Echoland (22 page)

‘What time did he call?’ McClure asked her.

‘Before dinner. Lunch.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he was looking for a friend,’ she paused. ‘I can’t remember the name. But he said this man lived in a mews house at the end of the garden. I told him he had the wrong house and there was no house at the end of the garden here but there was one further up the lane. And he said that must be it and he asked me if he could take a short cut through our garden to the lane. He said he had been walking a lot this morning and had got lost a few times and he’d appreciate it.’

‘You let him into the house?’ the barrister accused.

‘No, sir, I told him the side gate was open and he could go down through the garden and the garden gate was unlocked because the gardener was coming in today. So that’s what he did.’

‘Are you sure he left?’ the barrister asked.

‘Yes, sir. I went up to the return and watched him go out the
garden
gate. He looked back at the gate and saw me at the window and gave me a little bow and a smile.’

‘Can you describe him, Molly?’ McClure asked.

‘He was tall, very straight, very neat. Middle-aged, I suppose.’

‘And why’d you think he was a foreigner?’

‘He had a bit of an American accent, but he wasn’t a real Yank.’ She paused. ‘And he was very polite. Very gentlemanly.’

‘Thank you very much,’ McClure said to her. ‘We really
appreciate
your help.’

‘If anyone else calls to the door you tell me as soon as possible,’ the barrister ordered. ‘No matter who it is or what cock and bull story they’re telling.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She looked to McClure. ‘What’ll I do if he comes back?’

‘He won’t be back,’ McClure said. ‘I can assure you.’ He turned to the barrister. ‘And thank you for your assistance. That’s been very helpful.’

The Superintendent signalled to his men and they all began to leave, with McClure bringing up the rear. The barrister, now deflated, closed the door behind him.

‘Thank God for the maid,’ the Superintendent said as they turned onto the road. ‘She saved our bacon.’

‘We should check out any mews houses around here,’ McClure said. ‘In case it wasn’t a cock and bull story.’

‘I’d already made a mental note to do that,’ the Superintendent said.

The sun was up higher now and shining on the top floors of the houses, mellowing the grey bricks with its glow. The birds had
quietened
down but were still chirping happily in the trees.

They sat into their car and McClure looked at his watch. It was just after 4.30. They lit cigarettes and Duggan drove off and turned into Northumberland Road and went by the German legation. There was no sign of life there any more than anywhere else.

‘The question is,’ McClure said as they went over Mount Street bridge, ‘is our surveillance on Miss Kelly now compromised?’

Duggan grunted, assuming the captain was thinking aloud.

‘What do you think?’ McClure disabused him of the idea.

‘I think he knew he was being followed. Or suspected it,’ Duggan said. ‘Or he was just being careful.’

McClure gave a short laugh. ‘Like your answer.’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘I know. But is our surveillance compromised?’

‘Whether it is or it isn’t we have to go on doing it anyway, don’t we?’ Duggan said. ‘Or pick up Miss Kelly.’

‘We don’t want to do that. Not yet.’

‘Even if he thinks that’s how we got on his trail, will he tell her?’ Duggan was now thinking out loud. ‘Or will he just keep away from her altogether?’

‘That depends on how important she is,’ McClure continued the thought. ‘If she’s the lynchpin of this operation he has to let her know. If she’s just a minor cog he mightn’t bother. Just disappear from her orbit.’

‘So we need to see if there’s any change in her activities.’

‘Yes,’ McClure agreed. ‘But first we need to get a few hours’ sleep.’

They crossed over O’Connell Bridge and turned down Bachelor’s Walk. Behind them, the sun was working its way up the Liffey along with the incoming tide.

‘It’s your turn to stick with Hansi today,’ Gifford said as they followed Harbusch and Eliza along Merrion Square. ‘To examine the knickers in Switzers.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Duggan said. ‘You’re more experienced at that.’

‘Ah come on,’ Gifford groaned. ‘Let me stick with Eliza. The only remaining pleasure in my life.’

‘What? Has she ditched you?

‘Who?’

‘Sinéad.’

Gifford gave him a look. ‘Are you thick or just pretending to be thick?’

