Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

I stood there with the letter in my hands, just staring at it. No hope. That pretty much summed it up. “Holy Mother of God,” I muttered, half exclamation and half prayer. My own mother had told me on numerous occasions that I’d come to a bad end. Well, it seemed now that she may have been right. I could just picture her sitting on that heavenly cloud, rubbing her hands and saying, “I told you so.” My father, too. He called me “fast and loose” once for walking home from a dance with a boy. My hand strayed down to my stomach. It was hard to believe that a baby might be growing in there.

A new and disturbing thought crept into my head: get rid of it. I had heard rumors of women who knew how to work that miracle, but also of girls who had died in the process. Did I want to take that chance? Sid and Gus were more worldly than I, and they had a large and varied acquaintanceship. They might know whom to ask. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I couldn’t tell Sid and Gus, at least not yet. Not until I had become used to the idea myself. And what about Daniel? I thought and felt myself flushing with embarrassment at the thought of facing him. Shouldn’t he know? Didn’t he have a right to know? In any case, I certainly couldn’t tell him at this moment. He already had enough worries on his plate.

So the plain truth was that I couldn’t tell anyone. It had to remain my secret.

Well, there was no point in standing here, drowning in self-pity. Daniel Sullivan would certainly be no use to me locked in a jail cell. The most sensible course of action right now would be to do what I had been asked and put my own worries on hold until it was done. Hopefully Jack Brady would have returned and read my note. He might even have positive news. I didn’t feel like going out again, but I had to do it. Better than being here alone and brooding, in any case.

I made myself a cup of tea and a piece of bread and jam, before setting off for Chelsea. Mrs. O’Shea was home, cooking her husband’s dinner. Smells of stew coming from the kitchen nearly had a disastrous effect on my stomach.

She hadn’t seen the gentleman all day, she said. And she’d been home most of the day. She had been making her sister a nourishing soup with calves’ feet and veal bones. The poor dear was fair worn-out, up all night with the new infant and then taking care of all those lively youngsters all day. She was planning to sleep over there tonight so that her sister could get some rest.

I took the key and fled up the stairs before the smell of that stewing meat made me lose the bread and jam I had just eaten. The apartment was untouched from this morning. Jack had not been back. I sat at Daniel’s table and tried to digest this fact. My one ally had gone. He might just be hiding out at a new address and would return to Daniel’s as soon as he was able. On the other hand, he might have gone for good. In any case, I couldn’t count on his help any longer. I sank my head into my arms and just sat there for a while. Jack Brady might not have been overly endowed with brains, but he had been willing and kind and large enough to be my protector if necessary. Now I had nobody. I had no idea what I was going to do next.

I stared hopelessly at the polished mahogany of Daniel’s desk while I tried to calm my racing thoughts. I was strong. I had always been strong. I could get through this somehow. Obviously the first thing to do was to find out what had happened to Jack Brady. But that would mean going to the Eastmans, and I didn’t know whether I was brave enough to do that. If Jack had met a bad end by visiting Monk Eastman, then I’d be walking into a lion’s den. I needed all the details that Daniel could give me before I blundered into gangland. I took a piece of paper from his desk and wrote to him. “I need details if I’m to help you, Daniel,” I wrote. “Where and when this passing of the bribe took place. The name of the gang member who handed you the letter. Exactly how the scene transpired. Who was with the commissioner when you were arrested? Did he say anything that gave you any hint he had been summoned to witness your meeting with a gang member?”

Then I added, “Are there no fellow officers who were your friends and can still be trusted? I can’t believe that everyone on the force wishes this fate on you. I can’t do this on my own, Daniel.”

Then I put the letter in an envelope and sealed it. It was a strange sensation writing his name on the outside, and I felt those dratted tears well up in my eyes again.