The Death of Love (19 page)

Gladden paused, as though he could not continue without gathering himself.

A man beside McGarr shook his head. “Politician’s blarney, every last word of it.”

“The name of the man who has done, who is
doing
, this, is Chief Superintendent Peter McGarr, and before something further happens to me, I want to tell you and the nation how Paddy’s murder was accomplished and why.”

McGarr could feel the eyes of the bar on him, and he
had to admire Gladden’s forensic talent in setting city against country, the government against the people, and in making McGarr himself—a solitary civil servant with no political clout who could be dismissed summarily—the scapegoat. Also, Gladden’s battered face and the details of Paddy Power’s murder, which Gladden now began to reveal, were facts that could not be impugned.

McGarr changed his opinion of Gladden. He was not a heron. The bird he resembled most was nowhere to be seen. A phoenix, Gladden would rise from the ashes of his own abjection at O’Duffy’s expense—Paddy Power’s corpse and McGarr’s career being merely the cinders from which he would take flight.

While Gladden continued to speak, piecing out his interpretation of Paddy Power’s murder, McGarr’s eyes again fell on Rory O’Suilleabhain. If O’Suilleabhain planned to run for the Dail, he would find a tough, seasoned, and nasty opponent in Gladden, who would pit youth against experience and a singular record of having put egg on the face of the Sean Dermot O’Duffy. Or, better, shit.

There was nobody an Irish electorate loved more than a sly, wily underdog who refused to be put down. O’Duffy himself had been an example early in his career.

O’Suilleabhain now bent to Bresnahan, who whispered, in his ear, then smiled up at him, as though encouraging him to do something. From his height O’Suilleabhain scanned the crowd and moved away, bending to speak to this one and that.

Now, what could that be about? McGarr wondered.

Gladden had paused, and the reporters began barking questions.

“The note cards now”—Gladden’s voice grated and squawked through the bullhorn—“the note cards for the memoir. Let me dispense with them and, sure, I’ll answer every question you have.
I
’m not here for a cover-up.”

But still the reporters shouted away.

Equipped with the bullhorn, Gladden spoke right over them. “As I told you earlier, the government man, McGarr, took them from me, and I’m led to believe he has them in his possession at this very moment in Parknasilla, where he is being put up at the expense of the nation.”

McGarr placed his empty glass on the bar and pointed to it. Gladden’s voice could be heard plainly there too. All were rapt, listening to him, but many an eye had fallen upon McGarr.

“But what
exactly
do they say?” somebody demanded. “Give us some details.”

“Well—I remember one deal in particular.” Gladden then sketched out an incident that, McGarr had thought, was nearly common knowledge to the politically astute. In return for the support of two renegade socialist T.D.’s, which gave O’Duffy a slim majority in the Dail, his government granted their Dublin constituencies millions of pounds of direct aid that was extended nowhere else.

“A payoff, as it turned out, that added to the horrendous debt that Paddy with his conference at Parknasilla was hoping to solve. What isn’t known is what else those two
socialists
were paid. If my memory of the cards is correct, for the wife of one there was a cushy, no-show job in the headquarters of now Minister for Justice Harney’s father’s development business, and a fifty thousand pound, sub rosa ‘contribution’ to the campaign chest of the other.”

A kind of hush seemed to fall over the crowd, as though the journalists were considering what they had heard. “Proof! Where’s your proof?” somebody shouted.

“I told you. It’s in Paddy’s notes. We
must
get them back. They should be revealed to the nation!”

McGarr thought of Noreen alone with the note cards and photocopies in the suite. Perhaps it was time to get back. It also occurred to him that, while politically explosive, the disclosure that Gladden had just made lacked by half the probable force of some of the other revelations McGarr had read in his—what?—three-hour pass through the cards.

How long had Gladden been in possession of the note cards before McGarr took them from him? Wouldn’t Gladden, a man with a political ax to grind, have pored over them and even taken notes? Why was his acquaintance with them so seemingly sketchy?

Because the cards had only recently come into his possession? If so, why hadn’t Power mentioned the fact that he had given Gladden his notes? The cards that were
found at the murder scene described nearly every other important activity from Power’s arrival at Shannon right up until an hour or so before his death. Power’s visit to Gladden in his mountain “aerie” was mentioned at some length, but not his having given him the note cards.

