Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

“President McKinley's coming in a few minutes,” the uniformed man said, not looking up.

“But I thought he toured the exposition yesterday,” I blurted out.

“He did, but he liked it so well that he's decided to come back.”

“He'll be driving around in his automobile, will he?” I asked.

“No, ma'am—he'll be in the Temple of Music over there, shaking hands,” the man said. “Going to give the ordinary folks a chance to meet him. That's the kind of guy he is.”





Twenty–Six

I looked at Ryan to see if he was thinking the same thing I was. His face had also gone pale.

“Who would be in charge of the President's sec urity?” I asked. “We need to speak to him.”

The man laughed. “Don't worry yourselves about that. They've got enough National Guardsmen and Marines and Secret Service here to start a small war.”

The crowd enveloped us and moved us on. It seemed that everyone else was heading in the same direction—to an ornate domed building halfway along the grand esplanade. It was the most magnificently decorated of all, with pillars rising to that great dome and the whole edifice adorned with statues and flags.

I grabbed Ryan's arm. “We have to tell someone,” I said.

“Who?”

“We'll go up to the door and find out who is in charge. They can stop Leon from going in.” Ryan nodded.

But as we approached the temple, we saw that it was going to be impossible to get anywhere close. A long line had already formed, snaking its way between cordons and armed guards toward the entrance. Another line of guards stood around the perimeter to stop people from cutting into the line. Ryan took my hand and we forced our way through the crowd until we reached the nearest soldiers.

“We need to speak to someone in charge,” Ryan said. “We have reason to believe that a dangerous anarchist is among this crowd.”

“Anarchist, uh?” The soldier looked amused, if anything.

“He's of slight build, big dark eyes, probably dressed all in black,” I said. “He likes to wear a black cap.”

“Sounds like a regular good anarchist to me,” the soldier said, still grinning.

“If you'd let us in, we could identify him for you,” Ryan added.

“Oh, so that's your game, is it?” the soldier sneered. “Trying to cut the line? Go on, get to the end and wait your turn like everyone else.”

“But we need to talk to someone in charge,” I insisted. “Don't you realize the President could be in danger?”

“If that's what you're worrying about, little lady, then there's no need,” the man said. “Anyone who goes into that theater has to pass a rigorous inspection. If we don't like the look of someone, he doesn't get in. The President will be safer than in Fort Knox.”

He moved us away.

“I wish I could believe him,” I said. “See if you can spot Leon in the line.”

Ryan strained to peer through the crowd. “Too many people in the way.”

“Hopeless,” I said. “Maybe if we made a fuss, we'd get taken straight to the man in charge. He'd listen to us.”

“We could also find ourselves thrown into jail,” Ryan

said. “Which would seriously disturb my opening tonight.”

“Then what do you suggest?” I snapped. The heat and the enormity of the moment were getting to me.

“If we could find a way into the building”—Ryan was staring up at the dome above us— “then we could spot Leon the moment he entered, before he got anywhere close to the President.”

“We'd have to make ourselves invisible.” The temple was surrounded by a great throng, half of whom seemed to be armed guards.

“Let's see what happens round at the back of the building.”

We forced our way back through the crowd still making for the end of the line. As we came around to the other side of the building, a great cheer went up, getting closer and closer. A band played a fanfare. We got a glimpse of the black roof of an automobile. The President had arrived. The far side of the temple was no better than the other. Here was the exit door where those who had shaken the President's hand would leave the building. It, too, was heavily guarded and there was a second perimeter of soldiers to stop anyone from getting too close.

“I wonder if they've locked the stage door,” Ryan said. “It's a theater, isn't it? There has to be a performers' entrance.” We went around to the back and, sure enough, there was a little door, half-hidden behind a pillar. We tried it and of course it was locked. Ryan glanced at the back of the armed guards who formed a circle around the pavilion. “Do you happen to have a hairpin, Molly, my dearest?”

“Yes, but…” I tugged one out of my hair. “You can't think of—”

“I have acquired some extremely useful skills during my long and checkered career, and picking a lock was one of them,” Ryan said, kneeling down before the lock. “Keep guard for me.”