Murphy's Law (16 page)

had come to death or a fate worse than it. I was sorely tempted to give it all up and go back to the Lower East Side, where I felt safe. How could I possibly uncover any facts that the police hadn't already uncovered? And if Boyle was in some way involved in this murder, I was asking for trouble, showing up on his doorstep.

I pushed open the front door and started to climb the stairs. The stairway didn't smell a whole lot better than the one on Cherry Street. There was garbage piled in the first landing and something scurried as my footsteps approached. I had been told that Boyle lived on the second floor. How did that make sense? A man who seemed to be well known in the neighborhood, visited Angelique's parlor, who bought drinks for his friends in the local saloons yet lived in a place like this? Somehow he was earning more than an Ellis Island watchman's salary. I considered the nickname Bully. What had he done to earn it?

I had thought out what I was going to say before I knocked on the Boyle's front door. But when the door opened, and a sharp-faced woman demanded, "Yes? Whatda you want?" it all flew out of my head.

"Are you Mrs. Boyle?" I stammered.

"What if I am? Who wants to know?" She was scrawny and bony like a chicken and her chicken eyes darted around. She had her shawl pulled around her like armor.

"I'm sorry to trouble you. I wondered if your husband was home."

"So his fancy girls have taken to calling at the home now, have they?" she demanded. "One day that man's going to go too far and then you'll see. Just don't be surprised if you find his body floatin' in the Hudson River, that's all."

"I'm not a friend of Mr. Boyle's," I said. "I was calling because I need his help."

"Oh yes? If it's money you're after you can forget it."

"It's nothing like that." I laughed uneasily. "I'm trying to find out if he was on duty on Ellis Island the night that man was killed." I paused and waited for this to register. "You read about the murder on Ellis Island, didn't you? I'm sure I saw your husband on duty near the men's dormitory and--"

"You're trying to say that my man--"

"I just wondered if there was any chance he might have spotted the real killer." I finished hurriedly. "You see, the police think I had something to do with it, and I'm trying to prove my innocence."

"Boyle's on day shifts at the moment," she said flatly. "Gets home before seven, if he bothers to come home, that is."

"So you're sure he wasn't there three nights ago? He has been on day shift for a while, has he?"

"For the past year or so. But I wouldn't know where he was three nights ago. He didn't show up until morning."

"And when he did show up--" I tried to keep my voice calm--"how was he? Did he seem ... uh ... agitated, excited?"

"Drunk. Blind drunk as usual. How does he ever seem by the time he gets home here?"

I was dying to ask if she had noticed any blood on his uniform, but I wasn't about to do any more blundering, as Angelique had put it.

"So you've no idea where he spent that night?" I asked cautiously.

"Honey, I have no idea where he is most of the time. What do I care, drunken old fool. One day he'll cop it and the sooner the better as far as I'm concerned."

"Sorry to have troubled you," I said. "Yeah." The door shut in my face leaving me in the cold and dark on the landing. I stood there for a while, listening. I wanted to hear voices inside the Boyle apartment. It occurred to me that maybe he was home all the time and maybe his wife's hostility was just an act to get rid of unwanted strangers. I waited but heard nothing, then I walked back down the stairs.

There was a saloon on the corner of the block, doing good business by this hour. I plucked up courage and went inside. Almost identical to the one before--dark, lots of mahogany woodwork, long bar, smell of stale beer and smoke. Everyone, it seemed, knew Bully Boyle.

He stopped by almost every night--generous guy, bought drinks all around when he was flush. Was he flush often, I asked. It came and it went. He'd been in a couple of nights ago, though, acting like a Vanderbilt, treating everyone to whiskey chasers.

"And three nights ago," I asked. "Was he here then, can you remember?"

Puzzled frowns. Scratched heads.

"I think he's been in every night this week, miss," the landlord said, "although I couldn't swear to it."

"Any idea what time he might have been here?" "What's this about, then?" A man beside me demanded, shoving a beery face into mine. "Didn't he show up when he was supposed to for an assignation?"

"Oooh. Assignation. Big word."

