Echoland

by Joe Joyce

  It was another beautiful day, the gentle breeze exaggerated by his speed, tempering the heat of the noonday sun. The tide was ebbing from the river and its stench was beginning to rise as the foul grey mudflats were exposed. I should watch my back too, he thought. If Timmy thinks I know where Nuala is it’s not beyond him to get some of his friends to follow me.

  He veered suddenly onto Capel Street Bridge and stopped halfway across it and looked behind him. A couple of cyclists followed him onto the bridge and he watched each of them as they passed by. None of them caught his eye or looked suspicious. This spy business is giving you some queer notions, he imagined his mother’s voice saying. And he couldn’t disagree.

  He rested for a moment, sitting on the saddle, the bicycle propped up by his left foot on the footpath and lit a cigarette. He looked down the Liffey towards the sea, not seeing the view, scarcely registering the train chugging across the loop line bridge, thinking. He came to a decision, topped the half-finished cigarette into the gutter and put it back in his box. He pushed off from the footpath and cycled up Parliament Street and down Dame Street. He went right at the gate of Trinity College and up Nassau Street and turned into Kildare Street.

  He left the bicycle at the entrance to the National Library beside Leinster House and went in. He had to wait twenty minutes to be issued with a reader’s ticket and then climbed the stairs to the reading room where he asked to see the Irish Times for November 1920. He sat at a table with a lectern-like newspaper stand, waiting and watching the clock above him tick forward, becoming more impatient with every minute. This was supposed to be a quick visit, have a look and get back to the office.

  An attendant eventually gave him the newspaper file and he turned it over and began to flick back through the pages from the end of the month. It only took a moment to find it, on page five of the last paper of the month, the report of the Kilmichael ambush that had been in Nuala’s flat and that she or someone else had taken away. ‘Auxiliary Police Ambushed In County Cork’, the headline said. ‘Fifteen Killed, One Wounded, And One Missing’.

  He read down through the report but couldn’t see anything in it that would have explained its importance to Nuala. It was based on British reports that claimed the ambush was carried out by seventy to a hundred IRA men. He looked at the other main report on the page, the military court of inquiry into three IRA men shot while ‘trying to escape’ from Dublin Castle and he read through it quickly and its continuation overleaf. All propaganda, he thought, both of the reports. But that was hardly the reason Nuala had them. He glanced at the other reports on the two pages. They were a collection of weekend incidents: an RIC constable shot dead in Cappoquin; a district inspector recovering from wounds in Galway; an insane asylum inmate shot dead by the military in Clare; firebombs in Liverpool; more shootings; searches, arrests; letters to the editor; parliamentary reports.

  He sighed and handed back the file at the desk. He didn’t have time to go through every item in detail. It had taken more than an hour and a half and he was no wiser at the end of it. Nothing had leapt out at him. Whatever it was that Nuala was interested in was not apparent to him.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Captain McClure demanded when he walked into the office.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Duggan reddened. ‘I was following a hunch but—’

  ‘I’ve let you have a very loose rein. Don’t abuse it.’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘Well, you have justified my faith in you so far,’ McClure relented. ‘Get a car and drive me to Dublin Castle. Things are happening.’

  Shit, Duggan thought, knowing better than to ask what, and went to get the keys of a car. He sat into the driver’s seat and had the engine running when McClure got into the passenger seat.

  ‘Your Miss Kelly has just had a meeting with Goertz,’ McClure said as a sentry at the gate raised the barrier for them.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sullivan followed her into Bewley’s Café on Grafton Street where she met another woman of her own vintage. They chatted for a while and then the other woman left and a man arrived and joined her. Had a cherry bun and a coffee.’

  ‘It’s Goertz?’

  ‘Sullivan is certain. Says it’s the man you followed from Hempel’s house.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Duggan overtook a horse and cart and sped by the Four Courts. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Sullivan followed him to a house in Raglan Road in Ballsbridge.’

  ‘He’s still there?’

  ‘As far as we know. We’ve got some more men there now, covering the front and back.’

  ‘We’re going to move in?’

