Red Herring (23 page)
Authors: Jonothan Cullinane
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary Fiction
He struck a match and lit the first fuse and then the second. They fizzed and sparked and began to move slowly along the tracks towards the bundle. He had twelve minutes before the thing went off, according to O’Flynn, but he also felt that the Irishman didn’t like him that much.
He scrambled down the bank to the road and ran to the Plymouth. You drongo! he suddenly thought. What if she doesn’t start? But she did. He made a sweeping three-point turn and drove back up the hill. He stopped at the crest and got out, leaving the engine running this time, handbrake on, and waited. O’Flynn had doctored the gelly so that it would do no serious damage, but still, Lofty was curious.
The charge went off with a soft
poof
followed by an echoing
crack
and the clang of stones hitting the tracks and landing on the road below the bridge. The small amount of smoke and dust quickly dissipated. You’d barely call it an explosion but it would cause a hell of a stink.
He drove to Waiuku, made an anonymous call to the police from a phone box, read a short statement that Mr Walsh had written claiming responsibility for the bombing in the name of something called the Huntly Miners’ Soviet, and then dropped into the Kentish Hotel for a jug.
Frank O’Flynn, wearing a boiler suit and carrying a canvas toolbag which contained a number of items including, as would be expected, saws, hammers, a plumb line and a measuring tape, but also rope, pliers, a torch, a knife, a box of matches, a clock, a paraffin lamp wrapped in a jersey, an auger, a two-inch masonry bit, a piece of chalk, several detonators, and twenty sticks of gelignite, strode into the foyer of the Auckland Town Hall. He passed, without pausing, policemen, NZBS technicians, government officials, uniformed ushers, excited members of the National Party, and young girls with wooden trays slung around their necks selling sweets and orange cordial and Eskimo Pies, and went through a door next to the Gentlemen’s toilets marked B
ASEMENT
. N
O
A
DMITTANCE
.
Behind the door the elegance of the Town Hall foyer gave way to the building’s damp, utilitarian underbelly. There was a circular metal stairwell. He took out his torch, pointed the beam into the gloom, and began his descent.
Mrs Philpott came into the kitchen. She was wearing a pink suit and hat and white gloves.
“Good morning, everybody,” she said, like Aunt Daisy. “Good morning, good morning, everybody.” She smiled at Caitlin. “Did you sleep well, dear?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Caitlin. “I feel so much better.”
“You’re dolled up today, Mrs Philpott,” said Molloy, observing the old formalities. “Going to a wedding?”
The landlady took out a tram timetable from a kitchen drawer. “I’m going to the Town Hall,” she said. “To hear the Prime Minister make an address. They say he’s going to give the wharfies what for at long last and I want to be there to hear history made.”
“Aren’t you on the wharfies’ side, Mrs Philpott?” said Caitlin, unable to help herself.
“I’m most certainly not!” said Mrs Philpott. “They’re practically starving at Home and there’s all this mutton just sitting there on the wharves because—”
Molloy put down his cup with a bang. “No you’re not,” he said.
“I
beg
your pardon?” said Mrs Philpott.
“You’re not going anywhere near the Town Hall today, Mrs Philpott.”
“Oh is that so?” said Mrs Philpott. “Well—”
“What did O’Flynn do in Ireland?” said Molloy to Caitlin, talking over Mrs Philpott.
“What?” said Caitlin, uncertain. “For a living, you mean?”
“He was in the IRA. He was a bomb maker.”
“Yes,” said Caitlin. “I’m not sure—”
“What did he
do?”
Molloy was standing now. “In 1938?”
“Um. Um. He tried to blow up the Earl of Galway.”
“How?” said Molloy.
“How?” said Caitlin, confused. “With a bomb.”
“What
are
you two talking about?” said Mrs Philpott.
“
Where?”
said Molloy, banging the table.
“Where?” said Caitlin. “In th—” Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
“Now, young lady, there’s no call—” said Mrs Philpott.
“With a bomb,” said Molloy, as though Mrs Philpott wasn’t there. “In the Cork
Town Hall.”
Molloy backed his car out of the garage at speed, almost hitting a postman who swore at him, reckless driving being a constant danger in the swift completion of a postie’s appointed rounds to this very day, and reached over to open the door for Caitlin.
