by Rhys Bowen
I returned home rejuvenated, refreshed and ready to tackle Monday's problems and a houseful of children. I wasn't so confident about tackling Nuala.
Fifteen
On Monday morning I dressed with care in my new business suit and added my boater with its new brown ribbon. This would be an important day for me. By the end of it I might be one step closer to solving Paddy Riley's murder. I would also have to tread very carefully. One of the people I was going to interview today might be desperate enough to kill again.
There was no point in visiting either Angus MacDonald or his wife Elizabeth before ten o'clock. The upper classes were notoriously late risers. So my first call was to Berger and DeBose, importers and exporters of fine foods and wines. Their office was in a tall brick warehouse building along the Hudson River. It was an overcast morning, with the promise of rain later and I had walked instead of taking the elevated. I needed a clear head for my encounters today. I knew I must convey no hint of suspicion in any of my conversations. I must be the innocent newcomer, trying to clear up the odds and ends left by my former partner. I need not even give away that Paddy was dead, if they didn't already know.
I presented my card to a skinny youth who returned to escort me to an inner sanctum where a large, bewiskered man rose to his feet and introduced himself as Mr. DeBose. “Miss Murphy?” The tone was not friendly.
“Mr. DeBose. I am the new junior partner in the firm of P. Riley Associates. My senior partner being indisposed, I am trying to tie up the loose ends in his current cases. I saw your name in our files and came to see if I could be of any assistance.”
“You're too damned late, aren't you?” Mr. DeBose's flabby cheeks puffed out like red balloons. “Tell your confounded senior partner that if he'd been doing his job when I asked him to, he might have caught young Hofmeister before he skipped off to South America with my money.”
“When was this?”
“When was it? Friday a week ago, that's when it was. He went to put the weekly takings in the bank and never came back. We found out from the police that he had passage booked on a liner sailing to Montevideo on Friday night. Of course we only found out he was missing on Monday morning, and by then it was too late, damn him.”
“So he was the one who had been cheating you?”
“Cheating us? I should say cheating was an understatement. Robbing us blind, madam. That's what young Hofmeister was doing. We had no idea of the scope of it when we called in your Mr. Riley. Now it turns out the young scoundrel was billing us for fictitious clients, creating fictitious inventories, and all of it going into Hofmeister's pocket. So what has your man got to say for himself, eh? Why did he take on the commission if he was going to sit on his fat behind and do nothing, eh?”
“I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Riley is dead,” I said quietly.
“Well, I'll be—” he muttered. “My condolences, of course. Had he been ailing for a while or was he taken sudden?”
“He was killed, Mr. DeBose. Brutally murdered.”
He turned white now. Truly he had a most expressive face. “Well, that is another kettle of fish, isn't it? I hope they've caught the scoundrel.”
“They will, Mr. DeBose. I'm confident of that. So I'll bid you good day. Since no work was apparently done on your case, there will, of course, be no bill.”
He nodded. “Much obliged.”
“My condolences on your dishonest employee. It must be a hard loss to bear.”
“You can say that again, Miss Murphy. A hard loss indeed. And not just financial. It's a question of trust, isn't it? Now we won't be so anxious to trust our employees again, I can tell you that.”
He held out a meaty hand. “Thank you for stopping by.”
Another suspect to cross off my list. The wicked Mr. Hofmeister was already on his way to South America when Paddy was still alive and well.
Which left me with the MacDonalds. Angus was the only son of a very rich man who was also a puritan. If Paddy had uncovered some kind of wayward behavior that would incur his father's wrath, maybe even lead to disinheritance, then he might have resorted to murder. My first true motive. And he had the funds to pay for a hired killer too. I must be careful not to expose myself to danger.
I decided to start with Mrs. MacDonald, the client who had hired Paddy Riley. It would be only natural that I should pay a call on her, to apprise her of the situation. So I took the Broadway streetcar to Central Park and then walked beside the park, trying to concentrate on my mission and not be reminded of happier times spent among those shady boulevards. I had been surprised to discover that the MacDonalds—millionaires or at least future millionaires—lived in an apartment house. Surprised, that is, until I saw the Dakota Building for myself. The street was lined with impressive turreted buildings, rivaling European castles in their grandeur, and the Dakota, taking up a whole block at Seventy-second Street, was the grandest of them all.
