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under the drugstore awning pretending to be examining the display of foot powders and patent medicines in the window until I heard a cheerful “Thanks, Al. Cheerio, then, until next time.” Again I noted that strange accent that was a mixture of Cockney and New York.
    Out of the corner of my eye I watched him leave the barber's. I let him get a good way down the street before I followed him. He was walking fast and I had to run to catch up as he headed onto Fifth Avenue, going south. I turned the corner after him, then shrank back as he stopped to buy a newspaper. He set off again. I followed. I was doing rather well at this, I decided. It was a pity there weren't shop fronts to duck into, but I managed to blend into the shade every time he stopped, pausing as if I were checking the numbers on the houses.
    He crossed Tenth Street, then Ninth, then Eighth. The arch on Washington Square was now clearly visible, blocking the end of the avenue, its marble facade glinting in the sunlight. I paused to admire it and when I looked back, Paddy was no longer ahead of me. I ran. He couldn't have gone into any of the houses—it would have taken time to mount the steps to the front doors. And he surely hadn't reached Washington Square. Then I noticed a narrow alley going off to my right. I ran down it and found myself in a cobbled court that must have formerly been a mews. Some of the low buildings still had stable doors. Some had been converted into living quarters. I spun around as I heard the sound of a door closing. It had come from above my head. Then I noticed a flight of rickety steps going up the side of the first mews cottage. I went up. The door was not properly latched. I tapped on it. “Hello? Paddy?” I called.
    The door swung open and I peered in. I saw a large untidy room, a desk buried under mounds of paper and a half-eaten sandwich. But the room was empty. Cautiously I stepped inside.
    “Hello. Anyone here?” I called again.
    Suddenly I was grabbed from behind and a hand clamped over my mouth.

F ive
    “All right,” a voice hissed in my ear, “out with it. Who sent you?”
    “Let go of me.” I tried to force the words through his fingers around my mouth. I jerked my elbow backward in what I hoped was the region of his stomach and heard a satisfying exhale. Not for nothing had I grown up with three brothers. I wrenched myself out of his grasp and spun around on him. “Holy Mother of God! Is this the way you always greet prospective clients? It's a wonder you do any business.”
    “Go on with yer,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. “You're no more a prospective client than I'm the man in the moon.”
    “And how can you tell that?”
    “By the clothes, love. There's no quality in the fabric. It takes money to hire my services.” Now that I had time to study him I reconfirmed my first impression of dapper. He was well turned out in a suit that had seen better days. His shirt had a clean starched collar. His face must have been quite handsome once but now sagged so that he had a bloodhoundlike mournful appearance. This disappeared as he gave me a cheeky grin, then the wary look returned.
    “So come on, out with it. Who sent you? If it's the Five Points Gang using their womenfolk to deliver messages again…”
    “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