The DeValera Deception

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The DeValera Deception Page 12

by Michael McMenamin


  But Cockran‘s thoughts were elsewhere. On finding Tommy McBride. Stopping the IRA from buying arms no longer seemed as important. Besides, if the IRA were active here, then they must be so in Ireland as well. Where he had just sent the one person who meant more to him than anyone. Patrick. No one in the IRA would hold it against Cockran if he killed McBride. They‘d understand. But queering an arms deal? That was different. He shook his head. “No, John. I‘ll pass on to Winston whatever you find out. But that‘s all. I‘m not going back in, especially since Paddy‘s not here where I can protect him.”

  “There‘ll be more sons than yours put at risk if we don‘t stop those bastards.”

  “They‘re not my responsibility. I failed Nora once. I won‘t let it happen again.”

  Devoy got up and walked to where Cockran stood beside the window, looking down at the street below. “I understand, lad. Believe me, I do. But leave nothing to chance. Evil never sleeps. I still have many friends in the Free State, lad. From the Clan and the Brotherhood. I‘ll send a cable tonight. Tell me where the boy and his grandmother are staying. By tomorrow morning, there will be two armed men with them around the clock for the rest of their holiday.”

  “I appreciate it, John. But it‘s not enough. I can‘t risk Patrick‘s safety.”

  “You‘ve been attacked twice,” Devoy said, his old gnarled hand grasping Cockran‘s arm with surprising force. “The boy‘s already at risk. Let me do this for you. And for Paddy.”

  It‘s not enough, Cockran thought, but it can‘t hurt. “Okay, have your men explain things to Mrs. Morrissey. Ask her to send a cable to me telling me she will accept their protection.”

  “Don‘t you worry,” Devoy said. “I‘ll make that clear.”

  “How soon will you have the bank information?”

  “Soon.” Devoy glanced at his watch. “I‘ve got an appointment in fifteen minutes.”

  “Should I wait here for you?”

  “No, I‘ll be going uptown. There‘s a neighborhood speak two blocks away from my flat. O’Connor‘s at West 105th and Broadway. Tell the man at the door the ‘old Fenian bastard‘ sent you. Be careful. Meet me there in an hour.”

  17.

  You’re Too Nosy, Devoy

  New York City

  Sunday, 11 August 1929

  12:45 a.m.

  “The’old Fenian bastard’ sent me,” Cockran whispered through the four-by-four inch space which had opened in the black lacquered door after his knock. The space quickly shut again and the door opened. Cockran entered into a small antechamber where an exceptionally large and well-muscled doorman patted him down for weapons. Finding none, the man jerked his head over his shoulder. “In the back. Beyond the bar. Last door on the right.”

  Cockran walked past the bar, stopped at the designated door and opened it. He saw Devoy sitting in the corner, two glasses and a bottle of Bushmill‘s open before him. They were alone. The walls of the room were covered in posters from long ago fund raising events to support the Irish Revolution. New York, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Chicago, San Francisco, Buffalo, Detroit. All the Irish American strongholds. Conspicuous by their absence were any posters advertising rallies featuring the appearance of Eamon de Valera. Cockran smiled. John Devoy was a man to hold his grudges, nurturing them carefully. Cockran sat down and poured himself a drink from the bottle, adding water from the pitcher beside it.

  “What did you find?” Cockran asked.

  “It’s for real. It’s not loose talk or rumors,” Devoy replied. “It‘s all here.”

  Cockran picked up the paper which Devoy had pushed across the table to him. “Wire transfers,” said Devoy. “Dates and account numbers. Crocker Bank in San Francisco. First Union Trust in Chicago. National City Bank in Cleveland. A million dollars will be transferred Monday morning to each of those three accounts. There’s to be less than two hundred thousand left in the Guaranty Trust account.”

  The old man stopped, putting his hand over his eyes, massaging his temples. “I helped raise that money, Bourke, and I’ve bought more than my share of weapons in my life. Do you have any idea how much $3 million will buy today?”

  Cockran shook his head and Devoy continued. “That man has to be stopped. He’s a monster who should have been punished for his crimes. They should have eliminated him when they had the chance. He‘s not Irish in blood, character, temperament or outlook.”

