“What‘s that? Arson?” Cockran asked.
“Yes, sir. Didn‘t you know? It was all over the newspapers today.”
Cockran replaced the receiver and stared blankly into space, his eyes fixed, but not focused, on the miniature soldiers arrayed in battle formation on the fireplace mantle. The Gaelic American offices destroyed. John Devoy killed. He knew what the MO would be. Collins told him you could always tell a Tommy McBride operation. A single shot in the back of the head, the victim lying helplessly on the floor. Usually innocent civilians, not British troops.
Cockran focused on his anger as it grew inside him, making no effort to control it. Nora would insist that two wrongs didn‘t make a right, but now, all bets were off. Just as was the scar tissue. The wound was wide open. It would not begin to heal until McBride was dead.
Cockran knew Devoy‘s plan would not work without his newspaper but he still would meet Devoy‘s friends and pass their information on to Churchill. Churchill had the only game in town with the IRA but Cockran was starting his own game. Hunting Tommy McBride.
1:45 p.m.
“Colonel, this is Bourke. I need a favor.” Cockran toyed absentmindedly with the letter opener he had picked up from the green leather surface of his writing desk while he told Bill Donovan about Devoy‘ s death, the arson at his newspaper, and the break-in at his town house.
“See if your friends at City Hall can identify the detective assigned to the investigation.”
Donovan‘ s voice echoed in the receiver. “ I‘ll make the calls. But what‘ s this all about?”
“Not now. I‘ll tell you later if my hunch is correct. For now, I want to make sure that a homicide detective is on the up and up. His name is Terence Sweeney.”
An hour later, Cockran had just finished a sandwich when the phone rang. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Donovan said. “What in the good Lord‘s name have you gotten yourself into?”
“I take it you found something?” Cockran asked.
“You bet,” Donovan replied. “There is no Sweeney in Homicide.”
“Who is he?”
“You‘ve got a lot more trouble than a fake homicide detective.”
“And that would be?”
“I talked to the head of Homicide himself. Ed McCracken. They have the murder weapon on John Devoy and they received an anonymous tip this afternoon that it belongs to you. If that proves accurate, you‘re going to the top of their suspect list. Do you own any guns?”
“A whole case full. My father‘ s collection. It‘ s just down the hall.”
“Was anything taken from it during the break-in?” Donovan asked.
“Not that I could tell.”
“So you didn‘ t report any stolen weapons to the police?”
“No. ”
“Check again. If it turns out the murder weapon is yours, you‘re going to be needing my services and not just a favor. Are you going to tell me now what this is all about?”
So Cockran did. Churchill and the IRA. The two assaults. All three break-ins. McBride. Devoy. De Valera‘ s money. The wire transfers. The works.
“I‘ve sent the information on to Winston this morning. He wanted me to check out one angle myself in Cleveland but he thinks I turned him down.”
“The first thing you should check out is your own gun case. Then call me back.”
Cockran pulled open the drawer to his writing desk and took out a small ring of skeleton keys and made his way down the hallway to the glass-fronted mahogany cabinet which housed his father‘ s gun collection. He unlocked the door and opened it, mentally scanning the contents. The matched set of Purdy shotguns. A Winchester .30 caliber repeating rifle. Two antique Colt revolvers…Yes! It was missing! His own .45 caliber Colt automatic pistol he had delivered to his father on his return from San Francisco, an unspoken promise that killing was behind him; that Patrick and the future were his priorities; that revenge was in the past.
Cockran examined with care the cabinet‘ s brass lock and there indeed were small scratches where there had been none before. McBride! The IRA and fucking Tommy McBride! John Devoy had been right. Churchill and British intelligence were not going to be able to stop the IRA. Devoy‘s plan could have worked. But no true Fenian, was going to cooperate with British agents. Ever. But they would listen to Bourke Cockran‘s son. Of that much he was certain.
