Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)

I felt myself turning red. “The leader of the republican brotherhood. A very great man.”


“Ah,” he said. “So are you going to go and pay her a call?”

“I don’t see why I should. It will only open up old wounds, talking about it again.”

Daniel peered over my shoulder. “She says she wants to pay you the money she owes you,” he said. “At least you should collect that. You earned it.”

“I definitely did that,” I retorted bitterly. “Very well, I shall pay her that visit, if only to let her know how thoughtless and cruel her actions were.”

“I don’t envy Miss Sheehan,” Daniel commented with a dry laugh. “Why did you not go to collect your fee as soon as you got home?”

“I just wanted to forget the whole business,” I said. “Too many painful memories.” But even as I was speaking I was toying with Daniel’s words. He had said “home.” I could never go back to Ireland and it gave me a thrill of delight to realize that New York really was my home now.

“I’ll go to her rooms right away, and get it over with,” I said.

“Not right away, I hope. Were we not going to eat first?”

“Trust a man to think of his stomach in times of stress,” I said. “Very well, let me put the soup pot on the stove and you shall have your meal.”





After the meal had been cleared away, I changed into my business costume and attempted to put up my hair into a neat bun. As I was doing this I remembered that I still had the striped black-and-white two-piece that Miss Sheehan had lent me to wear. I found it in my closet, looking in definite need of cleaning and pressing. For a second I wondered if she’d be angry at the state I was returning it in. Then I reminded myself that she owed me far more than she could ever repay.

I shoved the garment into a carpet bag, said farewell to Daniel, and off I went.

Miss Sheehan’s address was Hoffman House on West Twenty-fifth Street. I was expecting some kind of apartment building and was surprised to find instead that not only was it on Madison Square, but that it was an elegant hotel. Madison Square is a leafy oasis in the summer, but the sky had clouded over and trees stretched gaunt black branches over gray and dirty snow, making the scene feel quite forbidding. The wind had whipped up again, too, and I was glad to step into the warmth of the hotel foyer. As the doorman closed the gilt-and-glass door behind me, I stood with my feet sinking into thick carpeting while I stared up in half admiration, half fascination at the large oil painting that dominated the back wall. It depicted nymphs and satyrs, all reveal-ingly nude and lusty-looking. One might expect such things in a museum of art, but in a hotel it was shocking, even for one like myself who has sampled the bohemian life.

Obviously it possessed fascination for other New York visitors, too, as an elderly couple poked their heads in through the front door behind me.

“See, Mary, what did I tell you?” the man said.

“Terrible. Wicked and terrible. Don’t you dare look, Joseph.”

I smiled at their names as well as their reaction, then went over to the reception desk.

“I’m here to see Miss Sheehan,” I said. “My name is Murphy. She is expecting me.”

“Let me see if Miss Sheehan is in residence,” the clerk said and disappeared, leaving me unable to take my eyes off the painting. He soon came back with an almost gracious smile on his face.

“Miss Sheehan will be happy to receive you, Miss Murphy. Please take the elevator to the tenth floor. Room number 1006.”

The elevator operator saluted smartly and whisked me upward. As the door opened on ten a rather striking older woman was standing there. She was swathed in some sort of ginger fur—lynx maybe—and it went well with her wiry mane of hair, giving the impression of a lioness on the prowl. She nodded to me solemnly and said, “Bonjour,” in a deep, mannish voice. I was sure I had seen her before somewhere but it was not until the elevator man said, “Going down, Madame Bernhardt,” that I recalled Miss Sheehan telling me that the Divine Sarah also kept a suite of rooms at the Hoffman.