  ‘We’re going to plan this one properly,’ McClure said with a hint of steel. ‘We don’t want any more fuck-ups with this fellow.’

  ‘Right.’ Duggan slowed to a stop at the top of Capel Street, waiting for a couple of bicycles to pass on the other side before turning onto the bridge.

  ‘Drop me outside the Castle,’ McClure said as they went up Parliament Street. ‘I’m going to talk to the Superintendent. Make sure they don’t move in until we know everything there is to know about this house, who owns it and who’s in there.’

  Duggan slowed again as they came down Dame Street and pulled into the kerb outside the Olympia Theatre.

  ‘I want you to go to that stakeout place you have on Merrion Square,’ McClure said. ‘Sullivan should be back there, debrief him fully. Find out everything.’

  ‘You know about the post box he discovered this morning?’

  ‘Just briefly,’ McClure said.

  Duggan told him what they had found and the shopkeeper’s theory that the woman might have a relative who was a prisoner of war.

  ‘That might be interesting if she wasn’t meeting Oberleutenant Goertz,’ McClure said. ‘This puts a whole different complexion on what she’s up to. I think you might have found the key that unravels this whole thing.’

  He opened the door and paused with one leg out. ‘What was your hunch?’

  ‘Oh,’ Duggan blustered. ‘It was … nothing. Stupid.’

  McClure looked at him and Duggan felt himself redden, guilt all over his face. Oh, Christ, he thought. ‘You’re doing well. Keep it up,’ McClure said. He stepped out, banged the door shut and slapped the roof of the car twice.

  Duggan let out a breath with the clutch and drove down Dame Street. Jesus, he thought, if McClure ever finds out what I’ve been up to he’ll skin me alive. And it was too late to tell him anything about it now. It’d only beg the question of why I didn’t tell him earlier.

  He parked the car in Merrion Square, opposite Leinster House and well away from Sinéad’s office. He walked the rest of the way, trying to think through all the threads of the Harbusch story, or maybe it was really the Kitty Kelly story. Was she just a go-between, a central communication point, or something more? What if she was the master or mistress spy? It didn’t seem possible. Such a harmless looking old woman, just like everyone’s grandmother.

  ‘Well, well,’ Sinéad said as he stopped at her doorway. ‘Do we have to stand up and salute?’

  ‘At ease,’ he smiled. ‘Don’t mind what all those begrudgers say.’

  ‘I’m not making tea anymore for all that lot,’ she said.

  ‘What lot?’

  ‘That lot up there,’ she raised a thumb at the ceiling. ‘They’re coming and going all day. The place is beginning to smell up there. I’ve told them they can make their own tea if they want to.’

  Duggan didn’t know what she was talking about.

  ‘Petey says it’s all your fault, upsetting our little …’

  ‘Little what?’

  ‘Love nest,’ she looked away, embarrassed. ‘You know what he’s like, Petey.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Duggan laughed. ‘I know what he’s like.’

  The switchboard beside her buzzed and she put on her headphones and raised her eyes to heaven as she said an exaggerated, ‘Yes, sir, immediately sir.’ She dialled a number,
shoved in a plug and said, ‘Ringing for you now,’ and added another exaggerated ‘sir.’

  Duggan leaned against the door jamb and gave her an inquiring look.

  ‘That’s them,’ she said, as she took off the headphones. ‘They’ve run an extension from the boss’s office up to your little room. He’s not a bit happy about it, the boss. Even more crotchety than usual.’

  She glanced quickly at the switchboard in case someone might’ve heard her.

  ‘I didn’t know we’d gone into full … active service mode,’ Duggan said.

  ‘At least you washed your face this morning,’ she gave him a sly smile.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your bandage is looking the worse for wear.’

  He fingered it and could feel it curling at the edges.

  ‘I’ll give you a new one,’ she got up and led him into the kitchen. He sat down by the table while she got out the first aid box and then pulled the old bandage off with a quick tug. He winced.

  ‘How’d you not notice that when you were shaving?’ she dangled the bedraggled bandage before his eyes. ‘Maybe you haven’t started shaving yet.’

