Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

I was on the platform in good time and of course I got a seat. I only had to walk through one carriage, looking suitably frail and helpless, before several courteous gentlemen leaped to offer me their seats.

I was still incredulous that the journey would take so long. Almost eight hours across one state? You could travel the length and breadth of Ireland in that time! The carriage was full of jolly, noisy families, off for an outing. I felt like an outsider, my stomach clenched into a tight knot. I stared out of the window as the railway ran beside the Hudson River and passed high cliffs, then pretty hamlets with white wooden houses. There were pleasure boats going up and down the river and picnics in meadows. On any other occasion I would have enjoyed the views, but not today. It seemed that the whole world was in a jolly festive mood except me.

Was I really doing the right thing? Had I not somehow misinterpreted the odd snippets of information and ended up with the wrong end of the stick? I had been known to do that before. So what did I really know? I asked myself, as I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythmic puffing of the engine. I knew that Leon Czolgosz had killed Paddy and then tried to kill me. Those facts were definite. I'd have recognized those eyes anywhere. So the next question had to be why Leon had tried to kill us both. He knew or suspected that Paddy had found out something about him and he also suspected that Paddy had told me. It had to be something pretty important to make him try to kill two people to silence them, and to burn down a place to destroy evidence. I wondered again what I might have overlooked among those papers. Then I decided that Paddy was such a secretive, cautious man that he'd never have spelled out suspicions in black and white. What he knew or suspected had gone to the grave with him.

And I could only guess what that could be. He had told me with his dying breath that it was too big for him. No normal crime then. He handled those with ease, all the time. And I had witnessed Leon at the anarchists' meeting. Anarchists did terrible, violent things. Their aim was to topple governments, kill kings, disrupt societies…

And there was the exposition going on in Buffalo. Thousands of people would be there. It was too good an opportunity to miss for an anarchist. Somehow he was planning to disrupt the exposition.

The only question was whether Ryan was to be his partner in crime; Now that I had time to reflect, I still found it impossible to believe. Gay, debonair Ryan and violent, brooding Leon were chalk and cheese. How could they ever have decided to work together on anything? Unless, I thought, they were both under the spell of Emma Goldman and were doing her bidding. I remembered how Ryan had dropped everything and rushed to her summons that night. But she had told me that she no longer advocated violence. I shook my head in disbelief. I could not picture Ryan taking part in a violent plot or Paddy's killing or helping to orchestrate the attempt on my life. And yet Paddy had taken photos of the two of them together. RO with LC, equally dangerous in his mind. I shifted nervously in my seat. On this occasion I must not let my heart rule my head. Just because I thought of Ryan as my friend did not mean I would be safe when I reached Buffalo.

Now that I had eight hours to think, I realized that I had no idea what I was going to do when I got to Buffalo. In fact, as the miles rolled by, I became more and more convinced that I should have risked going to the police in New York, instead of trying to face Ryan—or worse still, Leon—alone. I could have gone over Sergeant Wolski's head But what could I have told the police? I had nothing to go on except that Leon Czolgosz had killed Paddy Riley and had tried to kill me. Only my word, however. No concrete proof except the photos, the words inPaddy's little book, and the drawing of a buffalo. Hardly enough evidence to make any policeman take my wild speculation seriously. And then there was Sergeant Wolski—if he, too, was involved somehow in this, he would make sure that I was not taken seriously. Or worse.