“If you think I look like a gangster's messenger, then you must have poor eyesight or be a very poor judge of character,” I said coldly. I was rapidly making up my mind that this man would make a worse employer than Miss Van Woekem.
“Sorry, miss. No offense meant,” he said. “You can't be too careful in my business. The last lady who came on a friendly call from a gang had a six-inch blade down her boot—and she intended to use it as soon as my back was turned.” He was squinting at me with narrowed eyes set in a hollow, pinched face. “Wait a second. I've seen you before, haven't I? I've got a good memory for faces. It will come to me in a tick.” He held up a finger. “Hold on, it's coming. Central Park.”
“With Captain Sullivan,” I added. “You were pretending to be a photographer.”
“Whatcha mean, pretending?” he asked, but he had relaxed now. “I supplement my income from time to time.”
“And conveniently pass messages to Captain Sullivan,” I added triumphantly.
“Well, I'll be blowed. I must be slipping in my old age.” He nodded approvingly. “You've got good eyes in your head, I'll say that for you.”
“I have. And my good eyes noticed you slipping out of Gramercy Park by way of a loose iron railing on Monday, and standing in the same gardens on Tuesday, watching a house through binoculars.”
The suspicious look had returned. “Surely Captain Sullivan didn't send you? No, he'd never involve women when it comes to work.”
“You're right. He didn't send me.”
“Then what do you want from me? You don't work for Miss Le Grange, do you?”
“Who?”
“Kitty Le Grange. The lady whose house I was watching. Pfew, that's a relief. That would be three days' work down the drain if they knew I'd been keeping a record.”
“A record of what?”
“None of your business.” He touched his finger to the side of his nose. “Mum's the word. So they didn't send you?”
“I don't work for anybody,” I finally managed to interrupt, “and if you'll shut up for a second, I'll tell you why I came here.”
He looked rather surprised at being spoken to this way. “All right, keep your hair on. Go on then.”
“I think you and I can help each other.”
“Information? You've got information that's worth money?”
“Holy Mother, it's hard to get a word in edgewise around here. And my mother always told me I had the gift of the gab. I want you to hire me.”
“As what?”
“An assistant,” I said. “Look at this room. It's a disaster. I could keep things clean and neat for you and you could teach me the business.”
“What business?” The suspicious look had returned.
“Your business. I want to learn to be an investigator.”
He started laughing silently, his scrawny body shaking with mirth.‘That's a good one. A woman investigator. Now I've heard everything.”
“And why not, I'd like to know?” I faced him with my hands on my hips. “I'm sharp, I'm obviously more observant than you, and I think I've got a knack for it.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“I tailed you all the way from the barbershop.”
“You wouldn't get two yards, tailing somebody like that,” he said. “I spotted you as I came out of the barbershop door and my sixth sense told me you were hanging about for no good reason. So I kept tabs on you all the way down Fifth. Why else do you think I stopped to buy a paper?”
“Oh.” This was somewhat deflating, but I wasn't going to let him see that. “So I need practice. I'll get better with good instruction.”
“Not from me, you won't. There's no way on God's earth I'd employ a woman.”
“So you like working in a pigsty, do you?”
This made him pause for a moment and scan the room with his eyes. “I didn't say I couldn't use help from time to time. In fact, if you could find me a bright and willing young lad, I wouldn't mind taking on an apprentice. But no woman. This can be dangerous work, my dear. You'd get us both killed first time you opened your mouth.”
He left me and walked across the room to his desk. “Go on, run along home. I've got work to do.” He pulled out a rickety chair, sat down and began writing notes.
I had no alternative but to leave. This time I noted the grimy brass plate at the foot of the stairs, P. RILEY DISCREET INVESTIGATIONS. An Irish name. Then why did he sound like an English Cockney with a touch of the Bowery thrown in? It seemed as if I'd never know now.