Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

I nodded, too stunned to answer. Almost a thousand dollars. In Ireland that was the wealth of dreams and fantasies. Of course, it wasn't mine, but it was certainly enough to kill for. Who knew it was there? Had anyone seen Paddy hiding it away? Was it possible that he had mentioned it to anyone? Paddy, who didn't give away a single useful detail to me, his assistant? But then I realized I knew little of what he did outside of work. From the way he ate his dinner in the office, I concluded that work was pretty much his life. But what if he drank with his cronies afterward, and became loose-lipped in his cups? That was something I should check into.

I waited patiently while the clerk took down the details. I gave him the office address. “P. Riley Associates,” I said, changing the firm's name to suit the occasion. “I am Miss Murphy, junior partner.” My, but I was rising quickly through the ranks! I could see this made an impression on the clerk. He wrote everything down in a neat flowing script and eventually handed me a receipt with a bow. “The very best fortune in your business, whatever it may be.” He gave me an oily smile. I nodded graciously to the uniformed doorman as I swept past him.

I was feeling so pleased with myself that it called for a celebration. So I went into a little French bakery on Bleecker Street for a cup of coffee and a kind of flaky pastry they called a croissant. I was just discovering that the world is full of delicious new things and I aimed to try them all. As I pulled out the money to pay, I noticed Paddy's black notebook, still lying in the bottom of my bag. I should have handed it over to the police, of course. Maybe someone clever at Mulberry Street could have worked out what language it was written in; but then again, maybe Sergeant Wolski would have tossed it into the nearest wastebasket. I took a long sip of milky coffee and flicked through it idly. Why didn't I recognize it? I had a grounding in French and Latin. I'd even been exposed to a little German. This resembled none of those languages. I turned to the last page. Paddy's sharp black doodles decorated the left side of the page, along with some hurried writing.

At the top of the page the writing was still even, as if the writer had taken time. “Was LK htiw EL ta SLED.”

Even here he was using initials. I shook my head and put it back in frustration. I'd have to pay a visit to the languages department at the university and see if a professor there could decipher this gibberish. But in the meantime I had other leads to follow. I turned to the back of the notebook and used a blank page for my own notes. What I should do was try to work backward. Paddy had gone to Delmonico's on the night before he died. Then he had stopped off somewhere on his way home. I wrote down the order in the little black book: Del's, trace his route home, visit his apartment. Maybe he'd left some clue there. It would be interesting to see if the police had bothered to search it.

I was impatient to get going, but I couldn't do a thing until my costume was ready. I'd already noted the reception I got at the bank. While I looked like a factory girl, I'd be treated as one. J had another cup of coffee and copied down the names from Paddy's last cases. Kitty Le Grange—I knew where she lived, next door to Miss Van Woekem. Lord Edgemont—he should be easy enough to trace. His wife Lady Clarissa in England was the client, so it would have been in her interest to keep Paddy alive until he had come up with evidence for her.

Next case involved a couple named MacDonald. Wife Elizabeth wanting evidence against husband Angus. I wasn't so sure how I'd find out about them. I wasn't even sure how I'd approach the likes of Lord Edgemont and Kitty Le Grange. I could hardly demand an audience and then cross-examine them about killing my employer, could I? For one thing, if any of them had ordered the killing and they thought I was nosing around, then I'd be next. I'd already had more than my share of luck, blundering around in an investigation. I couldn't expect to repeat that luck indefinitely. So this would take careful thought and planning. I finished my coffee, paid the bill and went for a walk.

I always find that walking in the fresh air clears the brain. The problem was finding any fresh air. New York in August stank. Even on posh streets like Fifth Avenue the smell of drains, plus the piles of horse manure in the street, created a subtle odor which was not conducive to a clear head. I could have taken the trolley or the Sixth Avenue El up to Central Park, but I wasn't anxious to go back there. Too many memories of happy times with Daniel. Instead I walked west to the Hudson and followed West Street along the docks. A big ocean liner was coming in and myriad little craft had come out to greet her. Tugboats tooted their horns and flags were flying.

“The new German ship. She's just beaten the Atlantic Record,” I heard someone saying. “Now the English will have to build a faster boat to get it back.”