“Mr. Riley?” I called. “Someone at the door.” Then I went to answer it.
An elderly Jewish man stood there, bearded, dressed in the long black coat and tall black hat I had seen so often on the Lower East Side. “Mr. Riley? Is he, perchance, at home?” His voice was little more than a whisper and there was a touch of European accent. “It is a matter of great urgency, great delicacy, you understand.”
“Just a minute. I'll go and get him,” I said.
I went and tapped on the door to the inner room. “Mr. Riley. Someone for you.”
“I don't think you'll find him in there,” the Jewish man said. Before I could answer, he'd peeled off the long straggly beard and Riley himself stood there grinning at me.
“That was truly amazing. And so quick, too. I never suspected…”
“Of course you didn't. However, if I was using that character on Essex or Delancey, I'd have to play my cards right. I don't speak much Yiddish, you see. I'd soon be caught out.” He took off the hat and coat and hung them on a peg on the wall.
“But how did you learn all this? Who taught you how. to do the makeup?”
“A long story, my dear.” He looked at me, long and hard. “Tell you what. After all the trouble you've gone to, the least I can do is offer to share my supper with you.”
“Thank you. You're very kind.” I'd have stayed if it had been tripe or pig's feet—my two least favorite foods. Anything to keep me there a moment longer.
He spread out a piece of newspaper in front of me on the desk and motioned for me to pull up a packing case. “Got a bit behind with the paperwork,” he said.
“Which is why you need an assistant,” I reminded him.
“Hmmph,” he said, cutting the meat pie in half and putting some on a piece of newspaper for me. “Have to use your fingers. Sorry about that.”
“Your name,” I began. “It's not really Riley, is it? You're a Londoner, not from Ireland.”
“That's where you're wrong. I was born in Killarney.”
“Then the accent is a fake? It's very convincing.”
He chuckled. “No, the accent's real enough. I was born in Killarney but we left when I was two. My parents were clever enough to use the little they'd saved to get out during the Great Famine. They got as far as London. Maybe they'd have done all right there, but they didn't hold up long enough. They were both dead by the time I was ten. So I was out on my own on the streets.”
“That's terrible. What did you do?”
He took a big bite of pie and wiped the gravy from his chin with the back of his hand. “What did I do? I learned to survive, that's what.” He leaned over confidentially. “Did you read that famous book by Charles Dickens? Oliver Twist—that's its name. Know the Artful Dodger?—that was me. I turned myself into one of the best pickpockets in London. They used to say that I could take away a toff's handkerchief in mid-sneeze and he'd not notice.”
“So you were a criminal. What brought you to the other side of the law?”
“Fate, I suppose you could say. In the end I got caught, as most criminals do. I would have been put away for life, only this American gentleman was visiting London prisons, wanting to see how he could improve the lot of the poor prisoners. I suppose I must have looked young and angelic, because he took a fancy to me. He persuaded them to give me a second chance and let him take me to America. So that's how I got here. He had me taught a
trade—printing, it was, but I never really took to it. So when I finished my apprenticeship, I tried my hand at a lot of things, including going on the stage. I wasn't much good at it, to tell you the truth, didn't have the voice, but I liked the theater. I worked as a dresser for a while—that's where I learned about makeup and disguises. Then I decided it was a pity that I couldn't put all the tricks I'd learned on the London streets to good use.”
“You went back into crime?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I'd promised Mr. Schlessinger when he brought me to America. A proper Bible-fearing gentleman he was. He made me swear on the Bible that I'd never resort to crime again. I couldn't go against that, could I? But I decided I could use my knowledge on the right side of the law. I do a bit of undercover work for the police from time to time, and I've got my own nice little business here. It's not for everyone, but it suits me fine.” He broke off, staring at me with his head tilted to one side. “I can't think why a pretty girl like you would want to do it, though. About time you got married and settled down, isn't it?”
I looked down at the remains of the meat pie. “I came over here alone. I have no one. I want to be dependent on no one.”
“I saw you with Captain Sullivan …”
“He's just a friend, and he can't be anything more,” I said. “I think I could do this job well if you'd give me a chance.”