Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

At least I didn’t dream the nightmare again that night, but I awoke with a terrible headache. I suspected it must have been the wine I’d served the night before, or maybe it was the prospect of having to face Arabella today. Then I remembered my pathetic performance of the evening before and was mortified. To have sat there in front of my friends, blubbering like the weak females I despised. What on earth was the matter with me? Daniel Sullivan, that was the answer. I was perfectly fine when he wasn’t in my life. The moment I got myself mixed up with him again, I became an emotional wreck. Well, no more. I’d go first to hear Gentleman Jack’s report on the Eastmans, then I’d pay a call on Arabella Norton. After that I’d make sure that Daniel had a competent lawyer and leave the rest in his hands.

Having taken command of my life once more, I washed, dressed, and headed for Daniel’s apartment in Chelsea. The headache still felt like a tight band around my head, but I told myself that I’d feel better the moment I found out that Gentleman Jack had contacted the Eastmans successfully and that they’d be willing to help Daniel. If Monk Eastman wasn’t willing to help, I’d no idea what I’d do next, but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it, as my mother was wont to say.

Even at the early hour when I emerged from Patchin Place, the city was already heating up. God knows what it would be like by afternoon. On any other occasion I’d have been looking forward to a jaunt in the leafy, cool countryside. On any other occasion I wouldn’t have been meeting Arabella Norton.

I was outside Daniel’s house by nine o’clock and rang his bell. Nobody answered. It occurred to me that prizefighters probably kept different hours from my own and that Jack was still lying there in a stupor. So I rang Mrs. O’Shea’s bell instead, apologized, and asked to be admitted.

“I had no idea that Captain Sullivan’s friend was there,” she said, as she escorted me up the stairs. “He must have been quiet as a mouse. Anyway, I got the groceries you asked for and left them in his kitchen, so they should keep the poor man going until the captain returns.”

I thanked her and stepped into Daniel’s apartment.

“Mr. Brady? Jack?” I called softly. I listened for the sound of breathing, then tiptoed toward the bedroom. The room was unoccupied, nor did it look as if it had been occupied. The bed was made, exactly as it had been the day before. When I went through into the kitchen, the groceries that Mrs. O’Shea had purchased were still lined up in the larder. The remnants of that sorry piece of cheese still sat on the kitchen table. It didn’t take a detective to work out that Jack Brady had not been here last night.

New and alarming worries flitted through my head: the police had caught him and locked him up or escorted him out of the city; Monk Eastman had taken a dislike to him, and he’d met with a horrible end in the East River. I told myself I was letting my imagination run away with me. The logical explanation was that he’d spotted policemen near Daniel’s house and had been forced to hide out for the night.

I wrote him a note in the simplest terms, hoping his reading skills would enable him to get the gist of it. I told him that I would be back that evening and looked forward to his news. Then I made my way to the Grand Central Station. Soon I was aboard the train to White Plains. It was a pleasant ride. After we crossed the Harlem River into the area called the Bronx, the city gave way to leafy countryside. There were still small farms among the growing number of factories and houses, and we stopped at neat stations with gingerbread trim. I don’t know what I had expected of White Plains, but it turned out to be a fair-sized town with an air of prosperity, its own Broadway, and even a few automobiles in evidence.

I had hoped that the Nortons would occupy the one big house in the area, but I had underestimated the size of the town. It seemed to be a considerable community. What’s more, coming into the town, I had noticed several impressive estates. From what I knew of Arabella, I was sure these were the kinds of places she would live. I asked at the station but was met with a shrug. So I tried the post office. Here I had more luck and was told that the Nortons had a fine property a mile or so out of town on the Hartsdale Road. The clerk suggested that I would be able to hire a hack at the station to take me there.