‘I’m tired,’ Duggan said. The few hours’ sleep had left his brain feeling mushy. He’d have been better off staying up all night.

‘Another great night’s work,’ Gifford laughed.

‘You heard all about it?’

‘Our lads were delighted, almost. Thought you so-called
intelligence
men had really fucked up.’

‘But we were saved at the last minute.’

‘So I heard,’ Gifford said with an air of regret. ‘Your friend Sullivan won’t be court-martialled after all.’

They crossed into Clare Street. Ahead of them Harbusch and
Eliza were approaching South Leinster Street at their normal stately pace, she tottering on her high heels, linking him. They looked
neither
left nor right.

‘I’m not going into Switzers after him,’ Duggan said.

‘You have to,’ Gifford said. ‘You’re the one who said we all have to go on pretending to be thick. We have to pretend that we don’t know that Hansi and Eliza know that we’re following them while they
pretend
that they don’t know either.’

‘We’re looking for changes in behaviour, remember.’ Duggan took out his cigarettes, needing a nicotine boost to get his brain
functioning
again. The packet was empty. ‘I need some cigarettes,’ he said, ‘I’ll catch up with you.’

He turned back towards a tobacconist they had just passed and caught sight of a man behind him also turn suddenly and disappear into Greene’s bookshop. He didn’t get a good look at him, his
attention
caught only by the sudden movement, just a dark-suited shape. He went into the shop, bought ten Afton and peeled the cellophane from the packet as he came out, stopping on the footpath to take out a cigarette and look back. There was no sign of anyone like the figure he had seen. He lit the cigarette and hurried after Gifford.

‘I think we’re being followed,’ he said when he caught up with him. He told him what he had seen.

‘Thanks be to God,’ Gifford said. ‘Some excitement at last.’

‘What’ll we do?’

‘Go on pretending, of course,’ Gifford gave him an evil grin. ‘We’ll pretend that we don’t know that he’s following us while we’re following Hansi and he’s pretending that he doesn’t know that we’re following him.’

‘Jesus,’ Duggan muttered, inhaling deeply and feeling the nicotine sharpen up his brain a little.

They stopped at the bottom of Dawson Street to let a car by.
‘And we’ll set a trap for him,’ Gifford added.

On Grafton Street Harbusch went into Switzers and idled his way through the lingerie department as usual. Duggan followed at a
discreet
distance, avoiding the eyes of the sales assistants behind the counter and the few women customers.

‘Can I help you?’ a young assistant asked as he went by her.

‘Ah, no thanks.’

‘Just looking, are you?’ she said in a tone that was anything but sweet.

He mumbled and moved on, wishing Harbusch would get this part of the ritual over. Eventually, he made his way to the Wicklow Street door, went out and turned into Grafton Street. Duggan
followed
him up past Bewley’s and saw him enter the Monument Café. He turned and retraced his steps, glancing at the poster for the Grafton cinema’s latest offering,
Poison Pen
with Flora Robson and Robert Newton. He wondered if he should ask Sinéad to go to the pictures, though that didn’t look like the one to see: a black and white poster showed a shocked woman reading a poison pen letter. If he ever got an evening off, of course, between Harbusch and Goertz and Kitty Kelly. Not to mention Timmy. And the Wehrmacht. Was it ever any other way? he wondered. Talk of war, the one just over or the one just coming.

He was back in the Merrion Square room five minutes when the door burst open and a short stocky man was pushed through. Gifford followed him in, his revolver held loosely by his side.

‘Well look what the cat brought in,’ one of the Special Branch men dropped his newspaper. ‘Little Billy Ward. Or what do you call
yourself
these days, Billy? Liam Mac an Bhaird?’

Duggan recognised him immediately, the IRA man who had tried to abduct him. Timmy’s friend? His mind raced.

‘Mac an Bhaird,’ the other Special Branch man folded his newspaper
with care and put it on the chair with deliberation, as if he had been waiting all along for Ward’s arrival. ‘Son of the bard. Just the man who’s going to sing for us.’

Ward glanced at Duggan, gave no hint of recognition.

‘Where did you find him?’ the first detective asked Gifford.

