Ossian's Ride (5 page)

I made the best estimates I could of lengths, widths and so on. Then in the evening I looked up the elementary theory of stress and strain—I am ashamed to say I had forgotten it—in Trinity Library. It took an hour or two to clarify my ideas and to seek out the appropriate physical constants—I believe I used the old Smithsonian Tables. But the result was worth the trouble, for the eye had not been deceived. The metal arms in the Central Station were carrying a transverse stress roughly a hundred times greater than they should have done.

More accurately, they were bearing a transverse stress roughly a hundred times greater than a similar piece of metal would have carried anywhere outside Ireland. There seemed but one possible solution to the riddle. I.C.E. must be able to cast metal almost wholly free of the multitude of tiny flaws that greatly weaken the strength of ordinary metals.

I mention this technicality because it greatly fortified my resolve to dig through to the bottom of the I.C.E. business. At about the same time my morale received a fillip in a rather strange way. My rooms were searched.

There was nothing very obvious about it. Probably under normal conditions I wouldn’t have noticed the very slight changes in the disposition of my clothes. Over a before-bed cup of tea, I pondered on the situation. Surely it would be incredibly stupid to search my things if I were under any really serious suspicion. All such a search would be likely to achieve would be to put me sharply on my guard. But suppose I was being taken for a slightly overzealous student. Then it might be quite sensible to look me over rather closely, even at the risk of my spotting what was happening. The most sensible conclusion was that Irish Security had some interest in me, but only mildly, at a low level.

Enormously encouraged by these arguments, I resolved there and then to give them a devil of a time. Starting the following morning I tramped assiduously from museum to picture gallery to museum again. Memory is a little dim, but I recollect places in Kildare Street and Merrion Street. Then I thought up a most satisfactory form of torture for anyone who might be deputed to follow me around. I visited the homes and haunts of old Dublin characters. There were the obvious literary men: Shaw, Joyce, Wilde, Le Fanu, Synge. But I cut a far wider swath than this. My inquiries enfolded such diverse individuals as Sam Lover and the famous Buck Whaley. My high spot was William Conyngham Plunket at No. 18, St. Stephen’s Green. This crazy business gave me much quiet satisfaction.

By now the first week was over, and I duly reported without incident to the police. My departure for the mountains to the south was delayed however by the Trinity lads, who press-ganged me into a game of cricket played against a team that fared quite happily under the name of the Dun Laoghaire Wanderers. We won our game with quite a flourish, not let it be said due to my efforts. I had scored a confident 5 when my wicket was totally disintegrated by a beefy individual. The same fellow cracked a tremendous drive at me later in the afternoon, to which I was ill-advised enough to put a hand.

In spite of this inauspicious preparation, the evening turned out exceedingly well. We dined with our opponents, then drank beer and sang such songs as cricketers will. Our team returned by car to Dublin at close to midnight—the match had been “away.” The car in which I happened to be traveling stopped at the northern corner of Merrion Square. Two of our chaps got out, and so on impulse did I, assuring the driver that it was no distance at all to Trinity.

I don’t know whether it was the beer, or the fluke catch I had held—my hand still seemed red hot—but suddenly it appeared obvious that the time and hour for Marrowbone Lane had arrived at last. When would I be more likely to catch Seamus Colquhoun at home than at midnight on the Sabbath?

The wave of new building had advanced only as far as the area around St. Patrick’s. So perforce I had to quit the broad, bright avenues when I reached the old High Street. From now on I walked through the rabbit warren of the Old City.

Very soon, I thought, all this will be gone. Soon Marrowbone Lane will be gone. And what will Seamus Colquhoun do then, poor thing? Soon he and all his kind will be smoked out into the open. Will they run their affairs from an office in one of the bright new buildings? Will they cease selling birdseed or whatever it is they pretend to do at present?

I had already reconnoitered Marrowbone Lane during my tours of the town, so I knew exactly where to find my man, in, a little alleyway set discreetly back from the lane itself. It may be imagined how I made the best reasonable pace I could, first along Thomas Street, then through the court of the same name, past a block of flats, and so to my destination.

