In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)

The cab slowed as it was caught in the heavy theater traffic along Broadway. Bright lights flashed from marquees. The side-walks were crowded with pedestrians.

I swallowed before I spoke. “And how do you think that I could expose them when the entire New York police force was apparently unable to?”

“For the very reason I just explained to you. They now only conduct their seances in private homes, where it should be easier to observe them at close quarters.”

“And how do you propose I get myself invited to a private stance? Do you want me to enter a household as a maid?”

“As a guest, my dear,” Daniel said.

I laughed. “Oh yes. I've a whole mantelshelf full of invitations from Vanderbilts and Astors.”

“Don't worry. I'll arrange everything. You've heard of Senator Flynn, I take it?”

“I've read of him in the newspapers. He’s supposed to be young and dashing, isn't he?”

“He looks a little like me,” Daniel said, “though not quite as dashing.”

“The conceit of the man!” I went to slap his hand, then remembered and withdrew at the last second.

Daniel peered out of the window. “Why aren't we moving? I de-clare the traffic in this city is becoming impossible. Has everyone in the world decided to attend the theater tonight?” He rapped with his cane against the roof of the cab. “Let us out here, cabby. It’s quicker to walk.”

“Very good, sir.” The cabby jumped down and opened the door for us. Daniel stepped out first, then assisted me down the steps. The whole of Broadway was a seething mass of people, many of them finery dressed for the theater or restaurant. But at the edge of the curb beggars hovered, some selling things, some of them pitifully deformed and holding out twisted palms in desperation. I shuddered and averted my face. When I first arrived in this city, I could so easily have ended up as one of them. Had they come here with die same hopes and dreams?

Daniel finished paying the cabby and took my arm, steering me past toffs and beggars.

“So why were you telling me about Senator Flynn?” I asked.

“I have an assignment for you that involves him,” he said. “Patience. All will be revealed when we reach the restaurant.”

He guided me skillfully through the crowd until we came to a halt outside a discreet entrance flanked by potted palms. There was an awning over the door and the sign read MUSCHENHElM’s ARENA. I was wondering what an Arena might be, since the only connection the word conjured up was gladiators and lions.

“Is this the restaurant?” I asked.

“This is it. One of the more fashionable establishments in the city.”

“You didn't have to go to this trouble. An ordinary cafe would be enough for me.”

“I want you to become accustomed to fine dining,” Daniel said, “since youll soon be dining at Senator Flynn’s mansion on the Hudson.”

“Senator Flynn’s mansion?” I had to laugh. “And how do you propose to get me invited there?”

“You will be introduced as Senator Flynn’s long-lost cousin from Ireland,” he said.

“Buy a flower for the lady sir?” A half-starved-looking girl in pitiful rags blocked our way to the restaurant door, holding out a rose, her eyes pleading.

I thought I had noticed her among the beggars when we got out of the cab and admired her tenacity at following us this far.

Daniel was about to brush her aside, then relented. “Oh, very well.” He chose a rose for me and a buttonhole for himself and paid the girl. She didn't take her eyes off our faces for a second and was all thumbs as she fumbled over Daniel’s coins.

“Oh, just keep the change.” He brushed her aside impatiently. “Really, the poor thing is a half-wit.”

“Maybe she doesn't get enough to eat,” 1 said, glancing back at her. She was staring at us with a strange expression on her face.

Then the door was opened by a man in smart livery and we passed through. Inside was another world from the bustle and beggars of Broadway. It was a scene of comfort and elegance—white-clothed tables lit by tiny frilled lamps and the sparkle of glass and silver. An electric fan was turning in the ceiling, but it was still noticeably warm inside and Daniel requested a table by an open front window to catch what little breeze there was. He ordered what seemed to be a most extensive meal for us, then he was handed the wine list.

“A French champagne, I think,” he said, handing it back without opening it. 'Your best.”

“So go on about Senator Flynn,” I said, after the champagne had been brought, tasted and poured, and I had tried to give the waiter the impression that sitting in such establishments with a glass of French champagne in front of me was an everyday occurrence in my life. “I am intrigued. Has he something to do with the spiritualists you were telling me about?”

“You must be aware of the Senator’s great tragedy?” Daniel asked. “I am sure it must have made the newspapers in Ireland. It was all the talk here for months.”