‘Dawdling along Merrion Square,’ Gifford said. ‘Not a care in the wide world.’

‘And why would he have a care in the world? Sure he’ll have free accommodation, all found, for the next ten years. At least.’

‘He had this on him,’ Gifford took a Webley revolver from under his jacket and replaced his own gun in its holster.

‘God be with the days when he’d have been executed for that,’ the second Special Branch man said with an air of nostalgia, taking the gun from Gifford. ‘They should bring it back.’

‘Aye,’ the first man said. ‘Save a load of money feeding the hungry little fucker.’

‘We’ll take him down to the station,’ the other detective said to Gifford. ‘There’s a few things we want to talk to Billy about. Like the last time he met some of our lads and tried to kill them. Remember that, Billy?’ He shoved Ward’s shoulder and Ward tottered to one side to maintain his balance. A look of resignation was settling on his face.

The other detective grabbed his right arm. ‘Feel free to make a run for it any time you want, Billy. You have a grand broad back and we’re always happy to have some target practice.’

He pushed Ward towards the door and the other detective
followed
them out. Gifford closed the door behind them and leaned his back against it.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Duggan said.

‘Precisely,’ Gifford agreed. ‘He was following you.’

Duggan nodded.

‘Interesting family you have,’ Gifford offered.

‘Timmy,’ Duggan sighed. ‘He thinks I know where Nuala is. I thought he might try something like this.’ But he hadn’t really
expected
it. Was there any length to which Timmy wouldn’t go? And why was he so determined to find Nuala? Whatever it was, it wasn’t fatherly love.

‘Persistent. You have to give him that.’

‘He’s a fucker,’ Duggan said. ‘What am I going to say if Ward tells them why he was following me?’

‘Who was following you?’ Gifford looked at him closely. ‘Are you paranoid? Why would anyone bother following a lowly lieutenant? The whole world’s going up in flames and you think it’s all about you. Maybe you’ve been too long in G2 already.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Duggan took his point.

‘It won’t arise,’ Gifford said with an air of authority. ‘Ward won’t tell them anything about that. He can’t.’

‘When those fellows are finished with him …’ Duggan shook his head, trailing off.

‘He might tell them all sorts of things,’ Gifford insisted. ‘But he won’t tell them that. How can he tell them he’s on a personal mission for a sell-out Fianna Fáil backbencher when he’s supposed to be
fighting
for Ireland?’

Duggan felt a little reassured. Everyone had bigger things on their minds than Timmy and his games.

‘And I just happened to see him on the street while engaged in another surveillance operation,’ Gifford said. ‘Nobody needs to know how we caught him. Knew he was a wanted man and used my initiative. Which goes to prove that I can keep more than one thought in my head at a time. Which means,’ Gifford beamed, ‘I deserve promotion.’

Duggan couldn’t help laughing.

‘So whose turn is it to get the biccies?’ Gifford laughed back.

Duggan was still trying to think through all the possible implications of Ward’s capture when he arrived back at the Red House in army headquarters. The fast cycle back from Merrion Square had helped to clear his head but it hadn’t made any more sense of what was going on. He still felt totally at sea, tossed around by shifting currents with no clear picture of the course ahead.

An orderly preceded him into his office and handed a sheet off the teleprinter to Captain McClure who was sitting with his feet up on the table, smoking a pensive cigarette. He glanced up at Duggan and then read the sheet of paper and dropped his feet to the floor.

‘Well, well,’ he said, waving the paper in the air. ‘Our Miss Kelly turns out to be a mystery woman.’

Duggan sat down opposite him and waited for him to elucidate.

‘Reply from the British,’ McClure waved the paper again and scanned down through it. ‘She moved to London in 1890 at fourteen, worked as a scullery maid for someone in Kensington, moved up the ranks to a lady’s maid, did a night course in shorthand and typing, worked for a shipping company, joined Royal Liver insurance in 1901 and stayed there till she retired in 1938. Former boss praises her
diligence
, efficiency. Thoughtful, intelligent, independent, he says. Effectively ran the typing pool. No known associations with Germans or Germany or the BUF.’ McClure raised an inquiring eyebrow at Duggan.

