Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

The journey seemed to go on forever. Farther down the car, a noisy group of young men were singing popular songs. “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do,” sung in several different keys, filled the smoky air. At another time I would have enjoyed it. On this occasion I wanted peace and quiet and time to collect my racing thoughts. I walked down the car and out onto the little platform at the end. Green fields and white farmhouses flashed past us, reminding me painfully of another rail journey I had taken earlier that year, when I had fled from Ireland. Such a lot had happened since then. My previously quiet life had been turned upside down.

Would I go back again if I had the chance? I wondered. It wasn't hard to answer that one—there was no way I'd trade my present existence in New York for the dreary daily routine of Ballykillin. Even if my present life did have its risks, at least I knew I was living and breathing. And if only Daniel—-I stopped that train of thought in a hurry. There was no point in thinking of Daniel that way ever again. A shifting wind gust covered me with smoke from the engine and drove me inside again.

Just before eight o'clock that evening, the train puffed its way into Buffalo station. Crowds streamed from the train, all seemingly with a purpose and direction in mind. I wasn't sure where to go next. I came out of the station into a street positively milling with people. The bookingoffice clerk hadn't been exaggerating. Half the world had gone to Buffalo today! Sidewalk caf6s were full and the air resounded with competing strains of music—the string quartet at the fancy restaurant across the street being drowned out by the oompah band at a German biergarten. And to add to the cacophony, street vendors pushed their barrows through the crowd, shouting out their wares in a variety of accents: hot pretzels, only a nickel; ice cream, best Italian ice cream; lemonade, cotton candy, souvenirs … my head swam from the noise and bustle.

I stood beside a pillar and tried to get my thoughts in order. It was almost dark and it occurred to me that maybe I should find a place to sleep before I did anything else, but I decided that I shouldn't put off what I came to do any longer. This was something I shouldn't tackle alone, so I couldn't put off finding Ryan either. The logical thing to do would be to find a police station and tell them everything. Then it would be up to them. If Ryan was truly innocent he could go back to his play, and I could take the next train home with a clear conscience. I set off to find the nearest policeman, to ask for directions to police headquarters. Then I'd find the theater. Ryan would surely be there now, putting the final touches to his play.

I hadn't realized it until now, but Buffalo was a big city. Streets faded into darkness in all directions, trolley cars clanged past and tall buildings, just as imposing as those in New York, rose all around me. I wandered aimlessly until I came to the crossroads of two major thoroughfares. The sign on the corner said Main Street. At least I now knew I was in the center of town. As I stood waiting to cross, I saw a great glow in the sky, as if the sun had not set at all, but now resided just beyond those tall buildings. My first thought was that it was a huge fire, and waited for the sound of fire engines racing to the scene. Then, as I watched in awe, I saw a great beam, like a giant lighthouse, cut across the sky, lighting even the very clouds. Suddenly it dawned on me that this must be the famous exposition, illuminated with its thousands of electric lights. I had a longing to rush to see it for myself, and had to remind myself of my immediate and unpleasant duty.

I spotted a policeman on horseback coming down the boulevard toward me. I was about to cross the street when I spied the Pfeiflfer Theater. A man was standing on a ladder, putting the sign on the marquee. “Opening tomorrow night: Special pre-New York showing.‘Friends and Neighbors,’ by the Internationally Acclaimed Playwright, Mr. Ryan O'Hare.”

I stood there staring at that theater, in one last turmoil of indecision. It would be so much easier to turn over my information to the police, but I just couldn't bring myself to betray Ryan before I had a chance to talk to him. Maybe this was foolhardy, but I still couldn't equate the Ryan I knew with a ruthless anarchist. It made even less sense that he would be planning a deadly attack on the very eve of the opening of his new play.

I made up my mind and picked up my skirts to cross the street. I was going to risk that encounter. And what better place to confront him than surrounded by his company? There would be safety in numbers. If my suspicions were in any way confirmed by his reactions, all I had to do was to ask one of his company to accompany me to the police station. I had nothing to worry about.

The front doors of the theater were shut but I went around to the side and found the stage door ajar. The doorman tried to stop me but I told him I'd come from New York with an important message for Mr. O'Hare.