The DeValera Deception

by Michael McMenamin

  File cabinets were arrayed against the far wall. Using another key, he opened all three of the wooden file cabinets. The first two cabinets were empty but the third contained what he wanted. He pulled out the folders and sat down at the scarred wooden desk. Illuminated only by the electric torch, he began to make notes from the invoices. The names of the manufacturers. An itemization of the weapons. The dates they had been shipped. The cost. Then he heard a sound. Perhaps Sheila has finally arrived, he thought, but he switched off the torch and waited in the dark. It wasn’t Sheila. It sounded like a moan. Someone in pain. Cockran reached inside his jacket for the Webley and walked through the office door back into the warehouse.

  The sound was coming from the nearest aisle, the one immediately parallel to the one Cockran had come down to reach the loading bays and the office. He reached the corner and cautiously peered around but, even though his eyes had again adjusted to the darkness, he could not tell who was making the noise. He decided to risk it and flicked on the torch again, pointing it in the direction of the noise. Halfway down the aisle he saw a crumpled, white-haired form slumped against one of the crates. He knelt beside the man. Up close, his white hair was matted and streaked with blood. He wore the uniform of a security guard, but his holster was empty. “Charlie. Wake up, Charlie,” Cockran said. “What’s happened here?”

  The man was too dazed to respond. Then Cockran saw why. The guard’s hand fell limply away from his stomach where it had been covering three small dark holes in the fabric of his uniform. And, surrounding it, a stain even darker than the blue uniform. Cockran felt for a pulse, but it was faint. Cockran had been in combat with the 69th only three months before he was wounded. But he had seen several belly wounds like this one. Charlie Mahoney was dying.

  And then he heard Sheila scream, followed by the sound of four gun shots. He pulled the Webley out, cocked it and ran toward the sound. He stopped behind one of the crates and carefully peered into the space lit by a single bare bulb. It was a break area. A small, battered wooden table pushed against the wall on which sat several scarred and chipped coffee cups, a hot plate at one end, a coffee urn at the other. There were three unmatched chairs in front of the table and Sheila Greene was in one of them.

  Blood trickled from a corner of her mouth and she was rubbing her wrists as if they had recently been bound like her ankles still were. Her sweater had been ripped, exposing her brassiere beneath, both spattered with blood, as was her skirt. The source of the blood was obvious. The bodies of two men were sprawled on either side of her chair, both quite dead. A massive gunshot wound to the head for one and three well-placed bullets in the belly of the other. The spray pattern of the blood made it evident that both men had been standing in front of her.

  “Sheila! What happened? Are you hurt?” Cockran asked.

  “I’m okay...I think,” Sheila said. “Did you see him?”

  “See who?”

  “The man who saved me. He shot these two men. He had just finished untying my hands when he heard your footsteps. He ran off that way,” she said, pointing one aisle away.

  “What did he look like?”

  “I couldn‘t see much. He was tall, over six feet. Very blue eyes. An Irish accent.”

  Cockran knelt in front of her and began untying the rope around her ankles.

  “Tell me what happened,” Cockran said.

  “There were four of them,” Sheila said. “Two of them got away. I think one was the leader. He certainly acted like it. His name was Tommy. Can I borrow your handkerchief ”

  Cockran handed it to her. “We need to get out of here Sheila. Someone may have called the police.”

  Sheila laughed, short and sharp. “Police? I don’t think so. Not in this part of town. Not at this time of night. This is Cleveland, for goodness sake. Gunshots in the warehouse district are not a big deal and no copper I know is going to risk his neck investigating them.”

  “All the same, I need to get you out of here. Let me check these two bodies for any ID.”

  Cockran walked over to the nearest body and looked down, recoiling in shock and recognition. The man’s features were unmistakable. Sean Russell! Tommy McBride’s second-in-command. Cockran had watched from behind a two way mirror as Free State police, the Gardai, had questioned him in connection with the bank robbery and Nora‘s murder but he had a solid alibi which Cockran hadn‘t believed for a minute. He was still alive, his hands clutching his stomach, groaning in pain, arterial blood attesting to the shooter‘s accuracy. He would die in the next few agonizing moments. Good, he thought, as he checked for ID but found none.

