Read Online The Russian Hill Murders by Shirley Tallman - Free Book Online

accommodate the workers, who were equally divided between Chinese and Occidental. Though the day outside was cool and the room’s two windows were wide open, the shop felt hot and airless. The floor was piled with partially sewn garments, while completed articles filled two tables by the door, shirts on one side, trousers on the other.
    With a little shock, I realized the room had but one door, and I could see no fire escapes. God help these poor workers if fire broke out in the stairwell; everything in this room would go up like a tinderbox. It was another disaster waiting to happen, one potentially more deadly than the fire that had killed Mrs. Mankin’s husband.
    Two women glanced up as we entered the room, but at a warning look from a Chinese man who was teaching a young boy to iron, they hastily resumed their work. The man’s eyes narrowed, as if he was not accustomed to visitors.
    “Good afternoon,” I said, smiling pleasantly. His expression remained noncommunicative. “We’re looking for a man called Paddy McGuire.”
    My eyes scanned the room to see if anyone reacted to the name. Sure enough, a worker toward the back stared at me with a wary expression. Beneath a brownish-red beard, his face was thin and angular, his eyes intelligent and a bit cocky. A bold tilt to his narrow chin announced him to be a man not adverse to downing a friendly pint or engaging in a not so friendly fight.

    “I’m Paddy,” he said almost defiantly, ignoring his overseer’s cautionary glare.
    Hoping this dour Chinese understood English, I said, “May we please speak privately to Mr. McGuire? It won’t take long, I promise.”
    The man seemed to understand well enough, or perhaps he just wanted us out of his shop. He nodded curtly toward the door we’d just entered. Paddy rose from his machine and, hitching up his pants, swaggered out into the hall.
    “So?” he said, the instant we were out of the room. “Who the devil are ya, and whatcha want with me?”
    “I’m Sarah Woolson and this is Robert Campbell. We’re attorneys working on behalf of Mrs. Lily Mankin, who lost her husband Jack in that sweatshop fire—”
    “Sweet Jesus, a woman lawyer!” Paddy assessed me as if I belonged in a zoo. “Never seen one of them before.”
    Ignoring his rude stare, I kept my voice professional. “We’re here for information, Mr. McGuire. I understand you used to work with Mr. Mankin?”
    McGuire regarded me warily. “What if I did?”
    “In order to help his widow, we need to know who nailed that sweatshop door closed.” I held up a hand before Paddy could explode. “Mr. McGuire, we’re not here to accuse you of wrongdoing. Please, just answer the question.”
    Paddy raised an eyebrow. “What if it was me who nailed the bloody door shut? How’s that gonna help Jack’s wife?”
    “If you boarded it up it on your own, it won’t,” I explained. “On the other hand, if someone told you to do it—the owner, perhaps—it will help her a great deal.”
    “Hah!” he snorted. “That’s a good one. No one knows who owns these pigsties. Don’t give a damn if any of us live or die, long
as we keep the money pourin’ into their pockets. The worthless bastard who owned the shop what burned down sure as hell never dropped in for a visit.”
    My heart felt heavy with disappointment. “So, you took it upon yourself to nail the door closed.”
    “I never said that now, did I?” he bristled. At first I thought he was trying to deny responsibility for blocking the exit. Then I realized it was quite the opposite. The guilt I saw reflected in his eyes was imbedded with deep self-reproach. Whether deserved or not, Paddy McGuire held himself responsible for the deaths of his five coworkers.
    “Killy’s the one told me to do it,” he admitted at last, his voice full of self-loathing.
    “Killy?” I said excitedly. “You mean Killy Doyle?”
    “One and the same. Claimed he’d get around to fixin’ the lock when he had time,