by Rhys Bowen
My heart was beating very fast now. I would turn the whole thing over to Daniel, and Daniel only. Now that I knew Sergeant Wolski might be somehow involved, I could no longer risk going to any other policeman. If Daniel wasn't there, I'd wait for another occasion. I started in the direction of Mulberry Street and police headquarters, then realized I was passing very close to Schwab's saloon. Maybe the barman could identify the man with Ryan in the photograph. I was about to cross the street to enter the saloon when a sudden downpour brought me to a halt under an awning and gave me time to reconsider. What if my assailant was in the saloon at this moment? Then my desire to present Daniel with a finished investigation won out. It was, after all, broad daylight. If my assailant was there, I could have the bartender and other customers hold him while I went for a constable.
But it was still with some trepidation that I pushed open the frosted glass door and plunged into the gloom. The fug was less at this early hour and there were only two customers, both sitting at the bar. I drew the bartender aside and showed him the photograph. He shook his head. Yes, he did recall seeing the man in there a couple of times but he wasn't a regular and he had no idea of his name.
“They'll know, though,” he said, indicating the nowempty table at the back of the bar. “That lot you were sitting with. They'll know. Some of‘em are here most nights.”
So I had to leave empty-handed again. The shower had passed over, leaving steaming sidewalks and a hot-house smell of rotting vegetation as I continued on to Mulberry Street.
I was some distance from the Mulberry Street police headquarters building when I froze. Sergeant Wolski was standing on the steps, talking with another officer. As I watched, they turned and went into the building, laughing together. That setded it. My interview with Daniel would have to wait for a safer occasion.
I had no alternative but to go home. I considered leaving a message at Daniel's apartment, but I really wanted the triumph of being able to name my assailant. It occurred to me that Sid and Gus, maybe even Lennie and some of his friends, could accompany me to Schwab's that evening. I would be perfectly safe with them. Then, of course, I saw the problem. I'd have to show them the photograph. Sid and Gus would want to know why we shouldn't go straight to Ryan and ask him to name the other man. This would be die obvious thing to do, except that I wasn't completely sure I could trust Ryan. If he was somehow involved in a plot, then who better at lying his way out?
When I got home, Sid and Gus had returned from playing detective, but they had not come up with any useftil information. Nobody remembered seeing a fleeing man late last night. I told them of my plan to visit Schwab's that evening, and asked them to accompany me.
“Do you expect to find him there?” Sid asked, looking more excited than apprehensive. “I'd dearly love to pay him back for our bumps and bruises.”
“The bartender says there will be people there who know his name,” I said and the photograph just slipped out without my meaning it to. Gus and Sid begged to see it, so I had to feign a call of nature and sprint up to my room. There were fortunately two photographs that clearly showed Ryan and my attacker. I took one of them and cut it in half. Then I ran down again. “This is the man,” I said. “My former employer must have been tailing him and taken a photograph of him.”
“That's him all right.” Gus leaned over, “I'd know that face anywhere. Surly customer.”
“But Molly dear, we've been talking it over,” Sid said, “and we are not going to allow you to go to Schwab's this evening.”
“I have to find someone to identify this man, don't you see?”
Sid was grinning. “That is why you must let us go in your stead.”
“In my stead? Absolutely not. I've caused you enough danger as it is, and I—”
Gus held up her hand to silence me. “What if he's there, Molly? It would make more sense if we could get the information about him without arousing his suspicion.”
“And I have been in there before,” Sid added. “We are well-known around the Village. People expect to see us in taverns.”
“Please be careful, then,” I begged.
“We will,” Gus said. “Let's think up a plausible reason for wanting to identify this man.”
“He owes me money,” Sid said, and laughed. “What could be more plausible in the Village.”