  Turning his attention to the other body, clothed in a suit and tie, he found a .38 special police revolver in a shoulder holster. The man’s billfold had a badge pinned to one side and an identification card on the other. William Miller, Special Agent. Office of the Inspector General, U.S. Department of Commerce. A Fed! What in hell was a federal agent doing with Sean Russell in a warehouse loaded with weapons and ammunition for the IRA? Just then, Russell‘s eyes rolled back in his head and the groaning stopped. Cockran felt for a pulse and found none. Rot in hell, you bloody bastard, he thought as he let the man‘s wrist fall limply to the ground.

  Cockran turned back to the girl and took off his trench coat and put it over her shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you safely home.”

  Back in the battered motorcar, Cockran took his eyes off the road and looked at Sheila. Color was returning to her face. He didn’t notice the black Buick following them.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me tonight?” Cockran asked.

  “I’m sorry. I know it was stupid of me. I’m so used to being my father’s daughter that I didn’t believe any harm could come to me. Not in my town. Not like this.”

  “So, what happened? How’d they get you?”

  “I heard them talking in the office. The two Irishmen.”

  Cockran nodded.

  “They were arguing. One of the guys was supposed to meet someone in Chicago in a couple of days. I forget his name. Something like Blackburn, Blackleaf. I’m not sure.”

  “Blackthorn?” Cockran asked.

  Sheila shook her head affirmatively. “Yes. That’s it. Blackthorn. The other Irishman, the one who was killed didn’t like it. He said Blackthorn couldn’t be trusted. But the other guy?”

  “Go on,” Cockran said, certain now that it had been McBride.

  “Yes. Well, he didn’t agree. He said this Blackburn had all the right codes. He said that he clearly had a message from the ‘Council’, whatever that is. Seeing as how they hadn’t found ‘the bloody notebooks’, he said, they couldn’t ignore a message from Blackburn. I remember what he said, word for word, because that’s when Charlie found me and tipped them off.”

  Her face darkened. “That‘s when it all happened. They shot poor Charlie and grabbed me, tied me to the chair, tore my sweater and hit me. Told me weird stuff like I was fair game, and the spoil of war. After that came the shots. The two men killed.” Sheila paused. “Blackburn? The Council? What’s it all mean?”

  “Blackthorn. The name you heard was Blackthorn. And I’m not sure what it means either. And if I were, I wouldn’t tell you. I shouldn’t have put you in danger like this. Your father shouldn’t have, either. What we’ve got to do right now is get you home safely.”

  “No, Bourke, if you really want to stay on my good side, take me back to your hotel.”

  Startled, Cockran stared at her sidewise, raising his right eyebrow. She laughed. “No, silly. It’s not like that. I just can’t go home looking like I do. I’m a big girl but Daddy still doesn’t like it if I stay out all night. He’s a light sleeper. Whenever I come home, whether it’s one in the morning or after breakfast, I have to either give him a kiss goodnight or good morning. If he sees me like this, and I have to explain, then he’s going to send me back to school in the fall before he’s really strong enough to fend for himself.” She paused before continuing. “So, it’s simple, really. You take
me back to your hotel. I’ll wash up and spend the night there. I’ll call one of my girl friends first thing in the morning. She’ll bring a fresh change of clothes over and I‘ll take a taxi home. Daddy is none the wiser and I’m still here to take care of him.”

  Cockran and Sheila rode in silence in the Alcazar’s elevator up from the basement garage to Cockran’s suite of rooms. He showed her into the bedroom. “The bathroom’s in there. You take the bedroom. I’ll use the Murphy bed in the sitting room.”

  It was 2:15 a.m. It was late but Cockran knew Churchill‘s habits. He placed a phone call and the great man was still awake, working on an article for a London newspaper. Cockran gave him a short version of the night‘s events. Cockran then used the suite’s second bathroom to put on his pajamas, pulled down the Murphy bed, and quickly fell into a deep sleep. .

