Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

“Cheating us? I should say cheating was an understatement. Robbing us blind, madam. That's what young Hofmeister was doing. We had no idea of the scope of it when we called in your Mr. Riley. Now it turns out the young scoundrel was billing us for fictitious clients, creating fictitious inventories, and all of it going into Hofmeister's pocket. So what has your man got to say for himself, eh? Why did he take on the commission if he was going to sit on his fat behind and do nothing, eh?”


“I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Riley is dead,” I said quietly.

“Well, I'll be—” he muttered. “My condolences, of course. Had he been ailing for a while or was he taken sudden?”

“He was killed, Mr. DeBose. Brutally murdered.”

He turned white now. Truly he had a most expressive face. “Well, that is another kettle of fish, isn't it? I hope they've caught the scoundrel.”

“They will, Mr. DeBose. I'm confident of that. So I'll bid you good day. Since no work was apparently done on your case, there will, of course, be no bill.”

He nodded. “Much obliged.”

“My condolences on your dishonest employee. It must be a hard loss to bear.”

“You can say that again, Miss Murphy. A hard loss indeed. And not just financial. It's a question of trust, isn't it? Now we won't be so anxious to trust our employees again, I can tell you that.”

He held out a meaty hand. “Thank you for stopping by.”

Another suspect to cross off my list. The wicked Mr. Hofmeister was already on his way to South America when Paddy was still alive and well.

Which left me with the MacDonalds. Angus was the only son of a very rich man who was also a puritan. If Paddy had uncovered some kind of wayward behavior that would incur his father's wrath, maybe even lead to disinheritance, then he might have resorted to murder. My first true motive. And he had the funds to pay for a hired killer too. I must be careful not to expose myself to danger.

I decided to start with Mrs. MacDonald, the client who had hired Paddy Riley. It would be only natural that I should pay a call on her, to apprise her of the situation. So I took the Broadway streetcar to Central Park and then walked beside the park, trying to concentrate on my mission and not be reminded of happier times spent among those shady boulevards. I had been surprised to discover that the MacDonalds—millionaires or at least future millionaires—lived in an apartment house. Surprised, that is, until I saw the Dakota Building for myself. The street was lined with impressive turreted buildings, rivaling European castles in their grandeur, and the Dakota, taking up a whole block at Seventy-second Street, was the grandest of them all.

I was admitted to a lavish foyer by a doorman dripping in gold braid, looking like a European prince. “I will inquire whether Mrs. MacDonald is at home,” he said, taking my card. “Please take a seat.” He motioned to an armchair among the potted palms and disappeared into a small office room.

I sat there admiring the scenery until he returned. “Mrs. MacDonald will see you. Ask the elevator operator for the eighth floor. You will see the front door straight ahead of you.”

The elevator glided effortlessly upward. The operator opened the door and I stepped out into a thickly carpeted hallway. Before me were grand double doors. Looking up and down the hall, I realized that this was the only apartment on the eighth floor. Before I could knock, die door was opened by a maid and I was admitted to a magnificent living room with windows overlooking Central Park. The furnishings were ivory and gilt and the whole effect was one of lightness and space. A slim and fragile-looking woman was reclining on a day bed, a half-finished breakfast tray beside her, reminding me that the upper classes began their days much later than the rest of us.

She looked up, her face alight with anticipation. “You come from Mr. Riley? He has news for me?”

“I’m afraid I have bad news, Mrs. MacDonald. Mr. Riley died last week. I wanted to inform his current clients as quickly as possible, so that they could take appropriate measures.”

Her face fell. “I am sorry to hear about Mr. Riley,” she said. “Really, his death is most inconvenient. Do you know if he had almost completed his work for me?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea.”

“He had procured no evidence then?”

“I’m afraid I have no way of knowing that, Mr. Riley did not discuss his cases with anyone. He observed a strict code of confidentiality with his clients.”

“This is most annoying,” she said again. “I had hoped to nip this in the bud. I've put up with Angus and his unsuitable relationships for long enough. But this one has gone too far. I'm doing this for his sake as well as my own, you know. There is the family name to think of. His father would be appalled.”

I said nothing. She looked up at me sharply. “It is strange that Mr. Riley didn't keep his partner informed. Wait a minute. You're not working for one of those muckraking newspapers, are you? This wouldn't be the first time I've had newspaper reporters trying to worm their way in here under various guises.”

“I assure you, Mrs. MacDonald, that I am not a newspaper reporter. I am merely trying to do what Mr. Riley would have wanted of me.”

Her face had become a mask. “Well, thank you for calling. My condolences about Mr. Riley.”