The Dog It Was That Died

by H. R. F. Keating

  Etain looked at the thin gold watch on the velvety whiteness of her wrist.

  ‘It’s late,’ she said. ‘He’ll be safely tucked up in his bed. But if you want to see him I can get hold of him easy enough at the Department of External Affairs in the morning and fix up somewhere for you to meet.’

  ‘Can it be early?’

  Etain smiled up at him from the floor.

  ‘I’ll make it as early as he can possibly get away,’ she said. ‘Does that satisfy you?’

  Roger smiled down at her.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll calm down till morning.’

  Etain got up. Bending forward and putting her weight on the outspread fingers of one hand.

  ‘And I must be off,’ she said. ‘Or I’ll miss the last bus.’

  ‘Off?’

  ‘Yes, off home. To my parents. You didn’t think I was going to stay here, did you?’

  Roger looked shamefaced.

  Etain smiled. A glint of humour in the wide almond eyes.

  ‘I have a bag packed,’ she said. ‘And Mammy is expecting me. She likes me to spend the night once in a while.’

  ‘I – I’ll see you to the bus.’

  ‘No, you’d better not. There might be complications about getting back in.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘No, honestly, I’ll be quite all right. I know my way around here dark or light.’

  She went out of the cosy little sitting-room leaving the door ajar. Roger watched her hoick her coat off one of the pegs. He hurried out to help her on with it, but she had hunched into it before he could get there. He straightened the collar for her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m always finding I’ve left it half up all the way to work or something.’

  He stood watching her while she dipped into the bedroom and caught hold of a small overnight case.

  ‘I must rush,’ she said, ‘or I really will miss the bus. My watch is none too good.’

  ‘It’s eleven eight exactly.’

  ‘Sure, it must be marvellous to know. And that means I’m in fine time. Make yourself at home, now, won’t you? You’ll find everything you want. Cook yourself a decent breakfast, mind.’

  She whirled out.

  He looked at her going down the stairs in the orangeish light.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to see you to the bus stop?’

  ‘Quite sure. Good night so.’

  ‘Good night.’

  Just after nine next morning she telephoned to tell Roger that she had already arranged a meeting with Fergus Peck.

  ‘But what did you tell him I wanted to see him about, for heaven’s sake?’ Roger asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean “nothing”? Surely, he wouldn’t go out of his way to see someone he scarcely knows for no reason at all?’

  ‘That’s just what he would do. It’s his weakness. I mean he’s a terribly hard worker and all that and he has the patience of a saint, but if you tell him he’ll hear something to his advantage he’ll go miles just to find out what it is.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Roger, ‘has he often been back to the School since he left? You seem to know him well.’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s always dropping in for a gossip.’

  ‘And you say he’ll be in O’Brien’s Bar at eleven.’

  ‘He will.’

  Roger left the flat as quickly as he could. It had occurred to him that already the Bosun’s plans might have been thrown out by his not attempting to get to his own flat the night before. But he found Collins back on guard again. The exhausted evening paper had been replaced by a morning one. Already this was looking much the worse for wear.

  Roger thought of Cuchulain in his kennel room. He would be hungry by now, and puzzled. But he would scarcely be suffering much. If by the end of the morning the Bosun learnt that his Infiltraitor had been found out, Cuchulain might yet eat his evening meal in peace. In any case there was always the R.S.P.C.A.

  As the clocks struck eleven Roger was outside O’Brien’s Bar just off Grafton Street. As he turned to go in, in one of the old, blotched and distorting mirrors on either side of the door he saw the man in the black overcoat who had taken over the guard outside his flat from Collins.

  It must have been the purest coincidence that he was there because at the very moment that Roger recognized the burly figure with the curly brimmed black bowler hat the man obviously noticed him. He gave a start of surprise and was on the point of. stepping into the road to cross when a wild car shooting by stopped him.

  Roger looked along the street. It was possible that he could run off and contrive to lose his pursuer somewhere. He looked into the bar through the half-open door. There sitting quietly at a marble-topped table was Fergus Peck.

  He would not come a second time to hear something to his advantage.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Roger entered the bar.

  The long, narrow room was sombre, its walls heavily panelled in mahogany broken up here and there with a cardboard advertisement faded to a misty grey. The bar itself ran along the whole length of the room, a single slab of pinkish polished granite. Opposite was a long bench too narrow to sit on in comfort. Here and there along its length were little round marble-topped tables at one of which Fergus Peck was sitting fiddling with a small glass of pale, pale sherry.

  At the very far end of the bar, where an almost totally obscure notice pointed to a hidden telephone, a solitary crushed-looking man leant heavily against the pinkish granite and drank greedily at a whiskey. Near the door two other men were in earnest conversation.

  ‘Ah sure,’ said one to the other, ‘it’s no good trying to do business without a jar at all.’

  ‘Sure, wasn’t I just after saying the same thing meself?’ his friend replied. ‘Wasn’t I after saying that if Charlie Doyle and I have a quiet drink this whole thing can be settled without any trouble at all?’

  Roger let the heavy door thump to behind him. He turned and looked through the clear lettering which broke up the thick opaque glass panel in the top of the door. He could see the man in the long black overcoat quite easily. He was standing on the far side of the road looking at the frontage of the bar with ponderous reflection.

  Suddenly he turned and entered a small café nearly opposite. For a moment Roger was at a loss. Then he saw the sign outside the café proclaiming that it, like O’Brien’s Bar, was equipped with a telephone.

  He calculated that he would have a few minutes at least to talk to Fergus Peck without interruption.

