Death of Riley

by Rhys Bowen

“What's the matter, isn't my money good enough for you?” I produced the wad of notes. “Because if not, let me know. There are plenty of other banks in this city that would just love to have me as a customer.”

  I noticed the clerk's Adam's apple going up and down nervously. “Forgive me, madam. Your appearance is deceiving. I thought that—”

  “I'm a woman of commerce,” I said, glad that I would soon be dressing the part, if my costume was ready today, as promised. “It's the business money that I'll be banking here.”

  “What kind of business, may I ask?” The Adam's apple danced again.

  What did he think I was—a woman of the streets? “A respectable business,” I replied. “And a flourishing business.”

  He looked curious but said no more as he counted the notes. “I make it eight hundred and fifty dollars,” he said. “Does that agree with your count?”

  I nodded, too stunned to answer. Almost a thousand dollars. In Ireland that was the wealth of dreams and fantasies. Of course, it wasn't mine, but it was certainly enough to kill for. Who knew it was there? Had anyone seen Paddy hiding it away? Was it possible that he had mentioned it to anyone? Paddy, who didn't give away a single useful detail to me, his assistant? But then I realized I knew little of what he did outside of work. From the way he ate his dinner in the office, I concluded that work was pretty much his life. But what if he drank with his cronies afterward, and became loose-lipped in his cups? That was something I should check into.

  I waited patiently while the clerk took down the details. I gave him the office address. “P. Riley Associates,” I said, changing the firm's name to suit the occasion. “I am Miss Murphy, junior partner.” My, but I was rising quickly through the ranks! I could see this made an impression on the clerk. He wrote everything down in a neat flowing script and eventually handed me a receipt with a bow. “The very best fortune in your business, whatever it may be.” He gave me an oily smile. I nodded graciously to the uniformed doorman as I swept past him.

  I was feeling so pleased with myself that it called for a celebration. So I went into a little French bakery on Bleecker Street for a cup of coffee and a kind of flaky pastry they called a croissant. I was just discovering that the world is full of delicious new things and I aimed to try them all. As I pulled out the money to pay, I noticed Paddy's black notebook, still lying in the bottom of my bag. I should have handed it over to the police, of course. Maybe someone clever at Mulberry Street could have worked out what language it was written in; but then again, maybe Sergeant Wolski would have tossed it into the nearest wastebasket. I took a long sip of milky coffee and flicked through it idly. Why didn't I recognize it? I had a grounding in French and Latin. I'd even been exposed to a little German. This resembled none of those languages. I turned to the last page. Paddy's sharp black doodles decorated the left side of the page, along with some hurried writing.

  At the top of the page the writing was still even, as if the writer had taken time. “Was LK htiw EL ta SLED.”

  Even here he was using initials. I shook my head and put it back in frustration. I'd have to pay a visit to the languages department at the university and see if a professor there could decipher this gibberish. But in the meantime I had other leads to follow. I turned to the back of the notebook and used a blank page for my own notes. What I should do was try to work backward. Paddy had gone to Delmonico's on the night before he died. Then he had stopped off somewhere on his way home. I wrote down the order in the little black book: Del's, trace his route home, visit his apartment. Maybe he'd left some clue there. It would be interesting to see if the police had bothered to search it.

  I was impatient to get going, but I couldn't do a thing until my costume was ready. I'd already noted the reception I got at the bank. While I looked like a factory girl, I'd be treated as one. J had another cup of coffee and copied down the names from Paddy's last cases. Kitty Le Grange—I knew where she lived, next door to Miss Van Woekem. Lord Edgemont—he should be easy enough to trace. His wife Lady Clarissa in England was the client, so it would have been in her interest to keep Paddy alive until he had come up with evidence for her.