Nora‘s voice in his head was silent as he walked up to his bedroom, heading directly for the space beneath his closet floor. Cockran took this as a good sign. He pried up two floor boards in the right rear, reached inside and pulled out a bulky package covered in cloth. A large Webley revolver, a shoulder holster made of belting leather, and two cartridge boxes of heavy .455 caliber shells, all sitting unused since their last engagement in San Francisco seven years earlier. Michael Collins‘ parting gift that rainy night in Dublin on the day of Nora‘s wake. His father‘s advice might well be correct. In killing McBride, he might accomplish nothing more than revenge. But he would settle for that.
20.
Jumping Bail
New York City
Sunday, 11 August 1929
3:45 p.m.
A detective rang the doorbell a little before four but his name was Hagan, not Sweeney. Donovan had not gotten back to him on Sweeney‘s identity so Cockran inspected Hagan‘s badge closely. Someone had obviously recognized Cockran last night at O‘Connor‘s because Hagan began asking questions about why he met with Devoy; when he had last seen him alive. Instinctively, Cockran decided he didn‘t trust the detective and wasn‘t going to educate him.
Hagan wasted little time before he asked whether Cockran kept any firearms on the premises. Cockran answered affirmatively and Hagan insisted on inspecting the antique gun case at the end of the hallway. Cockran could smell the set-up coming but, seeing no way around it, he told Hagan of yesterday‘s break-in and theft of his service automatic.
“You didn‘t report it as stolen to the police?” Hagan asked.
“No, I didn‘t realize it was gone.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as Hagan shot him a look. “Mr. Cockran, I believe you ought to come down to the station with me and answer a few more questions about this missing .45 caliber automatic you claim was stolen from you.”
“That‘s absurd,” Cockran replied. “I‘m not going anywhere.”
Hagan arched his neck to look past Cockran to the foot of the stairs at his suitcase and trench coat. “From the looks of it, Mr. Cockran, you‘re planning to go somewhere quite soon.”
“To my home in Long Island. I was planning to spend the next few weeks there. It‘s part of New York City. You can look it up.”
“Look, Mr. Cockran, we can do this one of two ways. Either you come with me now or I go back to the station and swear out a warrant for your arrest as a material witness.”
“Don‘t make hollow threats to me, Detective Hagan. If you want to ask me more questions, do it now. Otherwise, get the hell out of my house.”
7:00 p.m.
A little more than three hours later, Cockran‘s view of Bill Donovan‘s ruddy face was obscured by the iron bars of the local precinct‘s holding cell. Less than an hour after he left, Hagan had slapped him with an arrest warrant as a material witness. He called Donovan immediately but it took several hours before Bill was able to post bail. The grim expression on Donovan‘s face showed his unhappiness with Cockran.
“This gets stranger by the minute,” Donovan said as an officer slid open the bars to his cell. He leaned close and spoke in hushed tones as they were escorted to a desk for processing. “I found your Sweeney. He‘s an undercover agent working for the Department‘ s Red Squad, investigating subversives. I knew a Terence Sweeney once. Worked for Edgar Hoover at the old Bureau of Investigation in Washington. Make no mistake, Bourke, these are nasty enemies.”
Cockran scanned the room as they walked, expecting to see Detective Hagan but he was nowhere around. As they reached the processing desk, Cockran saw a familiar fa
ce waiting for them. Ed McCracken, head of Homicide. He looked tired. He always looked tired, Cockran thought. A short, balding man in his fifties who could pass for sixty-five. It was a tough business to be in, especially when it involved the son of an old friend. Like most of the Irish in town who‘d gotten somewhere in life, McCracken had known Cockran‘s father and been a family friend. He was one of the few authority figures who had earned Cockran‘s respect.
As Donovan took care of the paper work, processing Cockran‘s bail, McCracken placed a soft hand on his shoulder. “Bourke, can you tell me what‘s going on here?”
“You tell me, Ed. My homes and my law school office are broken into, my service automatic stolen, and I‘m arrested in the murder of one of my closest friends.”
McCracken rubbed his forehead in frustration. “I don‘t know what to say. My folks here are just doing their jobs. You were one of the last men to talk to John. With all the evidence...look, we had to arrest you, Bourke. At least as a material witness. I‘m sorry.”