Ribald jokes rushed around the bar room. Someone tugged at my sleeve. "Don't let Ma Boyle cop you so close to his home, or you'll be in for it. She was in here once before, flailing her umbrella at some poor girl."

"Believe me, my taste in men doesn't include Mr. Boyle," I said haughtily. "I just needed his help about something that happened on Ellis Island. I won't trouble you any longer."

I tried to force my way out again. Hands grabbed at me. "Here, what's the hurry? Stay and have a drink. Come on, honey, don't be shy."

I had to give a couple of good kicks to the shins and stamp on a few toes before I made it past them. Enough. I had had enough of living dangerously for one day. Now I was going back to Daniel Sullivan. I didn't have much to go on, but I had found out that Boyle was a big spender and he hadn't been home all that night. Surely there ought to be something worth checking into in that.

"The young woman to see you again, Captain," a uniformed policeman announced with resignation in his voice. Daniel Sullivan looked up as I was ushered into his cubicle.

"Mrs. O'Connor. What a pleasant surprise. Is it too much to hope you've had a change of heart and you're here to tell us everything you know?"

"That's exactly why I'm here," I said, accepting the chair he offered me. "I've come up with several interesting facts you should be looking into."

"Such as?"

"For one, the blood on Michael's jacket and handkerchief. I remembered afterward where they came from. My boy got into a fight on board the ship. Michael brought him to me with a bloody nose.

He had carried him away from the fight and lent him his handkerchief. So there you are."

"Nicely thought out. I credit you with great imagination."

"Imagination?" I demanded. "You think I'm making it up? Why would I bother to come here if I didn't think I'd be able to make you see that Michael Larkin did not kill O'Malley? That incident on the ship with the bloody nose--we were all in the big room together, you know. I could call you a dozen witnesses who saw it."

"Like mother, like son?" he asked, and for a second his eyes flashed amusement at me. "Both getting into very public fights?"

"That wasn't the main reason I came to you," I said, ignoring his goading. "I've been doing my own detective work and looking into Mr. Bernard "Bully" Boyle--the island guard I saw that night."

He held up his hand. "Mrs. O'Connor, please. No more suggestions that Boyle was responsible. I've got a sworn statement from two other watchmen that he was on their shift and took the launch back to New York with them."

"And I've talked to the boatman who said it was so cold that afternoon that everyone huddled together in the little cabin and it was impossible to see who was or wasn't there."

"But we've been through this before, Mrs. O'Connor. Why would an island watchman suddenly decide to attack one of the immigrants?"

"I'm not saying he did kill O'Malley.

I just think that you should be looking into him a little more. He's a very interesting person, Captain Sullivan. He's known in all the saloons. He's generous. He shouts rounds of drinks when he's flush. He even visits prosperous houses of ... ill repute."

"How the devil do you know that?"

"I checked it all out for myself." I gave him a triumphant smile, not admitting the precarious nature of my visit there. "And what's more," I finished before he could ask too many questions, "his own wife says that he didn't come home all that night."

"The man lives in Hell's Kitchen, doesn't he?" Sullivan demanded. "You went around there asking questions? You were taking a big risk, Mrs. O'Connor. These are not the kind of people you'd

want to invite to take tea with you."

"I know that," I said, "but someone has to help Michael if you're not going to. And me--you still suspect that I had something to do with it, don't you? Somehow I have to clear both our names and I'll do what it takes."

"You're a gutsy woman, I'll say that for you," he said, "but have you ever thought what would happen to you if you were right and you did unearth the true killer? Someone who has slit a man's throat in a room full of other men is a reckless gambler. He's already taken at least one life. He'd make short work of you."

"I know," I said. He was looking at me with such concern that I felt tears stinging in my eyes. "But I have to keep trying, don't I--unless you'll do something to help us."

He reached out and placed his hand on mine. "Look, I'll do what I can," he said, then hastily withdrew his hand. "I'll have them run a thorough background check on Boyle if it will stop you from visiting Hell's Kitchen again. But I still don't see how he could have been involved. The men from the night shift would have noticed if he'd stayed on after the day shift left. And what could have been his motive? If it was robbery, he'd surely have been skillful enough to take what he wanted while the man slept. No, Mrs. O'Connor--the way O'Malley was killed, someone wanted to make sure he was silenced forever."

