THIRTY-THREE
The weather has changed in Dublin. Rain is falling on St Stephen’s Green, from clouds driven in on a keen westerly wind. Through the half-open window of his room at the Shelbourne Hotel, Eldritch Swan can hear the soughing of the trees and the hiss of the heavier bursts of rain. He lies on the bed, propped up on two pillows, smoking a cigarette and lethargically reading an Edgar Wallace novel he picked up earlier in the day for sixpence at a second-hand bookstall. At intervals, he glances at his watch, noting the progress of the hands towards seven o’clock. He wonders if Lorcan Henchy will actually ring on the stroke of the hour. He hopes so, for he cannot leave his room until Henchy’s call comes through. Until it does, he must wait as patiently as he can.
He finishes one cigarette and lights another. He turns a few more pages. The rain grows heavier again. The hands of his watch move at their set and stately pace. And then …
‘Hello?’
‘Front desk here, Mr Swan. There’s a Mr Henchy on the line for you. Shall I put him through?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Hold on, sir.’
A moment’s silence was broken by a click. ‘Hello?’
‘Good evening, Mr Swan. Your humble servant Lorcan P. Henchy here.’ The confounded fellow sounded as if he had been drinking.
‘Better luck at the races today, Mr Henchy?’
‘A little, yes. It’s kind of you to ask. And yourself ? A successful day?’
‘From your point of view, certainly.’
‘Your friends are happy to accommodate me, are they?’
‘Let’s just say willing. On certain conditions.’
‘Conditions? That’s not a word I like the sound of.’
‘They want you to leave Ireland, Mr Henchy. They want you … out of the way.’
‘Do they now?’
‘You can have your money, but not all at once. Five hundred pounds down, then a hundred at weekly intervals until the balance is paid, collectable by you in person from Martins Bank, Lombard Street, London.’
‘Meaning I have to desert the golden city of my forefathers for the lair of our ancestral oppressor, on which Herr Hitler may soon be raining bombs, if I’m to be paid in full.’
‘Those are their terms.’
‘And if I reject them?’
‘I can’t answer for the consequences.’
‘Can you not? Well, sir, I call you a famishing poor kind of negotiator.’
‘What’s your answer?’
Henchy fumed silently for a moment, then said, ‘If you think I’m going to pay you ten per cent of a sum before I’m in possession of it …’
Quibbling over commission was a promising sign. Swan smiled to himself. ‘I’ll settle for seven and a half per cent.’
‘Two and a half.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘I have to wait for a full settlement. You can take your share out of the initial payment. It’s a generous offer.’
It was far from generous. But there was something undeniably attractive about removing the irritant that Henchy was from his life within twenty-four hours. Being paid anything at all into the bargain constituted a bonus. Largely for form’s sake, however, Swan pushed for more. ‘Five.’
And he got it. ‘Very well, damn you.’
‘We’re agreed, then?’
‘We are. Now, as to the arrangements for delivery of my four hundred and fifty …’
‘Ah, that’s the other condition, Mr Henchy.’
‘What?’
‘They want you on your way tomorrow night. Aboard the eight o’clock ferry from Dun Laoghaire to Holyhead.’
‘They’re in a tearing hurry to send me into exile, aren’t they?’
‘You’re better placed to understand why than I am.’
‘Am I so?’
‘I’ll be on the seven o’clock train from Westland Row to Dun Laoghaire, with a first-class ticket through to Euston in my pocket and a Gladstone bag containing a large amount of money in my hand. I suggest you get on at one of the intermediate stops. I’m to see you off on the ferry.’
‘Make sure I’m gone, you mean.’
‘If you like.’
‘Well, I don’t like.’
‘Possibly not. But you’ll do it anyway, won’t you?’
The answer to that, as Swan reported to Linley in the Horseshoe Bar shortly afterwards, was a reluctant yes. Naturally, he left the details of his commission unreported, though Linley was so pleased he would probably not have complained.
‘Dextrously managed, Cygnet. Congratulations. And many thanks on behalf of His Majesty’s Government.’
‘Do I get an MBE for this?’
‘No. But you do get the evening’s bar bill paid for you by the British Legation. I rather think this calls for champagne, don’t you?’
*
Swan woke late the following morning, champagne in the bar having progressed to dinner at Jammet’s and a foray to a dance-hall. Most other breakfasters had been and gone by the time he made it downstairs and he was consuming bacon and eggs, washed down with black coffee, in conditions of virtual solitude, when an unexpected face appeared at the entrance to the room: that of Ardal Quilligan.
‘I have some news for you, Eldritch,’ he announced, joining Swan at his table and accepting the offer of coffee. ‘And I had to see a client in Fitzwilliam Square, so I thought I’d drop in on you on my way back to the office to deliver it in person.’