  Next case involved a couple named MacDonald. Wife Elizabeth wanting evidence against husband Angus. I wasn't so sure how I'd find out about them. I wasn't even sure how I'd approach the likes of Lord Edgemont and Kitty Le Grange. I could hardly demand an audience and then cross-examine them about killing my employer, could I? For one thing, if any of them had ordered the killing and they thought I was nosing around, then I'd be next. I'd already had more than my share of luck, blundering around in an investigation. I couldn't expect to repeat that luck indefinitely. So this would take careful thought and planning. I finished my coffee, paid the bill and went for a walk.

  I always find that walking in the fresh air clears the brain. The problem was finding any fresh air. New York in August stank. Even on posh streets like Fifth Avenue the smell of drains, plus the piles of horse manure in the street, created a subtle odor which was not conducive to a clear head. I could have taken the trolley or the Sixth Avenue El up to Central Park, but I wasn't anxious to go back there. Too many memories of happy times with Daniel. Instead I walked west to the Hudson and followed West Street along the docks. A big ocean liner was coming in and myriad little craft had come out to greet her. Tugboats tooted their horns and flags were flying.

  “The new German ship. She's just beaten the Atlantic Record,” I heard someone saying. “Now the English will have to build a faster boat to get it back.”

  Was it only a few months ago that I had come across the Atlantic in such a ship? Already it seemed a lifetime away. I felt that I belonged to this big, vibrant city, and my past life in Ireland was like a dream. I breathed in the brisk, salty wind off the Atlantic and felt a pang of longing for my home. Only one brief pang, though. Now back to the case in hand, I told myself severely. How was I going to find out more about these people and how was I going to approach them?

  Then I had a flash of inspiration. Miss Van Woekem! If anyone knew about New York society, it was she. And she had asked me to pay a call on her from time to time. Now that her goddaughter would be long gone back to White Plains, thus avoiding any embarrassing encounters, this might be a perfect opportunity.

  The next morning, dressed in my smart new costume, new shoes, my hair pinned back under a jaunty new beige hat I had bought on a whim after seeing it in Wanamaker's window, I presented my calling card to Miss Van Woekem's maid. I was invited into the hallway and soon summoned to the sitting room on the first floor.

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” the old lady greeted me. “I hardly recognized you. Quite an improvement on those dreadful garments you were wearing the last time I saw you. So you've managed to establish yourself in business? Well done.” She nodded, then glanced again at my card. “Already a junior partner too. My, my.” There was amusement in her voice, as if she sensed that the junior partner title had been of my own creation. “Most kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to visit an old woman. You'll take tea, of course?”

  A tray was brought. For the first time in my life I sat in the home of a patrician being treated as an equal.

  “So tell me”—she leaned forward confidentially— “are you working on any interesting cases?”

  “I am, as a matter of fact.” I leaned toward her and lowered my voice. “One involving your next-door neighbor, in fact.”

  “That woman? I'm not at all surprised. An actress, she calls herself.” Miss Van Woekem snorted. “Actress, my foot. The procession of men up and down those stairs requires a new stair carpet at least once a year. Which one is it now?”

  “I'm not really at liberty to say,” I said. “Client confidentiality, you know.”

  “I shouldn't think there is anything in the least confidential about that woman's activities. She flaunts herself around town with half the male population. Why, when I was at the theater last week, she was sitting at the front of a box with that En
glish lord, giggling and talking loudly so as to attract attention to herself.”

  “Would that be Lord Edgemont?” I asked casually.

  “That's the one. Of course those two deserve each other. He'd chase anything in skirts. They say he's gone through the entire family fortune. Hardly ever goes home to administer his estates. And his father was such a good man too. Funny how there is always a throwback.”

  “So he spends all his time in New York these days, does he?” I took a delicate bite of watercress sandwich.

  “Keeps a permanent suite at the Waldorf Astoria, so I understand, although how long before he gets thrown out for not paying his bills, I couldn't say. And when he's finally bankrupt you can bet that Miss Kitty next door will drop him like a hot coal.” She gave a satisfied chuckle.

  So far, so good. I took another bite of watercress sandwich and was emboldened to ask, “What do you know of Angus MacDonald?”

