by Rhys Bowen
She looked disappointed, then suspicious, as I attempted to hurry past before she thought up any more questions. I wasn't quick enough.
“Just a minute,” she said, grabbing at my arm. “I've been doing a spot of cleaning out and I've come across some old clothes that maybe the young boy upstairs can use. He's beginning to look like a ragbag with no mother to keep an eye on him, and our son Jack was always very careful with his clothes. Not a harum-scarum like most boys.”
She darted into her sitting room and reappeared with a neatly folded pile of clothing that smelled strongly of mothballs. “Here you are.”
“Thank you. Seamus can certainly use them.”
I carried them upstairs. “Shameyboy? Look what I've got for you,” I called. No answer. Usually the children came rushing out when they heard my feet on the stairs. I opened the door of their room and found it empty. That must mean that they were off with their cousins again, swimming in the East River. I found this latest pastime rather dangerous and I'd expressed my worries to their father, but he didn't seem to mind. He seemed to think their cousins would keep an eye on them. Children did need to find ways to keep cool and have fun during the long summer days, and half the ragamuffins on the Lower East Side did it. Also, girls weren't permitted to strip off and swim like the boys, so my only worries for Bridie were that she'd fall in by mistake, be run over by a delivery cart or crushed under a pile of dockland freight. As I reminded myself yet again, they weren't my children.
I stood in the hallway that served as our communal kitchen, staring down at the pile of clothing. On the top of the pile was a boy's cloth cap—the kind of cap worn by every newsboy in the city of New York. A rather preposterous idea was forming in my head. I went straight into my room and tried on the cap. It took a while to get all my hair tucked into it, but once it was finished, an impish, cheeky face looked back at me from the glass on the wall. Excited now, I examined the rest of the pile. The knickers looked as if they might fit. I discarded my skirt and petticoat, then struggled into them. They were tighter than I'd hoped and came only to my knees instead of around midcalf, which was where most boys wore them, but they might do. There was no jacket big enough for me, but there was a white Sunday shirt. I tried that with the knickers and the cap. The result wasn't bad. I thanked providence for my boyish figure, usually so despised by fashion and connoisseurs of beauty.
Of course, I looked too clean for a boy. I've never met a boy yet who can fail to get dirty within half an hour of getting dressed. But that could be remedied. I'd wait until twilight and pay another visit on P. Riley, Discreet Investigations!
Six
As I prepared myself that evening, I realized that I had another problem—my feet. No boy would ever wear a pair of pointed button boots, and they were my only footwear. It was no use trying to borrow from Shameyboy next door. He only had one pair of boots and they were on his feet. I'd have to do what many poor youngsters did— go barefoot.
The hardest part of the assignment was sneaking out of the house undetected. Luckily Sergeant O'Hallaran had returned home for his dinner. I heard them talking in their kitchen as I slunk past. Once outside, it wasn't hard to find a puddle and get myself good and grimy. I set off for Washington Mews, my swagger marred by the hard cobblestones on my bare feet. I'd run barefoot as a child, but that was a while ago now and my feet were sore and throbbing by the time I reached Washington Square. My first tap on P. Riley's door brought no answer. I was angry and frustrated at having gone to such trouble and walked so far for nothing. But I hung around in the mews, listening to life in the city going on around me until darkness began to fall. I was just about to give up and go home, defeated, when I saw him. He came around the corner, clutching a cardboard box which, judging by the greasy stains already appearing on it, contained his dinner.
I took a deep breath, then stepped out to greet him as he started to climb the steps. I didn't want to risk surprising him and being attacked again. “Evening, mister.”
He stopped and turned to look at me.
Another deep breath. I forced my voice as low as it would go. “The lady next door says you need a‘prentice. I'm bright and willing, mister.”
“And your name is?”
I hadn't thought of that one. “Uh—Michael, sir. My friends call me Mike.” The first name that came into my head.
“Then you'd better come upstairs, Mike,” he said, giving me the cheeky grin.
He was smiling, pleased to see me. I couldn't wait to reveal my true identity to him and watch his astonishment.
I followed him into the dark room and waited while he lit the gas bracket on the wall. “Now then, uh, Michael,” he said, still grinning. “What makes you think I'd want to employ you?”
“I told you, mister. I'm willing and ready to learn. And honest, too.”
“Not quite honest,” he said, clearing off an area of his desk and putting the box down on some newspapers. “What was your name earlier today, Michael?” He took a sudden step toward me and yanked off the cap. Red hair spilled over my shoulders.
“I'll give you top marks for persistence,” he said. “Now, for the love of Pete, would you go away and leave me alone? Don't try any more stupid charades with me. I'm losing my patience and my good humor.”
“How did you know?” I asked. “I thought I looked quite real.”
