by Rhys Bowen
I dearly wanted company at the moment. I knew I was always welcome at their house, but my pride and disgust with my own weakness wouldn't let me barge in on them uninvited at this early hour, or tell them about the dream. So I waited until Gus returned, opened my front door with the pretense of shaking out crumbs, then feigned delighted surprise at bumping into her. Of course she invited me in for breakfast and of course I accepted.
“Look who I just found, Sid dear,” Gus called as we came down the hall to their bright and airy kitchen. At this hour it was stillcool. The French doors were open and the sweet scent of honey-suckle competed with the enticing aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
Sid was standing at the stove, dressed this morning in an emerald green silk gentleman’s smoking jacket and baggy black pants that looked as if they had come from a harem. The striking effect was completed with her black hair that she wore straight and chin-length, like a child’s pageboy bob.
“Molly, my sweet. How good to see you. You're looking pale. Sit down and have some coffee and a hot roll.” Sid gave me a beaming smile and started pouring thick, murky liquid into a smallcup, then handed it to me. I took a sip, pretending, as always, that I liked my coffee to look and taste like East River sludge. Sid always insisted on Turkish coffee and French croissants in the morning. I'd no objections to the croissants, but I'd never learned to appreciate the coffee.
I sat in the chair that Gus had pulled out for me and accepted the still warm roll from her basket.
“And what were you doing up and about so bright and early this morning?” Gus asked.
“I didn't sleep so well last night.” I was willing to confess to that much. “I just needed to get out of the house and breathe good fresh air.”
“You're missing those O'Connors, that what’s the matter with you,” Gus said.
“I most certainly am not,” I replied indignantly. “I've spent most of my life looking after someone else’s children. I'm glad to be taking a break from them.”
The knowing look that passed between Sid and Gus didn't escape me.
“And anyway, they'll be back soon enough when Bridie is quite recovered and healthy again,” I went on. “She’s making splendid progress, you know. And in the meantime, I'm doing some seriousthinking about my future.”
They looked at each other again, this time with amusement.
“Did you hear that, Gus? Serious thinking about her future. Will she be reconsidering the earnest Mr. Singer’s proposal, do you think?”
I picked up The New York Times, which had been lying on the table. “Would you be quiet, you two? Why should you of all people think that any young woman’s future would automatically have to be linked to a marriage proposal? I have no intention in accepting any proposals, decent or indecent.”
Then I opened the paper and buried myself in the advertisements page, ignoring their chuckles.
“How about Nebraska?” I looked up expectantly from The Times and saw two bewildered faces staring at me.
“Nebraska?” Gus asked.
“Yes, listen to this. ’Schoolteacher needed for one room school-house. Start August. Must be unmarried, unencumbered, Christian, and of impeccable character. References required. Accommodation provided. Apply to the school board, Spalding, Nebraska.” I paused and looked up again. My friends were still smiling.
“Dearest Molly, are you suggesting that you should become a schoolmarm in Nebraska?” Sid asked, pushing her bobbed hair back from her face.
“Why not?” I demanded. “Do you not think I'm up to life on the frontier? And where is Nebraska anyway?”
At this they both broke into merry laughter. Gus reached across to me and patted my hand. “You are priceless, my sweet,” she said. “Who would make us laugh if we let you escape from our clutches?”
“And why this sudden desire for the frontier, anyway?” Sid looked up from spreading more apricot jam on a croissant.
“Because I've had enough of New York City. Life has become too complicated.”
“And you think it would be less complicated having to kill grizzly bears with your bible, on the way to school each morning, or having to fight off amorous pioneers in need of a wife?” Sid asked.
I put down the newspaper and sighed. “I don't know. I just want to make a new start somewhere far away. Never have to see Daniel Sullivan’s odious face again. Never have to convince myself that I don't want to marry Jacob Singer, however well behaved and earnest he is.”