Now what? Here was a slight problem. Should I knock discreetly on the door? I might not be heard, so then I should be obliged to knock discreetly again, and perhaps again, and again. Would this be more likely to attract attention than one single furious cannonade?

I was silently debating this difficult point when a voice from behind said quietly in a Cork accent, “Not a sound, mister, if you value your life!”

Something was pressed into my kidneys.

“Won’t that gun make quite a noise if it goes off?”

“Close yer flamin’ beak!” remarked a second voice.

Someone moved in front of me to unlock the door. The gun prodded in my back.

“Quick, inside with you.”

“But that’s exactly why I came here, because I wanted to go inside!”

Violent hands seized me from the front and heaved me across the threshold, with far more noise than was really necessary. Three of us were crammed into a narrow entrance hall. A door opened and a faint light showed up a staircase immediately to the right.

“What is it, boys?” asked a third voice from above.

“We found a feller on the doorstep.”

“Bring him up.”

The room into which I was forced seemed somewhat less depressing than might have been expected in the circumstances. Quite incongruously, it was decorated with rather well-done, sporting prints. A grandfather clock ticked away in a corner, a fire burned brightly in the grate and a half-filled glass of whiskey stood on a small table.

“Stand over there,” said the third voice.

I turned to face them. My captors were both young. The one with the gun was well dressed, almost dapper, like a civil servant; the other, the muscle man who had dragged me inside, looked rather like a character in an Irish play of fifty years ago: cloth cap, heavy rough trousers and shirt without collar. The third man, whom I took to be Colquhoun himself, was middle-aged, dark, bright-eyed, rather full in build, of medium height

“Mr. Seamus Colquhoun?”

“What’s that to you?”

“During winter storms the waves beat heavily on the western strands.”

“This is the right moment to buy vegetables on the London market.”

“Or fish for that matter, if you have a taste for it.”

Colquhoun showed obvious relief.

“You can put it away, Liam,” said he, indicating the gun. “This is one of the fellers we’ve been waiting for.”

For the first time since Parsonage gave me the passwords, I really appreciated their effect; no impostor could have chanced on so improbable a sequence.

“You’d best take a look outside, lads.”

When the two rough customers had gone down the stairs again, Colquhoun turned on me in a rage.

“What a divil of a time to come here. Are you out of your wits?”

“You didn’t expect me?”

“No, nor I didn’t anticipate a visit from the Folies-Bergeres either. Were you trying to bring the guards down on us? Or have you been at the brewery, drinking the Guinness family into bankruptcy?”

“If you weren’t expecting me to come, this is obviously the best possible time; the police won’t be expecting you to have visitors either.”

“That wouldn’t stop you from being seen. You must have been as conspicuous walking the streets as the Nelson Column itself.”

“Of course I was conspicuous. I’m not silly enough to slouch about the place. If I’m stopped for any reason, then I’m an innocent who happens to have lost his way. What of it?”

Colquhoun was obviously badly frightened. I realized that he would go on and on unless I took a brusque line. Every minute lost on this rubbish was increasing the danger of the return to Trinity.

“This is a well-nigh perfect illustration of what Shakespeare meant by the term ‘unprofitable chat.’ I came here to get money from you. I’d like it now, with as little delay as possible.”

Colquhoun allowed his anger to settle a little. “How much do you want?”

“Seven hundred.”

“That’s a powerful lot.”

“Which is my business, not yours. Let me have it without any more foolishness, please.”

With ill grace Colquhoun left the room. A few minutes later he came back with a bundle of notes. I counted them, and then stowed the roll away carefully in a specially made inner trouser pocket.

“One thing more. I’d like a list of our agents on the Clare and Galway coasts.”

“Oh, you would, would you? Isn’t that a fine thing to ask?”

“It’s a very practical thing to ask, and I’ll trouble you for the information. You needn’t fear that I’m going to carry a lot of names on a piece of paper around with me, but I want to carry them in my bead. I have a pretty good memory, Mr. Colquhoun.”

