by Rhys Bowen
I sighed. In spite of all my efforts, Shamey was turning into a little New Yorker. We crossed Waverly and headed for Sixth Avenue.
“I don't jump in,” Bridie said, looking up at me apologetically. “I just stay at the edge, honest, Molly.”
“But I don't like you in that dirty water, sweetheart,” I said, stroking back her plastered, wet hair. “God knows what is in that river.”
“Sorry, Molly,” Shamey muttered.
It was almost dark as we entered Patchin Place.
“I'm putting on hot water for a bath for the pair of you,” I said. “And then it’s bread and milk and straight to bed.”
I bustled around, heating water and then filling the zinc bath for them. I was just heating up the milk when Seamus Senior came home.
“Sorry I've been out so long,” he said, pausing to wipe his red, sweat-covered face with a dirty handkerchief. “I met some of the fellows I used to work with on the subway tunnel. They treated me to a couple of beers. They think it’s shocking that I wasn't paid any compensation for getting myself buried alive. They say I should get myself a good lawyer and sue the bastards.”
He was speaking with uncustomary belligerence and I thought it was probably the beer in him talking. That’s often the way with us Irish. A couple of beers and we're ready to take on the world, single-handedly.
“Now where would youfindthe money for a lawyer?” I asked, wisely ignoring his use of a swear word in front of a lady. “You just put your energies intofindinga job.”
I realized as I said it that I was beginning to sound and act like a wife. I shut up instantly. Seamus still had a wife at home in Ireland, as far as we knew. And I wasn't about to volunteer to step into her shoes.
“I promised to stop in across the street,” I said. “There’s bread and milk for the little ones, and there’s cheese in the larder if you're still hungry after all that beer.”
Then I made my escape and rapped on the door of number nine. After a disappointing minute during which I thought they might be out, the door was thrown open and my friend Gus stood there in all her glory. She was wearing an emerald green silk kaftan with a matching band tied around her forehead and she held a cigarette in a long ebony holder in her free hand.
“Molly, my darling,” she exclaimed. “What perfect timing. I sent Sid over to fetch you but you weren't home. Come in, come in, do.”
I was half dragged inside.
“Youll never guess who is visiting and pining for you?” she asked. I thought it wiser not to guess. You never knew who might be visiting Sid and Gus. She shoved me into the front parlor, which was brightly lit with candelabras to supplement the gas brackets.
“Here she is, I've found her,” Gus announced in triumph. “You can stop sulking, Ryan.”
I looked around me in delight. Lounging on the blue velvet sofa was my good friend Ryan O'Hare, wicked and fashionable Irish playwright. Next to him was another slim and lovely young man who gazed at me silently.
Ryan got to his feet. In deference to the hot weather he was wearing an embroidered cotton peasant shirt with frilly cuffs, opened down the front in comic opera fashion.
“Molly, my angel. I have been positively pining for you,” he ex-claimed in his smooth, well-bred tones. “How long has it been?”
“At least since last week, Ryan,” I said, laughing as I accepted his peck on the cheek. “And I don't think you've missed me one bit.” My gaze moved to his silent companion and Ryan laughed delightedly.
“Perspicacious as ever, my sweet. This is Juan. He’s Spanish and speaks little English as yet. I'm educating him.”
“I'll bet you are,” Sid said dryly.
The dark young man continued to smile.
“Where on earth did you meet him, Ryan?” Gus asked.
“Waiter. Delmonico’s. Thursday last.” He patted my hand. “Juan. Miamuja Molly.”
Juan got to his feet and bowed. I nodded in return.
“So will you stay for dinner, Molly? We're entering a Chinese phase,” Gus said. ’Sid is experimenting with duck.”
“I'd love to,” I said. “I have just escaped from domesticity across the street.”
“Very tiring. Ryan, pour Molly some ginger wine. It should be rice wine, but we couldn'tfindany,” Sid said. “And excuse me if I have to return to my duck in the kitchen before it escapes from the pan.”
