by Conor Brady
Mallon’s tone was impatient.
‘Yes, yes … I know it.’
‘And he tells his missus when he gets in that he’s just seen Sir John in his trap down beyond the bridge, just halted there, in the shadow of the trees.’
‘So?’
‘That’s the point at which the Poddle comes up over ground. It’s not protected or fenced. A man could roll a body in there without much effort and be fairly sure it wouldn’t ever be seen again.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
Mallon grabbed at the Bushmills bottle.
‘Jesus, Swallow. I didn’t intend to have more than the one. But I need another after that.’
He poured for both of them.
‘What we know about Sarah Bradley matches everything Harry Lafeyre has been able to tell us about the remains we took from the river,’ Swallow went on. ‘She’d probably accumulated the diamonds and sovereigns over various prior employments before she came to the McCartans. I’ll wager that the set of keys we recovered down there will fit some of the locks at Templeogue Hill.’
‘It’s a hypothesis,’ Mallon agreed.
‘There’s one other small detail that might tie in,’ Swallow said. ‘Harry Lafeyre found animal hairs, probably a dog, on the ligature around the neck of the skeleton in the Poddle. He thinks it was probably used as a lead or a tether.’
He raised his whiskey glass to Mallon.
‘So Chief, how are we to feel about laying a charge of murder against one of the princes of Dublin’s business community, a QC and a leading member of the Corporation?’
Mallon gulped down his own drink and reached again for the bottle.
‘This has to be handled carefully. Very, very carefully. It’s dynamite.’
He offered the bottle to Swallow.
‘No thanks, Chief. It’s been a hell of a week and it’s been a long day already. And I’ve an important job ahead this evening.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re better not to know too much, Chief. But I’m hoping that at the end of it, Mr Reggie Polson won’t be so anxious to do business with the newspapers.’
Mallon grimaced.
‘I won’t ask any more questions, so. I’d like to think about McCartan overnight, Joe. Maybe even until Monday. Spencer won’t be going anywhere. We’ve a lot of problems right now. Not least keeping Parnell where he needs to be. If we lay a murder charge against a man like that we’d want to be damned sure we’re right and that we can prove it. It’d be a sensation and one hell of a challenge with the resources we have. We’d make a lot of powerful enemies. I always try to avoid the mistake that Napoleon Bonaparte made.’
‘What was that, Chief?’
‘Making too many enemies by invading too many countries at once.’
Chapter 27
The Burlington bar was decently busy but not full. Some of the early evening patrons who had come for a few drinks after leaving the banks and insurance offices along Dame Street had repaired to the restaurant, leaving perhaps half a dozen tables peopled with serious drinkers who would probably still be there at closing time, Swallow reckoned.
Billy Gough, the manager, had promised there would be an alcove table reserved for him from nine o’clock. It had to be in direct line of sight of the bar counter, Swallow insisted. Gough was as good as his word. When Swallow took his seat he was looking directly at the long, polished mirror that ran behind the barmen’s serving space.
The barman on duty was a recent hire. But he had served Swallow before and he knew him. And he evidently had his orders.
‘With Mr Gough’s compliments, Sir.’
He deftly landed the large Tullamore on the table and poised the soda syphon over it.
‘A splash, Sir?’
Swallow nodded.
‘Thanks. A good drop.’
The Tullamore’s light taste, with the effervescence of the soda, was refreshing after the heaviness of Mallon’s Bushmills.
The new electric lights, recently installed in the bar, had been switched on when Dunlop walked in, shortly after nine o’clock. He spotted Swallow and dropped himself into a chair opposite.
‘I was half-expecting you wouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘Our correspondents down in Tipperary have been filing reams of copy about the shooting of the district inspector at Roscrea. And you’re all over the story. By the sound of it you were lucky not to get killed yourself. So what happened?’
Swallow gave the newspaperman an attenuated version of the shooting and the arrest of Timmy Spencer.
‘So you believe the attack on McCartan and his wife was an inside job. Is this Spencer fellow the ringleader or was he just a foot-soldier?’