I was admitted to a lavish foyer by a doorman dripping in gold braid, looking like a European prince. “I will inquire whether Mrs. MacDonald is at home,” he said, taking my card. “Please take a seat.” He motioned to an armchair among the potted palms and disappeared into a small office room.
I sat there admiring the scenery until he returned. “Mrs. MacDonald will see you. Ask the elevator operator for the eighth floor. You will see the front door straight ahead of you.”
The elevator glided effortlessly upward. The operator opened the door and I stepped out into a thickly carpeted hallway. Before me were grand double doors. Looking up and down the hall, I realized that this was the only apartment on the eighth floor. Before I could knock, die door was opened by a maid and I was admitted to a magnificent living room with windows overlooking Central Park. The furnishings were ivory and gilt and the whole effect was one of lightness and space. A slim and fragile-looking woman was reclining on a day bed, a half-finished breakfast tray beside her, reminding me that the upper classes began their days much later than the rest of us.
She looked up, her face alight with anticipation. “You come from Mr. Riley? He has news for me?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news, Mrs. MacDonald. Mr. Riley died last week. I wanted to inform his current clients as quickly as possible, so that they could take appropriate measures.”
Her face fell. “I am sorry to hear about Mr. Riley,” she said. “Really, his death is most inconvenient. Do you know if he had almost completed his work for me?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea.”
“He had procured no evidence then?”
“I’m afraid I have no way of knowing that, Mr. Riley did not discuss his cases with anyone. He observed a strict code of confidentiality with his clients.”
“This is most annoying,” she said again. “I had hoped to nip this in the bud. I've put up with Angus and his unsuitable relationships for long enough. But this one has gone too far. I'm doing this for his sake as well as my own, you know. There is the family name to think of. His father would be appalled.”
I said nothing. She looked up at me sharply. “It is strange that Mr. Riley didn't keep his partner informed. Wait a minute. You're not working for one of those muckraking newspapers, are you? This wouldn't be the first time I've had newspaper reporters trying to worm their way in here under various guises.”
“I assure you, Mrs. MacDonald, that I am not a newspaper reporter. I am merely trying to do what Mr. Riley would have wanted of me.”
Her face had become a mask. “Well, thank you for calling. My condolences about Mr. Riley.”
She waved me away with a languid hand.
I wasn't as good at this as I had hoped, I thought as I rode down in the elevator. If only I could have thought of the right things to say, asked the right questions; she had been on the verge of telling me everything. She may even have known the name of Angus's unsuitable relationship. But at least I still had the motive—she had been planning to tell Angus's father. I would have to tread cautiously when I went to see Angus.
I had learned from the file that Mr. Angus MacDonald had an office in the financial district on Wall Street, in a building owned by his father. I traveled south again on the El and spent some moments brushing off the dust of travel, making myself presentable before I approached that marble edifice, the MacDonald Building. I was told by his secretary that Mr. MacDonald was in a meeting and couldn't see me. I asked when a good time might be and the answer implied never. At that I decided I had been humble and polite long enough. I asked for a piece of paper, wrote a note and asked the secretary to take it to Mr. MacDonald right away.
This he did, and it wasn't long before I was shown into Angus's office. He was an attractive young man, slim, dark-haired with the same languid grace as his wife. He rose to his feet as I came in.
“Miss Murphy? I understand that you have something of a most confidential nature to discuss with me—concerning the well-being of my family?”
I nodded. “It is of a most delicate nature, Mr. MacDonald. I should prefer it if…” I glanced at the secretary. Angus waved at him. “Thank you, Biggs, that will be all.”
Angus indicated a leather chair and I sat. “Please proceed. I am most intrigued.”
“I'm not sure if you know this, Mr. MacDonald, but your wife is gathering evidence to divorce you.”
The reaction was not what I expected. He looked, if anything, rather amused. “Elizabeth is planning to divorce me? And how do you happen to know this, Miss Murphy?”