“It’s not still alive, is it?” I asked anxiously. One never knew with Sid and Gus.
Sid laughed. “Of course not, silly But I'm frying it at an awfully high temperature. I should be watching it.”
“I think I'd better come and help you, Sid,” I said.
Ryan handed me the drink, then refused to let go of my other hand. “Hurry back to me, my sweet. You know I pine when you are gone,” he said.
I laughed. “Ryan, you may not sound Irish but you know you're full of blarney. In fact you're just like other men.”
“Don't say that, for pity’s sake.” He gave an exaggerated look of horror. “You strike daggers at my heart.”
“Well, you are. Sweet and solicitous as anything when it suits them, and when it doesn't suit them, then we women don't exist.”
“There speaks a voice of bitterness, Molly Are you referring to Daniel the deceiver?” Sid paused and looked back from the doorway.
“No, to Jacob the spineless,” I snapped.
“Jacob? Good, kind, sweet Jacob who could do no wrong? That one?” Gus asked innocently.
The very same. I've changed my opinion of him.” And I re-counted the incident in Rivington Street. “I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that men are an infernal nuisance,” I concluded, “Life would progress more smoothly without them.”
“Ah, but just think how boring it would be without us around to brighten your dull little lives,” Ryan said, patting my hand.
Sid’s gaze was suddenlyrivetedto the window. “Speak of the devil, Molly,” she said.
“Don't tell me it’s Jacob come to apologize!” I pulled back the curtain to look out.
“No, it’s Daniel the deceiver, about to knock on your front door,” Sid said delightedly. “Do you think he’sfinallygiven up his betrothed and afortunefor a chance at true love?”
“I hardly think so,” I said. “I was with him only two hours ago and he was still betrothed then. Even the fastest automobile couldn't drive to Westchester County and back in that space of time. No, I ratherfearhe’s come to deliver another lecture about the dangers of getting mixed up with gangs.”
“Molly, don't tell me you've been doing foolish things again,” Gus said as I stood fascinated at the window, torn between wanting to know why Daniel was visiting me and not wishing to con-front him again.
“Not intentionally. I spotted a pickpocket and had him arrested, only he turned out to be a gang member with a rather violent nature.”
“Trust you, Molly,” Sid said, shaking her head. “Well, are you going to goover there to confront him or do you want us to hide you?”
“I suppose I'd better…,” I began.
“No need,” Gus chimed in, joining us at the window. “Those sweet children of yours are directing him over here. Really, Molly, you must train them better in the art of lying.”
I turned my back on their laughter as I went to intercept Daniel at the front door.
“If you have come to lecture me again—” I started as I opened the door before he could knock.
“I've come to invite you out to dinner with me,” he said, recoiling from my unexpected attack.
“And you know very well what my answer to that will be. I'm not going anywhere with you until you are free and unencumbered. And since I don't think you've learned toflysince I saw you this afternoon——
“This is strictly business.” He cut me off before I could finish.
“Business? What possible business could you have with me?”
“I've a proposal to put to you.” And that roguish smile crossed his lips. “A strictly business proposit
ion. Now do you want to hear it or don't you?”
“I suppose I'd be a fool to turn down any legitimate business proposition,” I replied frostily.
“Come on then.” He reached out to take my arm. “I've a cab waiting on the street and reservations at eight.”
'You were very sure that I'd come.”
“I know you too well, Molly Murphy. I knew your curiosity would get the better of you.”
“But I need to change my clothes if we're going out to dinner.”
“You look justfineto me as you are. Say farewell to your friends and off we go.”
He smiled as he escorted me to the waiting cab.
Four
So what is this interesting proposition you are making to me?” I asked as the cab started off at a lively clip-clop.
Daniel gave an enigmatic smile. “All will be revealed later, ”he said. “Tell me, are you really making a go of being a private investigator?”
“Why shouldn't I?” I replied, carefully skirting around an outright lie. “I've got a good brain, I'm observant andfearless. Why should I not succeed?”