  ‘Hah,’ he laughed and jutted his chin out. ‘Feel that.’

  She ran her index finger along his jaw line and raised an eye at him and smiled.

  ‘Maybe I don’t need another one,’ he said as she began to cut a strip off the roll. ‘Be less conspicuous without it.’

  She examined the dark bruise on his face and pursed her lips. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll leave it.’

  She rolled up the bandages and put them back in their box. ‘D’you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks. I better go up and see what they’re doing up there.’

  She’s right, he thought as soon as he opened the door. It was beginning to smell, like a changing room after a match, a mixture of sweat and cigarette smoke. As well as Sullivan and Gifford there were four others there he didn’t know. Special Branch men, he thought. They were all older, tougher looking. One was holding a phone, another two were reading newspapers, leaning against the wall, their jackets off, revolvers exposed.

  ‘Attention,’ Gifford shouted as he came in. One of the others glanced up at Duggan and snorted. Gifford shook his head and said to Duggan, ‘No respect. The help you get these days.’

  The fourth and oldest Branch man leaned back in the only chair in the room and swiped his hand at Gifford’s head. ‘Fuck up,’ he said, as Gifford ducked.

  ‘Say no more,’ Gifford rolled his eyes.

  No point trying to talk to Sullivan here, Duggan decided. ‘We’ve got to report back,’ he said to him, indicating the door.

  As Sullivan followed him towards the door, Duggan indicated with a nod of his head to Gifford to follow them. He went out, unsure if Gifford had got the message.

  He led Sullivan downstairs and asked Sinéad if they could use the boardroom on the ground floor. ‘Of course, general,’ she smiled sweetly.

  Duggan sat at one side of the mahogany table and Sullivan went to the other. ‘Not bad looking,’ he said as he pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Your man Gifford says you have a thing about her.’

  ‘He has a thing about her.’

  ‘Ah,’ Sullivan said with an air of satisfaction. ‘A little bit of competition. I hope you’re winning. Don’t let the side down.’

  Duggan shook his head as the door opened and Gifford came in and sat down at the head of the table. Sullivan looked surprised and glanced at Duggan.

  ‘What was that you were saying about the more subtle methods of the police?’ Duggan asked Gifford.

  ‘Ah don’t mind them,’ Gifford laughed. ‘They’re just the muscle. You don’t need a sledgehammer to break down doors with them around. Just tell them there’s raw meat inside and they’ll go through the door head first.’ He looked at Sullivan and said by way of explanation. ‘Culchies.’

  ‘Okay,’ Duggan said to Sullivan, ‘tell us all about it.’

  ‘Want to know what she had with her tea?’

  Duggan nodded. ‘Everything.’

  Sullivan went through his morning following Kitty Kelly to Mass in Westland Row church, then across the road to the newsagent and asking if there was anything for her.

  ‘How was the shopkeeper with her?’ Gifford intervened.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Sullivan asked, looking at Duggan as if seeking his support for a refusal to answer his questions. Duggan ignored him.

  ‘Was he friendly? Did he seem to know her well?’

  Sullivan shrugged. ‘Just the usual. Another lovely day missus. Great weather we’re having. That sort of—’

  ‘He called her missus?’

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ Sullivan admitted. ‘It was just that kind of talk. You know what I mean.’ He paused and thought about it for a moment. ‘No, he didn’t call her missus. Then she asked him if anything had arrived yet. He said, no, not yet. And she bought a paper and left.’

  ‘Which paper?’ Gifford asked.

  ‘The Irish Press.’ He paused, waiting for another question.

  ‘Then what?’ Duggan prompted him.

  ‘Then she went back home, to her flat. And I came back here and reported to the captain. And about half an hour later she went out again. Walked down to Grafton Street and went into Bewley’s.’

  ‘Did she see you follow her?’ Duggan asked.

  ‘No. She never looked back.’

  ‘But she saw you in the shop?’

  ‘I don’t think so actually. We were both standing at the counter. She never looked at me.’

  ‘But she left before you?’

  Sullivan nodded.

