Sixteen
The downpour continued unabated, giving me considerable time to ponder what I had just seen. Could Angus MacDonald really have been the young man who leaped from Riley's window? It was hard to believe—he was the son of a millionaire. Why would he need to do his own dirty work when a hired killer would be well within his means and readily available in a city as large as New York? Then a second question arose: Why would Angus MacDonald need to kill? The news of the impending divorce suit did not seem to cause him any alarm. Indeed he had expressed surprise at the trouble his wife was going to when he would have willingly granted her wish for a divorce. He didn't even seem alarmed at the thought of his father finding out.
As I stood, watching the rain get heavier by the minute, I had to admit that my efforts in the field of detective work so far had been far from stellar. I had followed up on the only three cases that Paddy appeared to have been working on, and I had met three dead ends. Lord Edgemont was about to go home to his wife in England, the embezzler at the import company had already absconded with the kitty before Paddy was killed, and
Angus MacDonald seemed rather relieved that his wife wanted to break up their marriage. Either these cases had nothing to do with Paddy's death, or I was not skilled enough to have asked the right questions. I was frustrated at my own lack of skill. If only Paddy had stayed alive a little longer, I could have learned so much from him. Now I wasn't sure that I had the potential to be an investigator. If I couldn't solve this case, then I had better think about a rapid change of profession.
A hansom cab pulled up to let out a passenger. I decided to be reckless for once and sprinted to seize it.
“Where to, lady?” the cabbie asked.
I wasn't sure anymore. I had exhausted all my leads. It seemed likely that Paddy's death had nothing at all to do with any of these cases. I hated to admit it, but Sergeant Wolski was probably right. Paddy had betrayed one of the violent city gangs and had paid the price. I decided to go back to Paddy's office and see if there was anything I had overlooked, but then I'd just have to give up and leave any detecting to the police.
As we splashed northward along Broadway I felt guilty at this wanton extravagance with Paddy's money, especially since he had been so frugal in his own lifestyle. So when the downpour eased when we were level with Bleecker Street, I signaled to the cabbie that I wanted to stop and hopped out. This was a mistake as I stepped straight into a deep brown puddle and emerged dripping to the ankles, the hem of my new suit sodden. I seemed to be doomed to make a mess of anything I undertook these days.
With these gloomy thoughts hovering over me, I reached Washington Square. Just as I entered the square, a torrent of students swept out of the main entrance of the university building and they flooded into the square, talking, laughing. I remembered that I was still in possession of the little black book and needed to find a language professor to translate it. I fought against the tide of students until I realized that they were vacating the building for their lunch hour. Their professors would also have gone to lunch, and I too was remarkably hungry. So I put off my task and followed the mob until I found a caf6 with an empty seat in it. It was one of the little French cafs that cluster in the backstreets around the square. It had speckled-mirrored walls and a high counter around the perimeter. I climbed onto a stool at the counter and ordered the plat du jour for eight cents. While I waited for it to arrive, I observed with interest the animated conversations going on around me. There were heated arguments about politics and literature and even the prospect of votes for women. How passionate they were about everything. How I envied them. The conversation broke off briefly as a fire engine galloped past. I hadn't heard the bell tolling this time, but maybe the noise of the students had drowned it out.
“It's all right, Freddy, you didn't succeed in blowing up the chemistry lab—it's going right past,” one of the young fellows shouted. There was noisy laughter and conversation resumed again just as my plat du jour arrived. It was a thick beef stew with vegetables, more suited to the cold of winter than a muggy summer day, but it was tasty enough and I managed to clean my plate as effectively as the students around me. Then, feeling daring, I ordered a cup of caf6 au lait, wanting to be part of this lively scene for as long as possible. As I fished for my coin purse, I spied the little black book and brought it out. I cast a hopeful glance around the room, wondering if one of these educated young people might provide the answer for me.