The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (3 page)

It was a quarter till three in the morning and I was standing on the dock, looking for a man I didn’t know. The quay was crowded, even in the middle of the night, full of frantic activity to prepare the ship for sailing in the morning. I watched the men as, one after another, they wheeled the crates and steamers up the gangplanks. There was a metallic clank and then a groaning as the provisions for the journey were hoisted by crane to the deck. The deck itself was busy as crewmembers scurried about, checking this and that all while under the watchful eyes of several officers. I studied the dockers coming and going, not sure which was the one.

“Frank!”

I jumped at the sound. Heart pounding and ready to run, I turned.

A man I didn’t know, dressed in the clothes of a docker, was waving. He didn’t seem to be looking at me. I turned in the other direction and saw another docker on the deck waving back. I let out a breath and turned my attention back to the loading. After a while, another docker appeared and stepped over into the light of the gas lamp. He lit a cigarette and, as I studied his face, I tried to remember the description I had overheard.

By the warehouse was a lone guard, sitting on the back of a cart. Every now and then I caught him taking a sip from a flask. The loading continued and, when the guard’s head finally dropped to his chest, I approached the docker—the big man smoking the cigarette below the light of the lamp.

“Would you tell where I might find Paddy O’Hurley?”

Up close, he was bigger than I thought. He was a head taller than me and had the large arms and the broad back that came from years of heavy work. He turned and eyed me, his eyes narrowing. Muddy, wet and dirty from the journey as I was, he had every right to be wary.

“And who would be asking?”

“Michael O’Sullivan,” I said without a pause. It was the name of a boyhood friend who had died when I was nine. “From Limerick.” I had prepared myself for the question.

He regarded me for a moment. “I’m Paddy,” he said. I caught the challenge in his voice, a warning that told me he was busy, to state my business or be gone.

Before I could say anything, there was a shout and a curse and Paddy turned. Two men were struggling to attach the rigging to a large crate. The rigging dangled below the crane, the men on deck watching impatiently while the two on the wharf scrambled to secure it. Paddy shook his head and turned back to me.

Taking a breath, I explained my situation, telling him I was on the run and, with the British after me, had to leave the country as soon as I could. I prayed the whole while that he truly was the Paddy I had been looking for and that I hadn’t made a mistake. If there was a code word, I didn’t know it. He asked me several questions and those I answered truthfully. Something told me it wouldn’t do to lie.

Paddy’s eyes narrowed. “You know Billy Ryan, do you?”

I felt the hairs on the back of my head stand up at the name. “Aye. Billy’s the O.C.” I answered. The Officer in Charge. “But I’m not even sure if he’s still alive.”

“Argyle Manor?” he asked, his eyes boring into mine.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Even as far away as Cobh, the newspapers surely had carried the stories of the bombing. I sensed there was no use in lying. “Aye.” I nodded. “Argyle Manor.”

Paddy glanced over his shoulder once, then looked at me and nodded.

I told him what I needed.

“Meet me back here in an hour,” he ordered then disappeared.

An hour later I made my way back, wondering the whole while if I was walking into a trap. I had seen two British patrols earlier but thankfully neither had seen me. When I reached the quay, there were no soldiers, no constables waiting for me. That didn’t mean that the IRA wasn’t lying in wait. I buried myself in the shadows and kept an eye out for Paddy. My eyes darted around, and I tried not to appear nervous, tried not to jump at the shouts and the commotion around me.

It was another thirty minutes before I saw him. We spoke quietly and he pointed over to the cart. The guard I had seen earlier was gone but sitting in his place was a small trunk. More importantly, Paddy gave me two names.

___

Thanks to Paddy, the clothes had been easy but the travel papers and ticket had taken some effort. Cleaned up as best I could and with new clothes, I waited outside the hotel, studying the people coming and going, looking for a man who was close to me in size, and catching snippets of conversations until I found what I needed.