  Cockran was roused from his sleep twenty minutes later when a wet-haired, terry-cloth clad figure, smelling of soap, climbed into bed beside him, pulled his left arm around her and snuggled in. “I’m not being fresh. Really. I just want someone to hold held me while I fall asleep.”

  Cockran, barely awake, mumbled his assent and left his arm where she had placed it. His last thought before he quickly fell asleep again to the sound of her soft breathing was that Sean Russell was dead. Good. Tommy McBride was next.

  25.

  We Don’t Need Help From Amateurs

  Toronto, Ontario

  Tuesday, 13 August 1929

  The train rumbled through the countryside. To his left, Churchill could see the vast expanse of Lake Ontario. He put down his cigar and picked up his fountain pen.

  My darling Clemmie,

  I have just come back from the Toronto meeting—a tremendous affair. I made my best speech so far. Tonight we go to Niagara—see the Falls tomorrow.

  Puzzling conversation yesterday with Smythe. I shared with him some of the information about the bank accounts and the transferred funds. He didn’t seem interested. Dismissed out of hand my suggestion he ask the P.M. to authorize reinforcements.

  “Out of the question, Mr. Churchill. My men are more than adequate. No need for reinforcements.” Churchill leaned over, picked up the crystal tumbler filled with a light scotch and water and looked out the window at the soft, green blur of the Ontario countryside.

  “See here, Smythe, we’ve got perfectly good intelligence on where the IRA is assembling weapons and we should act on it.” Churchill took a sip of the whiskey and placed it back on the low table between them, the contents of the glass rolling gently back and forth in harmony with the swaying of the train on the tracks. “We need to have an alternate plan if the Americans are not persuaded. We don’t have enough men to use force to stop the shipment. Even if you use my two men, Inspector Thompson and Sgt. Rankin, it won’t be enough to mount a proper operation.” Churchill paused and watched the color rise in Smythe’s cheeks as he sought to contain his anger. Pleased with Smythe’s reaction, Churchill took another sip of whisky.

  “This is my mission, Mr. Churchill,” Smythe said through clenched teeth. “Not yours. My brief is to gather information. Yours is to be a messenger. We don’t need help from Scotland Yard and we certainly don’t need help from amateurs.”

  Can you imagine that, my Dearest Cat? Me, an amateur? The Royal Navy ran the best intelligence operation in the war, bar none, and I daresay I had more than a little to do with that. Still, I knew what Smythe’s answer would be. Unbeknownst to him, I had sent a cable earlier in the day to the P.M. asking him for more resources. The P.M. turned me down by return cable within two hours. “Proceed original plan. No departures. Repeat. No departures. Washington negotiations paramount. Stop.”

  Poor Ramsay doesn’t understand. Our Navy is more important to Britain’s survival than America’s is to hers. The Americans simply don’t want competition in the Pacific. To disarm when your former enemies are still nursing their grievances is folly. If only the Americans would forgive the Allied war debt, we could do something about the German grievances and start the healing process. Then we could truly look to disarmament.

  My wise Cat already knows this, doesn’t she? That’s the true pity of being out of office. Not having a Prime Minister who takes my advice on important issues of state.

  I think often of you & the kittens & hope you are all happy & well.

  Always your loving husband,

  W

  26.

  He Didn’t See It Coming

  Cleveland Heights

  Tuesday, 13 August 1929

  8:30 a.m.

  Cockran woke up early and slipped silently out of bed. Closing the bedroom door behind him, he walked through the living room of the suite to the small kitchen where he put on a pot of coffee, scrambled two eggs and fried up some bacon from the provisions Hasim had left for him in the refrigerator. He set the table for two and walked back to the sitting room and carefully opened the door. Sheila was still fast asleep and snoring softly. He returned to the breakfast table and ate alone. He left a note for Sheila, telling her he had left for his appointment with the Westwoods, that the coffee was perked, the bacon warm in the oven, and fresh eggs were in the refrigerator. If she were still here, he would see her when he returned in a few hours.

  8:45 a.m.