Power did report that he
had
told Gladden about the proposal he would reveal at the debt conference, which had enraged Gladden. Power had then wondered about Gladden’s mental health. Would he then have entrusted the entire batch to such a man? Not likely.

Or carried them up over the promontory of Mullaghanattin Mountain? Even less likely still. Together the note cards were heavy, and probably weighed a half stone.

Then there was the matter of the expurgations: the note cards that were missing from the “Gretta Osbourne” heading in the photocopies sent to Nell Power; the complete absence of a “Gladden” heading in spite of the reference, “(see ‘Mossie’ cards),” that McGarr had found under the subheading “Dirty Tricks.”

Finally there was the way in which that sack had been delivered to the Waterville Lake Hotel: by a rough-looking country gorsoon who was dressed exactly as Gladden had been on the day that McGarr had first met him. But not Gladden.

Who now seemed to be speaking about Paddy Power’s proposal for solving the problem of the national debt, but curiously McGarr had heard the words before from Gladden: “…O’Duffy and his elitist clique who have confounded the economic potential of this country and have run the Irish people into the workhouse of foreign interests for their own personal gain.”

“That’s your old, tired rhetoric, Mossie,” one of the journalists shouted. “We heard that from you years ago.”

“
When
did Paddy Power give you his note cards?” a woman’s strong voice, which McGarr recognized, now asked over the shouted queries of the journalists.

McGarr quickly returned to the window.

“I’ll not take any questions from the government or a woman who is here under false pretenses. I’ll take ques
tions only from the credentialed press and other uncompromised Irish citizens.”

“Then answer
me
,” Rory O’Suilleabhain boomed out in a deep, clear voice. “
When
did Paddy Power give you the note cards?”

“And where are
your
credentials?”

“Right over there.” O’Suilleabhain pointed to a mountain that could be seen to the southwest of the village. “Every green patch you can lay your eyes on. That’s my stake in this country, and I want an answer.”

Kieran Coyne, the solicitor accompanying Gladden, now turned his back to the crowd and began speaking animatedly to him.

“Is it for office you’re running, Rory?” Gladden now asked.

“What about you?”

Again Bresnahan had O’Suilleabhain by the sleeve and was standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Since you won’t answer that, can you tell us what exactly Paddy Power had in mind for the national debt?” O’Suilleabhain then asked.

“Gladly. ‘Creditors are predators,’ Paddy always said.”

Nowhere in Power’s notes had McGarr read that.

“His plan would have extricated the country from the grip of foreign interests and the Dublin junta who have enriched themselves and are still profiting by the debt.”

“How?” O’Suilleabhain demanded.

Kieran Coyne now left Gladden and began working his way through the crowd toward O’Suilleabhain. He too was a large man, and when two photographers did not move quickly enough, he pushed them roughly aside. Like Gladden’s, his face had a raw look but caused by something other than the elements.

“By writing the debt down for one,” said Gladden.

“And for another?”

“If I had the specifics, I’d give them to you. As I mentioned earlier, the note cards that Paddy gave me were stolen by the government.”

Bresnahan still had O’Suilleabhain by the sleeve.

Coyne had arrived in front of O’Suilleabhain, and he now said something to him.

Said Gladden through the bullhorn, “Do the
journalists
here have any additional questions?”

McGarr watched O’Suilleabhain’s hand dart out and seize Coyne by the front of his jacket; on a stiff arm he swung him out of the way. “Wasn’t it Power’s idea to swap debt for equity in Irish assets currently owned by the Irish government? Our peat reserves, Irish television and radio, the transportation system—”

Now the journalists turned to O’Suilleabhain.

Coyne tried to pull O’Suilleabhain’s hand away. His face had assumed an alarming shade, the color of old meat.

“Paddy never meant any such thing. He knew it was unfeasible. He was merely floating a trial balloon to focus the nation’s attention on the debt and the narrow faction of O’Duffy supporters it has benefited.”