“I’ll bet you have, Mr. Sure-sure. Maybe you’d learn a great lesson if I gave you that list. Maybe you’d soon be cooling your heels in jail, or maybe pushing up the green grass of Ireland if you weren’t so lucky.”

“Is it possible for you to tell me in a simple way what you’re driving at?”

There was a glint in Colquhoun’s eye as he stared into my face.

“This is the way of it, me fine cock sparrer. There’s no list of agents any more, not to mean anything. We’ve been cleaned out, broken apart. That’s what I mean.”

“How did it happen?”

“P:S.D.” was Colquhoun’s cryptic reply. The anger had now subsided. He drank the remaining whiskey at a gulp and slumped down in a chair before the fire. Although I was curious to hear more, it would be wise to move before the fellow launched himself into some new rambling exposition.

“No, you shall not go until you hear the rest of it,” he exclaimed—when I sought to leave. “Besides, there is something you must do.”

“Who or what is P.S.D.?”

“The divil pour me another glass,” exclaimed Colquhoun in some surprise. “For a feller who fancies himself as much as you do, you’re shockingly ignorant. Or maybe it’s a bad joke you’re trying to make?”

“Look, Mr. Colquhoun, I’m here on a solitary mission. You are my only contact. When I leave this house I shall have absolutely nothing to do with any of this business you’re talking about.”

“And that’s where you’re in for a great surprise, me lad.”

“Every minute we spend talking this nonsense increases the risk of my being picked up. So if you have anything really important to say, please stick to the point.”

Very deliberately he got up from the chair, fetched an extra glass and poured two overgenerous drinks.

“There’s no question of your leaving here tonight. By a miracle you managed to avoid the guards on your way in, but you wouldn’t be so lucky the second time.”

In this he was probably right. Once morning came and people were in the streets, it would be easier to slip away from Marrowbone Lane. My absence from Trinity would cause no comment either, since I had been intending to leave for the mountains anyway.

“We should have been warned by the experience of the French. They were smashed last year, and P.S.D. were certainly at the back of that. P.S.D. is an organization that started under the cover of a solicitor’s business right here in Dublin. Porson, Shilleto and Dobree were the names. Purveyors of Sudden Death, that’s what they’re known as nowadays.”

“Is it some form of Irish counterespionage?”

Colquhoun’s laughter was a little hysterical. “Counterespionage eh? It’s a great pity the lads aren’t around to hear that. Counterespionage!” He sipped his whiskey. “No, me young friend, P.S.D. is espionage pure and clear. The only couriering that’s done is the counting of profit. What’s going on in the west there is worth thousands of millions to the industries of the world.” .

“You mean that P.S.D. steals and sells trade secrets?”

“That’s exactly what I was after telling you, if only you wouldn’t always be taking the words out of me mouth.”

It crossed my mind that I had yet to meet anyone in parsonage’s outfit who could tell a straight tale.

“The rest of us, British, Americans, Russians, Germans, work maybe a little for the excitement and maybe a little for patriotism, but P.S.D. works only for money. It’s business, big business. I can see you’re wondering where I come into the picture. Don’t make any mistake about me; I’m English, born within the sound of Bow Bell. I’ve been an operative over here for well-nigh thirty years now.”

So this was the explanation of the slight aroma of leprechaun that enveloped all the man’s remarks. He was a synthetic Irishman. My determination not to get caught up in Colquhoun’s affairs was somewhat weakened by this revelation.

“So I suppose P.S.D. decided to eliminate all potential rivals. How did they go about it?”

“By offering big money to our operatives. When they had pieced together sufficient information against us, all they had to do was turn it over to the guards. They bought out three key men that we thought we could trust.”

“How very typical of what happens in all secret organizations. Your so-called friends sell you down the river,” I remarked.

Colquhoun looked me over unsympathetically. “See here, mister, sooner or later the Irish are going to close in on this house, maybe tomorrow, or maybe next week, or next month. It’d be easy for me to get to hell out of here, but I don’t because I’ve got a job to do, five jobs in fact. Yours was one of ’em. Where would you have been if you’d found the guards sitting here instead of me? I’ll tell you. You’d have been due for a ten-year stretch of hard labor, mister.”