Daniel nodded. “I'm impressed, Molly. When you first announced this madcap idea, I'd have said it was doomed to failure. I couldn't picture anyone entrusting a matter of great delicacy to a woman.”
I chose for once to ignore the insult. “There are times when a woman is what’s needed,” I said. “No man could have gone under-cover in the garment industry, as I did.”
“You'reright,”he said, “which is one of the reasons I have an assignment I think will be right up your alley.”
“You really do have a job for me?”
He laughed. “Why do you think I invited you out—to have my way with you?”
“That might have been interesting,” I quipped before I re-minded myself that this outing was strictly business.
“You're some girl, Molly Murphy.” Daniel paused and eyed me for a moment. “Any other lady would have blushed or fainted from shock.” Then he wrenched his eyes away from me and went on. “All right. Let me ask you a question—what do you know about the Sorensen Sisters?”
“The who?”
“Sorensen Sisters—Misses Emily and Ella?”
“Never heard of them.”
“Then you must be the only person in New York or the entire East Coast who hasn't,” Daniel said. “They caused a sensation when they came on the scene a few years ago and they are still very much the darlings of society.”
“What are they, actresses?”
Daniel smiled. ”Who knows. Maybe they are. What they claim to be is spiritualists—they communicate with the dead. You must be aware that this city has experienced a real crazeforspiritualism in the past few years and several spiritualists have made their for-tunes through their ability to contact the dearly departed.”
“How strange,” 1 said. “In Ireland most families have at least one member who can talk to ghosts. It’s considered quite normal.”
Daniel laughed. “Unfortunately we Americans have lost that skill and yet apparently we have a collective longing to communicate with our dead. Hence the Sorensen Sisters. They used to hold mass seances in theaters and auditoriums. Now they have become so wealthy and famous that they only hold private affairs for the idle rich.”
“And how does this concern me? Do you wish to contact a dearly departed?”
He leaned toward me and touched my hand. “I am sure they are frauds, Molly. My colleagues and I in the police force are convinced of it, but nobody has been able to catch them out. They are dashed good at what they do—the voices speaking as if from far away, thefloatingheads, the ectoplasm—”
The what?”
“Ectoplasm,” he said. “It’s the vaporous, luminous substance that is supposed to emanate from a medium’s body during a trance. I've seen it during one of their stances. It was quite impressive, curling around them all wispy and green.”
“So why do you think they are frauds?” I asked.
“Because I don't believe in ectoplasm, it can't be possible to communicate with the dead, and because they have become so wealthy from taking in poor suckers.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Expose them, of course.”
The cab slowed as it was caught in the heavy theater traffic along Broadway. Bright lights flashed from marquees. The side-walks were crowded with pedestrians.
I swallowed before I spoke. “And how do you think that I could expose them when the entire New York police force was apparently unable to?”
“For the very reason I just explained to you. They now only conduct their seances in private homes, where it should be easier to observe them at close quarters.”
“And how do you propose I get myself invited to a private stance? Do you want me to enter a household as a maid?”
“As a guest, my dear,” Daniel said.
I laughed. “Oh yes. I've a whole mantelshelf full of invitations from Vanderbilts and Astors.”
“Don't worry. I'll arrange everything. You've heard of Senator Flynn, I take it?”
“I've read of him in the newspapers. He’s supposed to be young and dashing, isn't he?”
“He looks a little like me,” Daniel said, “though not quite as dashing.”
“The conceit of the man!” I went to slap his hand, then remembered and withdrew at the last second.
Daniel peered out of the window. “Why aren't we moving? I de-clare the traffic in this city is becoming impossible. Has everyone in the world decided to attend the theater tonight?” He rapped with his cane against the roof of the cab. “Let us out here, cabby. It’s quicker to walk.”