“One can accomplish both these things without going to Nebraska, I should have thought,” Gus said. “If you've finally decided to give up this crazy notion of being a lady investigator, I'm sure we could help you make a new start in the city here. But if you insist on escaping, I'm sure I can come up with some connections in Boston foryou, even if my own people don't want to know me anymore.”
I looked at Gus’s sweet, elfish face, framed in its pile of soft light brown curls and finally smiled. “You're really too good to me by half. I don't deserve your friendship. I do nothing but interrupt your breakfast with my whining and complaining.”
“Nonsense,” Sid said. “Just think how dull and ordinary our lives would be without you.”
Since Sid and Gus lead the least ordinary lives I had ever encountered, I had to smile at this. I suppose I should mention that the irreal names are Elena Goldfarb and Augusta Mary Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts. Both families had cut them off without a penny, but thanks to a generous inheritance from Gus’s suffragist great aunt, they lived a blissfully unconventional existence in Greenwich Village. Gus was attempting to make her mark as a painter, while Sid wrote the occasional left-wing article. Mostly they just had fun, hosting the literary and bohemian set to wild and extravagant parties. They had taken me under their wing when I had been new to the city, and treated me as a spoiled younger sister ever since. As I looked at them I realized how I would hate to move away from their company.
“Allright,” I conceded grouchily, “Maybe not Nebraska.”
Sid went over to the stove and picked up the coffee pot. “Have another cup of coffee. You'll feel better,” she said.
“I haven't finished this one yet,” I said hastily.
“So let’s see.” Gus put down her own cup and stared across at Sid. “What sort of job should we find for her? Bookshop, do you think?”
“Too dreary. Not enough life.”
“Ryan could help her get something to do with the theater. She'd like that.”
“Ryan is unemployed and seriously short of funds himself at the moment.”
“Well, if he will write plays that mock the American theatergoing public, what can he expect?”
I looked from one to the other, amused that I was not being consulted in this discussion.
“You don't understand,” I finally cut in. “It’s not the change of profession I'm anxious about. It’s worrying about whether I'm going to find Daniel Sullivan lurking outside my front door everytime I come out. Or Jacob for that matter.”
“Jacob doesn't lurk, does he? He doesn't seem the type,” Sid said.
“No,” I conceded. “He’s very well behaved as usual. Waiting patiently for my decision.”
“And I don't think we've spotted Daniel lurking recently, have we?” Sid turned to Gus. “Not for the last few days anyway. Maybe he’s given up in despair.”
“He’s still writing to me,” I said. “At least a letter a day. I throw them all in the rubbish bin without opening them.”
“I call that rather devoted,” Gus said.
“Gus! We're talking about Daniel the Deceiver! The man possesses all the worst qualities of the male sex—untrustworthy, flirtatious and an all-around bounder,” Sid saidfiercely. “He promises Molly he’s broken off his engagement one day and the next he goes running back to that spoiled Arabella creature as soon as she snaps her fingers. Molly is quite right to ignore him. And Jacob Singer too. He may profess that he’s no longer under the thumb of his family, but I know Jewish families, tr
ust me.”
Since she came from one, I did trust her.
“It’s not only that,” I said. “I don't want to marry just for convenience or security. There is just no spark with Jacob. He’s a goodman. Hell make some girl a good husband, only not me.”
“Quite right,”Sid said. “At least we're all in agreement that women don't need to attach themselves to a man to make themhappy.” She glanced up at Gus with a smile.
I got up and walked across to the French windows. The first fierce rays of summer sun were painting the brick wall behind the tiny square of garden. “I just wish I knew what I wanted,” I said at last. “Part of the time I think I must be crazy to try and carry on the detective agency. But at least when I'm on a case I know I'm alive and it’s exciting.”
“When you're not fighting for your life, getting yourself shot or drowned or pushed off bridges,” Gus said dryly.
