by Rhys Bowen
Instantly I realized my complete isolation. The actors onstage were absorbed with their play. I was alone and far from help. What a perfect situation for anyone who wanted to silence me. He would only have to crawl along the row behind me, grab me from behind and finish me off. Nobody would find my body for days. I fought to remain calm. I could jump up and scream. Ryan and his cast would be angry, of course, but I'd have scared away my potential attacker.
Seconds passed and nothing happened. I just couldn't bring myself to run screaming to the stage. How very absurd I'd look if I had been frightened by some trick of the lighting. But with the knowledge that I could scream if necessary, I got to my feet and started to walk determinedly to that pass door. It was hidden from here, behind a half-drawn curtain and up a little flight of steps. I had a great desire to break into a run. I reached the door, tugged on it and found that it wouldn't open from this side. The actors went on with the scene, unaware that I was down here in the dark. There was a large orchestra pit between me and the stage. No way of leaping up to light and safety.
As I turned back, again I caught sight of a fleeting movement. He was closer to the exit door now, cutting off my escape. Two could play that game, I decided. I dropped to the floor and moved at a crouch through one of the front rows of seats. I came out on the far side of the theater. Then, still at a crouch, I made my way up toward the exit doors on that side. If my potential attacker was waiting to intercept me on the other side, then it would give me a few seconds to make my escape. I reached the last row of chairs, then, praying that one of the doors was unlocked and led somewhere, I rushed to the nearest door and pushed. It swung open easily and I was in a carpeted hallway. The hallway was almost as dark as the theater had been. I could make out ghostly shapes of Greek and Roman busts in alcoves as I hurried past. When I came out into the foyer, I was surprised to find it was also dark. I had been in the theater longer than I had intended and night had fallen outside.
As my feet tapped across the marble foyer, I heard the sound of a door swinging shut on the far side. I didn't hesitate a moment longer. I ran for the front doors. The first one I tried wouldn't budge. I tried the others in turn, fighting back the rising panic, until the door on the end swung open for me and I was out into the bustle of a Broadway night. But not safe yet. It would be easy to follow me through the darkness and wait for a moment when I would be alone. He could even follow me all the way home if he wanted. Patchin Place was always deserted. I considered running a block to the Sixth Avenue El, but the thought of standing, waiting, on an El platform was too alarming.
I stepped out onto the crowded sidewalk and attempted to blend into the crowd. As I glanced back, I thought I saw a dark figure emerge from the theater and scan the crowd, looking for me. A streetcar came down Broadway, its bell clanging to warn pedestrians out of its way. As it was slowed by the human tide. I made a desperate sprint to catch it. I grabbed at the handrail just as it picked up speed again and heard the conductor shout at me as it sped off, abandoning me on Broadway.
No other streetcars were in sight. I ran back to the sidewalk and weaved through the crowd as fast as was possible. An occasional glance behind me convinced me that a man was also dodging through the crowd, keeping me within sight. One block passed, then another, still no streetcar in sight and still the sense of that presence behind me. Somehow I had to lose him. I reached Madison Square Park and stood on the corner where Broadway parts from Fifth Avenue. Ahead of me the skeleton of a new skyscraper was lit by kerosene lamps and the sound of hammering announced that construction work was still proceeding in the dark. I looked up at the skinny, oddly shaped building, and a memory resurfaced. Someone had described this very building to me. I even remembered its name—the Flatiron Building. The building on which my friend Michael Larkin worked as a foreman. I sprinted across the street, dodging a motorcar which honked imperiously, and plunged into the dark skeleton half-encased in wood scaffolding. Two men were emerging, swinging their lunch pails as they headed home. I grabbed one of them by the sleeve. “Excuse me, but would you know where I might find Michael Larkin?”
The man started at the sight of a strange female on his own territory.
“You'll be in trouble if they catch you in here, miss,” he said in an Irish accent thicker than my own. “Michael Larkin you're wanting, are you? Is it urgent?”
