Oh Danny Boy (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #5)

“Mrs. Goodwin gave me her key,” I said. “She wanted me to come and pick up her mail for her.”


He was still eyeing me suspiciously. “That’s odd because I have Mrs. Goodwin’s key in my possession,” he said. “And why would the mail be anywhere other than on the doormat?”

“Ah,” I said. “Well, I can answer both of those. She told me to collect the key from her neighbor, which I did. But I found her front door open, so I came in and saw that someone had been at her desk. That’s when I alerted the police that someone had broken in and asked the constable to tell you and Detective Quigley. I thought the break-in here might have something to do with the case you’re working on and the reason that Mrs. Goodwin was run down, you see.”

“Yes, I do see.” The scowl eased a little. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I came to check on the place on my way to work this morning and found the front door open. Naturally I suspected…”

“That I was a burglar,” I finished for him.

“And who exactly are you?” he asked. “The last time we met, you were introduced as Dr. Birnbaum’s assistant, but you are clearly not German or Austrian, unless they now speak with an Irish brogue.”

“No, that was a piece of subterfuge, I’m afraid. I’m a friend of Mrs. Goodwin,” I said, deciding not to mention my connection to Daniel, “as well as of Dr. Birnbaum. I was particularly interested in this case; and then, of course, there was Mrs. Goodwin’s tragic accident, so I’m doing what I can to help her.”

“Very commendable,” he said. There was no smile in his eyes. “And who exactly are you?”

“My name is—” What name had I given to Quigley? My real one? Delaney? All the lies were coming back to haunt me. I opted for the truth. “Murphy,” I said. “Molly Murphy. You can ask Mrs. Goodwin to vouch for me.”

“If she’s well enough,” he said. “She took a turn for the worse last night.”

“She did?”

“Yes, she was unconscious again when I stopped by this morning.”

“Oh no, and they said she was doing so well.”

“Head wounds are funny things,” he said. “And broken ribs can penetrate the lung or even damage the heart.”

“I’ll go to see her if they’ll let me,” I said, “after I’ve collected her morning mail.”

He stared at me, went to say something, then realized I wasn’t about to move and he couldn’t throw me out.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Please make sure you lock the door after you when you go. We don’t want any more break-ins, do we?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “And I’m so glad to see you’re taking this seriously. I’m very concerned for Mrs. Goodwin’s welfare. I suspect she may have stumbled upon some connection with the East Side Ripper without knowing it, and he is now trying to get her out of the way.”

“You could be right,” he said. “But if you are, then heed the warning yourself. This is a man who doesn’t play games. Winding up with your face bashed in is not the most pleasant way to exit this life.”

He gave me a long, hard stare before turning on his heel and leaving me alone in the hall. A few minutes later the morning post fell onto the mat. There were four more letters about missing girls. Three of them didn’t seem to have any relevance to the case. One was an emigrant from Germany who was supposed to have come through Ellis Island, then taken the train to her family in Albany but had never arrived. One had clearly run off with a young man her family did not want her to marry. One was from a young man wanting to be reunited with a former sweetheart. But the fourth was from an Italian, a Signor Rosetti. His daughter Rosa had not come home from work in a garment factory last week. He was out of his mind with worry. He had spoken to her friends and all he could establish was that she seemed excited when she left work and hurried off, as if she had somewhere special to go. He had been to the police, but they hadn’t seemed very interested. He enclosed a snapshot. It was of a group of four laughing girls, each with luxurious dark hair around her shoulders, standing at the edge of the ocean. On the back he had written: “My daughters. Rosa is on the right.”

I remembered that impressive dark hair falling out from under the sheet at the morgue. This could well be the victim we had seen. I imagined that poor father, still living in hope, not knowing that his daughter was lying on a marble slab, having died in such horrible circumstances.

I put the letters into my purse, let myself out, and locked the door carefully behind me. Then I made my way straight to Saint Vincent’s Hospital. The same sister I had encountered on the first occasion was on duty today.

“You again.” She gave me that withering stare. “I thought I told you yesterday that she wasn’t allowed visitors yet.”