  ‘So she would’ve turned and passed by you?’

  Sullivan looked at Gifford as if to say, what is this?

  ‘And she could have had a good look at you then? Without you seeing her do it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sullivan conceded.

  ‘It’s just that we probably need someone else on her now. Can’t take any chances.’

  ‘I already suggested that to the captain,’ Sullivan said. ‘He’s trying to find some more bodies to take over.’ They waited for him to continue. ‘She went to one of the tables at the back of Bewley’s, sat facing the stained glass window, her back to the room. A few minutes later another old woman came in and joined her, sat down on the bench opposite and they got a pot of tea.’

  ‘What did she look like?’ Duggan asked.

  ‘Another old woman,’ Sullivan shrugged. ‘White hair, small, a bit bent. She had a walking stick. Moved slowly. A bit of a limp. They nattered away for a while.’

  ‘Seemed to know each other well?’ Gifford interjected.

  ‘Yeah. Then the other woman got up and left and I thought that was it. I was trying to catch the waitress’s eye and pay for my coffee, get ready to go, when I saw your man Goertz come in. I thought it was a coincidence, that he just happened to come into Bewley’s at the same time. But then he walks over to your woman and sits on the bench where the other woman had been. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.’

  ‘You’re sure it was him?’ Duggan asked.

  ‘As sure as you are,’ Sullivan retorted. ‘It was the fellow you followed from Hempel’s house. You said he was Goertz.’

  ‘Seemed to know each other well, too?’ Gifford interjected again.

  ‘Not as well as the two women, I’d say. He had a coffee and a cherry bun. Cut it into four pieces. She seemed to do most of the talking. I couldn’t see her face but he spent a lot of time listening, eating the bun. Very slow, deliberate movements. Didn’t do much talking. Then when he was finished he stood up, bowed a little to her and walked out right by my table. He was as near to me as you. I could’ve got up and grabbed him.’

  Gifford laughed. ‘Maybe you should’ve. Saved us all a lot of trouble.’

  ‘But he might’ve been armed and I wasn’t,’ Sullivan said. ‘Where would I’ve been then.’

  ‘Dead,’ Gifford said
, flat-toned.

  ‘So you followed him,’ Duggan dragged them back on track.

  ‘Up Grafton Street, along Stephen’s Green, down Baggot Street, all the way to Raglan Road.’

  ‘He didn’t see you?’

  ‘Never looked back. Anyway I kept well back.’

  ‘He didn’t stop anywhere?’

  ‘No. Kept going. Not too fast, businesslike.’

  ‘Was there anyone watching his back?’

  ‘What?’ Sullivan said.

  ‘Anyone looking after him. You know what I mean?’ Duggan shrugged.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Sullivan paused. ‘Jaysus I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.’

  ‘I thought you lads had three hundred and sixty degree vision,’ Gifford smirked, ‘and could see in the dark too.’

  The other two ignored him. ‘I had to keep back even further when we got to the end of Baggot Street. There were very few people on the footpath and I had to run up to the corner when he turned into Raglan Road. Just in time to see him going into a driveway.’

  ‘Then what?’ Duggan prompted.

  ‘Then, I decided I needed help, so I had to go back to Baggot Street to find a phone and called the office. The captain told me to try and keep a discreet eye on the house and wait till we got some more people there. I went back but didn’t go into Raglan Road, just kept an eye on it from Pembroke Road. He didn’t come out of the house again. That’s it.’

  ‘Who’s there now?’ Duggan asked Gifford.

  ‘A couple of lads. Covering front and back.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Sullivan asked.

  ‘Wait.’ Duggan said.

  ‘We’ll have a cup of tea,’ Gifford got up.

  Nothing moved on Pembroke Road as the dawn crept up, sweeping it clean with the fresh light of the new day. They had the car windows open and the excited chatter of birds filled the cool air. Duggan was in the driver’s seat, McClure beside him, watching the group of men standing at the corner of Raglan Road about fifty yards ahead of them. One of the men left the group and walked towards them and Duggan recognised the Superintendent in full uniform. He went around the bonnet to McClure’s window.