I grinned. “So it’s a little too exciting sometimes. But I can't see myself sitting behind a desk all day. Or being a governess to spoiled children, or a companion, for that matter. I can't think of what other job would give me pleasure, or prevent me from bumping into Daniel.”
“I don't see why you are so worried about bumping into Captain Sullivan,” Sid said. “You're not usually a shrinking violet who avoids confrontation or hesitates to speak her mind, Molly. You've faced anarchists and gang members without flinching. Surely you're not afraid of a mere police captain?”
“Not afraid, no.” I looked away to avoid meeting her eye. “I just lose all common sense when he’s around. I know he'll try to sweet talk me into forgiving him and I'm afraid I'll be weak enough to listen to him.”
“You're a strong, independent woman, Molly Murphy,” Sid said firmly. “Face him, tell him what you think of him and get it overwith.”
“You don't know Daniel. He has too much Irish blarney in him. This time I have resolved to be strong. Never seeing him again is the only way of accomplishing this. And I fear that involves leaving the city.” I touched Gus’s shoulder as I walked across the kitchen. “Thank you for the breakfast. I am quite revived and restored, and I'm off to look up Nebraska on the map.”
I let myself out of their front door to the sounds of their renewed laughter. Then I paused, glanced down Patchin Place tomake sure that it was devoid of life before I sprinted across to myown front door opposite. This was no way to live, to be sure.
Silence engulfed me as I closed my front door behind me. No little high voice singing, no Shamey leaping down the stairs yelling, “Molly, I'm starving. Can I have some bread and dripping?”
My friends were right. I was missing the O'Connor children. I had felt myself encumbered by the O'Connors since I arrived in New York, but also responsible for them, since they had essentially saved my life. I had posed as their mother to bring them across from Ireland, when their own mother found that she was dying of consumption and not allowed to travel. Thus I had been able to escape Ireland with the police on my tail. So I could hardly abandon them. And the poor little mites with no mother, too. Seamus and young Shamey had gone to the country to be with Bridie during her recovery, Seamus hoping to find some kind of farm work to support them.
As I stood lost in thought, there was a plop and the morning post landed on the doormat. I picked up two letters. The first in Daniel’s black, decisive hand, went straight in the rubbish bin. The second a childish scrawl I didn't recognize, liberally dotted with ink blots. I opened it and saw it was from the O'Connors.
Dear Molly,
My Pa telled me to rite this as he don't rite so good. [Little Shamey had clearly not benefited much from his recent schooling.] We're doing fine here. Bridie is up and walking agin. Pa and me is camping out in a farmer’s bam and we're helping him with the harvest. You shud see me Molly. I can lift great bales of hay, jest like a man. Pa likes it so good out here he says he don't want to go back to the city where there is sickness and gangs and all. He’s trying to get a job all year on a farm. I wish you'd come out here and join us, Molly.
Then underneath in an even more illegible scrawl, “It don't seem the same without you, Molly. I know there’s no question of love between us, but we get along fine, don't we, and the children already think of you as their mother.”
I put down the paper hurriedly on the kitchen table. If I read this right, I now had three unwanted suitors. I wished I hadn't left The Times over at Number 9. Nebraska was sounding better by the minute!
An hour later I had come to one big decision. I was not going to mope around feeling sorry for myself any longer. Sid was right. All my life I had been a fighter not a coward. I should face Daniel, once and for all. I was going to put last night’s dream down to a sluggish liver and get on with my life. Having made this momentous decision, I decided to celebrate. Gus and Sid had been so good to me and I had imposed upon their generosity, giving little in return. So tonight I would cook them a grand dinner, as a thankyou. It would take my mind off things to keep myself occupied.
I wasn't going to try and compete with the exotic fare that they ate, but I decided that I couldn't go wrong with cold chicken and salad for a hot summer night. Chicken was a luxury I could ill afford at the moment, funds not being too plentiful. I hadn't had an assignment since I returned from the mansion on the Hudson, almost a month ago now. And I was still owed my fee for that assignment. But since Daniel Sullivan was the one who owed it to me, I'd rather starve than ask him for it. I suppose my behavior could be construed as childish, but this time I was resolved to befirm.