Bresnahan said something else to O’Suilleabhain. “There’s now a good chance that Sean Dermot O’Duffy might endorse the proposal in principle.”

“Now that they’ve murdered Paddy and have made him a martyr!” Gladden roared. “Now that they’ve taken the matter out of his hands to do as they wish!”

“Again it comes down to a matter of proof. Your credibility is in some doubt, Mossie.”

More than a few in the crowd began a laugh, which was echoed in the bar where McGarr was standing.

“You can ask the woman beside you. She and her chief have sequestered and probably destroyed the proof by now. “I’ll take no more questions until that man and woman leave.”

With Coyne still at the end of his arm, O’Suilleabhain only waited, smiling up at Gladden.

After a while Gladden turned and began walking toward his old Land Rover that was parked on the other side of the bridge. A few of the journalists moved after him, but the rest turned to O’Suilleabhain.

One of the men standing with McGarr at the bar window began chuckling. “Wasn’t it of Mossie Rory made the fool?”

O’Suilleabhain now said something to Coyne, then let him go.

“This’ll make him, yah?”

McGarr canted his head. “Make who?”

“Rory. He bested Mossie Gladden, and him with a bullhorn on the bridge.”

Not without some help, McGarr thought. He watched now as Bresnahan, turning to get herself away from the media, was stopped by an old woman wearing a shawl. They spoke for a few moments, Bresnahan nodding repeatedly before leading the woman to the Mercedes and opening the rear door for her.

“And that woman speaking to Ruth Bresnahan?” McGarr asked.

“Deirdre Crehan. She’s the wife of an old cottier on the Waterville Road. She’s probably asked for a lift home in that grand car.”

“Do you pay Ruthie that much she can afford such a thing?” another asked.

“The car?” McGarr thought for a moment, then raised his glass. “Call it a tangible, as opposed to a spiritual, benefit of the national debt.”

The others laughed, but before McGarr could leave, one man took his arm. “She won’t be with you for long, I’m thinking.”

McGarr waited.

“What Rory wants, Rory gets.”

McGarr hoped it was a local characteristic shared by both sexes.

Leaving by the back door, he found himself in better spirits than when he had entered, and not just because of what he had consumed. Say whoever had murdered Paddy Power also stole his note cards, he said to himself while walking toward the chemist shop he could see on the other side of the South Green. That person had no use for the cards himself. Why? Because he knew what they contained and that the information couldn’t hurt him.

What did that presuppose? Two things: that the murerer had been sufficiently close to Power to have spent whatever length of time it might require—days, McGarr knew from his own superficial reading—acquainting himself with what they contained. And that the theft of the
cards might be viewed as a motive for somebody else having murdered Power.

The murderer had then edited the cards in two ways. He had expurgated all negative references to Gretta Osbourne and completely deleted the “Mossie” heading. Dressed as Mossie himself, he had then delivered the cards to Nell Power, knowing she would read them and would probably try to confront Power.

Why? To make it look as if Gladden had murdered Power and had then tried to pin a motive on his ex-wife. It certainly looked that way.

McGarr glanced up.
M.J.P. FROST, CHEMIST
appeared in freshly painted Prussian-blue letters on a bright pink facade. As it had on the pill bottles in Paddy Power’s medicine cabinet. And the plastic sack in which the photocopies of the note cards had been sent to Nell Power.

BACK AT PARKNASILLA, barman-trainee Hughie Ward volunteered for the task of transporting drinks and snacks to the suite of Mr. Shane Frost.

“But Frost is probably in conference now, and there’ll be no tip,” explained Sonnie. “Let one of the dining-room staff do it.”

“Ah, it’ll give me a bit of a break,” Ward insisted. And get me away from you, he thought.

“In your back, sure, when you see all that it is. For openers there’s a case of champagne.”

And more with a crib and McGarr’s baby monitor, which he had scarcely gotten set up and plugged in when he heard voices near the door in the hall.

“Ah, you enjoy it. Go on now, you
love
it. Don’t be running on to me coy and bashful, you’re a lady’s man, remember? It’s what you live and die for. Apart from money, of course. But then the two sometimes come together, don’t they?” It was a husky older woman’s voice with a playful, wheedling tone. There was a thump against the door. “You can’t tell me you don’t like that, now? Tell me you don’t.”

