by Rhys Bowen
I offered to help, was rejected and waited until the last pot had been hung on the hook over the stove. Then I followed Mrs. O'Shaunessey as she huffed and puffed her way up the narrow staircase. Paddy's room was as dark and depressing as the kitchen had been. The window opened onto a narrow courtyard. It was over-furnished with a heavy wardrobe and a chest of drawers that took up most of one wall. There was also a small desk against the far wall and a single bed, unmade and untidy. I stood there, looking around, trying to take in the fact that Paddy had chosen to stay in this place for more than twenty years, when he could have afforded better. Maybe his bond with Mrs. O'Shaunessey was real. Maybe—I allowed myself to go further—there had been some mutual comforting going on, Mr. O'Shaunessey being dead these many years now, God rest his soul. Otherwise I saw no reason for him to stay.
As I started to examine the room in detail, something else struck me. There was nothing personal in this room at all—no photos, no mementoes, not even a picture on the wall. Paddy Riley had lived in that room for more than twenty years and not bothered to put his mark of identity into it. At that moment it finally hit me that this had been a person who really was alone in the world. No ties, no family, nothing. And on the heels of that thought came a second. This case will not warrant a proper investigation. There is nobody who will make sure justice is served, unless I do it.
I opened drawers aimlessly. The first one contained neatly arranged pairs of socks, the second neatly stacked underwear. Since Paddy himself was obviously not a neat person, the drawers must have been arranged by Mrs. O'Shaunessey—which would account for why he had hidden his savings at his office.
“Not found any papers yet, have you?” she asked, eyeing me suspiciously as I closed a drawer that obviously could not have been expected to contain papers.
“Not yet,” I said. “Tell me—you must have a pretty good idea of what Paddy kept in here—” Bad mistake. She bristled. “If you think I have time to go snooping through my guests' belongings …”
“Oh, I wasn't implying that at all, Mrs. O'Shaunessey. I merely meant that you did his laundry, so you'd obviously be in and out of this room with piles of washing.”
“Well, yes. I'd be in and out all the time. And I tried to keep his clothing neat as best I could. Not the tidiest of gendemen.”
“You should have seen the mess at the office when I first arrived.” I smiled like a fellow conspirator.‘Took me a full week to get the papers in order. So I wondered if you could tell me if the police actually found anything of importance here and took it away with them?”
She considered, then shook her head. “I can't think that they did. You know, the young officer was only here a few minutes and I'd swear he wasn't carrying anything when he left.”
“So there is nothing missing? This is how his room always looked?”
“Except that I usually made the bed when I had a chance. But the policeman said to leave everything exactiy as it was, so I did.”
I went through the desk. There was a new roll of film in one drawer, plus some packets of negatives. I'd take those when I could. No sign of the camera, though. And not much else of interest. A receipt from a cleaner's, an out-of-date calendar, some postcards and a map of Manhattan, which I'd also appropriate.
I closed the desk and went over to the wardrobe, feeling Mrs. O'Shaunessey's eyes boring into my back. A good dark suit, a heavy winter coat and several items that must have been for disguises—a long flowing cape, a top hat. I lifted a box down from the top shelf and found it to contain wigs and makeup. I'd have to make sure I got my hands on that when the room was finally cleaned out.
I closed the wardrobe again and handed Mrs. O'Shaunessey my card. “Please send someone round to let me know when the police say you can clean out the room. I'll come and give you a hand. It's too much work for one person. Some of this stuff, like the wigs and makeup, really belongs at the office, but I should think there's probably some items here that you could sell— make yourself a bit of extra money.”
She was as readable as a book. “Mercy me, I'd never thought of that. Happen you're right.” She looked pink and pleased.
“Did Mr. Riley have many visitors?” I asked as we descended the stairs again.
“Visitors? I can't say I ever recall visitors. A private person, Mr. Riley was. Kept himself to himself. Only lived for his work, didn't he?”