“Have you got anything with you that says you’re on the
Star?”
he said, skidding out onto Williamson Avenue.
“Not with me,” said Caitlin. “It’s in my purse at the bottom of the Lighter Basin. Why?”
“Have a look in the glovebox.”
Caitlin poked around and found a school notebook and a fairly new 2 HB pencil. “These’ll do.”
Molloy pointed to the leather grip on the floor by her feet. “There’s a camera in that bag. Do you reckon I could pass for a newspaperman if I followed you around? Wisecracking newshound and stolid shutterbug?”
She looked at him. “They tend to be tubbier.”
“Nobody will be looking at me.”
She opened the bag and took out the Voigtländer. “Where’d you get this?”
“Italy,” said Molloy, checking the mirror.
“Italy was good to you, wasn’t it?” she said, one hand gripping the door handle as Molloy overtook a tram.
“Bits of it weren’t bad. Wouldn’t want to live there though.”
They double-parked at the bottom of Greys Avenue and ran down to Queen Street. There was a crowd in front of the Town Hall, filling the footpath. Buses from Helensville and Papakura and Thames and Whangarei were parked across the road, and cars crawled in both directions.
“Seriously,” said Caitlin, after a moment, looking at the vehicles, the crowd, the police, her voice tightening. “Do you have a plan?”
“Look, it’s probably better if you stay here,” said Molloy. “This could get hairy.”
“Not on your life, buster,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “You would have been finished last night if I hadn’t turned up.”
“Too true.” He squeezed her hand. “Come on. As a cobber of mine, John Newton, always says, momentum is everything.”
O’Flynn thought of Oscar Guttman’s 1892 text,
Blasting: A Handbook for the Use of Engineers and Others Engaged in Mining, Tunnelling, Quarrying, Etc.,
in religious terms, and he was not a religious man, nor was he an engineer, or one engaged in mining, tunnelling or quarrying. He fell into the broader category of
Etc.
and Guttman was his muse.
To blow up a masonry foundation the amount of gelignite needed is calculated, per Guttman, by using the formula
L = 0.1 d²,
where
L
is the charge in pounds, and
d
is the thickness in feet. So the destruction of a section of foundation wall two feet thick and twelve feet long requires 0.4 lb charges of gelignite in holes drilled four feet apart. O’Flynn had got the formula wrong in Cork. The bomb he planted in the basement of the Town Hall failed to collapse the building, despite doing considerable damage. The IRA’s Director of Chemicals, Seamus O’Donovan, had given him a real bollocking.
He got out the paraffin lamp and the matches and put the lamp on a ledge. He pumped the primer. He raised the glass bowl and lit the flame, and when it took he lowered the glass and wound the wick back to a working height. He switched off his torch and put it in the toolbag. He measured the wall in four-foot lengths and marked each with a chalk cross. He wound up the tape measure
and put it and the chalk back in the toolbox. For a man who in many ways led a chaotic life, O’Flynn was well organised when it mattered. He got out the auger, tightened the bit, lit a cigarette, and began drilling.
Sid Holland stood to loud applause, took his speech from his breast pocket, and walked to the lectern, his brogues squeaking on the wooden stage. The Town Hall was full. He unfolded his notes. The clapping died away, the only sounds a distant cough and the clacking of the prime ministerial reading glasses.
Sid loved moments like this. He felt like a conductor in one of the great concert halls of Europe, crowned heads and commoners alike poised for the tap of his baton. He cleared his throat to check the correct distance from the microphone, and began.
“Your Worship. Lady Allum.” He inclined his head, fractionally and reluctantly, in the direction of Sir John Allum, the Mayor of Auckland, who looked, with his bristly moustache and Cheshire cat grin, exactly like the Minhinnick cartoon. He acknowledged the other dignitaries sitting in a row beside, but slightly behind, the mayoral presence. “Borough chairmen. Members of the Auckland City Council. Distinguished guests.”
He turned to face the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen. The Government is alive to the danger that besets us, and is determined to ensure that our enemy does not succeed.”
He paused. “We are at
war.”