“Very good, sir.” The cabby jumped down and opened the door for us. Daniel stepped out first, then assisted me down the steps. The whole of Broadway was a seething mass of people, many of them finery dressed for the theater or restaurant. But at the edge of the curb beggars hovered, some selling things, some of them pitifully deformed and holding out twisted palms in desperation. I shuddered and averted my face. When I first arrived in this city, I could so easily have ended up as one of them. Had they come here with die same hopes and dreams?
Daniel finished paying the cabby and took my arm, steering me past toffs and beggars.
“So why were you telling me about Senator Flynn?” I asked.
“I have an assignment for you that involves him,” he said. “Patience. All will be revealed when we reach the restaurant.”
He guided me skillfully through the crowd until we came to a halt outside a discreet entrance flanked by potted palms. There was an awning over the door and the sign read MUSCHENHElM’s ARENA. I was wondering what an Arena might be, since the only connection the word conjured up was gladiators and lions.
“Is this the restaurant?” I asked.
“This is it. One of the more fashionable establishments in the city.”
“You didn't have to go to this trouble. An ordinary cafe would be enough for me.”
“I want you to become accustomed to fine dining,” Daniel said, “since youll soon be dining at Senator Flynn’s mansion on the Hudson.”
“Senator Flynn’s mansion?” I had to laugh. “And how do you propose to get me invited there?”
“You will be introduced as Senator Flynn’s long-lost cousin from Ireland,” he said.
“Buy a flower for the lady sir?” A half-starved-looking girl in pitiful rags blocked our way to the restaurant door, holding out a rose, her eyes pleading.
I thought I had noticed her among the beggars when we got out of the cab and admired her tenacity at following us this far.
Daniel was about to brush her aside, then relented. “Oh, very well.” He chose a rose for me and a buttonhole for himself and paid the girl. She didn't take her eyes off our faces for a second and was all thumbs as she fumbled over Daniel’s coins.
“Oh, just keep the change.” He brushed her aside impatiently. “Really, the poor thing is a half-wit.”
“Maybe s
he doesn't get enough to eat,” 1 said, glancing back at her. She was staring at us with a strange expression on her face.
Then the door was opened by a man in smart livery and we passed through. Inside was another world from the bustle and beggars of Broadway. It was a scene of comfort and elegance—white-clothed tables lit by tiny frilled lamps and the sparkle of glass and silver. An electric fan was turning in the ceiling, but it was still noticeably warm inside and Daniel requested a table by an open front window to catch what little breeze there was. He ordered what seemed to be a most extensive meal for us, then he was handed the wine list.
“A French champagne, I think,” he said, handing it back without opening it. 'Your best.”
“So go on about Senator Flynn,” I said, after the champagne had been brought, tasted and poured, and I had tried to give the waiter the impression that sitting in such establishments with a glass of French champagne in front of me was an everyday occurrence in my life. “I am intrigued. Has he something to do with the spiritualists you were telling me about?”
“You must be aware of the Senator’s great tragedy?” Daniel asked. “I am sure it must have made the newspapers in Ireland. It was all the talk here for months.”
I shook my head. “We had no money for newspapers, so I doubt that any news short of a French invasion would have reached County Mayo.”
“It was about five years ago now,” Daniel said. He paused, raising his glass to me. 'Your very good health, Molly. Here’s to success in all your ventures.” We clinked glasses.
“Go on,” I said, because any hint of intimacy was unnerving.
“Barney Flynn was running for the United States Senate for the first time. In the middle of his campaign his infant son was kidnapped.”
“How terrible,” I exclaimed. The poor man. Was the child ever returned?”
Daniel shook his head. “No. It was most tragic. The ransom note announced that the child had been buried in a secret hiding place, somewhere on the Flynns'estate.”
I gasped. “Buried alive?”
He nodded. “In a special chamber with a vent to provide oxygen. Barney Flynn gave instructions to hand over the money, no questions asked. Anything to get his son back. But he made the mistake of alerting the police. An overzealous policeman shot the kidnapper as he came to retrieve the ransom money.”