That evening we walked together to Schwab's. I insisted on coming along and they agreed because they didn't want to risk leaving me in the house alone. So I established myself at the window of a little cafe across the street while Sid and Gus entered Schwab's. It seemed like an eternity. More people went into the tavern but nobody came out. I drank three cups of coffee and still they didn't come. I began to worry that something might have happened to them. What if the whole of Emma's group was somehow involved, and they had set upon Sid and Gus? What if the barman was also involved and had forewarned the group? I was almost ready to brave the tavern myself, wondering what I could use for a weapon, when I saw them emerge and cross the street.
“Sorry it took a while,” Sid said. “We had to make it seem that we were being sociable.”
“Sid was brilliant,” Gus said. “She asked if Emma was still in New York because she had written the article she had promised for her journal. Of course then we were invited to join them and we were able to bring the photo into conversation most casually.”
“You'd have been proud of us, Molly. First-class detectives, that's what we were.”
“And you found out who he was?”
“We did, but it took a while. He doesn't live in New York City. He's shown up a couple of times before, but nobody really knows him. He's not one of their group, anyway. Not one of the comrades. In fact, they have been a little suspicious of him themselves. Nobody even knew his name, but finally someone thought that he was called Soulguts.”
“Soulguts? What an extraordinary name. And do they know where we might find him?”
“Someone thought he might be staying at a boardinghouse down by the docks. On Barrow Street, they think.”
“Barrow Street?” It had to be O'Shaunessey's. I almost laughed at the irony. He was rooming in Paddy's old boardinghouse. “I know the one,” I said. “I've been there before.”
“So will you go to the police now?” Gus asked. “They can go there and arrest him.”
Darkness had fallen. Rain was threatening again. “In the morning,” I said. “I'll go to the police in the morning.”
“Molly—you're putting off the evil hour,” Sid said, taking my arm. “What do you have against the police, apart from the fact that they are corrupt, violent and crooked?”
I laughed. “I have my reasons,” I said. “A captain of police, a friend of mine—a former friend of mine—forbade me to get involved with this murder. He's not going to be pleased.”
“He's not going to be pleased if your body turns up in the Hudson,” Gus said.
“I promised I'd go in the morning. But I can only give my information to my friend Daniel. I have my reasons.”
“This is damned exciting,” Sid said. “I feel like Holmes and Watson, don't you, Gus dearest?”
I didn't feel in the least like Holmes or Watson. I felt sick. I just wanted this whole mixed-up business over and done with, so that I could get on with my life. The thought of passing my evidence over to Daniel became more appealing by the minute.
The next morning, again Sid and Gus were determined to escort me to police headquarters. I was equally determined that they shouldn't. I didn't want them to meet Daniel and have to explain to them the story of my relationship with him. And I didn't want them to see Daniel giving me a good scolding either. So in the end they gave in to my pleas, having made me promise faithfully that I would walk straight to police headquarters, taking no detours along the way.
To tell the truth, I was dreading the encounter with Daniel. He was going to be so angry with me, and I, of course, still felt rather angry with him. Some of that anger was bound to come spilling out. I
've never been known for my gentle nature and lack of temper. But I did agree that anything would be better than being stabbed.
I asked at the front desk for Captain Sullivan. The young constable disappeared, then returned. “He's on leave, ma'am. Taken a few days' leave over the holiday. Is the matter urgent? I can take down the particulars for you.”
“On leave?” I managed to sound calm. “Has he left town, do you know?”
He laughed. “I've no idea. I'm just a new constable here. I ain't privy to a captain's plans.”
I had no alternative. I summoned a hansom cab and was taken to Daniel's apartment in the area they call Chelsea, over on West Twenty-first Street. It was a quiet, respectable neighborhood after the noise and bustle of the Village. I rang Daniel's doorbell. There was no answer. I even rang the doorbell of the O'Sheas, with whom I had lodged briefly. No answer there, either. The whole street was silent, with blinds drawn, as if the entire population had vacated the city.
There was only one thing for me to do. I hopped on the Ninth Avenue El and rode back to Greenwich Street. I took a deep breath outside of Mrs. O'Shaunessey's boardinghouse. What if Soulguts was there and saw me? Would he be desperate enough to try something in broad daylight? Then I decided that I would be letting him know that I was on to him and wasn't afraid. Maybe that in itself would be a deterrent. I knocked on the door.
