Murphy's Law (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #1)

"Ach no. They traveled over in the government launch."


The government launch! If I'd only known I could have questioned the bad-tempered old captain. Now I'd have to seek him out again. "So you must have crossed with them."

"That's right. There were several of us pressmen." "I suppose you couldn't tell if the whole party came back on the government launch. Nobody stayed behind, did they?"

"I didnae count them. It was so damnty cold, I was just waiting to get back to the city. They were all crowded into the cabin, swilling whisky, and they didnae offer any to us poor lads, either. We were left to freeze on the deck."

"Someone was taking photographs," I said. 'They took a picture of my little girl with the

mayor."

"Ach, so that's what's behind all this." He looked up with a knowing smile. "You want a copy of the photo of your wee bairn with the mayor!"

I smiled coyly and didn't deny it. It made an excellent excuse. I wish I'd thought of it first.

"Do you know who the photographers were? were they with your newspaper, too?"

"Ach nae. They're all freelancers. They show up at events like this, hoping to sell their pictures to the weekly pictorials, or maybe to the mayor himself--he's vain enough to want to stick pictures of himself all over the walls."

"Would you happen to know the names of these photographers, and where I might find them?"

He shrugged and glanced down at his typewriting machine, wanting to get back to work. "I'm trying to remember who was there that day. I didnae pay particular attention. I know Simon Levy was one of them. Has a studio on the Lower East Side, in the Jewish quarter."

"That was the one who took the picture of Bridie," I said. "An old man with a beard. Thank you. I'll go and look for him then. You've been very helpful."

"Good luck ta yae." He gave me a half wave and the typewriting machine was clattering again the moment I turned my back.

Seventeen

The long trek back to the Lower East Side seemed to take forever. I had lost that initial burst of energy that drove me up Broadway with wings on my feet. As I walked back I noticed the big stores with elegantly decorated windows full of mannequins and flowers. One day, I told myself, I'd be that lady who climbed out of her carriage and went to shop there. Although on a fish gutter's pay, it was going to take quite a while.

The thought of fish gutting brought me up with a jolt. Poor little Bridie--what had they told her when I hadn't come home last night? I hated the thought of leaving the children in that place, with that terrible aunt, but, being homeless and penniless, there wasn't much I could do about it at the moment. Besides, I reminded myself, they weren't my children. I had delivered them to their father, which was what I had

promised to do. All the same, the picture of those little faces haunted me all the way down Broadway. One day, I told myself again. Whatever happened I wasn't going to forget them.

My feet were dragging and the sole of my left boot was starting to flap as I came into the now familiar Lower East Side neighborhoods. The market on Hester Street was in full swing again. I looked longingly at the braided breads, the big pots of soup, the stall where a man was frying what looked like little pancakes. How was I going to get money to buy food for myself? How was I going to find a job if I spent my days chasing after photographers? I should go to Daniel Sullivan and let him follow up on my lead. That's what I should do. Then I could get on with my life.

But what if he didn't bother to follow up? My greatest fear was that I'd show up at his office one day only to find that Michael had been shipped off to Ireland. Of course, it was also possible that I could find myself dragged back and shipped home with him, if overzealous feds took over the case.

I stopped to ask a couple of street merchants if they knew Simon Levy. They did, and told me where I'd find his studio. I found it without difficulty, but it was shut with the blinds down. Out on Assignment. Back Later, the sign on the door said, in English and a couple of other languages I couldn't read. At least I knew where it was.

Hunger was becoming a problem again. It was lunchtime and the effects of this morning's porridge were wearing off. This is stupid, I thought. I'll be no use to Michael or myself if I die of hunger. I must find a job today. Which meant I should hand over my information to Daniel Sullivan and let him to his work. It made more sense, didn't it? He could go to the mayor's office and ask for an official list of everyone present that day. He could ask to see photos and nobody could deny him.

Reluctantly I made my way back to the police station. Captain Sullivan was out on a case, I was told, but I could leave him a note. I took the paper and pen offered and scribbled my hunch about the mayor's party and the name of the photographer who might have taken a group