  “De Valera?” Cockran responded.

  “And who the hell else do you think I would be meaning!?” Devoy shouted, slapping the table with the flat of his hand. “If Dev has ordered the money to be moved, he’s already cut his deal with the IRA. Good God, man, look what he’s done! He drenched Ireland in blood in 1922. Destroyed its military and economic resources. He has no qualities of leadership and his record should bar him forever from any responsible position. Mark my words, once he comes to power, however he obtains it, he’ll never give it up. He’ll bribe the Church by turning education over to it and Ireland will be doomed to generations of poverty, just as it was under the British.”

  Devoy paused, and Cockran could see he was having trouble breathing. Cockran moved as if to help, but the old man waved him off. “I’ll do what I can, Bourke, but I’m old and I’m tired. I’ll run a front page editorial in next week’s paper exposing all this and blasting de Valera, but I don’t know if it will be enough. And if it’s not, then I’ve wasted my life.”

  “Nonsense,” Cockran responded. “Ireland is free and no one did more than you.”

  “Aye, Ireland is free.” said Devoy. “For now. But how much longer?”

  Devoy reached out and Cockran felt the warmth of his wrinkled hand as it grasped his wrist. “You helped us in ‘21 and ‘22, Bourke, you did good things. The Big Fella told me so in his last letter. I’ve sent the cable.Your son will be safe but you’ve got to stop these people.”

  “I will,” said Cockran. “I’ll get the information to Churchill by telegram first thing tomorrow. This is exactly the information he said the British Secret Service needed.”

  Devoy laughed, a laugh which broke off into a hacking cough. “The British? You trust the British with Ireland’s future? Are you daft, lad?”

  “What more can I do, John?” Cockran asked.

  “Do what I tell you, lad. Just do what I tell you. Here,” he said, pushing another sheet of paper across the table at Cockran. It contained a list of three names, addresses and phone numbers. “These are all good men in Cleveland, Chicago and San Francisco. All Clan na Gael. All of them backed Collins and the Free State against that Spanish bastard!”

  Devoy paused, sipped his whiskey, and continued. “All hell is going to break loose on Wednesday when the next edition of The Gaelic American hits the streets. Between now and then, you get your sorry arse on a train and you see each of these men. I’ve talked with them briefly earlier tonight. They will be expecting you. They are all prominent citizens. Powerful, each in his own way. They know me and they’ll know who your father was. You tell them what we’ve learned about this and what’s going to be in next week’s edition. They’ll make sure the story gets picked up by all the local newspapers. Each one has important political contacts in local government. We’ll use publicity and political pressure to smoke out what’s going on.”

  Cockran appreciated, not for the first time, Devoy’s creativity. “Why do you suppose that will work? The newspapers may eat it up but will the politicians notice?”

  Devoy cackled until his laugh dissolved into a cough. “That’s the beauty of it, lad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The best part of my story is not going to be true. I’m going to write that, in each of those cities, de Valera and the IRA have made a pact with local gangsters and that the gangs are putting together the arms for the IRA.”

  “But if it’s a lie, what good will it do?” Cockran asked.

  Devoy gave him an exasperated look. “Do I have to explain everything? I know it’s a lie, and the gangsters and
racketeers will know it’s a lie. But the politicians won’t. And the good city fathers won’t like that publicity. Most of them are on the pad from gangsters anyway and they’ll put pressure on the mob for turning their city into an arms bazaar. And since the mob isn’t behind any of this, the gangsters will do all our work for us. They won‘t want their profitable enterprises of booze, gambling and prostitutes disrupted so they’ll find out where these arms are being assembled and tip off the authorities. The authorities then will find some pretext to confiscate the arms. And even if they don’t, we’ll create enough of a firestorm that even the bloody British will be able to track the weapons. What the hell else is their goddamn navy good for!?”

  “That’s not a half bad plan.” Cockran said. “I wonder why Churchill didn’t think of that.”

  Devoy smiled. “Because he’s not me and the only publicity he knows how to generate is for himself. Will you do it? Will you do this for me? For your father’s memory?”