“I didn't expect to see you again.” Mrs. O'Shaunessey looked as unkempt and slovenly as she had done previously, and she was not eyeing me with affection. “I hope you haven't changed your mind about any of Mr. Riley's belongings because it's all been disposed of, and I've rented to a new tenant.”
“Nothing of the sort, Mrs. O'Shaunessey.” I gave her an encouraging smile. “I'm trying to locate a young man who might also be a tenant of yours. I was told he stayed at a boardinghouse on Barrow. You'd be the only boardinghouse on the street, wouldn't you?”
“Apart from that stinking establishment on the corner over there,” she said, nodding in the direction of the river while she crossed her arms across her large, sagging bosom. “Calls herself a boardinghouse, but it's no better than a den of vice, if you get my meaning.”
“Then I hope I'll find that the young man is staying with you. Fm not sure of his name, but I think it's something like Soulguts, and he's sort of frail-looking and skinny and he wears a black cap.”
“Oh, you mean Mr. Czolgosz.” She spelled it for me. “A Polish name, so they tell me.”
“Polish?” Now that was interesting. Wasn't Wolski also a Polish name?
“You're too late, deary. He was only here for a couple of days this time. He left yesterday.”
“He left? Any idea where he went?”
“I thought he said he was going home. He comes from some heathen place out west—Ohio, if my memory serves me correctly.”
My first reaction was relief. He was no longer in New York City. I was safe. Then I reminded myself that I was still a detective. I was still on a case.
“Have you cleaned out his room yet?” I asked. “I wondered if he left anything behind so that I could get in touch with him.”
“I don't think he had much to leave,” she said with a sniff. “Poor as a church mouse, if you ask me. But no, I haven't had time to get to his room yet. You're welcome to take a look. A friend of yours, was he?”
“Friend of a friend,” I said. “I promised I'd try and track him down for her.”
“It's back here,” she said. “Opposite the kitchen.”
She waddled down the hallway, puffing and panting, and opened a door at the end of a narrow, dark hallway. The room was equally dark and no bigger than a closet— even darker and gloomier than Paddy's old room had been. It contained a narrow bed, table, shelf and a couple of pegs for hanging. The window looked out onto a brick wall a few feet away. About the bleakest, sorriest room I had ever seen.
“He didn't want to pay much for the room this time,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “Seen better days, if you ask me. You can light the gas if you've a mind to.”
I lit the bracket and the room became even more dreary. Cracking plaster, peeling wallpaper, pockmarked linoleum. I shuddered.
A brief glance confirmed that Mr. Czolgosz had not left anything of value behind. “Funny you should ask to see his room,” Mrs. O'Shaunessey went on chattily. “It comes back to me now that poor Mr. Riley, God rest his soul, he took an interest in Mr. Czolgosz too. He asked to take a look at his room, on the quiet, like, although what he thought Mr. Czolgosz might have to hide I don't know. And Mr. Czolgosz got wind of the fact that I'd let him in. Proper tizzy he got in. Still, he was that kind of gentleman, wasn't he? Rather highly strung, if you ask me.”
While she was talking, I found the wastebasket under the table and tipped out the contents. Sheets of angry black scribble, torn into little pieces. A postcard, also torn into several pieces. This was easier to put together, because I had a picture to go on. When complete it proclaimed itself to be a picture of gardens beside Niagara Falls, Buffalo, New York. A rather pretty subject for the violent Mr. Czolgosz, I decided, and carefully turned the postcard over to see to whom it was addressed.
Ryan O'Hare, Esquire. C/o Hotel Lafayette, New York.
The message said, “You didn't think I'd have the nerve to go through with it, did you? I promised I'd make you notice me.” It was signed “Leon.”
I gathered up the pieces of the postcard. “Thank you, Mrs. O'Shaunessey. You've been very helpful.”
“Have you learned anything?”