“He seemed to. Such a sad life.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
We reached the ground floor. “So you don't happen to know if there was anywhere he met up with friends—a particular tavern he liked?”
“Mr. Riley was not what you'd call a heavy drinker,” she said firmly. “He liked the occasional tot, though. I believe he stopped off at O'Connor's on the way home from time to time.”
“O'Connor's?” My heart beat faster. “And where would that be?”
“Oh, just around the block. Corner of Greenwich and Christopher.”
“You wouldn't happen to remember if he told you he stopped off at O'Connor's two nights before he was killed?”
She shook her head. “He came in very late, both that night and the last night of his life. I was already in bed when I heard his key in the lock. I called out,‘Is that you, Mr. Riley?’ and he said it was.”
“Did he sound quite—normal?”
“If you mean was he drunk, Mr. Riley hardly ever overindulged. But, now that you mention it, he was quite short with me that first night. Usually we had a pleasant little exchange as he passed my room on the stairs. But that night I called out,‘Is that you, Mr. Riley?’ and he said,‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, it's me.’ And that's all he said. No good night. No nothing. And that was unusual for him. Always had good manners around me, Mr. Riley did.”
I opened the front door. “Thank you, Mrs. O'Shaunessey. You've been most helpful. I'll look forward to coming to give you a hand getting that room cleaned out, so that you can relet it as quickly as possible.”
“Most kind, my dear. I'd appreciate that.”
I left her waving after me in a most motherly fashion. I was learning, slowly but surely, how to keep my mouth from running away with me!
I came to the end of the block and turned left, up Greenwich Street. Another elevated track ran along it and the noise of a train, rumbling overhead, drowned out the city noises beneath. I passed storefronts until I came to O'Connor's saloon on the corner. Even at midday it sounded pretty lively inside. I hesitated on the threshold. No woman of any reputation would go into a tavern alone. The last time I had tried it, seeking information, I had been subjected to ribald comments and forced to deliver a few kicks to the shins before I made my getaway. I wasn't anxious to go through that again. I steeled myself, wishing that I had a spare hatpin about my person for defense, and went in. The fug of smoke made it difficult to see in a poorly lit room, but I could make out groups sitting around several of the tables.
Two young men, interestingly attired in student garb—one in an Oriental smoking jacket, the other in a peasant smock—were being served at the bar. I waited patiently in the shadow for them to be served before approaching the landlord. As I stood there, a voice to my right exclaimed, “But darling, I thought you knew all the time it was I!” and the group around him burst into noisy laughter.
I looked across to see the same beautiful young man I had noticed in Washington Square.
Fourteen
“Paddy Riley?” The genial smile faded from the landlord's face in response to my question. He had heard the news of Mr. Riley's demise—such a shame. Of course he had been a regular. He visited the tavern most evenings for a shot of Irish whiskey. Always the one drink, though. Sometimes he sat with other customers, sometimes alone. I tried to take his mind back to Monday last, but he shook his head. “Every day's pretty much like another. As you can see, we're a popular place, especially with the young crowd these days. We're always run off our feet until closing time. No chance to notice who is here and who isn't.”
/> I asked about Paddy's friends and acquaintances, but again he shook his head. “He chatted with other regulars. Just generally joined in the conversation, if you know what I mean. There was nobody you'd say was his special crony.”
That pretty much summed up Paddy's life.
“Did he sometimes come here in one of his disguises?” I asked.
“I suppose he might have done.” Quite the most unobservant landlord in New York City.
“He would have been dressed as a waiter, last Monday night.”
The landlord pursed his lips in concentration. “He might have done. But again, Mr. Riley wasn't one to draw attention to himself.”
“And you didn't happen to notice anyone special in here when Mr. Riley came in dressed as a waiter? No unusual people who might have upset Mr. Riley?”
He shook his head. “I'd have noticed any kind of upset. I don't allow any fighting. Look, miss. Like I say, we always get a good crowd. It's noisy, but there's no harm in it, if you get my meaning. Rarely have to throw anyone out.”
