“Oh, an Impressionist painter was murdered by a Jewish rebel while I was there,” I said in what I hoped was a breezy manner. “It was in all the newspapers.”
“And Molly figured it out before the police,” Gus said proudly.
“Well done.” I saw Daniel exhale in relief that this crime hadn’t personally affected me. “Yes, I don’t doubt Molly’s skills as a detective, but I’d rather she kept a good distance from my police work in New York. I don’t want to put her or our son at risk, as I’m sure you understand.”
“I’ll bring Liam to see you tomorrow,” I said as I took my leave of my friends. “You can tell me everything about Vienna.”
“Sid has learned to make a mean apfelstrudel,” Gus said. “She can make one to go with our coffee and—” She broke off as a man came running toward us. It was a police constable and he came to a halt, panting, in front of Daniel.
“Captain Sullivan, sir. I’m so glad I’ve found you.”
“What is it, Byrne?”
“There’s been another one.” The young constable was still trying to catch his breath.
“Another murder?” Daniel snapped out the words.
“Another note,” he said and handed Daniel an envelope, addressed in typewritten letters to him at Mulberry Street Police Headquarters. Daniel opened the envelope and took out a folded sheet of paper.
I could read the words as Daniel unfolded it. They were typed with a typewriting machine in the middle of an otherwise blank page. Just one sentence.
I’m saving the best for last.
Two
Daniel refolded the paper. “For last?” he said.
“At least that might mean he plans to stop this murderous spree, don’t you think, sir?” the constable said.
“But he plans to kill once more first,” Daniel said grimly. “He does this to taunt us, knowing we can’t stop him, damn his eyes.” He glanced across at us, realizing he had been swearing in the presence of ladies. He cleared his throat.
“We should go,” Gus said. “We look forward to seeing you tomorrow then, Molly.”
I nodded and went to follow Daniel.
“Byrne—please take Mrs. Sullivan and find her a cab,” Daniel said. “I’m sorry, Molly, but you must make your own way home. You have enough money with you?”
“Don’t worry about me, Daniel. I’m just fine,” I said. “You go and do what you have to. I can take the El. The station is quite close by. I don’t need a cab.”
“All right, then. I’ll see you when I can.” He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. Then he hurried off with the constable, leaving me standing alone on a deserted Patchin Place.
I walked around the corner to Sixth Avenue and made my way to the Eighth Avenue station of the elevated railway. My insides were twisted into a knot, as they always were when Daniel was worried and possibly in danger. That note had sounded so innocent, but Daniel had obviously interpreted it as a threat to kill—another murder in what had been a growing number of them. Until now I hadn’t known whether he was on the trail of one murderer or more than one. This indicated it was just one man, one twisted individual, who had kept Daniel out until all hours. There had been nothing in the newspapers warning of a fiend such as this, so I presumed the police had managed to keep it hushed up for fear of alarming the public.
I boarded the train and was soon speeding northward. I looked with interest into the second-floor windows of the tenements that we passed, where I could see lives going on almost close enough to reach out and touch. In one window I glimpsed a small child, sitting on a potty, staring up at us as we passed. In another a woman was fixing her hair, her face a picture of concentration as she stuck hairpins into her bun. I had often wondered what it must be like to live with trains passing so close outside the window all the time. I supposed the occupants got used to it. One gets used to almost anything eventually if one has to. But would I ever have gotten used to that complete lack of privacy?
I alighted at the Fifty-ninth Street station to the more genteel world of Uptown New York, and walked up to the apartment building where we’d been staying on West Sixty-first Street. From the outside it appeared quite grand—almost as swank as those new buildings along the edge of Central Park, with its Moorish-style decoration and exotic archway over the entrance. But inside it didn’t quite live up to its promise. It was designed as a city residence for bachelors—each apartment a pied-à-terre with a small dark sitting room, narrow bedroom, and minute kitchen space with a gas ring. It had been hard to minister to the needs of a baby there, and to keep him from disturbing all those bachelors, so I was overjoyed at the prospect of moving back into my own home.