The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #14)

“I tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t I treat us to a hot chocolate at the Viennese pastry shop on Broadway?”


This suggestion met with no resistance and off we went. Bridie sipped delightedly at her hot chocolate, and Liam couldn’t wait for me to cool each spoonful for him. But I’m afraid my brain was racing again. Being in the Viennese coffee shop was stirring up unwanted thoughts: Mabel going to Switzerland. Mabel possibly still being in danger. Daniel worried that I was still in danger. I glanced out of the window. Was someone stalking me, watching me at this moment?

“Rubbish,” I said out loud, making Bridie look up. I grinned. “Just talking to myself,” I said. I had been all over the city. There had been plenty of chances to push me in front of a speeding automobile or to put cyanide in my coffee. And yet our murderer had promised to go out with a bang. What did that mean? When was he planning his finale?

Suddenly I felt I should be doing something. Daniel would be interviewing Terrence Daughtery and the butcher’s wife. But I wanted to know more about Edward Deveraux. I wanted to find out if he and his tutor had been close. I wanted to talk to Marcus Deveraux. I waited, attempting to hide my impatience, while Bridie savored the last drops of her chocolate. Then we walked back, in a way that seemed painfully slowly, with Bridie lingering to look in store windows, and then spending even more time stopping to pet dogs and smile at other children. I was tempted to suggest that Bridie could take Liam home by herself, but I remembered another occasion when a baby had been kidnapped from his pram. All too easy to do, and if someone wanted to get back at Daniel, what better way than to take his son? So I delivered them safely to the front door, told Mrs. Sullivan that I had a couple of errands to run, and disappeared before she could protest.

The Broadway trolley took me down to Wall Street, and I stopped a rather grand-looking businessman in a frock coat and topper to ask him where I might find Deveraux and Masters bank. It wasn’t as impressive looking as some of the buildings that I passed, but there was a doorkeeper in a dark green livery and he halted me at the entrance. “May I help you?” he asked.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Deveraux himself,” I said. “It’s a rather urgent matter.”

I could see him sizing up the cut of my clothes, my still-Irish accent, and evaluating whether I might be a client or even worthy of admission. Grudgingly, he opened the door for me and let me step into a dark foyer, all mahogany and green marble. It smelled slightly musty and dusty, the way old libraries do. And there was no sign of clients, just several clerks, scribbling away at desks.

“Please wait here,” the doorman said, and he signaled to a balding man sitting at the closest desk. “This lady would like to speak with Mr. Deveraux,” he said in hushed tones.

The balding man raised an eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”

“No, but it is a matter of some urgency, concerning his brother,” I said.

This took him completely by surprise. “His brother? Did you not know that his brother is dead?”

“I am well aware of that. If I could just have a minute of Mr. Deveraux’s valuable time, I’ve come about a matter that needs to be settled.”

I could see him trying to work out what important matter concerning Edward Deveraux might concern me.

“Mr. Deveraux is extremely busy. However I’ll see if…” He started toward a flight of marble steps, sweeping rather grandly up to a gloomy landing. I waited, listening to the scratching of pens and the occasional cough. I decided I was prepared to barge up those steps myself if necessary, but he returned quite quickly. “Mr. Deveraux is prepared to see you for a moment. This way please.” And he went before me back up the steps, then tapped on a mahogany door and ushered me into a large, bright office. It faced away from the street, letting in sunlight and giving a glimpse of the East River. It had a thick pile carpet and the walls were lined with books—it was clearly designed to impress potential clients.

A large man in a well-tailored black suit was sitting at a polished desk. He looked up frowning as I came in, then a smile crossed his face. “I know you,” he said. “The lady from the train.”

I recognized him too now. “You were the one who saved my baby,” I said. “I’m eternally grateful, Mr. Deveraux.”

“I only did what any decent man would have done,” he said. “And if you’ve just come back to thank me, that really wasn’t necessary.”

I smiled, thinking how I might make use of this unforeseen connection.

“What a terrible business,” he went on. “I hope the young fellow was unharmed?”

“Luckily he came away without a scratch, thanks to you,” I said.