Death of Riley by Rhys Bowen

export business had noticed profits were not as high as they should have been and suspected one of his clerks of embezzling. Now we were moving into more turbulent waters. The threat of losing a job and going to jail might drive a hitherto respectable young man into a desperate act. The only question was—would he have killed so neatly and efficiently? There was nothing for it but to wade through the papers and see what evidence Paddy had managed to come up with.
    I was squatting on the back-room floor, looking through the case folders, one by one, when I heard a sound. Someone was coming up the steps. I scrambled to my feet, cursing as my shoes got themselves tangled up in my skirts, then stood, ready for action. Probably the police coming back to look for more clues. Not necessarily the police, however—anyone could have been watching this place and seen me go back inside. And that someone could have been waiting for a chance to find the door unlocked. Until now I had felt angry and upset about Paddy's death, but I hadn't felt personally threatened. Now I realized my folly. I had not locked the front door behind me, if, indeed it could be locked from the inside. I hadn't checked the window to see if it also was locked. I was a sitting duck.
    The tread on the stairs was not the heavy plod of police boots. I waited. A moment of silence. Then the slightest click as the door handle began to turn. I looked around for something I could use as a weapon. No cane in sight, not even a vase I might break over his head. Nothing except clothing hanging in a neat row on hooks. Paddy's disguises, obviously. I looked to see if I could hide myself behind them, but they hung well clear of the floor.
    A squeak sounded as the door opened slowly. Through the crack in the door to the inner room I saw a dark shape enter, silent and stealthy. I could hear his breath. I held my own and shrank back against the wall, out of sight. I stared at a cloak on the wall. I inched my hands toward it and lifted it down. Then all I could do was stand there, waiting. He would come in here in the end. If I was in luck and he had left the front door half-open, I might be able to startle him enough to make my escape past him. If not…
    I tried to let my breath out with no sound. It was becoming hard to breathe at all. I could hear his footsteps and the rustle of papers as he examined the piles I had made in the other room. I heard the footsteps cross the floor and a rattle as he checked the window—opening it for a second escape route if necessary, I concluded. It might also provide a second escape route for me, if I was bold enough and agile enough to cross a couple of rooftops and leap down like the young man had done. I could have done it back home in Ireland when I had run around barefoot and kept up with the boys. Now I was out of practice and hampered by petticoats and pointed shoes. Still, it might be worth a try.
    The footsteps left the window again and came closer. He was coming into this room. I held the cape ready. A dark shape filled the doorway. A surprised intake of breath and a muttered exclamation as he saw the open file cabinet. As he reached out for the folders I had left on the floor, I seized my chance. I threw the cape over his head, gave him a hefty shove and pushed past him. He gave a grunt and lurched forward. I was out, free, making for the door, but not fast enough. He lunged at my feet and felled me like a tree. This time was not as painful or violent as yesterday's attack had been, but I went over, unable to stop myself and he was instantly on me, pinning me to the floor with horrible strength.
    “Okay, let's get a look at you, scum,” he growled in a terrifying voice, wrenching my hand up behind my back and grabbing at my hair to force my face from the floor.
    “Let go of me or you'll be sorry.” I tried bravado. “The police will be coming back here any minute. They know I'm here.”
    The pressure that was wrenching up my arm