Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

Firmly in Eastman territory, I thought. Now there was no longer any doubt that Monk Eastman’s gang was definitely involved in Daniel’s downfall. Not a happy thought because the double cross could have come from them. They may have wanted to set up the prizefight with Gentleman Jack and cut Daniel out at the same time.

The commissioner had risen to his feet again. “So glad to meet you, Miss Delaney. Please give my very best to Mrs. Astor and the ladies of your fine league. Now if you’ll excuse me, I can’t keep the mayor waiting.”

Desperately I tried to come up with more questions. “Just one moment,” I said, and he looked back at me in surprise. “We are—thinking of coming up with a league citation to reward noble actions by our public servants,” I said, blurting out the first thing that came into my head. “You yourself will be first on the list, in fact. I gather a swank party is being planned.”

“I am most honored.” He gave a little mock bow.

“I’m sure the ladies will be most impressed to hear about these walks you conduct around the most dangerous parts of the city,” I babbled on. “You surely don’t walk through those parts alone, do you?”

He smiled again. “I am not foolhardy enough to risk gang members taking a potshot at me. I had an escort of officers who normally patrol that beat and who, I might add, were instrumental in helping me to arrest the errant captain.”

“You wouldn’t remember any of their names?”

The smile vanished. I had pushed too far. “I administer a force of several thousand men, Miss Delaney. Much as I’d like to be on first-name terms with every constable, that is just not possible. And I’m wondering what interest you could have in knowing their names?”

“Just in case the ladies of the league wish to issue any more citations,” I said.

“My officers do their duty no matter what it is,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my secretary will show you out.” And he was gone. I descended the stairs feeling somewhat pleased with myself. I knew the street where the passing of the envelope took place. I could presumably find out which officers walked that beat, and I knew which gang had to be involved. This latter was not a comforting thought because it meant I would have to pay a visit to Walhalla Hall, whether I liked it or not.

When I was out of sight of City Hall, I took off my hat and shook my hair loose, just in case the commissioner had sent anyone to tail me. Then I hopped on the next passing trolley, anxious to put ground between myself and Mr. Partridge. He wasn’t an easy man to read—well, no man would be who had risen through New York City politics to one of the plum jobs—but I had sensed that he was glad about Daniel’s downfall. So the next thing to find out would be whether he had crossed swords with Daniel before. I had no idea how I was going to do that. I looked back longingly at the square solid outline of The Tombs. There was no point in asking to see Daniel again, unless I had enough money to bribe my way in. I’d just have to wait and see what his next reply told me.

I jumped off the trolley again at Houston Street, resolved to do some shopping, just in case Gentleman Jack showed up and needed feeding. Houston was in turmoil with pushcarts trying to get through the crush of people, a delivery dray blocking most of the street, and shoppers jostling each other as they tried to squeeze past.

“Move over. Make way. Go on, get out of here.” The cries rose up in several languages, presumably all saying the same thing. Then one of the pushcarts gave up the attempt and backed around the dray, and I saw what was holding us all up. A horse had dropped to the ground between its shafts and was in the process of being cut loose by its driver. The load on the cart indicated why the poor beast might have succumbed to heatstroke.

“Get it out of the way and let us through!” a man’s voice shouted.

“You come and help drag it yourself!” the driver shouted back. “He’s dead as a doornail. He’s not going to get up again.”

Suddenly the smells became overpowering—the frying chickpeas on one cart, the pickles on another, a string of geese hung up by their necks, and the horse manure scattered liberally over the cobbles. I felt my head whirling around. I backed out of the crowd and sank to the nearest stoop, fighting back nausea. I had to get away from here fast, but I couldn’t trust my legs to support me.

When a hand touched my shoulder, I leaped a mile.

“Molly, it is you!” Jacob Singer towered over me, his shadow creating welcome shade. He was wearing his customary worker’s cap and Russian-style twill shirt. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I came over a little faint,” I said.

“I’m not surprised, with this heat and the crowd.” He lifted me gently to my feet. “Come on. I’ll take you to the tearoom around the corner.”

I allowed myself to be led, feeling the support of his strong arm around me. He took me into the cool darkness of the tearoom and ordered us glasses of hot tea.

“When you’re suffering from heat there is nothing better than hot tea,” he said. “It cools the body like no cold drink can.”