“Very,” I said. “If he's here, I have to speak to him. I've got important news for him.”
The larger of the two men looked around him. “I don't think he's knocked off for the night yet, has he, Denny?”
“Last time I saw him, he was up on the eighteenth floor, waiting his turn to ride down,” the other man replied. “If you wait on the street outside, he'll surely be passing this way in a while.”
“Is there no way you could go and fetch him for me?” I had no wish to wait alone in the dark for a Michael who might or might not materialize, making myself a sitting duck in the meantime.
The men laughed. “You'll not get me riding up there again in the dark, even if you paid me,” one of them said with a nod of agreement from the other. “I'm done for the day, off home to my supper and my bed.”
They moved forward, ready to drive me out of the building before them. I didn't know what to do or what to say to keep them with me. It sounded so dramatic to say that I feared I was being followed by an unknown assailant. I wished now that I had taken my chances and tried to outrun him through the crowd, or even found a policeman to help me.
Then there came a shout from above. One of the men grabbed my arm and dragged me aside. “Watch yourself,” he warned.
With the squeaking and grinding of wheels, a contraption came flying down out of the darkness and landed on the concrete beside us. It was nothing more than a flimsy wooden basket on pulleys, but four men stepped out of it, nodded to my two companions and headed away. With a great flood of relief I realized that one of them was Michael Larkin. At the same time one of my companions called out, “Here's the boy himself then. The Lothario of the scaffolds. One of your lady loves come looking for you, Michael me boy.”
Michael spun around, a shocked look on his face, stared blankly for a second, then his boyish face broke into a big smile. “Well, if it isn't Molly. What in God's name are you doing here?”
“Paying you a little visit, like you said,” I replied, conscious of the smiling men around us. “Actually I have something important I need to tell you. News that couldn't wait, from the Old Country.” I took his arm and led him away.
“It's not bad news, is it?” he asked. “You've not heard something bad from home?”
We were out in the street again. I looked around, but could not pick out my assailant in the crowd. “No, no bad news,” I said. “In fact, no news at all. I'm sorry. I had to tell a little untruth to get you on my own.”
“You? An untruth? I'm shocked.” He was laughing at me, having been told the full details of my flight from Ireland and the subterfuges needed to bring me this far. I laughed with him, feeling the tension dissolving. I tried to think how best to phrase my request.
“The truth is, Michael, that I'm being followed by an unwanted suitor. I can't seem to get rid of the man, so I wondered if you'd do me the favor…”
“And pretend I'm your beau?” He was still smiling. I knew he was years too young for me, being no more than eighteen, but for a moment I wished that this wasn't such an outlandish proposition. A steady, reliable man to protect me seemed like a rather desirable thing.
“If you possibly had time to escort me safely home?” I suggested. “Or at least see me safely onto a streetcar.”
“I'll do one better than that,” he said. “It was payday today. I'll take you out for a bite of supper if you like.”
“You don't have to do that.”
“It's the least I can do,” he said. “Do you not think I owe you a favor, Molly? Thanks to you I'm living the life of Riley.” He took my hand in his.
“You don't think your lady l
ove will object?” I asked.
He laughed merrily. “I've told her about you and she knows you're nothing more than a big sister to me. In fact, she's dying to meet you sometime. Come on, I know a good place where they serve the best boiled beef and cabbage you can imagine. Just like home.”
The food was hot and filling, I'll say that for it, but my own tastes had broadened a little, now that I knew there was more than boiled beef and cabbage in the world. We had a grand old talk, though, and I found I could relax enough to stop glancing out of the window every few seconds. And when Michael delivered me home, there was no dark shadow in sight lurking behind us.
Twenty–Three
By the time I reached Patchin Place safely, I had decided not to tell Gus or Sid about the incident in the theater. They pounced on me the moment I came in through the front door, peppering me with questions about the play. I was in the middle of telling them when Ryan himself arrived, still in a bad mood and demanding a whole pot of Turkish coffee to calm his nerves.