  She looked surprised. “His name hasn't come up in connection with Kitty Le Grange, surely?”

  “Oh, no. This is something quite different.”

  “Thank God for that. The old man would drop dead of a heart attack if he heard that his son was involved with actresses.”

  “The old man?”

  “Angus MacDonald is the son of J.P. Surely you knew that? J.P. MacDonald, the shipping and railway magnate? I've no time for him myself. J.P. likes to think that he's now one of the Four Hundred. Of course he's not. He might be rich as Croesus, but he's still the son of a Scottish peasant. He's actually proud of coming over here with nothing and working his way to a fortune. He's kept those dreadful Scottish peasant Calvinist values, too. Won't touch alcohol. Won't accept any social invitations on Sundays. So young Angus has been misbehaving, has he? Papa won't like that at all.”

  I left the house on Gramercy Park some half hour later with all the information I needed and a possible motive for murder too. If Angus MacDonald was the only son of a strict Calvinist millionaire and about to be sued for divorce, he might do anything to keep the evidence from getting to his father.

  Twelve

  Now I had plenty of leads to follow up. It made sense that my first visit should be to Delmonico's, and from there I could trace Paddy's route home. I stood in Gramercy Park feeling the sun on my face. The twitter of birds and the heady scent of flowers wafted to me from the gardens. I remembered my bleak despair and determination the last time I left this address. My grief over Daniel and Paddy had receded so that it no longer threatened to consume me. Now it felt good to be alive. I strode out along Twenty-first Street like a racehorse released from the starting gate.

  It was still too early in the day for anything to be happening at Delmonico's. A man in a dirty apron was swabbing down the front steps, and a woman was working on the brass on the open front doors. From inside came the clatter of dishes.

  The man washing the steps looked up and saw me. “We're closed,” he growled.

  “Is there someone I could talk to? A head waiter, perhaps?”

  “They don't show up for hours yet.”

  “Anyone who might have been on duty at night earlier this week? It's a very important matter.”

  An evil grin crossed his face. “Wassamatter—leave some telltale evidence in a private room, didja? Don't worry, no one at Del's ever blabs.” He put down the mop. “I'll see if Mr. Carlo is around.”

  He led me inside, then shuffled off into the kitchen area. I relished my chance to stand alone, taking in the scene. At this time of day it was like being in a vast cavern. The only light came through the open front doors and from doorways leading out to the kitchens, but gradually my eyes became used to the darkness and I gaped at what I was seeing. Such elegance! The polished wood and the sparkling chandeliers, the potted palms, the soft plush of the booths, the doors to private rooms now enticingly open—this was how the other half lived all right. Someday I'd dine here myself, if I ever came up with a suitable escort. That was a bad afterthought. Immediately I pictured Daniel sitting in that corner booth with Miss Norton, and I made myself walk around examining the flower arrangements to stop any further thoughts from escaping.

  “Yes, miss, may I help you?” The gray-haired man looked haggard and hollow-eyed, as if he hadn't been to sleep in a while.

  “Sorry to disturb you. I know you must be busy.” I handed him my card. “My senior partner was conducting an investigation on a couple who may have dined here in a private room last Monday night. I wondered if you keep a record of your customers.”

  He looked at me as if I'd suggested he show me his underwear. “Reveal the names of our customers? My dear young lady, it would be more than my job was worth.”

  Was that a hint that he wanted a bribe? It could be some of Paddy's money well spent. I regretted that I had been so modest with the amount I had allotted myself for expenses.

  “If there is anything I could do to make you change your mind…” I wasn't sure how this bribery business worked. I opened my purse and went to reach inside.

  “Not for all the tea in China,” he said firmly.

  “And would it compromise your job if you just happened to mention where I might find the reservation book and take a peek for myself?”

  “My dear young—” he began again.

  “Look, it's very important, or I wouldn't be here,” I said. “My partner has been killed. I know he came here on Monday night.”

