Wee Willie had walked his mail route fighting a cold and reeking of camphor. He’d only ordered half a pint and was nearly through with it when I came in. He looked so miserable I didn’t have the heart to torment him.
“It’s how the devil punishes us for kissing girls,” he said hoarsely.
“Those little devils you call kids aren’t punishment enough for kissing your wife?”
“Not me. Our oldest smooched some little girl on the playground last week. Next day she started sneezing. Then he did. Now me.”
“That’s about how I remember you courting Maire. The smooching part anyhow.”
Willie caught a sneeze in a well-used handkerchief and made an inelegant exit. I took my nearly full glass to a table. Time to think through my theory about Nick Perry again. The more I did, the more my mood deflated. With a little work and anything short of lousy luck I’d be able to link him to thefts from the hotel safe. What I couldn’t see was any way to prove he was Polly Bunten’s killer.
She’d been young, and poor and struggling to provide for a kid. By society’s standards, she hadn’t counted for much. There were thousands like her. But she was a human being. She deserved to have someone held accountable for her murder.
“You look as glum as I was last time you were here.”
It was Connelly. How had I failed to detect his presence when he stood right by my table?
“Just lost in a case.” I looked past him. “Seamus isn’t with you?”
Usually Seamus came in with Billy. Sometimes, though, he and Connelly came in together. Often that meant Seamus had a new phonograph record, some piper or fiddler or whistle player, which he and Connelly were heading off to listen to after their pints.
“He and Billy were bound for a meeting at the Hibernians.”
“The Hibernians!”
Chuckling, he dropped into the chair across from me.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It’s just... Billy and Seamus?”
What was wrong was getting hit in the face with the fact two men I loved and thought I knew belonged to a group that possibly wasn’t so different from the one attended by Count Szarenski and Bartoz. Except, of course, that one was Irish and one was Polish.
Connelly was frowning.
“Maggie, it’s only a club. Your dad belonged too. It’s not like they’re smuggling rifles. They’re raising funds for some fellow who needs an operation.”
“Yeah, forget it. Like I told you, I’ve got a tough case.” I drank some Guinness, stinging from the additional discovery that he knew something about my father which I hadn’t. Connelly was prudent enough to let me be. He savored his pint. Finally I slid him a look. “Do you belong, Connelly?”
He tilted back his head. His Adam’s apple quivered with quiet laughter, which made me bristle.
“Would it matter one whit what I answered?”
“No.”
“Well, then.” Sitting upright, he fixed me with piercing blue eyes. “The answer is No. But someday I might change my mind. Now finish your Guinney and meet me at that place on Fifth in half an hour. We’ll have some supper and you can tell me about this case that’s got you in knots.”
* * *
The place on Fifth had been there forever. Its age showed in brick walls supporting high ceilings. A long bar stretched the length of the room where you entered. A doorway to the right led into a good-sized dining room with scarred plank floors.
Connelly had gotten there first. He’d gone home to change into slacks, shirt and vest. We sat by one of the windows opening onto the street. It was cracked to let in a breath of fall air.
“Now,” he said when we’d ordered. “You going to tell me how you really came by this?”
Before I could react, he reached across to push down the silk scarf I wore and trace a finger down the pencil-line scab on my throat. I shoved his hand away, but not in time to stop a spurt of heat.
“I already told you. A tree branch hit me.”
“I’m a country boy, remember? Tree branches don’t cut like that. Garrotes do.”
His voice had hardened. My breath slowed.
“And no, I don’t know that because I’ve used one, if you’re wondering.” He looked away briefly.
Connelly had done things during his life in Ireland. Things that went with seeing family members killed for their politics. Things that wouldn’t be understood here.
“Yeah, that’s what it was,” I admitted. “You don’t need to gloat, though.”
He managed the ghost of a smile as his brief tension eased.
“And here Billy’s pleased as punch you’re safe working at some fancy hotel.”
I laughed.
“Now tell me what led to it, and how you managed to get clear. There’s not many who escape one of those.”
His patient concern filled me with guilt. Here he was, concerned about me. And here I sat, too much of a coward to make the short trip for my father’s pipes so I could give them to the one man worthy of them. The man who, if I were a different person, I might settle down with.
“I’d rather hear about Chicago. Tell me you had at least a little fun out of it.”
“Heard some grand music anyway. Mad as I was, I knew I’d never sleep, so I stayed up all night, going place to place with a couple of fellows I met. Ended up in the back of one that had closed, listening to two fiddlers try and outdo each other. I slept all the way back on the train.
“Now, quit trying to wiggle out of it and tell me about this case that’s troubling you.”
So, as other tables filled with diners and we settled into our meal, I did. I described the goings on at the hotel, the attack in the alley, and last night’s bizarre set-to with Bartoz.
“This fellow with the eye patch sounds like a bad one to tangle with,” he said when I’d finished.
“No argument there.”
“Can’t see any reason he’d get mixed up in stealing jewelry, though. I’d say you’re on the right track with Perry.”
I stared.
“Are you saying you believe Bartoz was prepared to kill because Count Szarenski really does have enemies?”
Connelly studied his coffee cup.
“I’m saying Bartoz believes he does. Where they’ve just come from, it was probably true.”
My eyes fell closed in frustration.
“It makes sense to him, Maggie.”
“Yes. I understand.”
Connelly’s father and brother had both been victims of Ireland’s political woes. He could see things from Bartoz’s view.
I shoved aside my plate with its last bite of Salisbury steak and spoonful of peas. A truth I’d been avoiding breathed in my face. All I knew was one city and one way of life. How could I begin to guess whether someone whose whole experience and culture had been different from mine did something out of guilt or innocence? How could I predict what they might do?
“I read the papers every day,” I said in frustration. “France and Dunkirk and now bombs falling in London. I thought I knew plenty about what’s going on over there, but the fact is it’s been no more real to me than a Pearl Buck story or a cowboy movie.”
I nodded thanks to the waiter who was clearing our plates. Resting my hands on the table, I toyed with a stray crumb while Connelly listened in silence.
“Every last person who could shed light on the safe business or Polly’s murder either came from over there or lived there for months at a time. They’ve sat in places and walked in streets I’ve only read about. They see things differently. Like you did with Bartoz.”
“I lived in a mud street Irish village. You know as much about London as I do.
“What I do know is, much as I’ve hated England, it’s now the only thing standing between the Nazis and Ireland. If America doesn’t send help, my ma and the kids could soon have worse than Unionists or Black and Tans breaking their door down — while I sit over here twiddling my thumbs. You think that doesn’t feel like make-believe? You’re making too much of this, Maggie mavourneen.”
“Oh, am I?”
“People and the reasons they do things aren’t that different, no matter where they come from. If Perry’s your man, like as not he’s stealing out of simple greed, same as any other crook.”
“And if he’s not? I can’t trust my instincts on this one, Connelly. I can’t rely on things I’ve learned in the course of my work all these years.”
“You’re a smart woman, Maggie, regardless you’ve traveled or not. You’re good at your work. More than good. Stop trying to sell yourself short.”
His hands covered mine and squeezed gently.
It felt too comforting to pull away.