The Eloquence of the Dead (9 page)

Beat men across the city divisions were detailed to check the poisons registers that every chemist and apothecary's shop was obliged to maintain.

Liverpool CID had met the steam packet from Dublin at the Pier Head Dock, and surveyed the passengers as they disembarked. They had no sighting of Phoebe Pollock and nothing unusual to report.

At mid-morning, Swallow knew the investigation was stalled. The questioning of the staff and the guests yielded nothing solid. A score of people had gone up and down the stairs in the half hour before the police had arrived at the hotel. Any one of them, for whatever reason, might have entered Phoebe Pollock's room.

‘It's not looking great, Boss, is it?' Mossop asked, spooning sugar into his cup.

The G-men had wheedled a pot of tea out of the grim-faced housekeeper and were seated in a corner of the lobby.

Swallow took Mossop's question as rhetorical.

Mossop grimaced. ‘What was she doing with the prussic acid in the first place?'

‘I don't know. Maybe she intended to take her own life. Or maybe she was planning to poison someone else.'

Mossop ladled more sugar into his tea. Swallow often wondered why he didn't simply pour the tea into the sugar bowl and drink it straight.

‘I wonder if she'd planned to meet anybody.' Mossop gulped at the hot, saturated mixture.

‘Mind you,' he slurped again from his teacup, ‘she must have been a fairly cool character. She probably did for the brother above in Lamb Alley and then stayed on for a week with his corpse in the office. That takes some nerve.'

‘You're using the past tense about her, Pat. Do you think she's dead?'

Mossop looked sheepish.

‘Slip of the tongue, Boss. She might be. Or maybe she's being held someplace against her will.'

Swallow nodded. It was at least possible that Phoebe had been murdered. But by whom? And if so, where was her body?

‘We're not coming up with any answers here.' He sipped at his own tea. ‘We'll need to start at the other end of the story. Her personal life.'

Mossop looked glum.

‘By all accounts there hasn't been much to that. Herself and the brother lived like hermits.'

Mossop was pouring a second cup of tea when Barry, the hotel manager, crossed the lobby.

He was agitated.

‘Surely to God you've finished your inquiries by now, Sergeant. You've talked to everybody, some people more than once. It's not helpful for business to have policemen questioning the guests. I have to run the place, you know.'

‘A woman has disappeared in your hotel. There may have been a murder here, Mr Barry,' Swallow said testily. ‘That doesn't help business either. Maybe you should have picked a different class of hotel to run, or maybe you should be running this one better.'

Barry's face reddened with anger.

‘I'll have you know, Sergeant, I was a senior assistant manager at the Imperial Hotel in Cork. At the pinnacle of my profession. I understand perfectly well how to do my business. If the police could do theirs this sort of thing wouldn't be happening.'

He turned on his heel and strode away across the lobby.

Mossop sipped at his tea.

‘You won't have a great friend there, Boss.'

‘Bloody Corkmen. Jesus, they get up my nose. They think they're superior to the rest of the human race.'

He stood. ‘You finish your tea, Pat. Keep the lads working on the lists. Have another shot at questioning the staff on duty yesterday. I'll start digging at the other end.'

The hall porter saluted and swung the front door outward for him. He took the first cab from the rank on the quayside and ordered the driver to take him back to the Castle.

 

TWELVE

The G-man on day shift in the public office at Exchange Court tapped the tabletop as Swallow came through.

‘Letter here for you, Sergeant. Left in an hour ago by a lady … said she knew you.'

He grinned. ‘It'd be a terrible waste if she was here on police business. Very easy on the eye, she was.'

He handed Swallow the cream laid envelope. His name and rank, in black ink, were written in a strong, looping script.

Jos. Swallow Esq.

Detective Sergeant.

And on the top right-hand corner:

Strictly Private to Addressee.

He tore the flap to read the single sheet of notepaper as he climbed the stairs to the crime sergeants' office.

Capel Street

Dublin                     September 29
th
1887

Dear Mr Swallow,

It was very pleasant to talk yesterday. I hope I may look forward to meeting you again at Miss Grant's painting class.