Molloy and Caitlin ran into the foyer of the Town Hall. A cleaner was sweeping cigarette butts and lolly wrappers off the floor.
“Auckland Star,”
said Molloy, indicating his camera. “Where’s the basement entrance?”
The door was unlocked, the stairwell pitch black.
“Should have brought a torch,” he said.
“Would a lighter be any good?” said Caitlin.
“Let’s give it a try.”
Caitlin opened her handbag and passed her lighter to Molloy. He flicked it on. It was better than nothing, but not much better.
“Hold onto the handrail and stay close,” said Molloy.
They descended in silence, straining to hear, the atmosphere getting colder and damper with each step. The stairway gave out onto a corridor, with an uneven floor and rough brick walls, at the end of which weak yellow light spilled. They could hear the clinking of tools.
O’Flynn tamped the last of the gelly into the holes, set the detonators and uncoiled the fuses. He looked at his watch. That big eejit Lofty should have set off the diversion on the Patutohe bridge by now, he thought, and the coppers would be all over it like a madwoman’s shite. Unless Lofty had got lost, which was possible. Likely, even. Walsh’s concern, not his.
Time for me to get lost too, he thought. The boat sailed for Sydney in two hours. Then where? South Africa? Mexico? The Orient maybe? He had a pal up that way. Siam, was it? Malaya? Rubber plantations. Growing tea. Native women of rare beauty who worshipped Europeans and would do anything for them. Somewhere a quid went a long way, anyway, and white men got away with murder.
He set the timer for fifteen minutes, then unbuttoned his boiler suit and dropped it on the ground. He was wearing grey trousers and a brown leather jacket. He’d watch the explosion from across the road. Noise and a bit of smoke, that’s all. What the Director of Chemicals liked to call a “billy-do”.
Walsh and Sunny were sitting at the back of the Town Hall. Holland was talking about codling moths. The audience was soaking it up. Sid was not unimpressive, Walsh thought.
Sunny looked at his watch and gently nudged his boss. They stood. Walsh did up his suit coat. Sunny left his jacket unbuttoned, better to conceal the Luger in his pocket. Walsh nodded to a uniformed constable standing by the door.
“Mr Walsh,” said the policeman softly, straightening up and opening the door, the pneumatic hinges hissing.
They crossed the foyer and went through the door to the basement.
Molloy put up his hand and froze. Footsteps coming up the passage, someone holding a torch. With a straight arm he pressed Caitlin against the wall. “Shut your eyes,” he whispered. O’Flynn came round the corner. Molloy brought up the camera and popped the flash, stepped forward and slammed O’Flynn full in the face.
The Irishman staggered back and lost his footing, but he was a tough bastard in a tough situation and he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. His torch was on the ground, providing enough light to make out shapes. He came up and charged at Molloy, turning his head enough to slip a right and throwing a handful of dust and dirt into Molloy’s eyes. O’Flynn punched him once, twice, three times, and picked up a broken brick to finish the job.
But Caitlin launched herself at him, her fingers raking his face, her knee slamming up into his groin. He yelled in anguish and threw her down. He brought the brick up like a club, turning his body for torque. “You fucking hooer!” he yelled.
“Frank. For Christ’s sake!” said a voice, Walsh’s, from the gloom.
“So it’s a hooley now, is it?” said O’Flynn, his face contorted.
Walsh shone his torch at O’Flynn. Sunny stepped around from behind Walsh, Luger raised, and shot O’Flynn in the chest, an explosion in the tiny space, the force spinning the Irishman and leaving him face up on the ground.
“Why?” he said, utterly baffled, his chest rattling. Sunny stepped forward and shot him again, this time in the face.
“What about these two?” said Sunny.
“I’m thinking,” said Walsh. “No. This is good. It’s the gumshoe’s Luger after all. Give it here. Go upstairs and fetch the police.”
“You’ll be all right on your own?”
“Oh, I should think so,” said Walsh, putting the Luger in the pocket of his jacket, touched that Sunny cared. You never knew with people. “Oh, Sunny,” he said.
“Mr Walsh?”
“Better disconnect the timer first. Wouldn’t want the bloody thing to go off.”
“Hell, that’s right,” said Sunny. “Borrow the torch?”