"Have you found out any more about O'Malley yet?" I asked. "Do the English police know who he really was?"

"Not much," he said. "He's been a wily bird. O'Malley is definitely not his real name but from what Scotland Yard can gather, it seemed he lived high on the hog and he might have been involved in some high-level blackmail in London, but beyond that ..."

"So you don't know if he ever lived in Plumbridge, then?"

"Only you could tell us that, Mrs. O'Connor."

"And I swore that I never saw him before in my life. I still swear to that."

"He must have had a reason for carrying those newspaper cuttings, hidden in the lining of his trunk," Sullivan said. "They were the only items of any kind that tied him to a time or

place."

"So the question is why was he coming to America," I said. "Was he fleeing to America because he was the unknown tenth man who betrayed the others? Was he coming to America to unmask the man who betrayed the others? Or was the motive nothing to do with the Plumbridge Nine at all? What if that wasn't even his trunk--he could have bought it secondhand, not even knowing what the lining contained."

"You certainly have the Irish gift of the gab, Mrs. O'Connor," he said. "Too bad you're a woman. You'd have made a good lawyer." He gave me an approving smile. I liked that. Let's face it, I liked him. I wanted him to like me.

"The cousin with whom we're staying made an interesting statement," I said. "He said the reason O'Malley was killed was simple. It was to stop him from coming ashore."

"Meaning what?"

"You say he was a known blackmailer in London," I went on. "Is it possible that he had been to America before and blackmailed here, too? If someone was on the lookout for him and found that he was coming back on the Majestic, that someone could have slipped to the island to wait for him and make sure he didn't get to New York."

"Not as easy as you make it sound, Mrs. O'Connor." He was still smiling. "The island is patrolled, day and night. There's just the one ferry slip."

"There would be a way, if someone was desperate enough."

"And how do you suggest we find this elusive someone, Mrs. O'Connor?"

I shrugged. "Until you find out more details of O'Malley's life, I can't help you there. But something might show up in your check on Boyle. Why is he flush from time to time? Where did he spend that night? Had he ever had a chance to meet O'Malley before?"

"All right, all right!" He held up his hands. "I promised you we'll look into it. Now if you don't mind, I'm a very busy man. Thank you for your suggestions, though."

"And what about Michael?" I asked. "Can't you let him go?"

"Not unless you want to come up with his bail money. It would be more than my job's worth to release him before I'd found a more likely

suspect. The feds still want him handed over to them."

"If you send him back to Ireland, then there's no hope for him," I said. "You must know what it's like, coming from there yourself. It's hang first and ask questions afterward."

"Like the Plumbridge Nine?" He paused, giving me that searching look again. "Actually, I'm New York born and bred. Both my parents came over as children in the Great Famine. But I do get your point." He stood up. I took the hint and stood up, too. I wasn't about to let him tower over me. "I'm sorry, Mrs. O'Connor, I really am. I know you mean well and you've come up with some good suggestions. But they are just that--mere hypotheses, which means--"

"I know what hypotheses are, Captain. Strangely enough, I have read a book or two in my life. I won't be back until I can bring you concrete evidence."

As I walked out, I could feel his eyes boring into my back, all the way down the hall. I picked up my skirts, ready to go down the stairs.

"Kathleen," he called after me. "Please be careful."

Sixteen

This time my heart was racing but not from fear. I had heard the different tone in his voice. He had called me by what he thought was my first name. To know that someone in this new country cared about me was a strange and wonderful feeling. I was tempted to rush back into his office and tell him the truth. I wanted to hear him call me by my real name in that same gentle way. I had to remind myself very sternly that he was a policeman and even if I wasn't his number one suspect, then I was still on the list. If he found I was also a wanted felon in my own country, he would forget anything he might feel about me and do his job. All the same, it was a good feeling and I grinned to myself as I sped along the sidewalk with renewed energy.