  Halfway down the block from the Alcazar a black Buick sat idling. Tommy McBride pulled his fedora low over his face and slumped down in the passenger seat when he saw Cockran emerge and step into the green and black Auburn. He spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Follow him, Rory. Take him down at the first chance you get. The others will have finished their work by now.”

  McBride opened the door of the motor car and stepped out, closed it and stuck his head back inside the open window. “Be off with you. Timothy‘s waiting inside. He and I have some unfinished business with that woman at the warehouse last night. She may have seen too much.”

  The Westwoods’ home was a two-story brick tudor mansion with a u-shaped gravel driveway in the front of the house where Cockran parked the Auburn. A privacy screen of evergreens shielded the mansion from passing cars. Several attempts at ringing the doorbell produced no response. Cockran followed a stone path around the side of the house to a large flagstone patio in the rear. Wooden chairs sat empty beside a brick grill with a view overlooking a small lake and a shingle-sided boathouse at the edge of their property.

  Cockran walked up to one of the windows, protected from the morning sun, and looked inside. A small table for breakfast was set for two, a pot of tea in the middle of the table, and a silver toast rack beside it. Walking over to a screen door, he rapped on it sharply. Hearing no response, he opened the screen door and tried the handle to the rear door. It was unlocked. He entered into a kitchen and called out, “Hello! Anyone here? Mr. Westwood? Mrs. Westwood?”

  Silence. Cockran walked across the tile kitchen floor and pushed open a swinging door which led to the dining room. The door opened only a foot until it was blocked by an obstruction. He pushed harder and squeezed through an eighteen-inch opening, sunlight streaming in from the windows to his right over the two bodies lying face down on the floor.

  Mr. and Mrs. Westwood. Both gray-haired. Both clad in blue silk dressing gowns. Both with bullet holes behind their right ears, a large halo of blood spreading on the gold carpet. The man‘s left hand was outstretched as if he had been reaching for his wife. Cockran knelt down and felt in vain for a pulse on each body. He retraced his steps to the back door.

  As Cockran stepped outside, a bullet from a silenced weapon thudded into the door jamb. He dropped to the ground as two more bullets ricocheted off the brick facade of the house. He scrambled for safety behind the brick grill at the far end of the patio, pulling his Webley from his shoulder holster. The shots were coming from the boathouse beside the small lake. He couldn’t go forward. There was no cover that way but the brick grill and the corner of the house gave cover for a retreat to the front of the house. He would be vulnerable for a moment but it would take an e
xcellent shot to bring him down. It was worth the risk. He cautiously peered around the corner of the grill and tensed for the dash. He fired two quick shots from the Webley, the echoes from his shots a booming contrast to the silenced weapon of his adversary, and sprinted for the front of the house. He heard the muffled pops from his adversary‘s weapon as he ran but they missed. Cockran reached the Auburn and leaped in. The engine roared to life and the motorcar accelerated onto South Park Blvd. as a final shot hit the rearview mirror on the passenger’s side.

  Cockran’s mind raced as he sped down Lee Road, veered left at Fairmount Boulevard and headed back to the Alcazar. The bastard had done it again. First Devoy, and now an elderly husband and wife. McBride was good at that. Defenseless women and old people.

  “Sheila,” he called out as he opened the door, “I’m back.” Cockran walked across the living room of the suite, pushed open the bedroom door and stared in shock. Sheila lay sprawled face down on the floor, the carpet beneath her head red with blood from a small hole behind her right ear, beside which lay the towel used to muffle the sound of the gunshot. Cockran felt for a pulse but didn‘t find one. Her face was bruised and she was clad in a skirt and blouse, a navy blue cashmere sweater on the bed, as if she had been interrupted right before finishing dressing.

  He didn‘t he see it coming. Why? Sheila was dead. He had done nothing to protect her. The same way he failed Devoy. And Nora. He narrowed his eyes and stared blankly out the window at the Alcazar‘s courtyard below, his anger growing. When he started out, stopping the arms deal had been primary, getting McBride secondary. No more. He‘d still do all he could to stop the arms deal but McBride was going to die. Or Cockran would die trying.