“I understand.”
“At least you were able to post bail. I‘d hate to see you spend the night in one of these cells,” McCracken swallowed and then paused, clearly upset by something. “Bill tells me that one of our boys in the Red Squad is asking after you.”
“Sweeney. What‘s he doing in your business?”
“Ah well, the boys in the Red Squad have a free leash of sorts. Undercover and all. Not much I can do about it in Homicide. But why are they asking about you and Devoy?”
Cockran shrugged his shoulders.
“Just tell me you didn‘t do this, son.”
“I didn‘t.”
McCracken nodded silently, trying to hide the doubt in his face. This was not good. There must be a lot going against him if Ed McCracken was not convinced he was innocent.
“I‘ll put one of my best men on the case, Bourke, but there‘s only so much I can do.”
“What do you mean?”
McCracken rubbed his forehead again. “I‘m getting pressure from upstairs to put someone else on the case. Someone hand-picked. Not one of my favorites.”
“Detective Hagan?”
“Who?”
“The detective who brought me in here. Hagan. Is that who they want?”
“There‘s no detective named Hagan in my department.”
Cockran turned to the officer processing his bail, “Where is the man who brought me in here? Detective Hagan.”
“Hagan?” the officer said. Cockran nodded. “I never heard of him.”
“Could be another Red Squad boy,” Donovan ventured. “Wouldn‘t surprise me.”
“Bourke, listen,” McCracken was saying. “Would you mind if I stopped by your townhouse later? Say about 9? I don‘t like the way all this sounds and there are some things I‘d like to ask you in private. Does that sound O.K.? I mean, with your lawyer there, of course.”
“That‘s fine, Ed. Come on over. Bill doesn‘t need to be there.”
8:45 p.m.
It was raining heavily outside, a mid-summer thunderstorm, by the time Cockran returned to his townhouse. He regretted agreeing to have McCracken stop by. If he persuaded McCracken he was innocent, that would vanish once he skipped town. Which is precisely what he intended to do. While he waited, he went back into his study and placed a long distance call to Devoy‘s contact in Cleveland. They talked quietly for ten minutes.
Finally, just after nine, there was a knock. on his door. “Be there in one second, Ed.”
He reached the door and opened it to the grim face of Detective Hagan, rain pelting off his soft hat. A pistol rested in his gloved palm was trained squarely on Cockran‘s chest.
“Step inside, Mr. Cockran. Slowly and quietly.”
Cockran did as he was told. Hagan closed the door behind him, keeping the weapon aimed at Cockran. Water rolled off his hat and onto the polished mahogany floor.
“Couldn‘t stay put, could you Mr. Cockran?”
“I don‘t know what you mean.”
“I would‘ve left you alone if you‘d simply stayed where I put you. In a cell.”
“I‘m not going anywhere.”
“Damn right, you‘re not. Where‘s your whisky?” Hagan asked.
“My whisky?”
Hagan nodded. Cockran stalled, “I normally reserve that for guests, not intruders.”
“Grab a bottle and move into the study.”
Cockran looked again at the pistol in Hagan‘s hand. It wasn‘t standard police issue. More than that, it looked familiar. It was a Colt New Service from 1917. They had arrived at the front before Cockran was wounded. Cockran had kept his Colt semiautomatic but having an M1917 revolver wouldn‘t have been unusual for a veteran like Cockran. It was clear Hagan was going to kill him and make it look like suicide in drunken remorse for having killed Devoy.
Hagan raised his voice, “I said, grab a bottle of whisky and move into the study.”
“No.” Provoking him was all he could do. He had to get to Cleveland.
“I‘m not asking you, Mr. Cockran. You have no say in this matter. Grab a bottle—”
“No.”
The color rose in Hagan‘s cheeks and he took a menacing step forward but stopped when there were several loud knocks at the front door. Hagan‘s reflexes betrayed him. As his head twisted towards the noise, Cockran bolted directly at him, catching him in the mid-section and forcing him to the floor. His momentum carried them both into a cabinet in the front hall, Hagan‘s backside taking the brunt of the impact, the pistol falling from his hand.