“Oh, wasn’t Paris grand, Desmond?”

A nod and a smile. “Aye, Maureen. But it will be good to lie in our own bed again.”

“And what time is the train?”

“At nine. Tomorrow morning.”

It didn’t take much to find out what room they were in, or to break in for that matter. The IRA had trained me well. And it didn’t take much searching to find the travel papers. These were below the trousers and shirts in the bottom of one of the trunks. There was also a purse and, although I was tempted, I left it. The missing passports might not be noticed for a day or two, or so I hoped. But the purse was different. Had both the purse and the passports disappeared, surely a robbery would have been reported and the Peelers would have been alerted. But what thief would take the passports only and leave the money? Surely the travel papers were only misplaced.

Now that I had their passports, neither Desmond nor Maureen could travel. But I could. Having served its purpose, when no one was watching, I dropped Maureen’s passport into the harbor, taking pains to weight it with a stone so that it would sink quickly. I kept Desmond’s safe in my pocket.

I wasn’t sure what I would do for money, but my good luck continued as, later that morning, I found myself with a purse full of pounds. Cobh was a busy town with ships coming and going. The hotels and restaurants were full and the streets were crowded with horses and carriages, motorcars and lorries, carts, and people all fighting for space. On my way back to the hotel, still several blocks away, I came upon an opportunity.

The carriage was askew, the rear wheel broken; steam was rising from the front of the motorcar. A well-dressed woman was sitting on the ground, sobbing and holding her head. The blood ran down her fingers, and the sleeve and front of her dress were stained red. Another man, the carriage driver it appeared, was lying face down on the ground. He too was bleeding from a wound to the head, the cobbles stained red below him. Two men, well dressed in their derbies and suits, were shouting and pushing at each other. When one hit the other, I rushed forward, joining the small crowd that had gathered.

Ignoring the donnybrook, I looked inside the motorcar and then the carriage before I found what I needed. Leaving the two injured people in the street and the two angry men cursing and swinging at each other, I made away with the purse.

I was already going to hell, what did one more sin matter?

___

“It’s a rich man you are,” I told myself as I smoothed my hair then placed the derby on my head. “Rich and smart,” I continued. In the mirror, a stranger stared back. I touched my hair, once brown now black, dyed to match Desmond’s, then I adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses I now wore, just as he did. Paddy O’Hurley had done a fine job with the trunk. The tweed vest and brown pinstripe sack coat I wore hadn’t required much from the tailor, but as I was shorter than the man they belonged to, the trousers did. Still, he had done a fine job with the pins and the stitching. For a pig farmer from Limerick, I had never known such finery.

Minutes later, I was heading down the street searching for one of the names Paddy O’Hurley had given me.

Trying my best to look like a gentleman out for a noonday stroll, I studied the signs above the store fronts as I remembered what Paddy had told me. It wasn’t but a short while before I found the photographer, next to the chemist, just as Paddy had said. I had to wait for several carriages and motor cars to pass before I could cross the street. I had just stepped off the curb when the sound of a horn caught my attention. I paused as a Model T raced past me. The driver nodded and I saw him shift gears. The sharp bang startled me and, for a moment, I thought it was a gun, but then I saw the motorcar lurch. There was a puff of black smoke from the back. I let out a breath, smiled to hide my nervousness and tried again to cross the street. As I dodged the carts and carriages and motorcars, I tried to calm nerves that were on edge.
It was only a backfire
, I told myself. But that didn’t stop the tingle in my spine. I glanced behind me to see if I was being followed. No one, thankfully, seemed to be paying me any mind.

I had just reached the other side when I heard the whine of another motor followed by the grinding shift of gears. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck as I remembered the British lorry below Kathleen’s window. Suddenly there were shouts and I glanced behind me. A lorry skidded to a stop in the middle of the street and several Peelers, all wearing the mismatched uniforms of the Tans, jumped out. They surrounded a carriage and began to shout at the driver and passenger. I turned quickly and hurried along the curb, away from the men who would surely kill me if they discovered who I was.

