Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“What happened to him?”


“Same as your sweetheart, my dear. Twenty years in Sing Sing and me constantly running away from his creditors. We had a nice house once. Still, you didn’t come here to hear my problems. Now this is my usual procedure on such occasions. I’ve found it works successfully for most girls: a good-sized glass of gin to start with. That not only makes you less anxious, but it will dull the pain later—and it can help get things started. It’s not for nothing that it’s known as Mother’s Ruin.” The smile this time was quite wicked. “And when the gin starts to work, a hot bath, hot as you can take it, plus a mixture of my own that seems to work wonders with starting contractions. Then I go in and open things up. Not very pleasant but it will be all over by morning and you can go home. All right?”

I nodded again. It was hard to speak.

“And my friend Mrs. Goodwin told me your financial circumstances, so shall we just say twenty dollars will take care of my fee? I never ask a girl to pay beyond her means.”

“That’s good of you.”

“Don’t worry. I make up for it with the society ladies.” Again there was that wicked smile. “I make them pay through the nose for my silence.”

I got out my checkbook. She looked horrified, and then she laughed. “Oh no, honey. Cash only, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a trail for the police to follow. I have no wish to join my husband behind bars.”

“I didn’t bring cash. I can go to the bank and withdraw the money in the morning.”

“Of course you can. You’re a friend of Mrs. Goodwin. I trust you. So let’s get started, shall we? No sense in waiting and brooding about it too long, I always say.”

She opened an ornate mahogany cabinet and took out a gin bottle. Then she poured a generous tumblerful.

“Get that down you,” she said. “You’ll feel better. You know what they say, don’t you? Lots and lots, no tiny tots.”

I gave a nervous laugh at the double meaning. She watched me as I swallowed the gin. I had never drunk spirits apart from a brandy when I had been taken ill once. It was like firewater. I coughed and my eyes streamed.

“Small sips,” she said. “Don’t try to knock it back at once if you aren’t a hardened drinker.”

I sipped, coughed, and sipped some more. It was not unpleasant tasting but strange—like no flavor I had encountered before. By the time I had finished, I was already feeling the first effects. Mrs. Butler got to her feet. “I’ll leave you for a while until it really starts working. You won’t want to sit and make polite conversation at a time like this. I’ve a copy of Ladies’ Home Journal for you to read, and I’ll go and make sure the water is hot for your bath.”

She slipped through the door beside the liquor cabinet. I opened the magazine and tried to make my mind concentrate. There were articles on using oatmeal and cucumber to freshen the complexion, one on cleaning brassware, and a full-page drawing of a Gibson Girl. My head started to feel strange. The Gibson Girl was blurring. I turned a page and found myself looking at the “Good Mother’s Guide to Raising Healthy Children.” The picture showed a young woman bouncing a chubby baby on her knee. The baby had big dark eyes, a mass of unruly dark curls, and was screaming with delight.

Suddenly I flung down the magazine and got to my feet. What was I thinking? It had nothing to do with my Irish Catholic upbringing or with hellfire. It didn’t matter that my life ahead looked bleak or that I had no way to provide for a child. It wasn’t even that I was scared. This was my baby we were talking about—mine and Daniel’s. If it lived it would look just like that chubby darling on the page, and I was about to kill it before it ever had a chance to laugh or be cuddled or to know what life was about. My heart was hammering so hard that I could scarcely move. I tiptoed across the room and picked up my purse from the table and my umbrella from the stand. I made it to the front door. I held my breath as it opened. I slipped out and closed it silently behind me. Then I positively ran down the stairs and out into the night.

The rain had picked up again as I came out onto the street. That glass of gin was already starting to affect me and I clutched at railings, trying to get my balance. When I closed my eyes, the world swung around. This was terrible. I was already showing signs of being drunk, and I had to make it home somehow. I certainly didn’t want to appear drunk on the El, to say nothing of running the risk of falling off the platform! And I didn’t have enough money in my purse to cover a cab fare, so I’d just have to walk. At least walking in the rain would help sober me up.