  “Your partner?” Did I detect a flicker of interest?

  “He was—” I was about to say “conducting an investigation.” I swallowed back the words at the last second. I didn't think this man would take kindly to the news that one of his waiters on Monday night had been a detective in disguise. “He was here to meet a business associate,” I finished lamely. “And the business associate was with a young woman, in a private dining room, so I wondered…”

  Mr. Carlo still shook his head firmly. “Our confidentiality is as golden as the seal of the confessional in the church. We have never divulged the name of a private customer and never will. Good day to you, miss. We open for luncheon in just over an hour.”

  So far my investigation techniques weren't exactly impressive. I left Delmonico's more subdued than I had entered it. I could come back, maybe, and attempt to squeeze more information out of the waiters. But then again, it might be more than their jobs were worth to divulge restaurant secrets. I couldn't even see myself sneaking back to take a peek at the reservation book.

  Maybe Riley had all this information down in his little black book. My next task should be to go to the library, or even to New York University, and find someone who could interpret the unknown language. That would have to wait until next week, however. I didn't think there were classes on Saturdays. So there probably wasn't too much more I could do until Monday—except to follow Paddy's route home.

  Delmonico's is located on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue. It was unlikely that Paddy would have spent money on a cab—I hadn't seen any evidence of his wasting money on anything—and it was too far to walk comfortably, which meant he had probably taken the Sixth Avenue elevated railway. I consulted my notes. His home address was a boardinghouse on Barrow Street, a disreputable neighborhood down by the docks, according to his own description. I knew it was on the far west of the area they call Greenwich Village. I tried to picture the area in my mind. If he had taken die Sixth Avenue El, where would he have alighted? This would be crucial. Somewhere on that route home he had stopped off for a drink and overheard something so shattering that it may have brought about his death.

  As I walked down Twenty-sixth Street toward the El station, I heard a clock on a nearby tower chiming eleven. This made me pause and think. I was already halfway to the high society areas of Upper Manhattan. My frugal upbringing reminded me that I should save the expense of an extra train ride whenever possible, even though I apparently had an endless supply of money to play with. Eleven o'clock might be just the sort of time when a man-about-town might be bestirring
himself. If I were sensible, I'd go first to the Waldorf Astoria and interview the wayward English lord.

  Thus I turned back and set off up Fifth Avenue. I knew where the Waldorf Astoria was. Daniel had pointed it out to me on one of our Sunday walks. “That's where the real nobs stay,” he had told me. “It costs more to stay a week there than you could earn in a whole year.”

  I should never have thought of Sunday walks with Daniel. I reminded myself that M. Murphy, junior partner and businesswoman, had better use her brain to come up with a plan of campaign for meeting Lord Edgemont.

  I must tread carefully. I could be blundering into a murderer's den, although I didn't think so. I tried to analyze whether Lord Edgemont would make a likely killer. Not personally, of course. The young man who had punched me and leaped from the window in no way resembled the English aristocracy, as I had witnessed them in my childhood. But then men of Lord Edgemont's standing could afford to hire a killer to do their dirty work—if he needed to hire a killer, that was. I had been told he was in financial difficulties, which Miss Van Woekem hinted would bring the relationship with Kitty Le Grange to an end anyway. If his money ran out in New York, he'd have to go home to his wife and estate in England, so she'd get him back—if that was what she wanted.

  So no real motive for murder there, even if she planned to drain his coffers to the last penny with alimony demands. Since working with Paddy I had come to learn that marriages among the rich were more like business deals and that some women became considerably richer by divorcing several husbands. What a strange world. When I married, it would only be for love.

  I reached the imposing facade of the big hotel and stood on the sidewalk staring up at the high colonnade, collecting my thoughts before I tackled the doorman at the front door. Then I decided that nothing ventured was nothing gained. I was perfectly safe in a hotel, surely, when a cry could bring any number of servants running to my aid.

  So I held my head erect and nodded to the doorman as I swept past him.