“My education was unfortunately cut short by the death of my mother,” I said.
“Then you must make up for lost time.” Gus looked at Sid for approval. “But you've come to the right place. Loaf around here and you'll meet every intellectual in the land, not to mention the best painters and writers. They all pass through the Village at some time or another.”
“I'd really love to meet Ryan O'Hare,” I ventured. “I understand he comes in here quite often. Do you know him?”
“Everyone knows Ryan,” Sid said, “and conversely, Ryan knows everyone.”
“What's he like?”
Another amused glance between them that was hard to interpret. “Ryan is the most entertaining man in the world, and the most infuriating,” Sid said. “Great fun but completely untrustworthy.”
“He's like an overgrown child,” Gus added. “Playing with one toy, then dropping it because he's found a better one. But as Sid says, very entertaining. Nobody can make you laugh like Ryan can.”
“I understand he comes in here a lot,” I went on. “Is he likely to be here tonight?”
“Who knows, with Ryan,” Sid said. “He is the last person in the world to have any kind of schedule.”
“Does he live in the Village?”
“He has a room at the Hotel Lafayette, over on University Place,” Gus began but Sid cut in, “For the few times he sleeps in his own bed.”
I wasn't sure how to progress with this topic, not being used to discussing subjects so obviously taboo. I wished I could develop the worldly ease of Sid and Gus. They seemed to be comfortable talking about absolutely anything and nothing made them blush. But if I was to be an investigator, I had to throw off these stupid fetters of modesty and learn the ways of the world.
“Does he have a particular attachment at the moment?”
They both laughed. “Who can tell with Ryan? They never last long,” Gus said. “As I told you—a little boy constantly in search of new toys.”
“But I heard he is actually getting down to serious work on his new play. He told Lenny and Hodder that he was not to be disturbed yesterday.” Sid got out a new cigar and clipped the end professionally.
“Well, the play is scheduled to open in a month.” Gus chuckled. “And it can hardly open without a last act.”
“Ryan claims he does his best work under pressure, but I'll wager that he can't stay disciplined for more than a day or so. By Wednesday at the latest he'll be back in here, cadging drinks and cigarettes.”
“That reminds me—where are my manners,” Gus said, bringing out a slim silver case. “Do you smoke, Molly? Try one of these. They are Turkish and absolutely divine.”
I took the thin brown cigarette from her and put it in my mouth as she lit a match for me. Then I sucked in, felt the hot, acrid taste of smoke and fought against coughing. “Marvelous,” I said. “Absolutely topping.”
They beamed, like proud parents who have selected the perfect present for their adored child.
By the end of the evening I had smoked two cigarettes, drank a whole pint of Guinness and met several of Sid and Gus's friends, including the large chubby man in the smock who was a painter called Lennie, a Russian with a thick accent called Vlad and an earnest writer whose name I never learned. As I walked home I felt very wicked, and very excited. It was as if someone had opened a door to a new world I had not known even existed. The world with no rules, as Sid had said. And yet, as I went through the events of the evening, they had all seemed so harmless and benign. It was hard to believe that it was at this same O'Connor's Saloon that Paddy had heard something that alarmed him and possibly led him to his death.
Eighteen
The next morning I presented myself, at what I hoped was a suitable hour, at 9 Patchin Place. Having had it described as an alleyway, I was unprepared for the charming backwater, removed from the bustle of the city. It was a gracious little street, quiet and empty at this hour. There were even trees, growing behind railings and casting delightful pools of shade, outside each brick house. Some of the houses had shutters at their windows, giving an exotic and European effect. Number 9 had sculptured bay trees in pots on either side of the front door and a window box spilling over with petunias. I rang the doorbell and it was opened by Sid, wearing a Chinese silk robe and slippers.
“I'm so sorry,” I exclaimed. “I hope I haven't woken you.”
“Not at all. I've been awake almost since sunup—or at least since nine o'clock.”
“Oh, I see. I thought, when I saw the robe …”
At which Sid laughed. “This is my usual form of attire around the house. I find clothes a perfect nuisance, if you want to know. I wish we could all run around naked like the animals do. It would solve so many problems.”
“Only in the summer,” I suggested.