  Cockran was torn. His son would soon be safe and Devoy had a good plan. The old Fenian hadn’t lost a step. His idea made sense. But he had to find a way to reconcile his role in Devoy‘s plan with what Nora would want. If he got involved again, would he be putting Paddy at risk as he had with Nora? More importantly, what would he do about McBride if their paths crossed? And what were his real motives? Stopping the arms deal? Or revenge on McBride? Both? He really didn‘t know. He would have to think about that.

  “I‘m not sure, John. Let me sleep on it.” Cockran said and told the old man about the break-in at his house and his suspicion that they were after the six remaining Collins journals.

  Devoy agreed. “I think you’re right, lad. Perhaps I should read the journals again. Maybe something will jar my aging memory. Would you be able to drop them by tomorrow?”

  “I can’t. They not in New York. But I can have them mailed to you within the week.”

  “That‘s good. Get on with you now and let me finish my drink in peace.”

  “You sure I can’t walk you home?” Cockran asked.

  “Thanks very much, but no. It would not be good for us to be seen together. You run along now and let me finish my drink. My flat is just around the corner.”

  Cockran bade the old man goodbye and walked out through the bar, tipping his hat to the bouncer at the door as left. Behind him, a tall, dark-haired man with a jagged scar on his receding chin, wearing a blue work shirt and dungarees, got up from a stool and headed towards the restrooms, stopping at the phone located adjacent to them. He put a nickel into the slot, looked at a phone number, scribbled on a piece of paper in his left hand, and gave it to the operator who put him through. “It’s me, Timothy. He just left. The old man‘s still here.”

  1:30 a.m.

  Tommy McBride put the telephone down and fondled the .45 caliber Colt automatic pistol in his gloved hands as he sat in a soft, sheet-covered armchair, a bath towel beside him. He ran his fingers along the barrel and noticed again the intricate engraved “W.B.C.” on the polished walnut handle of the pistol. He smiled inwardly with satisfaction at his decision earlier that night to jimmy Cockran’s gun case and lift the weapon from its honored resting place. It was so easy to take things that belonged to Cockran. And oh so sweet when you did and all your plans fell together like this. The two reporters O’Brien talked to were already dead. So were the four other men O’Brien had bragged to at the fancy club. He looked at his wrist watch. Just about now, Sean Russell would be torching the editorial offices of The Gaelic American. With any luck, the whole damn building would go up in smoke. McBride smiled. By the time the paper ever got back in business, the IRA would have its arms and he would be out of the country.

  McBride’s ears picked up the sound of shuffling steps on the stairway outside. He lifted himself from the chair and walked over to the door, standing behind it. He heard the key rustle in the lock and the door opened, effectively shielding him from sight. The door closed and he saw the gray-haired old man advance haltingly toward the nearest lamp. Before Devoy could reach his destination, McBride stepped forward, wrapped his left arm around the old man’s neck and mouth, preventing him from crying out. He roughly pushed Devoy to the floor and knelt with his full weight on the old man’s back, hearing him groan in pain. He leaned down and whispered into his ear. “You’re too nosy, Devoy. You should have minded your own business.”

  With his left hand, he put the towel over Devoy’s head, pressed the pistol firmly into the back of Devoy’s head, and pulled the trigger. The muffled shot echoed softly through the apartment and the towel slowly began to turn a crimson color. Devoy wasn‘t the first man—or woman—McBride had killed with a bullet in their brain nor would he be the last. He dropped the weapon beside the body and made his way out the back door, down the stairs and into the alley beyond.

  18.

  My Decision Is Final

  New York City

  Sunday, 11 August 1929

  9:00 a.m.

  It was a warm summer morning and the sky was overcast as Cockran walked down Fifth Avenue to the Western Union office at the corner of 51st Street. Up late, he hadn‘t even taken the time to read the morning newspaper. Most New Yorkers had fled the heat of the city for the cool breezes of Long Island and the Jersey Shore, their places in the city filled by tourists.