Perhaps you will recall my mentioning to you that my father is concerned about a matter that he feels may be of interest to the police. When I told him of our meeting, he immediately said that he would be glad of an early opportunity to talk to you. If your other duties permit, perhaps you might call to see him in early course?

Yours faithfully,

Katherine Greenberg (Miss)

A G-man lived by his contacts, and Ephram Greenberg had been a good one in the past, but Swallow could do without having to trek across the river to Capel Street at a time when there was a murder to solve and a woman gone missing.

On the other hand, if the old Jewish dealer wanted to talk to Swallow there was almost certainly a good reason for it.

He thought about putting Katherine's letter into the ‘jobs pending' file on his desk. He would get to it in time. But something prompted him to fold it into in his jacket pocket. It would remind him to follow up her message sooner rather than later.

He filled two information requisition forms for Ambrose and Phoebe Pollock. They would be taken by a clerk to the criminal intelligence office beside the Commissioner's office in the Lower Castle Yard.

Every scrap of information about the Pollocks, their business, their background, their acquaintances and connections would be winnowed from the files. Then the trawl would widen to include the vast Dublin Criminal Registry at Great Ship Street where the three ‘h's of every Dublin criminal were recorded: their haunts, habits and hoors.

Police clerks attached to the General Post Office would search the Post Office Savings accounts to find out if the Pollocks had cash squirreled away. If necessary, well-disposed agents or officials could check the accounts in the private banks.

Officially, of course, it did not happen. But every G-man knew that it did. The capacity to track funds was an essential weapon in G-Division's efforts to contain the Fenian threat. Subversion required money. G-Division had to know where it came from and where it went.

He handed the completed forms to the duty man in the public office.

‘Get these moving for me like a good man. I'm going over to Lamb Alley to see how the search is going for Stephen Doolan and his fellows.'

He exited Exchange Court, and turned past the City Hall into Lord Edward Street. At the junction with Fishamble Street, he diverted to Currivan's public house, standing on the corner in the shadow of the cathedral.

Currivan's was not an establishment that he frequented very often, being off his usual track from Exchange Court into the Liberties. It was also a house frequented by individuals with little love of the police. Some were Fenians. Others were ordinary criminals. Inevitably, there were those also who straddled the worlds of politics and crime.

He was hungry. Apart from the tea he had drunk with Mossop at the Northern Hotel he had nothing to eat since morning. Currivan's had the reputation of serving good, fresh fish from Howth. He ordered a glass of ale along with some cold herring and Colman's Norwich mustard.

The patrons of the house referred to the proprietor, Matt Currivan, as ‘Five Times' Currivan.

There were various schools of thought about the origin of the soubriquet. One held that he had fallen in the river on a Friday night, very drunk, and that he had been submerged five times before someone pulled him out.

The preferred story among G-men was that he had managed to perjure himself five times in one day in a trial involving the late Ces Downes, the woman who ran the Dublin criminal underground. Currivan's alibi testimony was credited with having Ces acquitted on all charges.

‘Five Times' Currivan had the ability to play in several directions at once. Verbally at least, he subscribed to his clients' subversive sentiments. He also shared their dislike of authority in general and of the police in particular. But he also liked to keep on reasonable terms with the detectives of Exchange Court. Life was easier that way.

Currivan drew the frothy ale from the tap while the barmaid prepared the food. As the beer settled, the publican spread the
Evening Telegraph
on the counter-top.

‘Shockin' to think o' that man killed up the street. Lyin' there all that time. And the sister disappearin' then. Have ye any idea why she killed him?'

He jabbed a finger at the double-deck news headline.

DUBLIN PAWN SHOP OWNER MURDERED A WEEK AGO

Sister disappears from city hotel

‘Did you know him?' Swallow asked, ignoring the invitation to feed Currivan's curiosity. ‘He'd have lived close enough to drink in here.'

