I came to the end of the block and turned left, up Greenwich Street. Another elevated track ran along it and the noise of a train, rumbling overhead, drowned out the city noises beneath. I passed storefronts until I came to O'Connor's saloon on the corner. Even at midday it sounded pretty lively inside. I hesitated on the threshold. No woman of any reputation would go into a tavern alone. The last time I had tried it, seeking information, I had been subjected to ribald comments and forced to deliver a few kicks to the shins before I made my getaway. I wasn't anxious to go through that again. I steeled myself, wishing that I had a spare hatpin about my person for defense, and went in. The fug of smoke made it difficult to see in a poorly lit room, but I could make out groups sitting around several of the tables.
Two young men, interestingly attired in student garb—one in an Oriental smoking jacket, the other in a peasant smock—were being served at the bar. I waited patiently in the shadow for them to be served before approaching the landlord. As I stood there, a voice to my right exclaimed, “But darling, I thought you knew all the time it was I!” and the group around him burst into noisy laughter.
I looked across to see the same beautiful young man I had noticed in Washington Square.
Fourteen
“Paddy Riley?” The genial smile faded from the landlord's face in response to my question. He had heard the news of Mr. Riley's demise—such a shame. Of course he had been a regular. He visited the tavern most evenings for a shot of Irish whiskey. Always the one drink, though. Sometimes he sat with other customers, sometimes alone. I tried to take his mind back to Monday last, but he shook his head. “Every day's pretty much like another. As you can see, we're a popular place, especially with the young crowd these days. We're always run off our feet until closing time. No chance to notice who is here and who isn't.”
I asked about Paddy's friends and acquaintances, but again he shook his head. “He chatted with other regulars. Just generally joined in the conversation, if you know what I mean. There was nobody you'd say was his special crony.”
That pretty much summed up Paddy's life.
“Did he sometimes come here in one of his disguises?” I asked.
“I suppose he might have done.” Quite the most unobservant landlord in New York City.
“He would have been dressed as a waiter, last Monday night.”
The landlord pursed his lips in concentration. “He might have done. But again, Mr. Riley wasn't one to draw attention to himself.”
“And you didn't happen to notice anyone special in here when Mr. Riley came in dressed as a waiter? No unusual people who might have upset Mr. Riley?”
He shook his head. “I'd have noticed any kind of upset. I don't allow any fighting. Look, miss. Like I say, we always get a good crowd. It's noisy, but there's no harm in it, if you get my meaning. Rarely have to throw anyone out.”
I glanced back at the table where the beautiful young man was holding court, waving his hands in the air while he described something and those around him howled with laughter. I was interested to see that the table contained both men and women. This was unusual in itself. The tavern was normally the province of men, and yet Mr. Riley, the famous woman hater, had chosen this one to take his evening drink.
“I see you allow women to drink with men in here,” I commented.
“Oh, yes. It's only recently, since all the artists and intellectuals started moving into the area. Only a certain type of young woman, mind you. No painted hussies off die streets. The ones we get are very respectable—regular bluestockings, most of‘em.”
I made the mistake of glancing around again and caught the beautiful young man's eye. To my mortification, he winked. As winks go, it was wonderful—as if we two alone were sharing a private joke. But I found myself blushing like a schoolgirl and hastily turned away.
I leaned across to the bartender. “That man. The one at the table in the corner who is talking so loudly. Who is he?”
The landlord laughed. “You must be the one person in New York who doesn't know him. That's Ryan O'Hare, the playwright. One of your countrymen. Surely you've heard of him?”
Not wanting to appear a fool, I replied, “Ryan O'Hare. Of course.”
“He comes in here quite often when he's in the Village. They say he has a play opening at the Daley Theater—it was to have been the Victoria, but he thought that would have been a bad omen, considering …”
“Considering what?”
“Why—the reason he left England, of course.” He looked at me as if I was stupid and I didn't like to question him further. If Mr. Ryan O'Hare was as famous as indicated, I could find out everything I needed to know about him in the back editions of the New York newspapers. I added that mentally to the list of things to do at the library on Monday.
Like all good Christians, I observed Sunday as a day of rest. The fact that I couldn't proceed with any of my investigations on a Sunday also had something to do with it. I could visit neither of Paddy's outstanding cases until Monday morning. A long weekend stretched ahead of me, with no Sunday strolls in the park to look forward to. Before Seamus's accident I had always accompanied the little family to mass, even though I wasn't the most religious person in the world.