mr. Boyle to you?” a man sitting at a table in the far corner asked aggressively “Did he do you wrong, sweetie?”

  “I am most certainly not your sweetie,” I replied, making them all grin even harder. “And I think it’s highly unlikely that I’ll ever be your sweetie. I need to speak to Mr. Boyle about a crime he might have witnessed on Ellis Island.”

  “A crime?” Their eyes were wary now. “Are you working with the police or something?”

  “Don’t tell me they have female “Tecs now!” The man in the corner said, nudging his companion.

  “Yes, I’m helping the police,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “So if you could just give me directions, I’ll be on my way.”

  “You’re in it, doll,” the man at the bar said, grinning at the bartender.

  The bartender nodded. “That’s right, miss. This is the part of the city they call Hell’s Kitchen. It used to be—well—wilder than it is now. Nowadays it’s quite respectable, isn’t it, boys?”

  “Oh, sure. Very refined,” the man at the table said. “Almost like being in church, isn’t it, Paddy?”

  They sniggered again. I wanted to get out of there in a hurry, but I had to keep on asking questions.

  “So would it be too much to ask if any of you know Mr. Boyle?”

  “Bully Boyle, you mean? Big man. Works as a watchman?” the barman asked. “Yes, he comes in here sometimes.”

  “Does he live around here?” I asked excitedly.

  “Paddy would know. He’s another of them damned Irish. Where does he live, Paddy?”

  “Over on West Twenty-ninth, I think.”

  “Does Mr. Boyle come in here often?” Maybe he had been there on the night of the murder, which would have definitely established his alibi.

  “Not often. He just pops in from time to time,” the barman said, looking at the others for confirmation. “I reckon he pretty much does the rounds.”

  “He does when he’s flush,” Paddy said. “One saloon after another, free drinks all around when he’s flush.”

  “So—has he been flush recently?”

  “And why should we be telling you how much money he has?” Paddy demanded. “What’s the betting she’s his wife, co
me to check up on him?”

  “Or she could be his fancy lady, wondering why he hasn’t paid her a visit lately?” another of them suggested.

  “Or his landlady, wondering why he hasn’t paid the rent!”

  “He’s a good guy, salt of the earth, and I won’t say anything against him,” the man at the bar declared into his almost empty pint mug.

  “I’m not connected to Mr. Boyle in any way, except that I was on Ellis Island when a friend of mine got mixed up in a crime,” I said. “Mr. Boyle might be able to set things straight for us, that’s all.”

  “Then you best go ask him yourself,” Paddy said. “West Twenty-ninth. It’s only a few blocks from here.”

  I was glad to be outside again in the cold, crisp air. I set off again in the direction of Boyle’s street, but I was getting cold and tired and hungry by now. I wished I’d been able to slip away an extra slice of Nuala’s bread from under her eagle eye. It was awful knowing that I had no money and no way of earning any. Those thoughts were going through my mind at the very moment that a man approached me.

  “Pardon me, miss.” I turned to look at him. He was smartly dressed, wearing a derby hat and white spats, and he was carrying a silver-tipped cane. “Are you looking for work by any chance?”

  I stared at him, wondering if he was an angel in disguise, been sent to rescue me. “Yes, I am, actually. Do you know someone who’s hiring?”

  “Me,” he said. “I’m looking for a smart, pretty young lady like yourself. In fact you’d do very nicely, I think. You’re Irish, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Just arrived off the boat?”

  “A couple of days ago.”

  “Living with your family here, are you?”

  “No, sir. Living with acquaintances at the moment. As soon as I find a job, I’ll be getting a place of my own.”

  “Perfect.” He smiled, revealing an impressive gold tooth. “If you’d be so good as to follow me then.”

  He led me down one backstreet after another. I wondered what kind of work he was offering. None of these buildings looked big enough to be factories. At last he knocked on a dark green door. It was opened a few inches and he muttered something, looking back once at me, then beckoned me inside.

  I was unprepared for what was inside the door—thick carpet, plush sofas, and chairs, a crystal chandelier hanging from a painted ceiling. These were the sort of furnishings they had at the Hartley’s mansion, not behind a plain door in a poor part of the city.

  “Holy Mother of God,” I exclaimed. “Whose house is this?”

  He smiled. “Nice, isn’t it? Madame Angelique likes to live well. Wait there and I’ll fetch her to meet you.”

  A maid? I wondered. Being a maid wouldn’t be all bad. I might get room and board, and I’d certainly get enough to eat. I looked up as a door opened and a large woman came in. The first thing I noticed was that she was wearing makeup. Her lips were bright red and her cheeks had circles of rouge on them, too. She paused in the doorway and looked at me through a lorgnette. “Ah, yes. Nice cheekbones. A little too skinny for my taste, but she might do quite nicely.”

  She glided into the room. I noticed the tiny feet. It was amazing how her fat body disappeared into tiny silk slippers. I smiled at her shyly. “I’m a good worker,” I said. “I’m used to hard work. I’m not sure what you’re wanting, but I’m a fair cook, too. Would there be room and board with the job?”

  Her small, piggy eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh yes. Room and board would definitely be provided.” She came very close to me, took my chin in her pudgy hand, and peered into my face. “You have just left your home, child? You are all alone here now?”

  “I have some acquaintances, that’s all.”

  “But you need a job and a place to stay? Then I think this might suit you very well.” Her accent was slightly foreign—French, maybe?