“Your wife had hired a private investigator—a Mr. Riley. He unfortunately died last week. I was brought in to go through the contents of his office and to box everything up so that it could be let to a new tenant.” I had decided on the journey to Wall Street that it might be wise, for the purposes of this interview and my own safety, not to appear too closely linked to Paddy. “Your wife appears to be one of his current clients.”
“So why, exactly, did you come to see me?”
“To warn you, of course.”
“Very charitable of you.” The smile indicated otherwise. “Not hoping to make a little on the side? You haven't found some delicious scrap of incriminating evidence that you'd like me to have, for a price?”
“I found no evidence,” I said coldly. “And I have no personal interest in the matter, sir. I'm just trying to tie up loose ends. I understand that your father is a man of the highest principles and I thought you might want to take steps so that no hint of scandal reached him.”
“Then I suppose I am in your debt,” he said.‘There are, indeed, aspects of my lifestyle of which my father wouldn't approve. But why Elizabeth had to go to the trouble of hiring a private investigator I have no idea. If she had asked me for a divorce, I would willingly have given her one. It wasn't as if we were ever very compatible. We were chosen for each other as a suitable match before either of us was old enough to know better. I'd be quite happy to set us both free.”
“But your father” I blurted out. “Surely he wouldn't approve of a divorce?’
Angus smiled. “Oh, the old man would rant and rave for a bit, but he'd get over it. To tell you the truth, he never really took to Elizabeth. He didn't approve of her spending habits, and she has failed so far to produce an heir.” He got up and extended his hand to me. “Thank you for taking the time to come here, Miss Murphy. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm supposed to be working. My fa-
ther is constantly badgering me to improve my work habits and I suppose I should be seen to be making progress in one area of my miserable life.”
He leaped ahead of me to the door and opened it. “Good-bye,” he said.
I stepped out onto the street to find that the promised rain had begun. A solid downpour, with the rumble of thunder in the distance. I had no umbrella with me and did not wish to ruin my new business suit by getting drenched. So I moved to a pillared overhang of the nextdoor bank and waited, hopefully, for the storm to pass. I hadn't been standing there long when a figure sprinted out of the MacDonald Building, climbed into a waiting automobile and drove away. Even with an overcoat on and the collar turned up, I recognized Angus MacDonald. And as he drove away, I considered something else. Angus MacDonald was dark-haired, lithe, and moved with considerable grace.
Sixteen
The downpour continued unabated, giving me considerable time to ponder what I had just seen. Could Angus MacDonald really have been the young man who leaped from Riley's window? It was hard to believe—he was the son of a millionaire. Why would he need to do his own dirty work when a hired killer would be well within his means and readily available in a city as large as New York? Then a second question arose: Why would Angus MacDonald need to kill? The news of the impending divorce suit did not seem to cause him any alarm. Indeed he had expressed surprise at the trouble his wife was going to when he would have willingly granted her wish for a divorce. He didn't even seem alarmed at the thought of his father finding out.
As I stood, watching the rain get heavier by the minute, I had to admit that my efforts in the field of detective work so far had been far from stellar. I had followed up on the only three cases that Paddy appeared to have been working on, and I had met three dead ends. Lord Edgemont was about to go home to his wife in England, the embezzler at the import company had already absconded with the kitty before Paddy was killed, and
Angus MacDonald seemed rather relieved that his wife wanted to break up their marriage. Either these cases had nothing to do with Paddy's death, or I was not skilled enough to have asked the right questions. I was frustrated at my own lack of skill. If only Paddy had stayed alive a little longer, I could have learned so much from him. Now I wasn't sure that I had the potential to be an investigator. If I couldn't solve this case, then I had better think about a rapid change of profession.
A hansom cab pulled up to let out a passenger. I decided to be reckless for once and sprinted to seize it.
“Where to, lady?” the cabbie asked.
I wasn't sure anymore. I had exhausted all my leads. It seemed likely that Paddy's death had nothing at all to do with any of these cases. I hated to admit it, but Sergeant Wolski was probably right. Paddy had betrayed one of the violent city gangs and had paid the price. I decided to go back to Paddy's office and see if there was anything I had overlooked, but then I'd just have to give up and leave any detecting to the police.