‘Good news, I trust.’
‘For you, certainly. A Mr Boyle from the Justice Department rang me first thing this morning, regarding Desmond’s application for release from internment.’
‘What did he have to say?’
‘That he could see no reason why Desmond shouldn’t be a free man by the end of next week.’
‘Excellent. None of the foot-dragging you feared, then?’
‘Apparently not. It—’
‘Excuse me, Mr Swan,’ one of the bellboys breathlessly interrupted. ‘There’s a phone call for you from a Miss Quilligan. Do you want to take it?’
Swan was momentarily lost for words. He looked across at Ardal, who frowned back at him. ‘Well, well. Issie never mentioned she was intending to contact you.’
‘I’d better go and see what she wants.’
‘Yes. I suppose you had.’
Swan hurried into the foyer, part of him intrigued by Isolde’s call, the other part annoyed by its timing. The concierge directed him to one of the phone booths to take it.
‘Isolde?’
‘Stephen,’ she responded breathlessly. ‘I’m so glad I caught you.’
‘You caught Ardal as well.’
‘Oh God. He’s with you?’
‘Waiting for me in the restaurant.’
‘Damn, damn, damn. What did you say to him?’
‘That I’d go and find out what you wanted.’
There was a lengthy pause, filled by a crackle of static. Then she said, ‘You know what I want, Stephen.’
‘Indeed. Would you like me to explain that to him?’
‘Don’t be cruel to me.’
‘But I was. And it seemed to me you rather enjoyed it.’
‘You are an evil man, Mr Swan. And a corrupting influence on well-bred young ladies.’
‘So I should hope.’
‘What are we to do?’
‘Now? Or next Wednesday afternoon?’
‘I rang because I want to see you. That’s all. Just … be with you … for a while. I thought we could meet … in the National Gallery, perhaps.’
‘This morning?’
‘Unless you’re busy.’
‘No, no. Let’s meet, by all means. I’ll tell Ardal you were … concerned I might think Dublin an uncivilized city and rang to … offer your guidance to its artistic treasures.’
‘Yes. He’ll believe that of me. Why has he come to see you?’
‘To give me news of Desmond. He should be out by the end of next week.’
‘So soon?’
‘Ardal will expect you to be pleased.’
‘And I am. But … Never mind.’ Swan knew what she was thinking, of course. He would have no reason to remain in Dublin once Desmond was free. He heard her sigh. ‘The National Gallery, an hour from now?’
‘It’s a date.’
Ardal Quilligan seemed more amused than puzzled by Swan’s account of his telephone conversation with Isolde. ‘I’m afraid she thinks me rather a Philistine, Ardal. A dose of Hibernian art has been prescribed. And apparently I have no choice but to swallow it.’
‘She was delighted to hear Desmond will soon be free.’
‘I suspect she’ll follow him to London before long. She can’t wait to get to know her nephew.’
‘Will you go with her?’
‘I can’t readily leave my practice. But I’m sure … I can rely on you to entertain her.’
‘Certainly.’ Swan smiled obligingly. ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’
Aesthetic enlightenment was unforthcoming for Swan that morning in the thinly patronized, muddily lit rooms of the National Gallery. Nor did Isolde exert herself to bestow any upon him. They drifted from room to room, exchanging whispered remarks, whose contents would have scandalized anyone who heard them. But they took good care to ensure no one could. And the fleeting kisses they occasionally allowed themselves went unobserved.
They left and strolled around the flower-bedded park in the centre of Merrion Square. The weather was damp and cool, the day grey and muted. Isolde shared a cigarette with Swan and spoke, as Ardal had predicted, of visiting Desmond and her nephew in London as soon as possible.
‘No doubt you’ll be too busy to see me once you’re back there,’ she said, fishing for reassurance.
‘That depends,’ he teased her.
‘On what, pray?’
‘Whether you think you’re likely to fall in with … the wrong crowd … for lack of guidance from a man of the world.’
‘And if I were?’
‘Then I should consider it a point of honour to … come to your rescue.’
‘I may need rescuing quite often.’
‘You may indeed.’ He smiled at her. ‘But I’m willing to accept the responsibility.’
They parted after lunch at a restaurant Isolde knew. Back at the Shelbourne Swan prescribed for himself a doze and a session with the resident masseur in preparation for his tiresome duties of the evening. Shortly after six o’clock, he set off. He made his way across St Stephen’s Green blithely unconcerned as to whether Special Branch were tailing him or not, for the simple reason that anyone following him was bound to do so on foot and would be left helpless by his departure on the other side of the park in a fast-moving car.
The driver was silent and expressionless. Linley, sitting next to him in the front seat, turned to greet Swan with a smile as they sped south along Harcourt Street.
