Free Tales for a Stormy Night by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

hurry out of sight, and then quickened his own pace. New York was half the size of Dublin, he thought, for all its population. He tipped his hat to an old lady selling flowers at the hotel entry and gathered his thoughts again to the persuasion of Peg on the twenty. He was halfway through the lobby when it occurred to him that she would be easier persuaded if the money were not in one piece, and a flower for her hair would ease the introduction. He turned around and started back to the door. But the old flower woman was not likely to have that much change. He swung across the lobby to the cigar stand and asked the clerk to break down a $20 note for him.
    The clerk snickered. “It’s a bill,” he said. “In this country, my friend, you call it a $20 bill.”
    “Bill,” Denny mused aloud, fondling the crisp money for an instant. “Sweet William.”
    Before the clerk took the money from his hand, Denny felt a hard clap on his shoulder.
    “Come into the manager’s office, buddy.”
    He stuck the money in his pocket and swung around on the man who had spoken.
    “Come quiet unless you want to be carted,” he added flatly.
    Looking up at him, Denny realized his muscles were as thick as his brogue and he had never heard one thicker in Ireland. He did as he was told. In that small office, he was almost in a chair when the big man yanked him up again.
    “Let’s have your identification.”
    “Let’s have yours,” Denny said, trying for boldness.
    “I’m the house detective,” the big one roared glaring at him angrily.
    Denny shook himself free. “What the hell is this all about? I’m with the Irish Players here on a visit.”
    “Isn’t that lovely. You’re an actor, are you?”
    “I am.”
    “Then let’s see you act. Gimme your wallet.”
    “It’s upstairs with my wife. Keep your fist out of my pocket.”
    “I’ll put it down your throat in a minute. You’re a fine credit to Ireland.” He pulled the bill from Denny’s pocket.
    “That’s mine,” Denny cried.
    “Is it now? All that money on an actor.” He picked up the phone on the desk. “Gimme the woman who put in the complaint.” He looked Denny over with contempt. “They’re raising the fine ones over there now, for all they’re learning them Gaelic.”
    Denny stared at the $20 as the detective pressed it smooth on the desk. “Madame,” he said into the phone, “I’ve got him and your $20.”
    Denny’s heart leaped at the sound of her voice. Even from where he sat he could hear the fine, crooning lilt of it: “That was wonderful quick, officer. Just take the twenty off him for me and let him go.”
    Peg called into the phone as though she were trying for an echo across the hills. The detective had to hold the instrument at near arm’s length. But he brought it up quick to say: “It isn’t that easy, ma’am. You’ll have to identify him. Come down now to the office.”
    “Will it take long?” Peg crooned. “My husband’ll soon be home, and I’d as soon he didn’t know. It’s his family, you know.”
    So, Denny thought, Richard had more with Peg than palaver.
    The detective was as soft as butter with her. “There’s a rogue in my wife’s family, too,” he purred, “but I never cast it up to her though it was me turned him in.” He hung up the phone and glowered at Denny. “A nice little girl like that. You’re the fine bucko.”
    Denny sat very still and thought about it all until Peg arrived. She looked from one to the other of the men, speechless.
    “Well?” the detective demanded.
    “That’s my husband,” she burst out.
    For only a second did the detective waver. He fitted the tips of his fingers together as he added one thing to another. His face lengthened in sympathy. “You can thank your stars you found him out before you had a string of childer’ to worry about.”
    “You don’t understand,” Peg said.
    The detective threw his arms in the air. “Didn’t you tell me he threatened you? Didn’t you