I made my way down the steps carefully, as the nausea and dizziness had returned. My jaw was starting to throb alarmingly. If this was what a private investigator could expect, I wasn't sure that I wanted the job after all. Of course, I didn't have the job anymore. I was unemployed yet again. Back to square one.
I didn't want to go home to face yelling youngsters and the nosy Nuala. In truth, I didn't feel up to walking home yet. I turned south out of the mews and went to sit in the shade of a big elm tree in Washington Square. A fountain was playing in the center of the square and an evening breeze blew cooling spray in my direction. Children were playing hopscotch and kick the can. An Italian ice cream vendor pushed his barrow, ringing a small bell as he went. Students were sitting on benches, engaged in earnest discussion. Life was going on exactly as it had before Paddy died. Nobody paid any attention to me or my swollen lip. I took out a hankie, went over to dip it in the fountain and cleaned away the blood, then held it against my face until the coolness of the water reduced the angry throbbing.
What should I do now? Go home and find myself a steady, sensible job where my employer was not likely to be murdered? That was obviously the rational answer. Enough of dabbling in a world about which I knew nothing. I knew I should leave Paddy's death well alone, but I had the feeling that the obnoxious Sergeant Wolski wasn't going to put himself out to find Paddy's killer. Why couldn't Daniel have been summoned instead? Maybe I could tell him and—I broke off this thought. I was not going to tell Daniel Sullivan. I would just have to find Paddy's killer myself. I paused at the enormity of this idea. How could I possibly find a murderer? I had none of Paddy's skills, no idea where to start. But I had let my mouth run away with me enough times, claiming that I wanted to be an investigator. Well, now was the moment to put my money where my mouth was, as I'd heard the gamblers on the transatlantic liner say. Besides, Paddy's murderer had hit me. I had a personal score to settle. Tomorrow I would come back to Paddy's office and go through his file cabinet. Somewhere among those cases was a piece of information worth killing for.
I looked up as a group of people passed me and I heard a languid, aristocratic English voice saying, “Now do be good chaps and leave me alone. Even I don't know what the new play is about yet. I'll probably have the main points done by the time it opens in the fall. If not, the actors will all just have to ad-lib. Now, do run along and leave us in peace.”
My eyes were riveted on to the speaker, who was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. I suppose it's strange to be describing a man as beautiful, but this one was. He was like a figure from an old painting or statue—tall, elegant, dark curly hair worn longer than fashionable, dark eyes, a long straight nose and a strong angular chin. Perfection, in fact. I just couldn't stop looking at him. As the reporters who had been following him finally left, he said something to one of his companions and they broke into laughter. His face was even more delightful when he was smiling. Now if ever I met a man like that, I could be persuaded to give up any notion about having a career and be content to serve him breakfast in bed every day for the rest of my life.
With a smile at my own foolishness I got up and made my way home.
I managed to creep past Mrs. O'Hallaran successfully, but I wasn't so lucky upstairs. Nuala was sitting in my room with the two little ones.
“Saint Michael and all angels, what happened to your face?” she demanded as she caught sight of me.
“Molly, your mouth is all funny,” Shameyboy added, staring at me in wonder. Bridie came over to me. “Does it hurt a lot? Did you cry?”
“It's all right. It feels much better already.”
“So your fancy man finally beat you up, did he?” Nuala was smirking. “I knew it would happen in the end. Always does.”
“For your information, I have no fancy man. And I don't believe I invited you into my room either.”
“Just keeping an eye on the children while you were out and about, up to God knows what.” That unpleasant smirk again. “And it's no good denying it. I have it from Mrs. O'Hallaran that there's a certain police captain who comes visiting. And someone has to be paying the rent, seeing as how you have no honest job.”
“Well, for once Mrs. O'Hallaran doesn't have her facts straight,” I said.‘The police captain was a friend, nothing more, and we've parted company. And as to an honest job—I'll have you know I'm a private investigator. I got this fat lip trying to apprehend a murderer.”
“Go on, pull the other one, it's got bells on,” she said, chuckling.
“You can read all about it in the papers tomorrow, I expect. It was my partner, Paddy Riley, who was murdered.”
“Saints preserve us.” She crossed herself. “What kind of job is that for a woman?”