As we splashed northward along Broadway I felt guilty at this wanton extravagance with Paddy's money, especially since he had been so frugal in his own lifestyle. So when the downpour eased when we were level with Bleecker Street, I signaled to the cabbie that I wanted to stop and hopped out. This was a mistake as I stepped straight into a deep brown puddle and emerged dripping to the ankles, the hem of my new suit sodden. I seemed to be doomed to make a mess of anything I undertook these days.
With these gloomy thoughts hovering over me, I reached Washington Square. Just as I entered the square, a torrent of students swept out of the main entrance of the university building and they flooded into the square, talking, laughing. I remembered that I was still in possession of the little black book and needed to find a language professor to translate it. I fought against the tide of students until I realized that they were vacating the building for their lunch hour. Their professors would also have gone to lunch, and I too was remarkably hungry. So I put off my task and followed the mob until I found a caf6 with an empty seat in it. It was one of the little French cafs that cluster in the backstreets around the square. It had speckled-mirrored walls and a high counter around the perimeter. I climbed onto a stool at the counter and ordered the plat du jour for eight cents. While I waited for it to arrive, I observed with interest the animated conversations going on around me. There were heated arguments about politics and literature and even the prospect of votes for women. How passionate they were about everything. How I envied them. The conversation broke off briefly as a fire engine galloped past. I hadn't heard the bell tolling this time, but maybe the noise of the students had drowned it out.
“It's all right, Freddy, you didn't succeed in blowing up the chemistry lab—it's going right past,” one of the young fellows shouted. There was noisy laughter and conversation resumed again just as my plat du jour arrived. It was a thick beef stew with vegetables, more suited to the cold of winter than a muggy summer day, but it was tasty enough and I managed to clean my plate as effectively as the students around me. Then, feeling daring, I ordered a cup of caf6 au lait, wanting to be part of this lively scene for as long as possible. As I fished for my coin purse, I spied the little black book and brought it out. I cast a hopeful glance around the room, wondering if one of these educated young people might provide the answer for me.
It fell open at the last written page. “Was OR htiw CL taSC'O.”
Still as incomprehensible as ever. What foreign tongue might use the English word WAS? After this the script became hurried and agitated. This last page was what Paddy had been writing when I had come in on him. “Was OR htiw CL ta SCO.” This last word intrigued me. I muttered it out loud to myself a few times. I knew Italian and Spanish had words that ended in o, but surely not an apostrophe then o.
I put the book down on the counter as the waitress leaned across to deliver my coffee. I took a sip, enjoying the rich frothy taste. As I stared at myself in the mirrored wall, my gaze wandered down to the black book on the counter. In the mirror I could read one of the words, HTIW had become WITH.
Suddenly it hit me. This wasn't written in a foreign language at all. Paddy himself had given me the clue when he had spoken about Cockneys speaking entirely in slang. He had been raised on the streets of London, where the delivery boys and apprentices hid their conversations from their masters by speaking what was known as backslang. I had heard of it and read about it in books, but I had never encountered it in my own life until now. I understood that backslang consisted of ordinary words pronounced backward. So the word “saw” became “was.” It had been simple but effective as a secret language of the Cockneys in London and was equally effective here. If the book was lost or stolen, most New Yorkers would be as stumped as I had been. The first sentence on the page now read, “Saw KL with LE at DELS.:” Kitty and Lord Edgemont at Delmonico's. Of course. Then I went on. The next page was scribbled hastily but there was a bold black doodle in the left margin. It looked as if Mr. Riley had attempted to draw a bull. “Saw RO with LC at O'CS.” This one made no sense to me. I hadn't come across an RO or LC in his cases, but if I guessed correctly about O'CS, then Paddy had indeed stopped off at O'Connor's on his return home that night, and had overheard something that disturbed him. I worked out the words, one by one, and came up with the following: “Can't believe what I heard. Just talk? Wouldn't go through with it? Not the type. Should check, tell someone.”