‘I’m still not sure about that. By the looks of it, he probably provided the key to let the gang get in through the back of the house.’
‘So now he’s above in Mountjoy on a murder charge,’ Dunlop mused. ‘His prospects wouldn’t seem to be very positive, then?’
He motioned to the barman, mouthing the word ‘Jameson.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
Swallow did not offer the journalist any account of his interview with Spencer in his cell or of his claim that McCartan had murdered his housekeeper.
‘Do you know McCartan?’ he asked.
‘I do,’ Dunlop said. ‘He’s a rather opportunistic Parnellite, I’d say. A difficult man. Pressmen find him singularly unhelpful. Aggressive even. And he’s not even a particularly successful barrister. He’s more of a businessman. And his success with that is due to his wife’s money and connections, as I understand it.’
The barman deposited his whiskey on the table.
‘We can talk about this again, if you like,’ Swallow said. ‘What time did you tell Polson to be here?’
Dunlop drew his pocket watch, glanced at the dial and grunted.
‘I said half-nine. He should be here fairly shortly now.’
‘What’s he expecting to hear?’
‘I didn’t show my hand. I just said I’d have the editor’s answer for him. I told him the editor was very interested in the story, which isn’t untrue. If anything, I’d say he thinks we’re going to publish. So he’s in for a bit of a disappointment.’
‘Any doubts or questions about what we’re doing?’ Swallow asked.
‘Not a one. Let’s just get on with it.’
Swallow raised his glass and clinked it against Dunlop’s.
‘Here’s hoping this works, so, Mr Dunlop.’
Almost on cue, Reggie Polson appeared at the door. He glanced around the bar, surveying the tables and the patrons. When he saw Dunlop and Swallow he crossed the room and took a chair between them in the alcove.
‘Inspector Swallow, Mr Dunlop, good evening to you both. You know each other, I gather.’
‘You could say that,’ Swallow told him. ‘For rather a long time. We have a good working relationship, if I may use the term.’
Polson seemed momentarily nonplussed.
‘I should have assumed that. This is a small city. Police and newsmen have to rely on each other in certain circumstances.’
‘We do, indeed, Mr Polson,’ Swallow said. ‘We do. Now may I order you a drink? Scotch and soda, I believe?’
The barman was already on his way across the room with Polson’s order.
He directed a short splash of the syphon into the Scotch.
Polson raised his glass.
‘Thank you, Inspector. That’s kind of you. Now, if you don’t mind, Mr Dunlop and I have some private business to discuss.’
Swallow smiled coldly.
‘Actually, Mr Polson, your business with Mr Dunlop isn’t private any more. It would be more accurate to say now that Mr Dunlop and I have some business with you.’
Polson’s eyes narrowed aggressively.
‘I think you’d better be careful, Swallow.’
‘Oh, I’m being very careful, Mr Polson. Very careful indeed. So careful that I’ve had photographs of you taken with
a hidden police camera, located over there behind the mirror.’
He pointed to the shining glass behind the bar.
Polson flexed in his seat. His eyes darted momentarily to the mirror. But he made no attempt to move.
‘What the devil do you think you’re playing at? I’ve told you I’m here to meet Mr Dunlop. Now clear off, before I’m obliged to make you.’
He drew back his jacket to show the stock of his revolver.
Swallow put his hand to his head to scratch his right ear. It was the signal to Pat Mossop and Johnny Vizzard in the next booth to step out behind Polson. Vizzard jammed the barrel of his Bulldog, covered with a red flannel kerchief so it was not visible to the rest of the bar’s clientele, against the back of his head. Mossop’s left hand went firmly on Polson’s shoulder while his right hand reached over and deftly lifted his weapon from its holster.
‘Now, Mr Polson,’ Swallow said, still smiling, ‘there’ll be no need for any of that kind of talk. Mr Dunlop and I need to explain some things to you.’
The two G-men retreated to their alcove table as Dunlop put a large envelope on the table and pushed it towards Polson.
