Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“If you made it worth our while, we might consider it,” the unpleasant one said, giving me a knowing look.

The irony didn’t escape me. Every other employee of the New York justice system was apparently open to bribes. The one who wasn’t now sat in a jail cell. Which made another idea flash through my mind: Was this some kind of payback because Daniel had witnessed another officer taking bribes, maybe had reported him? Another avenue to pursue.

Anyway, I wasn’t about to grease the palm of either of these two individuals.

“Don’t worry yourselves,” I said primly. “I’m sure the postal service will do a splendid job of delivering my message.” And I turned my back on them.

So I had no alternative but to purchase an envelope and a stamp, mail the note, and return home in a frustrated mood. The heat may have had something to do with it. Until I came to New York I had never imagined that a city could feel so unpleasant in the summer. The air was as heavy and oppressive as a hot, wet blanket. Sweat ran down into my eyes, and I felt that I didn’t even have the energy to put one foot in front of the other and make it home.

When at last I did get home, I poured myself another long glass of lemonade before I had the strength to attack that chicken. In truth I was in no mood for a dinner party. My mind was in a turmoil, and the heat had left me feeling like a wet rag. But I wasn’t about to deny my friends their meal. By seven the table was laid; the chicken cooked, chilled, and dismembered, lying on a platter surrounded by lettuce and spring onions. I had even gone the whole hog and purchased a tomato, all splendidly wrapped in foil. I gathered that no smart salad should be without one these days. At the last minute I whipped up mayonnaise. Only just in time. The bell rang and my guests arrived. I had set the table for two guests, but a third figure stood in the shadows at the doorway.

“Molly, dear, how good of you.” Gus came in, arms open to give me a kiss on the cheek. “What a treat. Sid was only saying this morning that she felt too lazy to cook and we’d have to have bread and cheese, and then your lovely invitation arrived.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Sid said, before I could comment on the third figure, “but Ryan dropped in unexpectedly a few minutes ago. He seemed so dejected that we had to bring him with us. There will be enough for one extra, won’t there?”

And that Irish rogue of a playwright, Ryan O’Hare, stood staring at me hopefully. What could I say? Of course there would be enough.

“He’s going through a terrible time, Molly,” Sid said, not letting Ryan speak for himself. “Some despicable person has stolen his idea for a new play and is producing it at Daley Theater this fall. Can you imagine the gall?”

Ryan entered, looking the picture of dejection, although I remembered that he was an actor as well as a playwright. “I feel wounded to the heart, cut to the quick, and all other metaphors that apply.” In deference to the heat he was wearing a white cotton peasant shirt, open at the neck, with wide frills at the wrists, and baggy pantaloons. For Ryan this was no more unconventional than usual, but the resemblance to Lord Byron was startling.

“How did he get his hands on your idea, Ryan?” I asked, as the latter deposited himself in my one and only armchair without being invited. “Was it someone you had confided in?” From what I knew of Ryan, he did a lot of confiding.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “I hardly know the man. And what I do know of him, I don’t like. He has no taste in clothes. He wears tweed, my dear. Never trust a man who wears tweed.” He paused and made a dramatic gesture. “He stole it, the blackguard. Or someone stole it and gave it to him.” He looked up with sudden interest and waved a finger at me. “You’re a detective, Molly. You can find out for me how Ben Archer got his hands on my play. And when we have proof, I’ll sue.”

“I don’t think I can do that, Ryan,” I said. For one thing, I had no time at present; for another, Ryan would not be able to pay me for my services; and for a third, I half suspected that Ryan may well have divulged his idea while in his cups. He was known to talk awful rubbish when drunk.

“You won’t do it for me, Molly? I am devastated, cut to the quick.”

“You’re doing an awful lot of cutting to the quick tonight,” I said, not able to stifle my smile. “I’d like to help, Ryan, I really would; but I’ve a big case I’m working on right now, and I’ve no time. In addition to that I don’t think this is something you’d ever be able to prove. Ideas are swapped, shared, and borrowed all the time, aren’t they?”