‘I think we happen to be going your way, Cygnet, so sit back and relax. Henchy’s money is in there.’ He pointed to the Gladstone bag on the floor behind the driver’s seat.
‘I can’t help noticing we seem to be heading in the wrong direction. Westland Row is north.’
‘A precautionary detour, nothing more. Willis knows what he’s doing.’
‘Lucky man.’ Swan hoisted the bag up on to the seat beside him and opened it. Beneath a folded newspaper, he found the promised wad of banknotes. ‘Rather like Lorcan P. Henchy.’
‘It’s not always the good and godly who are rewarded in this life, I’m afraid. Just put the wretched fellow on that boat and we can forget all about him. Then your work for the legation will be done. Well, apart from propping up our middle order batting, of course. You will turn out tomorrow, won’t you?’
‘Not if I’m stuck down at number seven and never allowed to bowl.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘So I should hope. I’d be disappointed if my labours on your behalf went unrewarded.’
‘Perish the thought, Cygnet. Perish the thought.’
The precautionary detour delivered Swan to Westland Row station in ample time for the seven o’clock train to Dun Laoghaire. ‘See you later,’ was Linley’s parting cry as the car pulled away, a reference to their agreement to meet for a nightcap at the Shelbourne.
Swan went into the station lavatory, shut himself in a cubicle and transferred fifty pounds from the Gladstone bag to an envelope, which he put in his pocket. Then he strolled back out and boarded the waiting train.
The connection with the eight o’clock ferry meant it was three quarters full when it left and heavily loaded with luggage. Most of the passengers looked glum, the drizzly, overcast weather doing nothing for any voyager’s spirits. Swan lit a cigarette and consoled himself with the thought that he at least would not be leaving dry land. The man opposite him pulled his hat well down over his eyes and fell instantly asleep. The train steamed lethargically on its way.
At each stop, Swan lowered the window and peered out to see if Henchy was on the platform. Finally, at Blackrock station, there he was, portmanteau in hand, threadbare Inverness overcoat draped around him. Swan held the door open for him and he clambered aboard, taking the seat next to the sleeper under the hat.
‘I wondered if you’d make it,’ Swan remarked.
‘I wondered that myself about you,’ said Henchy with an ironic smile. ‘Got much luggage?’
‘Just this.’ Swan pointed to the Gladstone bag between his feet.
‘I like to travel light myself.’
‘Are you a good sailor?’
‘As good as I am anything else.’
‘Cigarette?’
‘Why, thank you.’
Swan’s striking of a match roused the sleeping man where no number of jolts, whistles and shouts had. He blinked and looked round at Henchy. ‘Good Lord, where are we?’
‘Just left Blackrock.’
‘Then I’ve not missed Seapoint. That’s lucky. I can’t tell you how often I overrun.’ He was pasty-faced and shabbily suited. An overworked clerk of some sort, Swan surmised, feeling sorry for him and also faintly scornful. Swan was confident he would never be reduced to such an existence.
The train had already begun to slow as it approached Seapoint station. The man gathered himself together. He appeared to have no luggage. Whatever work he did, he was at least taking none of it home. As the train came to a halt, he eased the door open and stepped out. Swan gazed past him at the calm grey expanse of Dublin Bay, stretching away beyond the sea wall next to the platform.
‘Goodbye,’ said the man, turning back to face them.
There was a loud crack. Swan jumped in surprise, thinking the man had broken something in the door as he slammed it shut. But the door, he suddenly realized, was still open. Henchy uttered a strange, gurgling cry and slumped down in his seat. There was blood on his coat and shirt, spreading like spilt wine. His face was contorted in pain and shock.
Swan looked from Henchy towards the door. The man had a revolver in his hand and was staring grimly at him. Swan saw the barrel of the gun move to point in his direction. There was no doubt in his mind what was about to happen.
But in that instant the train started forward with a lurch, swinging the door against the gunman just as he took aim. There was another loud crack, a ping as the bullet missed Swan and ricocheted off the luggage rack, a scream from behind him, a confusion of shouts. Swan grabbed the Gladstone bag and lashed out with it, striking the gunman in the face. The man toppled backwards. A whistle blew stridently. ‘Watch out there,’ someone bellowed. The train continued to move. And the gunman moved with it, his foot trapped between the step and the platform edge. The revolver was knocked from his grasp. He slipped further down into the gap and let out a shriek. There were more whistle blasts and cries of alarm.
Seeing his chance, Swan sprang out of the carriage. He moved to where the revolver had fallen and picked it up. Looking back, he saw the train continuing to drag the gunman along even as it began to slow. He was trapped somewhere around his thigh. His shrieks had become a yowl of agony. The guard was rushing towards him, along with several passengers who had just got off.
But Swan turned away. He opened the bag, dropped the revolver inside, clipped it shut and hurried towards the footbridge.