  Mary Morrissey‘s cable had been delivered at 7:30 a.m., agreeing to Devoy‘s protection. He hated like hell to trust anyone else with his son‘s safety but he had no choice with an ocean between them because he had decided to do what Devoy wanted. His hand would be hidden as he visited the three cities. Devoy‘s reporters could have done the same thing but they wouldn‘t have carried the same weight as the son of Bourke Cockran, the most honored Irish-American of his generation, as welcome and respected in the posh clubs of New York and London as he had been in Tammany meeting halls. But Cockran would take care to leave no footprints that might draw the further attention of the IRA. He would tell Winston what he had learned but he would also say he would be involved no further. As for discreetly seeing Devoy‘s contacts in Cleveland, Chicago and San Francisco? Well, what Winston didn‘t know wouldn‘t hurt him.

  Cockran made one more pledge. To his father. And Nora. No revenge. No special efforts to seek out and kill Tommy McBride. Expose the IRA and its arms deal. Period. After that, a retreat to Sands Point and his new book, waiting for Paddy‘s safe return. Right. But he was not going to make this journey unarmed. The only question was whether it would be his old Army Colt .45 automatic or the Webley revolver. And while he wouldn‘t seek McBride out, he thought the odds of their paths crossing were fairly good. Then, all bets were off, weren‘t they?

  Cockran left a message at Churchill‘s hotel and was working on his book in the study of his town house, his fountain pen flowing smoothly over the long legal pad in front of him when the telephone rang. Churchill.

  “Bourke, how good to hear your voice. I understand you have news?”

  After telling him briefly of the two assaults and the break-in the night before, Cockran recounted for Churchill his meetings with Devoy and the information he had secured. Banks. Account numbers. Devoy‘s forthcoming front-page story and editorial.

  “Splendid, Bourke, splendid. I could ask no more. The publicity in Devoy‘s newspaper should help immensely. My people are off to Chicago and we will be in San Francisco within ten days. Even if the publicity drives them underground, we still should be able to persuade the Americans to impound the funds. All will be well, Bourke, but...” Churchill‘s voice trailed off.

  Picking up the tone in Churchill‘s voice, Cockran was on guard. “What is it, Winston?”

  “It would be so useful, Bourke, if you could go to Cleveland yourself and check things out from that end. Speed things up. Shouldn‘t be too difficult.”

  Cockran sighed. “Nice try, Winston, but no sale.” Cockran would not be Winston‘s pawn.

  “Are you sure you won‘t reconsider?” Winston asked.

  “No, Win
ston, my decision is final. I‘ve done more than you asked. I‘ve found more than you could possibly have hoped. I‘ve been assaulted twice. Both my houses and my law school office have been ransacked. I‘ve had enough. I‘m going back to writing. Nobody beats you up for what you write.”

  19.

  An Anonymous Tip

  New York City

  Sunday, 11 August 1929

  1:30 p.m.

  Cockran was in his study, at work again on his book, when the phone rang.

  “Mr. Cockran, please.”

  “Speaking. Who is this?”

  “It‘ s me, sir, Aloysius McFadden. I‘m the bartender at O‘Connor‘s. I tried to call you this morning. As soon as the police left. But you weren‘t home,” the man said breathlessly.

  “Slow down, Al, slow down,” Cockran said. “What‘ s this about police?”

  “It‘ s about Mr. Devoy, sir. They were asking about Mr. Devoy.”

  “Why were they asking about Mr. Devoy?” Cockran asked.

  “It‘ s terrible, sir, terrible. Mr. Devoy‘ s been murdered.”

  Cockran was stunned. “When?! Where? How?!” he demanded.

  “I don‘ t know, sir. The detective who was here, Terence Sweeney, wouldn‘ t tell me. But I saw our beat patrolman Billy McGurn this morning. He told me it was likely an intruder in Mr. Devoy‘ s apartment. Shot him in the back of the head. Neighbors found him early today, face down. There was blood all over. Terrible, terrible. Mr. Devoy was such a gentleman.”

  Cockran collapsed in his chair. “Do the police have any suspects?”

  “I wouldn‘ t be knowing, sir. I never saw Sweeney before so I didn‘ t give him your name, sir, but I can‘ t be certain about our other customers who saw you here last night.”

  “Thanks, Al. I owe you one,” Cockran replied.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Cockran. It‘s a terrible thing, himself being killed the same night the building where his newspaper was published burns to the ground. They‘re saying it was arson.”

 

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