“You would kill for money?” Mrs. Boone demanded. “You poor stupid boy. Money is not worth killing for.”
“On the contrary, one can only truly lead a happy life with sufficient money and I’m not allowing two meddling women to get in the way of my future happiness.”
“And how do you think you are going to carry out this deed?” Mrs. Boone said, still sounding remarkably calm—disinterested almost. “You can’t shoot us here, you know. Father Flannigan's study is just across the hall, and he has ears like a hawk. He’d be in here in a second, and he used to a fine boxer in his younger days. And that back door is always kept locked—nasty rusty lock too, so I wouldn’t count on making my escape that way. No, you’d have to force your way past Father Flannigan into the hall and risk running into the Parish Council who will be arriving at any moment.”
“You—unlock the back door,” Fitzpatrick said, no longer sounding the affable oaf. He prodded me forward with the gun.
“I can’t,” I whimpered, deciding that the helpless female impersonation might serve us best at this stage. “My hands are shaking so badly that I won’t be able to do it. I think I might faint.”
“Do it!” he shouted.
“I wouldn’t yell, if I were you,” Mrs. Boone said. “Father Flanningan will be in here, and I don’t think that even you can fight off three of us,especially not Father when his temper is roused. But you are hopeless, girl. You go to pieces at the least little thing.” And she rolled her eyes upward in a gesture of despair. For a moment I thought she was condemning me. Then I saw the rack hanging in the ceiling. It had a couple of big pots, some ladles and drying cloths on it. With my eyes I traced down the wall to where the cord to raise and lower it was secured. If one of us could only get over to it. If we could lure him to the right spot— “Here,” she said, still sounding annoyed. “Out of the way, I’ll open the lock for you, if you must.” She pushed us aside and started to wrestle with the lock on the back door. “It hasn’t been opened in years,” she said. “We keep it locked for safety reasons. Never know who might be prowling along the waterfront. Ah, wait a minute, I can feel it moving just a little.”
I glanced at him. His eyes were on her, while she reached up and struggled with the lock. I was close to that cord on the wall, but not close enough to risk it. Somehow I had to get the gun out of my side first.
Suddenly Mrs. Boone spun around, looking surprised. “Father Flanningan!” she exclaimed.
Fitzpatrick turned instinctively to look at the closed door. I gave him an almighty shove and released the cord. A shot fired upward over my head as the rack crashed down onto him, knocking him to the floor in a jumble of cloths and pots. One of the large pots must have struck him with some force because he just lay there stunned for a second— long enough for Mrs. Boone to retrieve the gun.
“Stay where you are, boy,” she commanded, when he groaned. “Don’t try to move. I should warn you that I’m rather good with one of these things, and you wouldn’t be the first man I’ve killed. Molly, there is twine in that drawer behind you. Tie his wrists together please, then his legs.”
He started to struggle as I tied his wrists but I managed to bind them together securely before he could free himself from the rack. Then I started on his legs. By now he was wide awake again, and I had to sit on his legs to keep him from lashing out.
“You stupid old woman!” Fitzpatrick shouted. “What do you think you’re going to do now, eh? Do you think I’m afraid of you?”
“Oh, and use one of those pudding cloths for his mouth, please,” she continued.
I did a thorough job on this, and we raised the rack off him.
“Well done, Molly,” she said. “You performed admirably. I can see now why Cullen thought you were a good choice. A cool head indeed.”
“But what are we going to do with him now?” I asked.
“This is most inconvenient,” she said. “It comes at a bad time. Go up and see if Cullen—”
As she said the words, the kitchen door opened and Cullen himself entered. “I thought I heard a shot,” he said, looking around suspiciously. “Holy Mother, what's going on here?”
“A rather annoying complication,” Mrs. Boone said. “This young man followed Molly from New York with the idea of dispatching the both of us. He's my nephew, you see, and he didn’t want to share his uncle's fortune.”
“We have to get rid of him right away,” Cullen said. “I’ll send for some of the lads and have him taken out of town.”
I looked down at Mr. Fitzpatrick, now lying trussed like a chicken, his eyes staring at us in terror.
“You’re not going to kill him?” I blurted out.
In Dublin's Fair City (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #6)
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