‘There you are, Mr Polson, or more correctly, Mr Smith. I’m returning your material that you so kindly offered to The Irish Times and I’m telling you that the editor has decided it won’t be published in our columns in any circumstances.’
Swallow leaned across and grasped Polson’s wrist as he reached for the envelope.
‘Or anywhere else.’
‘You’re making a serious mistake, Swallow,’ Polson hissed through clenched teeth. ‘And I hope you’re not doing the same, Mr Dunlop.’
Swallow relaxed his grip on Polson’s wrist.
‘No. You’re the one who’s made the mistake, Mr Smith. I believe that was who you were known as in your time in Madrid? You made the mistake of telling me in your drunken state, here in this bar the last time we met, that you were there last March when Richard Pigott supposedly committed suicide in the Hotel Los Embajadores.’
Polson snorted.
‘I deny it. Casual bar talk. You had a lot of drink taken on that occasion yourself, Swallow. This is nonsense. And my name isn’t Smith. Whoever he is.’
‘I can help you there, Mr Smith, or whatever your real name is,’ Dunlop intervened. ‘You may remember a correspondent in Madrid by the name of Cornelius Clarke. You briefed him on occasion, and drank with him a lot, when you were supposedly an attaché at the British Embassy there, although, of course, the entire press corps knew you were an intelligence agent.’
‘Yes. An Irishman with common sense and loyalty, for a change. It was a pleasure to know him.’
‘You’re not very good at reading people’s loyalties, Polson,’ Swallow said. ‘Cornelius Clarke is a loyal Irishman, like myself. And he will testify that you were at the Hotel Los Embajadores and present when Pigott was shot. And I’ll testify that you told me the same thing here in the Burlington Bar a few days ago. It’s not easy to dismiss the evidence of a distinguished correspondent and the evidence of a senior detective inspector when they’re saying the same thing. You’re looking at a possible murder charge, Mr Polson.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Polson gulped at his Scotch. ‘I was a diplomat. I’ve got absolute immunity for anything I did in Spain.’
‘Well, that’s true,’ Dunlop said. ‘It’s interesting, mind you, that you’re not denying anything. You’re merely saying you can’t be held to account.’
Polson shrugged.
‘Suit yourself.’
‘You can be assured that I will, Mr Polson, and so will my newspaper. We are preparing a series of detailed articles, revealing how a British security agent was involved either directly or indirectly in the murder of Richard Pigott in Madrid. The articles will go on to reveal that, yes indeed, the agent in question, yourself, operated with a pseudonym, under the cover of diplomatic immunity from the British Embassy and that he briefed international correspondents misleadingly and deliberately to the effect that Pigott had taken his own life.’
Polson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Swallow saw the scar on his face make a little twitch.
He realised he was actually enjoying this.
‘I think we’ll all have the same again,’ he intervened cheerfully, raising a hand to the watchful barman.
‘That will just be the first article,’ Dunlop went on. ‘On the second day, we’ll explain to readers why Her Majesty’s government, having promised Richard Pigott a great reward for bringing down Mr Parnell, then authorised its secret agents to silence him. The reason, of course, being that Pigott was going to reveal who it was that set him up to forge the letters supposedly linking Parnell to violence and terrorism. That trail, of course, would lead right back to the Cabinet and maybe even to Lord Salisbury himself. I daresay the government could fall.’
The barman delivered the fresh round of drinks wordlessly.
‘Then, in the third article,’ Dunlop continued enthusiastically, ‘we shall reveal that the agent who was responsible for Pigott’s assassination is currently working in Dublin Castle in the office of the Assistant Under-Secretary for Security, Mr Smith-Berry. We will say that he is working under the name of Reginald Polson but that he has had a number of earlier aliases, stretching back to other murky assignments in Cairo and elsewhere.’
He paused to shoot a jet of soda into his whiskey.
‘Now, of course, each day’s article will be accompanied by a stereotype illustration of this man, Polson, or whatever he calls himself, based on the photographs being taken of you, even as we sit here, by Inspector Swallow’s colleagues on the other side of that two-way mirror behind the bar.’