The knocking resumed, even louder this time. He could hear McCracken‘s agitated voice, “Bourke? Bourke?!” Before Hagan could shake off the cobwebs, Cockran made a dash for the kitchen, snatched up his suitcase and coat, and burst through the kitchen door.
The rain was still pouring down and it was difficult to see in the dark, but he knew there was a narrow alley behind the townhouses through which he could reach East 79th. Behind him, he heard his kitchen door flung open, a pane of glass shattering from the impact.
Holding his suitcase in one hand, he hit the alley and bolted right towards 79th. As he neared the street beyond, he turned his head back to see Hagan enter the alley, gun raised. Cockran flinched as a shot sailed over his head and then he was through the last few feet of the alley and into the street.
Cockran turned right and ran down 79th, towards 5th Avenue, which was his best chance for a taxi, but Hagan would be onto him quickly. Just before the last brownstone, his feet slapping on the wet sidewalk, his heel caught on the raised edge of a concrete slab and sent him sprawling to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, with his suitcase still intact, he didn‘t wait to see if Hagan was following. No time, he told himself. Just run like hell.
Back on 5th Avenue, Cockran sprinted up toward 80th Street until he saw a taxi, flagged it, swung the door open and tossed his suitcase in..
“Bourke!!”
Cockran froze. His hand on the taxi door, hair dripping with rain, he turned to the voice. It was Ed McCracken, standing at the door to his townhouse, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Bourke, stop!!”
This looked bad, Cockran realized. But there was nothing else he could do. He was jumping bail. He gave McCracken a salute, tossed his bag into the taxi and hopped in.
“Grand Central Station. Step on it. I‘m late.”
Cockran tried to recall the lessons Michael Collins had taught him during the war with the British but it had been a long time. Longer still since he had been trained in evasion by MID. He peered out the back window of his taxi. It looked as if no one was following. No sign of Hagan but it was difficult to tell cars apart at night. Most headlights looked the same.
By the time Cockran‘ s taxi reached Grand Central Station, the rain had subsided, and the streets were still steaming as they glistened in the glare of the overhead lights. Cockran bought a Pullman compartment ticket on the New York Central‘ s Cleveland Limited No. 57 leaving at 11:35
p.m. He felt safer with the sizable crowd in the terminal but still kept a low profile. In the half hour left before departure, he walked over to the Western Union office and penned his second telegram to Churchill that day: PROCEEDING CLEVELAND. STOP. MORE LATER.
11:20 p.m.
Tailing Detective Terence Sweeney was not a problem for the tall, dark-haired man with the cold blue eyes and a nose which once had been broken. Sweeney was preoccupied with following Cockran and that made it easy for the man to get as close as he liked. He followed at a discreet distance as Sweeney shadowed Cockran to the Grand Central ticket windows, then to the Western Union office. As Cockran headed to the waiting train, Sweeney had a few words with the Western Union clerk and then caught up with Cockran just as he stepped up into the last car on the train.
Sweeney then abruptly turned and walked back towards the tall, dark-haired man who kept walking straight ahead, past Sweeney and on for another ten yards until he came to a pillar behind which he stepped. Peering cautiously around it, he saw Sweeney had almost reached the exit. The man walked rapidly to catch up and got a glimpse of Sweeney going into a telephone booth.
The man folded his six foot two inch frame into the booth adjacent to the one Sweeney had entered, closed the door, picked up the receiver, and cupped his ear against the thin wooden partition separating him from the next booth. He heard the man say, “Manhattan? Sweeney. Hagan failed. Cockran‘s alive. He‘s on the Cleveland Limited. It arrives there at 7:52 a.m.”
There was a pause and then Sweeney said, “No, he didn‘t. But he sent a telegram. Yes I got a copy. Western Union always helps the police in their inquiries. To someone in Toronto named Chartwell. Told him he was going to Cleveland. Nothing more. Just that.”
The DeValera Deception Page 13