“Coffee is a stimulant, my sweet,” Gus told him as Sid went to make it.
“Then your divine presence will calm me down,” Ryan said, smiling from her face to mine. “Who could fail to feel serene among such beauty?”
“Irish blarney,” Gus muttered to me. “He's full of it, isn't he. Tell him how bad his play was—that will shut him up.”
Ryan's gaze swung to me. “You came to the theater today? You saw the play?” I nodded.
“Where were you? Why didn't you come to find me?” “You were otherwise occupied, yelling at an actress named Ethel for not knowing her lines.”
“Stupid cow,” Ryan exclaimed. “She has precisely five lines in that scene. Is it too much to ask that she learn them? Does she expect to walk out in front of an audience in a few days and ad-lib?” He sank onto the wicker chaise longue. It was a warm night and we were still sitting out in the garden. “So was the play really terrible? Tell me the truth—I'm man enough to bear it.”
“It was brilliant, Ryan. Funny, yet moving at the same time. And very wicked—all those gibes at the American upper-class society women.”
A smile lit up his face. “Yes, it was rather naughty of me, wasn't it. But somehow I couldn't help myself. The words just spilled out and there they were on the page. But you give me hope, dearest Molly. I just pray that the first-night critics are equally perceptive and kind.”
When Ryan left, well after midnight, I went to bed in a much calmer mood. How could I have reacted so hysterically in the theater? Anyone would think I was turning into the kind of frail and sensitive young thing who got the vapors at the slightest provocation. Thank heavens I hadn't told Gus and Sid about my encounter with the shadowy stranger. They would have told Ryan and all had a good laugh at my expense. I was almost tempted to laugh at myself.
And yet my sixth sense hadn't let me down before. I had sensed a presence in that theater and felt myself to be in danger. I sat on the edge of my bed and tried to analyze it calmly. Who could have known that I would be alone in a darkened theater? Apart from Sid and Gus, nobody knew I had planned to watch the rehearsal. Even Ryan hadn't known I was there. But any one of the cast or crew could have known—the girl with the paint pot could have told them. But why would any of them have wished me harm? They didn't know me from Adam. So who could possibly wish me harm? The only person I could come up with was the man who killed Paddy. But why wait until now? Why risk going into a theater? I had walked alone through the Village on several occasions. I had ridden the El. I had slept with my bedroom window open.
I got up from my bed and hastily closed it. The annoying thing was that I should no longer feel safe when I went out alone. It would only be a matter of time before my stalker found out where I lived, if he didn't know already. I should pluck up courage to go back to that theater again, and this time get a good look at the cast and crew. Only this time I'd make sure I stayed close to Ryan.
I fell into a dreamless sleep and woke next morning feeling refreshed. The whole thing seemed like nothing more than a bad dream. I found it hard to believe that I had let myself get so alarmed over nothing. The product of an overstimulated imagination, I concluded. My mother had always insisted that my imagination would bring me to a bad end, if my sharp tongue and my airs and graces didn't do it first.
In the afternoon I went back to the theater, only to find the doors locked and no apparent way in. I walked around a little up and down Broadway, examining the crowd, in case my assailant habitually lurked outside the theater— although for what reason I couldn't imagine—then, reluctantly, took the Sixth Avenue El home again.
“I expect Ryan was in a temperamental mood and wanted no interruptions,” Sid said about the locked doors. “They take the play on the road at the end of the week, don't they?”
That was reassuring. If my shadowy figure was part of the company, he'd be safely far away by the end of the week. But I'd dearly have loved to have been allowed a quick look at the company, although I wasn't sure I would recognize Paddy's killer again if I met him. When I tried to picture his face, all I remembered was dark intense eyes, a black hat or cap of some sort, and lithe movements as he leaped to safety. Not a lot to go on—it was an apt description of half the young men around the Village. I felt as if I was fishing around in the dark. I still wanted to solve Paddy Riley's murder. I also wanted to make sure I stayed alive, but I wasn't sure what to do next. Paddy would have known, of course. He had the experience to know how to follow a case through to its conclusion. Daniel would also have known, but I wasn't going to Daniel unless I really had to—at least not until I had some concrete facts to present to him.