I glanced back at the table where the beautiful young man was holding court, waving his hands in the air while he described something and those around him howled with laughter. I was interested to see that the table contained both men and women. This was unusual in itself. The tavern was normally the province of men, and yet Mr. Riley, the famous woman hater, had chosen this one to take his evening drink.
“I see you allow women to drink with men in here,” I commented.
“Oh, yes. It's only recently, since all the artists and intellectuals started moving into the area. Only a certain type of young woman, mind you. No painted hussies off die streets. The ones we get are very respectable—regular bluestockings, most of‘em.”
I made the mistake of glancing around again and caught the beautiful young man's eye. To my mortification, he winked. As winks go, it was wonderful—as if we two alone were sharing a private joke. But I found myself blushing like a schoolgirl and hastily turned away.
I leaned across to the bartender. “That man. The one at the table in the corner who is talking so loudly. Who is he?”
The landlord laughed. “You must be the one person in New York who doesn't know him. That's Ryan O'Hare, the playwright. One of your countrymen. Surely you've heard of him?”
Not wanting to appear a fool, I replied, “Ryan O'Hare. Of course.”
“He comes in here quite often when he's in the Village. They say he has a play opening at the Daley Theater—it was to have been the Victoria, but he thought that would have been a bad omen, considering …”
“Considering what?”
“Why—the reason he left England, of course.” He looked at me as if I was stupid and I didn't like to question him further. If Mr. Ryan O'Hare was as famous as indicated, I could find out everything I needed to know about him in the back editions of the New York newspapers. I added that mentally to the list of things to do at the library on Monday.
Like all good Christians, I observed Sunday as a day of rest. The fact that I couldn't proceed with any of my investigations on a Sunday also had something to do with it. I could visit neither of Paddy's outstanding cases until Monday morning. A long weekend stretched ahead of me, with no Sunday strolls in the park to look forward to. Before Seamus's accident I had always accompanied the little family to mass, even though I wasn't the most religious person in the world.
On this particular Sunday I had planned to take the two little ones to church in their father's absence, then maybe out for an ice cream. Those plans were thwarted when I arrived home on Saturday afternoon to find bedlam reigning in my own room. Shamey and Bridie were there, as were their three boy cousins, Malachy, Thomas and James, and they were leaping over my furniture with feathers stuck in their hair.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What's going on here!” I clapped my hands and the children froze.
“We're playing red Indians,” Bridie said, giving me her most innocent smile. “Aunty Nuala plucked a chicken and there were feathers.”
“If you want to run around like savages, you go outside and find the nearest park,” I said, wagging a stern finger at them. “You know better than to play that kind of game indoors, and especially in my room.”
“Sorry, Molly.” Shameyboy tried an endearing smile.
As they shuffled out, I heard one of Nuala's boys mutter, “She's going to be a right old tartar, isn't she? Is she like that all the time?”
I smiled to myself as I straightened up my bedclothes and the pillows that had fallen to the floor. I had just taken off my new costume jacket and was hanging it on the peg when my door burst open and Nuala herself came in. “You've heard the terrible news then?” she demanded.
“I thought I told you to knock first,” I said, glad that she hadn't come in two minutes later and thus caught me in my undergarments. “What terrible news? It's not Seamus, is it? He's not taken a turn for the worse?”
“Seamus is on the mend, thank the Blessed Mother and all the saints. He'll be up and walking again in a week or so. No,‘tis Finbar and myself that have suffered misfortune. With me not around to keep an eye on them, things went from bad to worse. The long and short of it is that Finbar lost his job at the saloon, lazy no-good bag of bones that he is, and the boys were up to such mischief that we've been thrown out of our apartment.”
“Dear me. That's terrible. I hope you've found a new place.”
She gave me a sly, sideways look. “What with looking after our poor cousin being such a full-time job, I'll not have a chance to go looking, and anyway, Seamus has graciously agreed that we can move in with him for the moment, until he's on his feet and Finbar finds himself new employment.”
