“So this is how you've been working hard…” I began. Then I stopped. The room was in complete disarray. In fact, it looked as if a whirlwind had been through it—papers strewn all over the floor, wastebasket tipped upside down.
“Paddy? What on earth's been—” I broke off as I heard a noise in the back room. I didn't stop to think. I went over and opened the door. This room was in equal disarray and someone was crouched on the floor, bent over the toppled file cabinet. It was a man, dressed head to toe in black. He looked up, startled. For a second our eyes met, then, before I could say anything sensible or let out any sort of sound, he leaped at me. A fist came flying at my face. I went reeling backward and collapsed on the floor, darkness singing in my head, as the dark shape leaped over me, ran to the open back window and jumped out. Still dizzy and feeling I was about to vomit, I staggered to my feet and made it to the window. I couldn't call out—my jaw hurt to move. I could only watch helplessly as an agile dark shadow dodged between garages and out of sight.
I stood there clutching the windowsill, fighting the nausea, and then I remembered Paddy. I ran over to him and tried to rouse him. As I attempted to lift him, his head lolled back, and I saw the ugly red stain on his chest. But he was still warm. There was still hope. I looked around for something to stop the bleeding, found a towel and clamped it over the wound. As I did so he opened his eyes. He looked around in a bewildered way, then focused on me.
“It's all right, Paddy,” I managed to say, although it hurt to speak. “You're going to be all right. I'll go for help.”
He clutched at my arm, his bony fingers digging into my flesh. “Too … big… for… me.” The whisper was so faint I could hardly hear the words.
“Who did this, Paddy? Who did it to you?” I asked.
“Didn't think he …” he muttered, then the tension left his face and I could tell that he had slipped away.
Eight
I stayed with him until a constable arrived. I had dispatched a ragamuffin playing in the alley below to find a policeman and stood, supporting Paddy, not wanting to let go of him. My own hurts were forgotten as rage and impotence surged through me. If I had come earlier, I might have been able to save him. I might, at least, have done something—scared off the intruder, raised an alarm. Instead all I had done was to let him die in my arms. I hadn't been with Paddy long enough to form a strong bond, but I had truly liked him. Maybe I recognized myself in him—loner, outspoken, not afraid of much. I suspected that he liked me too, in his own gruff way. If he had lived, we might have become good friends, partners, maybe.
I looked up at the clatter of feet on the outside steps. A young constable poked his head in through the door, took one look at Paddy and me and crossed himself. “Saints preserve us,” he muttered. “Should I get a doctor?”
“Too late for that,” I said.
“What happened?”
I put my hand up to my face and felt the stickiness. “It was an intruder. He hit me,” I said, “but I'm all right.”
“Then stay where you are. I'll go for help.”
He ran down the steps again. The ragamuffin stood gaping at the door. I could hear the murmur of a crowd gathering down below. It wasn't long before I heard a voice bark, “All right then, move on. No loitering. Go on, back to your homes,” and heavy steps came up the stairway. A young man came into the room. He was fair-haired with light eyes and eyebrows and a sort of pale pastiness that I had never seen at home in Ireland, where most of us had healthy red cheeks and a sprinkling of freckles. He was dressed formally in a dark suit that made him look even more washed-out. He glanced swiftly around the room with a look of distaste, then his gaze focused on me.
“Sergeant Wolski,” he said in a clipped voice. “What have we got here?”
A New York policeman who wasn't Irish. That was unusual to start with. I looked down at the dead man in my arms. “He's dead. The murderer got away through the back window.”
“Paddy Riley, right?” The young man strolled around the room.
“That's right. Shouldn't you be sending men out to find the murderer?”
“You're a neighbor, presumably.” Those pale blue eyes eyed me coldly. “Name?”
“Molly Murphy. I am Mr. Riley's business associate.” Even in the midst of my shock and grief I savored my choice of the word—much better than assistant.
“Paddy never worked with anyone.”
“Well, he does now. Did now.” I had already taken a dislike to the aloof and rather arrogant young man. “He was training me in the business, if you must know.” A slight exaggeration, but warranted.
A disbelieving smile crossed his face. “Paddy must have been getting soft in his old age.”
“Look, why are we talking when there is a murderer on the loose?” I snapped. “You might still have a chance at finding him if you act quickly.”
“I'm the law around here,” he said. “You shut up until you're asked a question.”