Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

I froze, suddenly realizing the implication of this. He or she could be in the house at this minute, going through the rooms upstairs. I crept back to the front door.

“I’ll be going then,” I called out loudly and closed the front door behind me. Then I went as far as the street corner, stood out of sight, and waited. And waited. After a while nobody had appeared. I was tempted to go back and see if anyone had been through the upstairs rooms, but I was also a little hesitant to do so. Then I saw the mailman, coming up the street from the other direction. So the mail here was delivered later than I had anticipated. There might still be a letter for us today. My desire to see what the mail was bringing overcame my reluctance to go back to the house. I had just plucked up courage to go back inside when I noticed a constable coming toward me from around Tompkins Square. I ran over to him.

“You know Mrs. Goodwin who lives on this street?”

“I should say so. Old Whitey was a good mate of mine.”

“Did you hear she’s in the hospital, run down by a horse and wagon?”

“I heard, at the station this morning. Do you know how she’s doing?”

“Better than we could have hoped. She’s regained consciousness and is alert and talking.”

“Well, that is good news, miss.” He beamed at me, pausing to take out a handkerchief and wipe sweat from his round face before giving every intention of continuing his beat.

I put a hand on his arm to detain him. “Mrs. Goodwin has just sent me to her house to pick up the mail and there are signs that somebody has been in there, poking around in her desk. I didn’t go upstairs, in case somebody was still up there. I don’t think they are, but the police should know.”

“Somebody broke in?”

“No, there was no sign of a break-in, but the front door was open.”

“You don’t say. Don’t you worry, miss. I’ll keep an eye on the place in the future,” he said.

“No, it’s more than that, Constable. Mrs. Goodwin was working on the East Side Ripper case. I think the detectives in charge of that case should know, Officers Quigley and McIver. Do you know them?”

“Quigley and McIver? Stationed at headquarters, no doubt.”

I nodded. The mailman had now reached Mrs. Goodwin’s front door, and I watched him push something through the mail slot.

“I’m going back to that house now to collect the mail that’s just been delivered,” I said. “Could I ask you to take a look and make sure nobody is hiding upstairs?”

“Very good, miss,” he said, but he didn’t look at all happy about it.

“I’m sure there’s nobody there,” I said. “I left the house at least half an hour ago and nobody has come out since; but just in case, I’d rather have a big, strong constable with a club along with me.”

He accompanied me down the street, trying to appear confident and resolute, his hand grasped on his billy club. I opened the front door, picked up the letter that was lying on the mat, and let him into the house. Then I followed him up the stairs.

“There’s no sign anyone’s been up here, miss,” he said, having checked both bedrooms and the large wardrobe. “Maybe you imagined it.”

“Oh no,” I said. “Someone has rifled through her desk, all right. Come and take a look for yourself. The officers in charge should know about it.”

“Very good, miss,” he said. “I’ll pass along the word.”

I let him out again, not entirely convinced he’d take this seriously. I suspected he put it down to female hysteria. I was dying to take a look at that letter. I shot the bolt across the front door, just in case, then carried it through to the kitchen. It was simply addressed to “MG” at her address. The postmark was Queens. I turned it over in my hands a couple of times, knowing full well that it wasn’t addressed to me and I should wait until Mrs. Goodwin herself opened it. Then finally curiosity got the better of me. If it was a letter we were hoping for, then Mrs. Goodwin would want to know about it as soon as possible. If not, then there was no rush to deliver it to her. I ripped it open.

It was written in a rounded, rather childish hand, but neatly, with no blots.

Dear Sir or Madam:

I saw your notice in today’s Herald. My sister, Denise Lindquist (we call her by her nickname, Dilly), has been gone for over a month. Everyone says she ran off with a boy, but I don’t believe it. Dilly’s a good girl and hardworking at the button factory, and she wouldn’t just run off with a boy like that.

But she did tell me a secret before she went and made me promise I wouldn’t tell nobody—she said she got a note from a boy asking her to meet him at Coney Island. She was very excited. I never had a secret tryst with a boy before, she said. Then she never came home. My mother and father are from Sweden. They are real strict with us and don’t let us go with no boys. Now they say she is a no-good girl, and we don’t talk about her no more. I went to the police, but they don’t seem to care.

Yours truly,

Kristina (Krissy) Lindquist