Currivan snorted. ‘I did, but he wasn't a customer here. I don't know that he took a drink at all. He wasn't a man for spendin' money if he could avoid it. But there was many a time as a young apprentice I pawned me watch or even me coat up there.'

He put the dripping glass on the counter, and reached across to where the barmaid had left the food. He clanked it down beside the beer along with a knife and fork. Swallow noted a trail of grease globs along the knife.

‘A meaner bollocks never put an arm through a shirt, I'm tellin' you. I'd get five shillin' for hockin' me watch down in Mary Street. But Pollock would give you a bare half a crown. I'd take it though for the convenience of location, if you know what I mean.'

Swallow wiped the greasy knife with his handkerchief. If ‘Five Times' Currivan noticed the reproof to the house's hygiene, it evoked no comment.

The cutlery might have been dirty, but the herrings were perfect; briny and firm. The barmaid had put two slices of fresh white bread, thickly buttered, alongside them. The Norwich mustard was smooth and strong.

Swallow forked fish and bread into his mouth. He nodded at the gold chain stretching across Currivan's waist and grinned. ‘I'd say that whatever you've got fixed on at the end of that now is worth more than five bob.'

The publican grinned. ‘Ah well, I was young then. I'm the licensee now. A man of business, you know. I can afford a bit better than an ould tin turnip.'

He assumed a solemn air.

‘Still, we won't speak ill of the dead, will we? And whatever about Ambrose, I can tell you that Miss Pollock is a lady. Strange, distant … but a lady. And we don't get too many o' them in here, as you know. Perfect manners anytime she came in.'

Swallow had not expected that.

‘Is she a regular?' he asked cautiously.

‘Over the last few months, I'd say. I hardly knew the woman, 'twas so long since I'd seen her over there in the shop. But then she started comin' in once or twice a week maybe – with her gentleman friend.'

He had not expected that either. His next question had to be framed so that he might appear to know more than he did.

‘She likes company all right. So which of the gentleman friends would that be? When she came in here, I mean.'

‘There was only the one she ever came in here with anyway,' Currivan laughed. ‘Well dressed, good suit, heavy set sort of fellow. Large Jameson twelve-year old, he'd take. She'd be on the port wine sometimes. Then maybe a gin or two. They'd be here comin' up on closin' time.'

Swallow decided to be direct.

‘I'm working on the case. I'm on my way up to Lamb Alley now.'

He finished the last of the herring and placed his warrant card on the counter.

‘What you're telling me might be important. Can you give me a better description of this fellow?'

The publican pushed the warrant card back to him. ‘You can put that yoke back in your pocket. I didn't think you were sellin' insurance.'

He cleared Swallow's empty plate.

‘He'd be maybe your own age, heavy set but shorter. Nicely spoken, but not a Dublin accent. Definitely an office man of some sort with the suit – always navy blue – cuffs, collar and tie.'

Swallow scribbled rapidly.

‘Any unusual behaviour or characteristics?'

Currivan laughed. ‘Unusual? Well, I suppose it's a bit unusual to find a couple of … well … their years, carryin' on, spoonin' at each other … and the like.'

‘What about this fellow's height? Colour of hair? Clean-shaven or bearded? Any distinguishing marks?'

‘Five foot seven or eight, but well built. Neat moustache but no beard. Dark complexion, hair brownish, going to grey. Good teeth too, with a bit o' gold in there somewhere, as I recall it.'

‘You'd have made a great peeler,' Swallow told him. ‘You've no idea how many folk seem to be blind and deaf when a
polisman
asks a few questions.'

‘Five Times' Currivan was unsure if he should be flattered or disquieted at being well thought of by a G-man. But he was happier that there was nobody else in earshot.

Swallow grinned.

‘Life would be easier if the Almighty had put more witnesses like yourself into the world.'

He set off past Christ Church for Lamb Alley. Was there something that sounded vaguely familiar about Phoebe Pollock's mysterious companion of the evenings? Something that reminded him of someone that he knew or that he had seen somewhere? The idea nagged at him as he walked, digesting his herrings and ale.