The next day a late-summer hot spell arrived, making us all too languid to embark on anything more than pouring iced tea and fanning ourselves. I knew I should be pursuing my investigation, but I hadn't the energy. I did manage to stroll across town to see Shamey and Bridie and take them out for an ice cream. My worries about their catching diseases from swimming in the East River seemed to be unfounded. They both looked revoltingly healthy and Bridie's little face had filled out. I returned home feeling relieved.
That evening, Sid and Gus were invited to a showing at a friend's studio. They invited me to go with them, but I declined, not being wildly enthusiastic about the kind of modern art that Gus and her friends painted. I sat out in the garden until the temperature dropped pleasantly, then decided to go to O'Connor's. Maybe Ryan would be there and I could ask him about the members of his theater company. I found that I was looking around cautiously as I walked out of Patchin Place, then down Sheridan Street, but I reached O'Connor's without mishap.
The place was deader than a doornail. It soon became obvious that the clientele of the tavern were all at the showing to which Sid and Gus had gone. I waited half an hour while I sipped a ginger beer, then left again. Ryan certainly wasn't going to come tonight—he'd never appear anywhere where there wasn't a guaranteed audience. I was tempted to join the others at the showing, but decided against it. It was still too muggy for walking. So I went home. I'd indulge in a long cool bath before Gus and Sid came back. I crossed Greenwich Avenue and stood at the entrance to Patchin Place peering into the darkness. Only one gas lamp illuminated the far reaches of the street. A breeze had sprung up, causing the trees to move in grotesque shadow dances and sending the first leaves fluttering. I suddenly regretted my foolishness at going out alone. I had only taken a few steps when a black cat leaped from behind a tree and streaked across my path, causing my heart almost to leap out of my mouth.
“Nonsense!” I said out loud. Just because of one alarming incident in a theater, I was not going to be intimidated for the rest of my life. I walked forward with brisk, firm steps and head held high. The street was deserted. I reached my front door without incident, turned the key and let myself in. I stood in the hallway and heaved a sigh of relief. I was turning into an alarmist— this would never do. I put down my purse on the hall stand and felt around for the matches that we ke
pt on the little shelf below the gas bracket. The shelf was empty. I felt my way down the hall to the kitchen. There were always matches beside the stove. As I pushed open the kitchen door, I heard a crash. At that moment I felt a breeze in my face and noticed, with horror, the outline of the French doors leading from the conservatory to the garden. I had gone out leaving them open. From what I could make out, the breeze had blown over the small vase on the conservatory table.
I was about to reach for the matches when I heard another sound. This one didn't come from the direction of the garden. It was soft enough to be barely audible, but my senses were already fine-tuned. I stood frozen with fear. The sound I had heard was the unmistakable creak of a floorboard. Someone was in the house with me.
I wasn't sure what to do next. I had no idea where the sound had come from. I didn't think the floorboards on the ground floor creaked. I knew there was a squeaky board on the stairs, and one on the upstairs landing. If the intruder was upstairs, I might have a chance to escape through the front door. But if he was on the stairs, he'd see me trying to open the front door. On the other hand, he could already have come down the stairs and be waiting for me in the hallway. Not a comforting thought. There was no point in going out to the garden. It was surrounded by high, ivy-covered fences on two sides and the bare wall of another building at the back. Encumbered as I was with skirts and petticoats, I knew I wouldn't be able to scale either of those fences.
I decided against lighting the lamp, on the off chance that he didn't already know I was here. Holding my breath and moving as silently as I could, I pulled open the dresser drawer that contained the cutlery. I would definitely feel more secure with a large carving knife in my hand. My fingers closed around a knife handle and I lifted it from the drawer. There was a gentle swish of metal against metal that made me hold my breath again. Then, knife at the ready, I walked down the hallway.