“The postcard had a picture of Buffalo on it. I wonder if he was intending to stop off there on his way home?”
“Funny you should say that,” she said. “He asked to borrow my railway timetable. I think he mentioned Buffalo.”
I stuffed the pieces of postcard into my purse and hurried out onto the street. Then I walked as fast as I could, without actually picking up my skirts and running, to the Hotel Lafayette. Ryan had some explaining to do. I was going to get the truth out of him. Strangely enough, I wasn't afraid anymore. I was going to get to the bottom of this, if it was the last thing I did.
“Mr. O'Hare? I'm afraid you've missed him, miss.” The young man at the front desk gave me an apologetic smile.
“Has he gone to the theater already?” Ryan was not known to be an early riser.
“No, miss. He's left New York. I understand that he's taking his new play on the road before it opens on Broadway.”
“Oh.” I felt like a deflated balloon. “Do you happen to know where he's gone?”
“I think I overheard that the play is due to open in Buffalo—makes sense, doesn't it, with all those crowds over the Labor Day weekend?”
“Crowds?”
“The big exposition,” he said, looking at me as if I were soft in the head. “Been going on all summer. We've had guests here who've visited it and said it's like a dream—thousands of electric lights and towers and pavilions. They even have a Wild West show with a buffalo stampede.”
My mouth went dry. That little doodle in Riley's black book. It hadn't been a bull at all. It had been a buffalo. RO and LC had now gone to Buffalo. They were planning somehow to disrupt the big exposition. I had to stop them.
Twenty–Five
I was relieved to find that Sid and Gus were out when I returned to Patchin Place. My heart was racing with the crazy notion that was flying through my head. Someone had to go to Buffalo and intercept Ryan and Leon Czolgosz and, with Daniel gone, there was nobody I could trust at the police station—especially if Wolski was somehow involved. That meant I would have to go myself—an alarming proposition. I had never been out of New York before. I had no idea how far away Buffalo was, but I knew it was in New York State, so it couldn't be too far. Nevertheless, I might not be able to make it there and back in one day—I'd be required to spend a night there. I flung my nightdress and a hairbrush into Paddy's old briefcase and wrote a note to Sid and Gus to tell them where I was going. Then I wrote a longe
r, more detailed letter to Daniel, asking him to get in touch with the Buffalo police and laying out my suspicions. I included the photographs. I had no way of knowing when he would come back to his apartment to find the note. I just prayed it would be before I had to act on my own.
Throwing all financial considerations to the winds, I took another hansom cab to Daniel's apartment, hopefully rang the doorbell again, then put the letter through his mail slot. Then I withdrew some money from the bank and made for the Grand Central Depot.
I had never set foot inside that great smoky, bustling railway terminus before. I had passed through the station at Belfast once, but I had been on the run and too scared to notice much of my surroundings. Besides, it hadn't been anything compared to this vast, echoing place. Certainly nothing quite as daunting. I stood inside the doorway for a moment trying to get my breath. I fought my way through the crowds to the booking office and waited impatiently in the long line at the counter while shouts echoed through the building. “All aboard for Chicago, and all points west! Boston train on Platform Two!”
At last it was my turn to step up to the ticket window. A train for Buffalo was leaving at noon, I was told, but I'd be lucky if I got a seat. Half of New York was going to the exposition. I could wait and pay for a sleeper on the night train if I wanted.
“A sleeper?” I blurted out. “The trip can't take that long. It's in the same state, isn't it?”
“It's almost eight hours,” the bewiskered man behind the bars said, looking at me with amused scorn. “I'll wager New York is a tad bigger than Ireland. Now, do you want the sleeper, or don't you? I have a whole line of people here waiting to snap it up.”
“I'll take the noon train and risk not getting a seat,” I said haughtily.
“A long time to stand,” he said, smirking as he handed me my ticket.
I was on the platform in good time and of course I got a seat. I only had to walk through one carriage, looking suitably frail and helpless, before several courteous gentlemen leaped to offer me their seats.