“All of you? In that one room?” I demanded. “Mrs. O'Hallaran would never agree.”
“Oh, but she has agreed. I spoke to her myself. We're fellow Irishwomen. We understand each other. She told me I was a saint, giving up my own thoughts of happiness to nurse my sick cousin. And she knows it will only be for a while. Just until things straighten themselves out again.”
What could I say? It was, after all, not my house, even though I had rented the top floor and invited Seamus and the little ones to join me. I could hardly go down to Mrs. O'Hallaran and demand that she not let Nuala, Finbar and the three horrors move in without seeming unfeeling and hard-hearted.
“So I'll be keeping Young Seamus and Bridie with me a while longer then?”
“And I thought I'd move in here too,” she said, giving me what passed for a friendly smile. “Then we can have one room for girls and one for boys. It's up to young Seamus which one he chooses. Maybe he'd rather stay with his sister and you.”
“I'll try to make you as welcome as you made me,” I replied smoothly and she got my meaning.
“It won't be for long,” she said. “With the good food you've been buying, we'll have Seamus back on his feet and working again in no time at all.”
The smile she gave me was one of triumph as she closed the door behind her. I stood in my own room wanting to hit somebody, so frustrated was I feeling. I had little doubt that she had been working up to this the moment she set eyes on the place. And I knew it wasn't going to be easy getting rid of her again. I just had to pray that her boys would drive Mrs. O'Hallaran crazy within the week.
So Sunday was not the day of rest I had contemplated, nor could I look forward to my usual Sunday outing with the children. Nuala announced that she and Finbar would be taking the children to mass and I could come along if I'd a mind to. I hadn't a mind to go anywhere with Nuala. I made myself a sandwich and took the train all the way out to Coney Island. So, it seemed, did the rest of New York City. The car was packed with screaming children, laughing young couples and shouting Italians. By the time I got there, any hope of solitude was dashed. The beach was so full it was hard to see the sand between the people. I wandered around, listening to the screams from the Steeplechase Amusement Park on the boardwalk, where riders on mechanical horses were whisked aro
und a racetrack high in the air, and then beaten with paddles by waiting clowns when they descended again. What strange things people will pay money for.
In the end the temptation of the ocean was too much for me. I knew I shouldn't be spending Paddy's money on things for myself, but it was only ten cents to rent a bathing suit and use the changing facilities. The suit was heavy serge with so many frills that I looked like a giant chicken, but the first feel of the cold Atlantic on my toes made it all worth it. There were ropes extending out into the waves. I held on, just as a precaution. I'd never needed ropes to swim out through the waves at home, but then I hadn't been wearing a hundred-pound monstrosity of a garment. Then I was out at the end of the rope, farther than anyone but the strong male swimmers. I struck out and started to swim. Waves broke over my face and I felt the joy of being propelled forward with strong kicks. I turned on my back and floated, shutting out the whole world but the blue sky and white clouds above me.
“Are you all right, miss?” An arm grabbed me and I turned to see a young man in lifeguard's red and white stripes beside me.
“I'm just fine. Thank you. Floating and looking at the sky.”
“Only you're awfully far out, for a woman.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I can swim as well as you can. I'll race you into shore if you want.” I gave him a challenging smile.
“All right. Ready. Go.”
We both struck out for the shore with powerful strokes. He beat me, but not by much. “You're a grand swimmer,” he said, helping me to my feet among the waves. “If you hadn't been hampered by the swimsuit, it would have been level pegging. Too bad you're not a man. We could use more lifeguards on the beach.”
“As you say, too bad I'm not a man.”
He smiled, looked at me, went to say something, then shrugged his shoulders. “Nice meeting you, then,” he muttered and walked away.
Had he been about to ask me for a date? At any rate, the encounter had made me feel good. There were plenty of young men in the world just waiting to meet me. The swim had felt good too, although the looks of horror I got from the other young ladies when they saw my wet, bedraggled hair almost made me laugh.