“You thought you looked quite real?” He started that soundless chuckling, his body shaking silently. “Let me point out a couple of minor details, my dear. Look at your hands, to start with. Have you ever met a boy who didn't have dirt under his fingernails? And your feet? Oh, you've got them nice and dirty, but see how the little toe is pressed against the next one? That comes from years of wearing pointed shoes. Ever see a boy wearing pointed toed shoes? And then there's the smell of mothballs. Very odd that your clothes were stored away until this very moment, don't you think?”
I nodded. “So I have a lot to learn, I know. That's why I want you to teach me.”
“Do you think what I know can be taught?” he demanded. “If you hadn't slipped up with those details, I'd still have caught you out. You know why? Because you didn't think and react like a boy. You came up the steps daintily, one hand on the rail. A boy would have taken them two at a time, probably, and he'd always be alert. A boy in the city is used to being on the lookout for danger. He's had plenty of cuffs around the head and he doesn't want another one. And when he's on an errand like this, trying to convince me that he can do a man's job, he'd show a touch of bravado. You can't just dress the part. You have to get inside the head.”
“How did you learn all this?” I asked.
“Me? I've had a lifetime on the streets, my dear. Nothing sharpens skills like survival.” He brushed off his greasy hands. “Let me give you a little demonstration.”
He went through into a back room I hadn't noticed before and closed the door behind him. While I was waiting, I looked around. Under the clutter was a sparsely furnished room, the table being the only piece of real furniture. I went across to look out of the back window, which opened onto more outbuildings and another alleyway filled with garbage cans. I jumped when I heard a tap at the front door.
“Mr. Riley?” I called. “Someone at the door.” Then I went to answer it.
An elderly Jewish man stood there, bearded, dressed in the long black coat and tall black hat I had seen so often on the Lower East Side. “Mr. Riley? Is he, perchance, at home?” His voice was little more than a whisper and there was a touch of European accent. “It is a matter of great urgency, great delicacy, you understand.”
“Just a minute. I'll go and get him,” I said.
I went and tapped on the door to the inner room. “Mr. Riley. Someone for you.”
“I don't think you'll find him in there,” the Jewish man said. Before I could answer, he'd peeled off the long straggly beard and Riley himself stood there grinning at me.
“That was truly amazing. And so quick, too. I never suspected…”
“But how did you learn all this? Who taught you how. to do the makeup?”
“A long story, my dear.” He looked at me, long and hard. “Tell you what. After all the trouble you've gone to, the least I can do is offer to share my supper with you.”
“Thank you. You're very kind.” I'd have stayed if it had been tripe or pig's feet—my two least favorite foods. Anything to keep me there a moment longer.
He spread out a piece of newspaper in front of me on the desk and motioned for me to pull up a packing case. “Got a bit behind with the paperwork,” he said.
“Which is why you need an assistant,” I reminded him.
“Hmmph,” he said, cutting the meat pie in half and putting some on a piece of newspaper for me. “Have to use your fingers. Sorry about that.”
“Your name,” I began. “It's not really Riley, is it? You're a Londoner, not from Ireland.”
“That's where you're wrong. I was born in Killarney.”
“Then the accent is a fake? It's very convincing.”
He chuckled. “No, the accent's real enough. I was born in Killarney but we left when I was two. My parents were clever enough to use the little they'd saved to get out during the Great Famine. They got as far as London. Maybe they'd have done all right there, but they didn't hold up long enough. They were both dead by the time I was ten. So I was out on my own on the streets.”
“That's terrible. What did you do?”
He took a big bite of pie and wiped the gravy from his chin with the back of his hand. “What did I do? I learned to survive, that's what.” He leaned over confidentially. “Did you read that famous book by Charles Dickens? Oliver Twist—that's its name. Know the Artful Dodger?—that was me. I turned myself into one of the best pickpockets in London. They used to say that I could take away a toff's handkerchief in mid-sneeze and he'd not notice.”
“So you were a criminal. What brought you to the other side of the law?”
“Fate, I suppose you could say. In the end I got caught, as most criminals do. I would have been put away for life, only this American gentleman was visiting London prisons, wanting to see how he could improve the lot of the poor prisoners. I suppose I must have looked young and angelic, because he took a fancy to me. He persuaded them to give me a second chance and let him take me to America. So that's how I got here. He had me taught a
trade—printing, it was, but I never really took to it. So when I finished my apprenticeship, I tried my hand at a lot of things, including going on the stage. I wasn't much good at it, to tell you the truth, didn't have the voice, but I liked the theater. I worked as a dresser for a while—that's where I learned about makeup and disguises. Then I decided it was a pity that I couldn't put all the tricks I'd learned on the London streets to good use.”
“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.
Seven
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?”
