“Thank you, sir,” said Mulligan, and took a chair. His clothes were dirty and rumpled, and he sported several days’ growth of beard. He cast a sidelong glance at the empty soup bowls on the table. It seemed clear that he had been in hiding ever since the murder.
Mrs. Clemens saw him look at the table, too. She stood and asked, “Have you eaten? There’s good soup hot, and plenty of bread and butter. And I can bring you tea.”
“Or something stronger, if you’d rather,” said Mr. Clemens.
“Soup and bread would be grand, mum, if it’s not a trouble to you,” said Mulligan. “And a spot o’ tea would be perfect right now.” He had a warm baritone voice with a less pronounced brogue than I would have guessed.
Mrs. Clemens smiled and nodded and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned, carrying a tray. She set a soup bowl and a mug of tea in front of Mulligan, handed him a napkin and silverware, and said, “If there’s anything else, please let Cook know. Now, girls, I think it’s time we went upstairs.”
Susy and Clara were clearly unhappy at being deprived of the chance to observe a key witness in the murder investigation, but they followed their mother without complaint, leaving me and Mr. Clemens to watch Mulligan eat his soup and bread, which he did without wasting breath on conversation.
Mr. Clemens sat back in his seat and looked at Mulligan. After he judged the man had had sufficient time to take the edge off his appetite, my employer said, “There’s a bunch of people besides me looking for you, you know.”
“Sure, and I’d have to be stone blind not to know that, wouldn’t I?” said Mulligan, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “But most of ’em are bobbies, and I never got along with them. Mickey over at The Painted Lady said two of Mr. McPhee’s friends were lookin’ for me. I guessed that might be you, and I’m hopin’ you’re not after callin’ Scotland Yard to take me in.”
“Scotland Yard does its own work, and I do mine,” said Mr. Clemens. “But McPhee’s in jail, and if you know something that’ll get him out, you might tell it to me. I can pass it on to the cops without saying anything to put them on your trail.”
“I understand you,” said Mulligan. “Sure, then, I can’t say I know aught that might help Ed McPhee, but ask away, and if I can give you the answer, it’ll be yours.”
“Fair enough,” said Mr. Clemens. “Let’s start at the beginning. What kind of work did you do for McPhee?”
“Handy work of one sort or another,” said Mulligan. “Mr. McPhee had a need for a man that was good with his hands, and he asked about and found me.”
Mr. Clemens smiled broadly. “Where I come from, if you say a man’s ‘good with his hands’ it can mean all sorts of things. Maybe he’s a good man in a fight. Or something else—I don’t know if you’ve ever seen Ed with a deck of cards . . .”
Mulligan gave a long-drawn-out whistle. “Enough to know not to play him for money. That’s not my line, though, nor fighting neither, though I can take care of meself if it comes to that. Nay, it’s making different devices that’s my work, crafting this thing or that, whatever folk have need of.”
“I see,” said my employer. He gestured toward the teapot, and Mulligan reached over and refilled his cup. After he’d taken a sip, Mr. Clemens asked, “And what exactly did Mr. McPhee have you make for him?”
“Things to make sounds in the sittin’ room,” said Mulligan. “The main job was a set ’o bellpulls. One dragged a bit o’ chain across a tin plate so it’d rattle good and loud. Another was hooked to a mechanical hammer that knocked on a hollow block of wood. Another made the sound of bells. There was a hidden gramophone, too—one of those American music boxes—that played a fiddle or an accordion. Then he had me cut a peephole through the wall, and hide it behind some pictures. And a few other things of the like. Nothin’ fancy—’twasn’t near as tricky as some jobs I’ve done. And then, when he found out I needed a little steady cash after, he kept me on in odd jobs, watchin’ the door when folk were arrivin’, and such.”
“So, you weren’t doing anything actually illegal—is that right?” asked Mr. Clemens, leaning forward.
“Not a bit, unless there’s a law against bein’ good with your hands.”
“Then why’d you run when you saw the police?”
“Sure, and wouldn’t I run from a mad dog when I saw it comin’?” said Mulligan. “I’d gone out to take the edge off me thirst, and when I returned, first thing me eyes lit on was that big bobby. I knew right then it was no place for Terry Mulligan to be, and so I put my legs to work. Next day, when I learned a man’d been shot there, I knew ’twas the right thing I’d done. You don’t look like a fellow who’s had aught to do with the police, but any Irishman’ll tell you tales enough.”
“So would any Chinaman in California,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding. “I guess I don’t blame you for skipping out, but I wish you hadn’t, because that complicated everything. For starters, it gave McPhee a few nights in jail that he didn’t deserve.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Or maybe he did deserve ’em for some of the other stuff he’s done. But never mind that. It’s the shooting we’re worried about today. You were standing by the door as everybody came in that night. Was anybody carrying something suspicious?”
“Oh, they had all sorts of things along,” said Mulligan. “Mr. McPhee told me folk’d be bringin’ the odd bundle to the sittin’s, and so they did, every single night. But ’twasn’t
