I walked down Thirty-fourth Street to the El station, climbed the steps and waited on the platform. It was almost deserted at this late-morning hour, in contrast to the jostling crowds at the stations of Lower Manhattan. Most people here would not deign to take the El. Either they had carriages of their own, or they took a hansom. Apart from me and an elderly gentleman half hidden behind The New York Times, there were a couple of ladies in smart silk outfits, parasols open against the sun, probably traveling downtown to the Ladies' Mile and a spot of Saturday shopping. The platform vibrated, announcing the arrival of a train, and it came into view, gliding effortlessly into the station. The Sixth Avenue line was one of the few that had switched to electric locomotives that year. What a wonderful invention, indeed. No longer were passengers to be blackened by soot from the engine as they rode or pedestrians to be peppered with hot coals as they stood on the sidewalks beneath the rails.
I climbed in and we headed south. To tell the truth, I always feel uncomfortable riding in the El. Such intimate glimpses into other people's lives as the train passes second-floor windows. In one house a child was sitting on a chamber pot, in another, a mother was breast-feeding her baby. Neither looked up as the train rattled past. But it started me thinking again—what exacdy had Paddy said to me when I had come in on him to find him scribbling in his black book? Not at Delmonico's. Later. Was it possible that he had witnessed something in a lighted window from this very train? No, I was sure that he had said it was a tavern and that it was something he had overheard rather than seen.
I alighted at Jefferson Market, just to the north of Washington Square and Greenwich Village. This would have been the first possible station that Paddy could have left the train. I came down the steps to find the Saturdaymorning market in full swing. A woman passed me holding a live chicken, which flapped and squawked in protest. A man wheeled a barrow of oranges and bananas. Such luxuries to be bought for pennies! Back home in Ireland, oranges were a treat in the Christmas stocking and bananas such a novelty that most of us had never seen one!
I passed the market, lifting my new skirts to avoid the debris in the street, and stood on the corner trying to work out which route Paddy would have taken to his home. It appeared that Christopher Street would be the straightest shot at the docks, although it was hard to tell. Unlike the rest of New York City, where avenues ran from north to south and streets from east to west, this little section south of the Washington Square Arch was a higgledy-piggledy mess. Alleys and narrow backstreets went off in all directions. And every one, it seemed, contained some kind of tavern or cafe. I would just have to be methodical and explore them one by one.
At that moment a bell began to toll above my head. I thought it must be ringing the hour until a voice behind me commented, “Six strokes. That will be Bleecker Street then.”
Before I could turn to ask what his cryptic remark meant, a fire truck burst forth from somewhere in the market complex, scattering crowds with pounding hooves and clanging bells.
After it had disappeared, I set off in an attempt to crisscross the area, first down Sixth Avenue, until I struck Fourth Street. This should take me straight across to the Hudson, I thought. I kept walking with no river in sight until the position of the sun told me I was heading due north. I had come across the one numbered street in New York that did not play by the rules.
Not that I was in a panic, as I might have been about becoming lost in certain areas of the city. This was all rather quiet and tranquil, with sidewalk cafes, bakeries and houses that looked as if they had been built in other cities and carted to New York. There were no faceless rows here. Every house had its own character, from wrought-iron balconies reminiscent of the South to severe New England clapboard. And between and behind the streets were narrow back alleys, likewise filled with dwellings. It was definitely an area worth exploring, but most frustrating for my present quest. How was I to guess which of those narrow backstreets might contain the very tavern where Riley had sat that night?
I gave up on the search and decided it would make more sense to locate his boardinghouse first, then work backward from there. Maybe his landlady and other tenants could give me more information on his drinking habits. I kept going until, by sheer luck, I stumbled across Barrow Street and followed it westward to the Hudson River. It, too, wound around and it was several long blocks before the salty tang in the air announced that my quest was nearing an end.
The boardinghouse was most unprepossessing, in fact not the kind of place I would have entered willingly. As I approached the front door, a sailor exited with a brightly painted girl on his arm, making me double-check on the house number. Mrs. O'Shaunessey's, Riley had said, and there was the name on a faded wooden sign above the front door, O'SHAUNESSEY'S BOARDINGHOUSE. WEEKLY AND MONTHLY RATES. I rang the doorbell and waited. The door was opened by a large, untidy-looking woman with a dirty dish towel in her hands. “Yes?” she demanded sharply.
“Are you Mrs. O'Shaunessey?” I asked politely. “And who wants to know?”
“I understand that Mr. Paddy Riley used to live here,” I said.
“He did. God rest his poor soul.” She crossed herself, the dish towel still in her hand.