Duggan nodded. Mosley’s crowd, the British Union of Fascists.

‘And,’ McClure said, raising his index finger, ‘now lives in Torquay. In a boarding house. In poor health.’

He let the sheet of paper float down to the table and reached
forward
to stub out his cigarette.

‘She’s there now?’ Duggan asked, to be sure. ‘In Torquay?’

‘Yep.’

‘They’re sure of that?’

McClure picked up the sheet of paper and read from it. ‘Subject confined to house now by severe arthritis.’

‘So, who …’

‘We have no idea,’ McClure said, spacing out each word. He stared at Duggan who was coming to know him well enough now to know that it wasn’t aimed at him; he was just thinking, not demanding an answer. He stirred himself after a moment and held out the sheet of paper to Duggan who read it through.

‘We need to backtrack,’ McClure said. ‘Find out everything you can about her. Talk to the landlord.’

‘The other tenants?’ Duggan suggested.

‘No. Not yet. We need to feel our way forward carefully. Until we know more. And go back through the Harbusch file. See if there’s anything there that might connect him or his wife with Royal Liver, that family Kelly worked for in Kensington, the shipping company. There must be something somewhere to explain why this woman took on Kelly’s identity.’

‘She could be German,’ Duggan thought out loud.

‘She could be Mata Hari for all we know,’ McClure sighed. ‘I’m going to get confirmation that she is definitely in Torquay. Get more details about her life in London.’

Duggan opened his Harbusch file, knowing it well enough by now to be able to flick through the details of Harbusch’s English career and Eliza’s background. It didn’t take long – there was nothing there to suggest any connections with Kitty Kelly’s career.

He flicked forward to the section about the other tenants in the building. The landlady was a Mrs Wilson, a widow who lived in Aylesbury Road. He found the address in the telephone directory, listed under Dr Reginald Wilson, and put through a call to her.

‘I’m calling about your flats in Merrion Square,’ he said after a
young woman, a maid, had put him through to an imperious older woman.

‘On, no,’ she said with an accent that would cut stone. ‘You must talk to Good and Ganly. Lincoln Place. 62468.’

She was gone before he finished noting the phone number. He jotted the name of the estate agency before it and slipped them into the file. He thought about phoning them but decided this was an opportunity to check out everyone in the building without them knowing. Better call in person.

He phoned Sinéad instead. ‘Is Petey there?’ he asked her.

‘Of course he is,’ she said with a melodramatic flourish. ‘He’s like a wet weekend. Never goes away.’

‘Tell him I’m on my way if you see him. I need to talk to him.’

‘Aye, aye, general,’ she sniggered and hung up.

That hadn’t come out the way I meant it, he thought.

When he arrived in Merrion Square, however, Sinéad raised a conspiratorial finger to summon him into the reception area.

‘The boss is furious,’ she dropped her voice, glancing unconsciously at the switchboard. ‘He wants you out of here.’

‘Me?’

‘All of you. He’s been onto your headquarters demanding that you leave. Said you’d been upsetting his staff, disrupting their work. They can’t concentrate on what they’re supposed to be doing. And now they’re terrified by fellows using bad language and waving guns around and throwing people down the stairs.’

‘What?’ Duggan asked, mystified.

She lowered her voice further and he had to move closer to hear her. ‘His secretary was going up the stairs when those two fellows were bringing that young lad down. One of them was waving his gun and told the young fellow to run for it, they’d give him a head start, let him out the hall door before they’d follow. Said it was his only
chance of avoiding the rest of his life in Tintown.’

Duggan sighed.

‘He wouldn’t run,’ she continued, ‘so they pushed him down the stairs and the other one gave him a kick when he was lying on the ground at the bottom and told him to get up. Called him a lazy,’ she hesitated, ‘fucker.’

‘And people saw all this?’

‘I only saw the bit at the bottom of the stairs. But the boss’s
secretary
saw it all. Nearly fainted.’ She glanced again at the switchboard. ‘She’s a dry old spinster. Full of airs and graces.’

‘And you listened to his conversation?’ Duggan smiled at her.