  “What sort of work would I be expected to do?”

  “The work isn’t hard,” she said. “You would be instructed in your duties by some of my other girls.”

  “When could I start?” This was indeed a miracle. I couldn’t wait to see Nuala’s face when I told her I was moving to a place that had real crystal chandeliers.

  “Why not now?” She looked at the man who had brought me.

  “Then I should go and get my things right away.”

  “Your things?” She looked amused again. “After today I do not think you will be needing your things. I am sure that you own nothing worth retrieving when I am going to supply you with a whole new wardrobe of the finest fabrics.” Another glance at the man, who wasn’t looking entirely happy. “The dressmaker was coming this afternoon, anyway, wasn’t she? We could have her measured up.”

  “If you say so. You really think she’ll do?”

  The hand grasped my chin again, squeezing it almost until it hurt. “She has the air of freshness, of innocence, don’t you think? It could be most appealing.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts, Jimmy. I make the decisions around here, and don’t you forget it. Do I or do I not have a feel for selecting girls?”

  There was a strange undercurrent going on. I felt a jolt of uneasiness. “Excuse me, but exactly what are you hiring me for? Is it a maid you’re wanting?”

  “Oh no, my dear. Nothing so awful as a maid. Your duties will be much more pleasant. We run a little club here. Very exclusive. We only allow in the most cultured of gentlemen, I can assure you. You will sit and chat with the gentlemen, you will persuade them to buy you champagne—”

  “But I don’t drink champagne.”

  “—which you will not drink, of course. And then, you will entertain them for the evening.”

  “Entertain? But I’m afraid I neither sing nor dance.”

  The woman shot a glance at the man. “You will not be required to either sing or dance. Now please. No more questions. You are quite fatiguing me.”

  I might have been brought up in sheltered Ballykillin, but I wasn’t completely stupid. I had heard of things like this, whispers about Colleen Duhig who ran away to Dublin and came to a bad end.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I think there may have been some mistake. I’m not . . . I mean, the kind of work I think you’re offering . . .”

  “But you already accepted the job, didn’t she, Jimmy?”

  I noticed that Jimmy had moved to stand in front of the door. For the first time I began to feel truly alarmed.

  “Look, thank you for your kind offer, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be going now.” I took a bold step toward the door. Jimmy didn’t move. His arms were folded. He looked amused, too.

  “Let me tell you something about myself,” I said, “The last man that tried to rape me, I killed him.”

  “Splendid. Then you’ll want to lie low for a while. You see, it was fate brought you to us today.” Madame whatever her name was moved around me, examining me from all angles. “Peach, I think, to highlight the hair. Red hair is so striking when done properly. Or green, do you think, Jimmy? Irish green for a sweet colleen?”

  I wasn’t sure what to do next. I looked around the room, wondering if there was something I could use as a weapon, but Jimmy looked like the sort of man who was not to be trifled with. If I broke down and cried, begged, told them I had planned to become a nun, would anything touch that woman’s heart enough to let me go?

  While we stood there, with time and reality suspended, there was a knock at the front door, a special knock, four short raps followed by one long. Jimmy opened it a sliver, not taking his eyes off me. A man squeezed past him into the room.

  “Whaddya got there, Jimmy? New recruit?” he asked, then his eyes narrowed. “What the hell ya doin’ with her? She was in the Harp Saloon half an hour ago, asking questions. She’s working with the cops.”

  A hand flew out and struck me across the face. “You think you make a fool of me, girl?” the large woman demanded. “Who sent you here? That scum at the pol
ice department? If they think they can spy on Angelique and close us down, they can think again. They’ll never get a thing on me.”

  My cheek was stinging and my heart hammering. “Wait a second, you don’t understand,” I shouted. “I’m not here spying on you. I am helping the police solve a murder that has nothing to do with any of you. I’m working with Detective Sullivan.”

  “Danny Boy Sullivan? The pretty boy himself?” Madame laughed. “He couldn’t detect a pig in the middle of its sty.”

  I picked up on this straightaway. “You’re right,” I said. “He’s useless, which is why I’m having to do the work. He’s got my friend”—no, make it more tragic—”he’s got my fiance, the man I love, locked up in the Tombs. He’s all for sending him back to Ireland to hang for a crime he didn’t commit. I’m just trying to find out the truth, so that I can convince this Captain Sullivan to let my dear Michael go.”

  Madame turned to Jimmy. “And so you blunder into Hell’s Kitchen alone, asking questions? You’re right, Jimmy. She really is too naive.” She looked back to me. “My dear, sweet little one. Your life may be counted in hours or minutes if you persist in poking your nose where you are not wanted. If you take my advice you will go back where you came from and stay there.”

  My heart leaped. She was going to let me go.

  “But I have to help Michael,” I said. “I was just trying to find one of the Ellis Island guards who might be able to help me. They said he lived around here.”

  “She was asking about Boyle,” the newly arrived man said.

  “Boyle? Do we know him?”

  “Bully Boyle. He’s been here before.”

  “Oh yes, Bully Boyle. The good tipper.” She smiled, then looked hard at me. “This man Boyle—why do you seek him out?”

  I felt as if I was walking on eggs. One false step and I was dead. “I thought he might have been on duty and unknowingly spotted the real killer.” Careful not to implicate him. Careful not to seem too eager. “I know I’m grasping at straws, but the police are sure my Michael did it and they’re not even looking any further.”