He tasted his drink.
‘Ah, that’s good. I was never one for soda. I prefer still water. But I must say this is very refreshing.’
‘So,’ he resumed, ‘by the second day of publication, of course, there will be uproar in Westminster. There will be extraordinary pressure on the government, sustained by our many colleagues in Fleet Street who delight in scandal and all its details. They’ll demand an inquiry, of course. I’d expect resignations will be demanded, starting with your boss, Mr Smith-Berry, certainly extending to the Home Secretary and possibly the Prime Minister. You’re going to become quite famous, Mr Polson, or should I say, infamous, if only for a short while. And, clearly, your career in the service of the Crown will be at an end.’
‘Ah, that mightn’t be such a problem, anyway,’ Swallow interjected. ‘Considering how they dealt with poor Pigott once he became a problem, they’ll probably send someone to do much the same to you. So you won’t have to worry about making ends meet for very long. You’ll be dead.’
Polson had paled. He sat silently, staring into his Scotch.
‘You bastards,’ he said finally. ‘What do you want of me?’
Swallow realised he was enjoying it so much that he was tempted to string out Polson’s evident agony for a while longer. But he resisted.
‘I’ll come directly to the point, then, Mr Polson. We want you to help us look after Mr Parnell and to keep him in position for as long as he wants to be the leader of the Irish people and of the Irish Party at Westminster. If we have your assurances on that, I’d venture to say that Mr Dunlop and his editors will be able to find some way of filling those columns with newsprint other than the story of your life and times, illustrated, of course, with your likeness each morning.’
‘Oh, I’d be delighted, I’m sure,’ Polson hissed sarcastically.
‘Good,’ Swallow said. ‘So, there’ll be no more stories going to newspapers or periodicals about Mr Parnell’s private life or about Captain Willie O’Shea and his wife. And there’ll be no more details being passed to journalists about any possible divorce proceedings involving Parnell or O’Shea or Mrs O’Shea. Is that understood?’
Polson nodded without enthusiasm.
‘I understand. I’m a realist. But it’s not possible for me or anyone el
se to prevent O’Shea going ahead with a divorce petition if he wants to. If there’s a petition lodged in the courts, that’ll be a matter of public record and the newspapers will report on it.’
‘That’s undoubtedly true,’ Swallow said gravely. ‘But I have it on good authority that Captain O’Shea won’t move any petition, for the time being anyway. I believe he may have, well, had a bit of good luck and that his immediate financial needs are being met.’
‘If that’s the case,’ Polson said, ‘then you’ve won this round. Believe me, there’s nothing personal in this for me. I don’t give a tinker’s curse about Parnell or O’Shea. I’m just trying to do the job I’m paid for. And inadequately, at that.’
Swallow wondered if Polson was angling for a personal payoff as well. If he was, he was barking up the wrong tree.
‘Now, there’s a couple of other safeguards to this new understanding that we have between us, so I’d just like to explain what these are,’ he said. ‘You might have an idea that you could solve the problem you now face in the same way you dealt with poor Pigott. You might even make arrangements for me, or Mr Dunlop, or even both of us, to meet with, shall we say, some sort of accident.’
Polson swallowed a mouthful of Scotch.
‘Perish the thought that anything untoward should befall either of you.’
‘Quite. So, you need to understand that full copies of what Mr Dunlop was to have published about you are lodged with several sympathetic colleagues of his in various newspaper offices, and not just at The Irish Times. If anything were to happen to him, the material would be in print instantaneously and not just in Dublin either.’
He gestured across the room to where five men had occupied a table shortly after Polson had entered the bar. Even at that distance it was evident that they were not typical of the Burlington’s clientele. Two of them wore cheap trilbies. One had a workman’s cap on his head. Another man sported a loud, checked waistcoat. Another was wearing tight, scarlet trousers, with a glass-studded belt. An improbably bright diamante tie pin glittered on the silk shirt-front of the tall, swarthy man sitting in the centre of the group, nursing what looked like a very large Cognac.