“Hold it! You! Stop!”

I froze and turned slowly. My heart began to hammer in my chest. The Tan was pointing directly at me.

He marched over, stopping a foot away. I could smell the tobacco and sweat from his clothes as his dark eyes bore into me. He studied me for a moment then glanced at the papers in his hand. I felt the panic rising. The RIC in Limerick, I realized, figuring I would try to escape, had sent my picture and description to the obvious place: the port. Standing calmly—or so I hoped it appeared—with my hands by my side, I waited. He was older than me but not much taller. Behind him, the rest of his patrol was questioning random people in the street. One, I saw, frisked the couple they had pulled from the carriage while another searched inside. There were six of them, and they all had guns. Fighting my way free wasn’t an option. While I might be able to get the better of the one who had taken an interest in me, I had to worry about the others.

“Your name,” he demanded when he looked up.

“Michael O’Sullivan,” I answered, hoping he didn’t notice how nervous I was.

He regarded me with a skeptical eye. “Where are you from?”

“Birr,” I answered. “County Offaly.” This was an answer I had practiced too. Birr was more than a hundred miles from Cobh and at least sixty miles from Limerick.

“Where are you traveling to?”

I shook my head. “I’m not,” I answered. “I’m here to meet my brother.” My brother, I told him, was a medical doctor living in London.

The Tan stared at me but said nothing.

“Has something happened?” I asked.

Ignoring my question, he turned then shouted at someone else and hurried away.

I slowly let out the breath I had been holding then turned and hurried down the street.

___

Paddy had given me two names. The first was for a photographer, one the IRA had used from time to time. I decided it was best to wait several hours for the commotion in the street to subside before I approached him. When I finally did, using Paddy’s name, I explained why I was there.

“And you’re the one the Tans are looking for, are you?” he asked, nodding to the window, where, hours earlier, the Tans had been causing a ruckus right in front of his shop. His eyes told me that he knew and I was unsure how to answer.

“Aye,” I finally said, sensing it would do me no good to lie.

“And a fine looking man such as yourself?” he asked with a smile, a joke to ease my tension.

I smiled back.

“Well then, we’d better take care of that.”

He led me to the back, behind the black curtain, where he took several photographs of me. He told me to return the next day.

When I did, I offered to pay him.

“Just doing my part,” he insisted as he handed me an envelope.

I shook his hand.

“Mind yourself now,” he cautioned, nodding again toward the window.

I thanked him again and left in search of the second name.

___

“Two days,” the engraver said when I explained what I needed. I handed him Desmond’s passport and the new picture. While I waited, I passed the time in the hotel, telling the chambermaid that I wasn’t feeling well. I only ventured out when necessary—for food and newspapers—but for two days I lived in luxury with the money I had stolen.

On the second day I got the news I had been waiting for. The paper announced that the
Celtic
was leaving Liverpool that afternoon. It would stop in Cobh, take on passengers and, on the following day, depart for New York. I purchased a standby ticket. If there was room, I planned to be on the
Celtic
.

I’m not certain how the engraver did it, somehow removing Desmond’s photograph and inserting mine. Even the embossing and rubber stampings looked like they had been done by a government official
.
I shook my head and, when I asked the engraver for the bill, like the photographer, he refused to accept any money. I knew I wasn’t the first that he had helped to escape.

I boarded the next morning, catching the first skiff out to the steamship—the
Celtic
forced to drop anchor out in the bay. I found my room, stowed my trunk and made my way back to the deck. Standing there, while the crowd around me prattled on excitedly, I kept a watchful eye on the skiffs ferrying passengers from the wharf, expecting anytime to see the Peelers searching for whoever had stolen Desmond’s and Maureen’s passports. I held my breath for a long six hours but, thankfully, they never came.