Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

I had no alternative. I summoned a hansom cab and was taken to Daniel's apartment in the area they call Chelsea, over on West Twenty-first Street. It was a quiet, respectable neighborhood after the noise and bustle of the Village. I rang Daniel's doorbell. There was no answer. I even rang the doorbell of the O'Sheas, with whom I had lodged briefly. No answer there, either. The whole street was silent, with blinds drawn, as if the entire population had vacated the city.

There was only one thing for me to do. I hopped on the Ninth Avenue El and rode back to Greenwich Street. I took a deep breath outside of Mrs. O'Shaunessey's boardinghouse. What if Soulguts was there and saw me? Would he be desperate enough to try something in broad daylight? Then I decided that I would be letting him know that I was on to him and wasn't afraid. Maybe that in itself would be a deterrent. I knocked on the door.

“I didn't expect to see you again.” Mrs. O'Shaunessey looked as unkempt and slovenly as she had done previously, and she was not eyeing me with affection. “I hope you haven't changed your mind about any of Mr. Riley's belongings because it's all been disposed of, and I've rented to a new tenant.”

“Nothing of the sort, Mrs. O'Shaunessey.” I gave her an encouraging smile. “I'm trying to locate a young man who might also be a tenant of yours. I was told he stayed at a boardinghouse on Barrow. You'd be the only boardinghouse on the street, wouldn't you?”

“Apart from that stinking establishment on the corner over there,” she said, nodding in the direction of the river while she crossed her arms across her large, sagging bosom. “Calls herself a boardinghouse, but it's no better than a den of vice, if you get my meaning.”

“Then I hope I'll find that the young man is staying with you. Fm not sure of his name, but I think it's something like Soulguts, and he's sort of frail-looking and skinny and he wears a black cap.”

“Oh, you mean Mr. Czolgosz.” She spelled it for me. “A Polish name, so they tell me.”

“Polish?” Now that was interesting. Wasn't Wolski also a Polish name?

“You're too late, deary. He was only here for a couple of days this time. He left yesterday.”

“He left? Any idea where he went?”

“I thought he said he was going home. He comes from some heathen place out west—Ohio, if my memory serves me correctly.”

My first reaction was relief. He was no longer in New York City. I was safe. Then I reminded myself that I was still a detective. I was still on a case.

“Have you cleaned out his room yet?” I asked. “I wondered if he left anything behind so that I could get in touch with him.”

“I don't think he had much to leave,” she said with a sniff. “Poor as a church mouse, if you ask me. But no, I haven't had time to get to his room yet. You're welcome to take a look. A friend of yours, was he?”

“Friend of a friend,” I said. “I promised I'd try and track him down for her.”

“It's back here,” she said. “Opposite the kitchen.”

She waddled down the hallway, puffing and panting, and opened a door at the end of a narrow, dark hallway. The room was equally dark and no bigger than a closet— even darker and gloomier than Paddy's old room had been. It contained a narrow bed, table, shelf and a couple of pegs for hanging. The window looked out onto a brick wall a few feet away. About the bleakest, sorriest room I had ever seen.

“He didn't want to pay much for the room this time,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “Seen better days, if you ask me. You can light the gas if you've a mind to.”

I lit the bracket and the room became even more dreary. Cracking plaster, peeling wallpaper, pockmarked linoleum. I shuddered.

A brief glance confirmed that Mr. Czolgosz had not left anything of value behind. “Funny you should ask to see his room,” Mrs. O'Shaunessey went on chattily. “It comes back to me now that poor Mr. Riley, God rest his soul, he took an interest in Mr. Czolgosz too. He asked to take a look at his room, on the quiet, like, although what he thought Mr. Czolgosz might have to hide I don't know. And Mr. Czolgosz got wind of the fact that I'd let him in. Proper tizzy he got in. Still, he was that kind of gentleman, wasn't he? Rather highly strung, if you ask me.”

While she was talking, I found the wastebasket under the table and tipped out the contents. Sheets of angry black scribble, torn into little pieces. A postcard, also torn into several pieces. This was easier to put together, because I had a picture to go on. When complete it proclaimed itself to be a picture of gardens beside Niagara Falls, Buffalo, New York. A rather pretty subject for the violent Mr. Czolgosz, I decided, and carefully turned the postcard over to see to whom it was addressed.

Ryan O'Hare, Esquire. C/o Hotel Lafayette, New York.

The message said, “You didn't think I'd have the nerve to go through with it, did you? I promised I'd make you notice me.” It was signed “Leon.”

I gathered up the pieces of the postcard. “Thank you, Mrs. O'Shaunessey. You've been very helpful.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“The postcard had a picture of Buffalo on it. I wonder if he was intending to stop off there on his way home?”