Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“So which of your men actually delivered the envelope?”


“Bugsy did. I gave the list to him and told him where he’d meet Sullivan. And Bugsy would never double-cross me. I’d swear on dat with my life.”

“But somehow money got in the envelope.”

Monk shrugged. “It don’t make no sense.”

“I’m thinking it might be the commissioner himself who was out to get Daniel,” I said. “And maybe after your gang, too.”

This made Monk chuckle. “In dat case he’s wasting his time, ain’t he? Don’t you know that commissioners are appointed for two years, max? We’ll be around long after he’s gone.”

“He wants to reform the police force and stamp out vice and corruption in the city,” I said.

This made all the men in the bar laugh loudly. “Good luck to him, I say,” one of the men at the bar commented.

Monk stopped smiling. “If he wanted to reform the police, it wouldn’t be Sullivan he went after. Everyone knows Sullivan ain’t crooked like some of dem.”

“Do you think I could talk to your man Bugsy and find out if anyone had a chance to tamper with that envelope?”

Monk shook his big head. “My boy Bugsy is temporarily out of town, on a visit to his sainted mother, I believe.”

I understood this, of course. He’d be wanted for Daniel’s trial so had conveniently vanished.

“If you had a chance to ask him yourself, I’d be most grateful,” I said. “When he’s done visiting his sainted mother, of course.”

Monk looked at me and burst out laughing. “I like you.” he said. He made a mock gesture with the brass knuckles in the direction of my face. “You ain’t like most dames, all tremblin’ and twittering when I talks to dem. You got spunk, girlie. Listen, I’ll get my boys to keep their ears to the ground. If I hear who might have set up Sullivan, I’ll let you know.”

“Young Malachy knows where to find me,” I said. “I really appreciate this, Monk.”

He lifted the sleeping kitten close to his face and rubbed it on his cheek. “Hey, everyone around here will tell you dat Monk Eastman is known for his philanthropy and his kindness to widows and orphans.”

His men grinned, but looked away when they did so.

“Thank you again,” I said, noticing that I had a straight shot at the door and the sunlight beyond. I didn’t wait around, but I took my chance and walked steadily toward the open door. I half expected to feel big hands grabbing my shoulders, but I made it down the steps and out into the sunlight. Then I kept on walking until I had put a block or two between me and the Eastmans. As I walked I was taken over with euphoria. How about that? I had met Monk Eastman and talked with him, person to person, and I had survived.

I made my way home, and this time I was relieved to find a letter from Daniel waiting for me, written on what must be his attorney’s stationery as it was headed “J. P. Atkinson, 412 Wall Street, sixth floor, New York.” The writing, however, was definitely Daniel’s. So were the sentiments.

Molly, I thought I made it perfectly clear to you that you were to keep out of any actual investigation. Jack knows enough to ask the right questions, and he’s not going to come to any harm with the gang. You are absolutely forbidden to go to the Eastmans yourself. You should remember what they are like. Monk doesn’t take kindly to people poking their noses into his business, especially not women.

I wanted to write back sooner, but it seems they are even depriving me of writing materials now. I’m afraid their aim is to make my life as miserable as possible. I had to demand to see my attorney and finally got some writing paper out of him—about all he is good for, useless specimen of humanity.

You asked if there are any fellow police officers I could trust—there are many I can cite as being straight fellows and true-blue. My own two junior detectives, Quigley and McIver, are both good men, but also ambitious. They may well not want to side themselves with me because of the possible harm to their own careers. I can understand that. I’d probably have acted in a similar fashion.

The one name that does spring to mind is old O’Hallaran. You lodged with him on Twelfth Street. He is one who cannot be bought or bribed and is about as good a Catholic as you’ll find. Having said that, he has no power in the department and is marking time until retirement.

I don’t know what good any of these men could do you. Frankly, I don’t know what good anyone can do me now. It seems I am caught up in a veritable web of lies and deceit.

Take care and don’t take any personal risks on my behalf. I think of you every moment. Your Daniel.