“But I’ve got the bloody Japanese coming in an hour’s time. Weren’t you the one who wanted that? You know how particular and observant they are, and the room’s already been made up.”

“Do we need a bed? Remember the time I had you in
the press? Right up against the cupboards with Paddy holding forth in the kitchen? And now that I know your secret—”

“
Nell!
”

“Tell me you don’t need me,
now
.”

“But this is
important
. Didn’t you tell me you wanted Eire Bank dissolved? What were your words? The last vestige of that bastard man’s—”

“Bastard institution.”

“—dissolved.”

“But on
my
terms!”

“This is even better,” said Frost. “Think of it—a gang of ‘Slants’ at the helm, having bought it from you, me, and his inheritor, Gretta, the very people whom Paddy squeezed all his life.” There followed a kind of pleasurable groan, as though Nell Power had acted on his suggestion. “But I don’t have my key,” Frost added, when he regained his voice.

Ward glanced wildly around the room. If he got caught, he could say he made a mistake and brought the crib to the wrong room, but they would lose the advantage of the monitor for the planned meeting with the Japanese.

The toilet? No, that was out, if he was right about what the woman was planning. Even the shower stall might be used. After.

Under the bed? Not there either. It was all the way across the room and too much like something out of a bedroom farce. Ward saw the doorknob turn, and he opened the closet and stepped in. He began reaching for the inner knob, when the door to the suite swung open.

“Oh, you prevaricator, Shane. The only honest thing about you is you mahn, here.
He
doesn’t lie. Or complain, I’m thinking.” With one hand gripping his necktie and the other plunged deep in his trouser pocket, she swung Frost into the room. With her foot she closed the door, then looked around.

“Not the bed,” said Frost, resignedly.

“No,
not
the bed. The closet? In there among your effects?”

Christ, thought Ward, not only would he be discovered
skulking in the man’s closet, he would be charged as a Peeping Tom. He took another step back.

“What’s this, something I don’t know of?” She meant the crib.

“I hope that bloody Jap isn’t bringing his brat,” said Frost. “He must have ordered it.”

“Him? Not likely. The Japanese are
men
, Shane. They take what they want. Beside them, Irish men are mere boys to be had.” She shoved him up against the low gate of the crib and pulled her hands away. “Don’t move.” She quickly opened the plackets of her shiny black suit and pulled open the jacket. “Now then,
down
to business.”

She was a small, well-preserved woman with short black hair, wide shoulders, and the sort of well-formed, slightly bowed legs that seemed to pose a challenge, especially when wrapped in black lace stockings and raised on high heels. And what she was showing Frost now creased the skin around the corners of his eyes.

“That couldn’t be a merry widow you’re wearing?” Frost asked.

“Who with more right?”

Frost reached for the hem of her skirt, which was also short, but her hand suddenly lashed out and caught him smartly across the face, turning his head. “You’ll wait your turn, is that understood?”

When Frost said nothing, she struck him again with the other hand from the other side. “Well, is it?”

He opened his mouth to speak, and she hit him a third time, the sound of each slap resounding around the plaster of the room. “Say, ‘
Please
, Nell.’”

Frost said it.

“Louder!”

“
Please
, Nell.” There was definite pleasure in his plea.

What happened then Ward could not actually see, because of the angle. But fixing Frost with her bright black eyes, she moved in on him. “Can I give you a piece of advice, Shane? Don’t ever lie to me again. We make a good team, you and I, but you must remember who has the upper hand. Knowledge is power—
Nell
Power—and don’t you ever forget it.”

Ward leaned forward to chance another peek, but all he
could see was her back and Frost’s legs. They were pressed up against the crib that was now rattling and creaking.

Ward felt like a character out of the
Inferno
, who was condemned to witness the preferred sin in his life over and over again without benefit of it vivifying immediacy.

Though not ceasing her exertions, he saw Nell Power pull her head back to regard Frost coolly. “Now, Shane,” she commanded in a small voice that was deepened by evident pleasure. “
Now!

Ward eased himself back into the darkened closet wall and wondered if he had switched on the monitor.