I sat down to write an invitation to the Misses Goldfarb and Walcott, requesting the honor of their company at ten Patchin Place for dinner at eight, and delivered it in person to their frontdoor. When they accepted I headed for a kosher butcher’s shop on the Bowery where I knew their chickens would be freshly killed and not have been hanging about for days with flies on them. I'd also stop off at the post office on Broadway to see if any mail had come addressed to Paddy Riley, former owner of P. Rileyand Associates, from whom I had inherited the detective agency. The occasional commission still came in and frankly at this moment I needed the work. It had been an expensive business maintaining a house and feeding two hungry youngsters.
On the corner opposite the tall, strangely Eastern-looking, tower of the Jefferson Market building sent a shaft of black shadow across the early morning sunlight. Even at this hour the sidewalks were beginning to heat up. Smells of rotting vegetables and fruit wafted across to me, as barrows piled with fresher fare crushed them under iron wheels. A couple of policemen came out of the police station that was housed within the same building. I turned and hurried away, toward Washington Square. Daniel had been known to emerge from that same police station, and I had unpleasant memories of spending a night in the jail there, having been mistaken for a lady of the night.
On the corner the newsboys were hawking today’s newspapers. “Read all about it. The Eastside Ripper Strikes Again.”
I had been so intent on reading the advertisements in The Times that I had missed the sensational headline. But it screamed outfrom all the billboards around Fifth Avenue: Another prostitute found murdered. Ripper at work again.
“They ask for it, don't they?” I heard one woman say to another as they picked up a copy of The Herald. “If you go into that line of work, you know what to expect.”
“Shouldn't be allowed in a respectable city,” her companion agreed. “Good riddance I say. I hope he gets the lot of 'em.”
I shuddered as I hurried past. So yet another prostitute had been murdered. Four of them this summer, enough that the press now spoke of an Eastside Ripper, following in the footsteps of London’s notorious mass murderer. Because the victims were prostitutes there had been little public interest until the most recent murders. Many people agreed with those women I had overheard—immoral behavior like that was just asking for retribution.
It was so easy to dismiss crimes like this as happening in another world. Nothing to do with me, thank Go
d. That was the general attitude. And yet I had spent a night in a jail cell with some of those women. They had been kind to me and all I felt for them was pity. Those sad young girls with innocent faces hidden under rouge and lipstick could have been me when I first arrived, penniless, in New York.
I had just reached Broadway and joined the throng of pedestrians that seemed to populate that street at all hours when I had a sudden feeling that I was being followed. I glanced around but saw nobody I recognized. I quickened my pace but the feeling didn't go away I suppose you could say I was bom with the Irish sixth sense. Well, it had stood me in good stead before and I wasn't about to ignore it now. Those headlines about the Eastside Ripper flashed through my mind. Ridiculous, I told myself. Those murders were all done at night, the bodies all dumped on one of the streets known for their houses of ill repute. I was clearly not that kind of woman. It was broad daylight and I was on Broadway.I was quite safe.
Even so, when I saw a chance to dodge between two streetcars and a dray carrying beer barrels, I took it and continued on the other side of the street. The feeling was stronger than ever. I stepped under the awning of a greengrocer’s shop and stood surveying the crowd. Nobody I recognized. Nobody who looked like an Eastside Ripper either. Just ordinary housewives about their morning shopping before the day’s heat became too intense, businessmen on their way to appointments, children on their way to play. I noticed a young police constable, his familiar helmet bobbing above the crowd and felt reassured. I could always appeal for help if I really needed to. So I set off again. When I came to Wannamaker’s Dry Goods I paused, pretending to examine the hats in the window while in reality surveying the crowd that passed behind me.
