For the Love of Mike (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #3)

“Thank you,” I said. “Now you hurry off home before it gets too late and your family starts to worry about you.”


“They don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself,” he said with a swagger. Then he grabbed at the dime I offered him and took off down Canal at a lively trot. I crossed the street, successfully dodging hansom cabs, trolley cars, and even the occasional automobile, to reach the café. It was a large, opulent type of place, like a smaller Delmonico’s, with lots of red plush and potted palms and chandeliers. A piano was playing a lively waltz. I went in and stood in the foyer, looking around. Several tables were occupied, but I didn’t spot any familiar faces.

“Can I help you, miss?” A waiter appeared at my side.

“I was to meet someone here. A young lady. Tall, slim, dark haired. Well dressed.”

“There has been no unescorted lady here this evening,” he said. “Do you have a table reserved?”

“If we did, it would be in the name of Miss Nell Blankenship.”

He shook his head. “Then perhaps you would care to sit there and wait.” He indicated a red velvet sofa between two potted palms.

“Thank you.” I took the seat he indicated. The clock on the wall said seven thirty. Nell would have expected me to be working until seven, so she hadn’t hurried. Maybe she was on the trail of more interesting facts. I wondered what she might have unearthed that was important enough to have summoned me here and couldn’t wait. It was amazing enough that Katherine had worked for Mostel’s. Amazing, but annoying too. All the time I had worked there, not realizing! If only I had asked the right questions, I might have found out what happened to her myself. This thought made me stop and reconsider. Nell had leaped to the conclusion that Kathy’s workplace might have had something to do with her disappearance. Could Mr. Mostel or Seedy Sam have possibly been responsible for what happened to her? I shook my head in disbelief. They were not the most pleasant of men—hard-hearted, greedy, but it was a big leap from treating girls badly to disposing of one of them in the East River.

I heard the clock on a nearby church chime eight and still Nell didn’t come.

“Do you think your friend mistook the date?” the waiter asked. “Is there something I can bring to you?”

I ordered a cup of coffee and sat sipping it as long minutes ticked by. I was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy. Why was she so late? And what had she been doing in the vicinity of the Walhalla Hall? It might not have been dark when she found Malachy to deliver the letter, but it was certainly dark enough now—and raining hard again. Not the sort of weather you would choose to dawdle outside, especially not in that neighborhood.

At last I could wait there no longer. I was as tense as a wound watch spring. Something had detained Nell Blankenship and something had prevented her from sending me a second message, letting me know that she had been detained. I wasn’t sure what to do. It was now raining cats and dogs out there, the fat, heavy drops bouncing off the sidewalk and forming pools in the gutters. Miserable horses plodded past and cabbies sat, equally miserable with their derby hats jammed down on their heads and collars turned up against the rain. I stood outside the café and stared down Canal Street. I was not foolhardy enough to go snooping down there alone at this time of night. Once bitten, twice shy as they say. Should I just go home and wait for Nell to contact me in the morning? It was, of course, possible that she had had enough of the rain and had gone home herself. If I could find a telephone, I could call her. I still had her number on the match-book in my pocket.

After some trial and error I located a theater on lower Broadway with a telephone. It was a Yiddish theater and I hoped that the owner would speak English. He did and insisted on making the call for me, not out of kindness, I fear, but rather not trusting me with his contraption. Nell’s maid answered again.

“Has your mistress not come home yet?” I asked.

“No, miss, and I’m real worried about her. She never comes home this late without getting word to me. She’s always real considerate that way.”

“I’m sure she’s just been detained somewhere,” I said, trying to sound more reassuring than I felt. “Please let her know that I waited at the café for an hour, then I felt I couldn’t wait any longer. She knows where she can reach me.”