Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

It felt strange to go up those steps to Paddy's place again. My mind kept replaying the picture of what I had seen when I opened the door yesterday. What if the murderer had come back and was waiting in the back room to finish me off? That thought had never struck me until now—that I, too, might be in danger. Surely nobody knew that Paddy had taken on an assistant. It wasn't the kind of thing he'd have gone around boasting about to his pals, of that I was sure. The man who struck at me yesterday could hardly have gotten a better view of me than I did of him. So I should be safe enough. Even so, I tapped on the door and called, “Is anyone in there?” before I turned the key in the lock and went in.

If anything, the place was in more disarray than I had left it. So much for the police taking Paddy's papers to look through. My eyes went to the empty chair at the table. I half expected to see him still slumped over and was surprised by the physical jolt of loss. I hadn't expected to become fond of him.

“Don't worry, Paddy,” I said out loud. “I'll find out who did this and bring him to justice, I promise. I'll show you that I was worth training.”

I started picking up papers, glancing at them before putting them on the table or throwing them into the trash. It was hard to know what to keep. There were newspaper clippings that seemed of no significance to me, posters advertising prize fights and new plays, and Paddy's recent correspondence I had so neatly stacked for filing. As I moved the chair, I noticed the dark brown stains on the seat—Paddy's blood. I bent to pick up some bloodspattered papers under the chair, touching them with distaste, and found I was looking at Paddy's little black notebook. I couldn't believe that the police hadn't even wanted that! I opened it excitedly and then saw why it had been discarded. It was written in a foreign language that I didn't recognize. This was a shock. How an Irishman who grew up in London had acquired facility in a strange foreign tongue, I had no idea. But I put the notebook into my bag for future study.

In the back room the file cabinet still stood there, righted again, but unopened. I took out the little silver key, put it into the lock and turned it. Then I saw why the police hadn't managed to open it, if they had indeed tried. It was a complicated lock attached to a rod which went down through all the file drawers. The locksmith had done a good job. I pulled out the rod and slid the top drawer open.

I took out the first folder. “Client Edgemont” was written across the top of it. That was the only clear word in the entire file. The pages inside were full of cryptic notes. “July 28th: LE observed leaving A at 10.45 am. LE observed entering GP. LE observed at MSG, Rooftop Restaurant, with KL.”

Obviously I had work ahead of me.

I flipped through the first few folders. Divorce cases, by the look of them. Then I came to a folder with a big red stamp across the front of it—CASE CLOSED, FEE PAID IN FULL. Only a few current cases then. Not an overwhelming number. If the case had been closed, then Paddy had already shared any damaging information—unless it was as Sergeant Wolski suggested, a revenge killing. In which case, the killer wouldn't have been searching so desperately, would he? If only Paddy had trusted me enough to share information with me—but then I, too, might have been dead by now, I reminded myself.

I went back to the first folder. Client Edgemont had an address in England. In the depths of the folder I found the client's letter. There was a crest embossed on the envelope. The address was Eaton Square, London, and the sender was a Lady Clarissa Edgemont. She wanted Paddy to check into the activities of her husband, the roving Lord Edgemont, whom she believed to be in New York.

That must have been the assignment in Gramercy Park. “LE observed entering GP. House of K”—Paddy had mentioned Kitty Le Grange, whose house he had been observing. This wasn't going to be as complicated as I had feared. I had some facts to start on—I could visit the famous Kitty and find the roving Lord Edgemont. Although I couldn't see that this kind of case might lead to murder. Would a roving English lord feel it necessary to hire an assassin to stop news of his assignation with an actress from getting back to London? If she was wellknown and they had been seen together, it was probably common knowledge. This sort of thing happened all the time, if one were to believe the daily papers—look at the Prince of Wales, now the new King Edward. The whole world knew of his lady loves, but his wife didn't seem to mind. At least it gave me somewhere to begin.

I looked at the second folder. Similar to the first but with a New York address. A Mrs. Angus McDonald wishing to bring divorce proceedings against her husband. The name was vaguely familiar. Another name I had read in the papers. Wait a minute. Wasn't McDonald the railroad baron? But he was an old man with whiskers. A relative, maybe. Also easy enough to check into and not a likely motive for murder. New York millionaires were hopping in and out of marriage every day.