  He walked down the bar until he got to the round marbletopped table with its load of a single glass of palest sherry.

  ‘Hello, Mr Peck,’ he said.

  Fergus Peck looked up with interest.

  He had a round face with a fuzz of prematurely greying hair sticking up a little on either side. His two large limpid eyes were separated by a small beaky nose. He wore a bowtie, blue with very small white spots.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Farrar. Etain Bloom said you would meet me here.’

  He bobbed to his feet.

  ‘What can I get you to drink?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Roger. ‘Let me get you another of those. What is it?’

  Fergus looked down at the three-parts-full glass of pale amber liquid.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s a bit unusual for me, but perhaps I will. It’s their extra dry sherry. It’s very good.’

  A secret confided.

  Roger crossed to the bar. The solitary mournful curate behind it drifted up to him.

  ‘Two of your extra dry sherries,’ Roger said.

  ‘Extra dry it is,’ said the curate.

  He set two glasses briskly on the variegated pink surface of the bar, took a bottle from the shelf behind him and poured with great meticulousness two thin streams of the pallid liquid until each glass was full to within one eighth of an inch of the brim. He replaced the bottle, took a couple of steps along the bar, leant on it with one
elbow and squinted carefully at the two glasses. He pursed his lips, and at last gave a quick nod of self-congratulation.

  ‘Two and sixpence,’ he said.

  Roger took the glasses hastily back to the little round table in front of Fergus. Time was slipping by.

  He sat down on the uncomfortable narrow bench.

  ‘Well, cheers,’ he said.

  ‘Cheers.’

  Fergus took a tiny sip.

  He put the glass back on the table and turned to Roger. With expectation.

  ‘I wanted to have a chat with you,’ Roger began.

  Fergus turned his round face with the beaky little nose in the middle of it away. He concentrated on looking at his glass.

  ‘I’ve been trying to find out,’ Roger went on, ‘exactly what work it was that Eric Smith was doing at the time of his death.’

  Fergus sat very still. It was difficult to see in the dimness of the bar but it looked as if a slow faint blush was suffusing the smooth face and creeping up to the point of the beaky nose.

  Quickly Fergus took up the first glass of pale, pale amber liquid and plunged into it. The level fell and fell until the glass was emptied.

  ‘Eric Smith,’ Fergus said, choking slightly, ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I knew nothing about the technical side of what went on at the School, you see. And in any case it’s a long time now since I was there. I’m just off to the United Nations, you know.’

  Roger laid a hand on the fine tweed of Fergus’s quiet suit.

  ‘But not just for a few minutes,’ he said.

  Fergus laughed. Rather shrilly.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I meant in a month or so.’

  He turned and looked full at Roger. Certainly his colour was higher. But then he had just drained a certain amount of sherry in a single gulp.

  ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘I thought you wanted to tell me something. Not to ask me things.’

  Roger shook his head, sadly.

  ‘I’m afraid you must have got hold of the wrong end of the stick,’ he said. ‘I wanted to ask you about Eric. I understand you haven’t completely broken off your contacts with the School.’

  Fergus looked at his second glass of sherry. Roger took his eyes off him for an instant and glanced quickly at the door. No one.

  ‘Oh, but I have,’ Fergus said. ‘I’ve left the School, you know. Left completely.’

  ‘But you still call in,’ said Roger implacably. ‘I’ve seen you myself. What were you doing there?’

  Fergus reached for his glass and sniffed at it hastily.

  He smiled. With effort.

  ‘I – I was just paying a visit there, I expect,’ he said. ‘I mean I have friends there. I was there a number of years, you know. What did you think I was doing?’

  ‘I thought you might be keeping an eye on things,’ said Roger.

  Another quick glance at the door. Still all clear.

  ‘I thought you might be interested in what people were doing. People like Eric, for instance.’

  ‘No,’ said Fergus sharply.

  He took a little swig of sherry.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t the least idea what Smith was doing.’

  ‘Oh come,’ Roger said, ‘you knew he was a psychologist, didn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But surely that was simply common knowledge.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t common knowledge to me. To tell you the truth I knew there was something slightly mysterious about both of you two, and I made a point of knowing nothing about either of you.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Roger, ‘you knew there was something mysterious about Eric and me. What was that?’

  ‘I tell you I know nothing about either of you. It was simply said to me by Professor O Nuallain when you were first appointed that there would be no need for inquiries about your backgrounds. And that was enough for me, quite enough.’

  Roger took a sip of his sherry. It was very dry and light. It felt almost as if it would volatilize away if it was breathed on too heavily.

  He leant back.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘do you come to this bar often?’

  Fergus looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘I’ve been here before,’ he said.

  Grudgingly.

  ‘Then you can tell me. Is there a back way out through there where it says the telephone is?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think there is. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I was just wondering.’

  Roger took another long sip of sherry. He looked over the top of his glass at the main door. Behind it he detected the black shape of a burly form surmounted by the smooth roundness of a bowler hat.

  ‘This is excellent sherry,’ he said.

  Fergus looked at him cautiously.

  ‘It suits my taste,’ he admitted.

  They each took a reverential sip.

  The two men standing at the bar finished their confidential conversation.

  ‘Great gas, great gas,’ said the first.

  ‘Then it’s a deal, John,’ the second said quickly.

  ‘Ah, sure, it’s a deal. Let’s have a ball of malt to confirm it.’

  ‘Ah, I’d like to, I’d like to. But duty calls, duty calls. I have to see himself before the Dail meets, the old chancer that he is.’

  ‘Ah, you do, you do. Well, good luck so.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  They opened the glass-panelled door wide. The towering black pillar of respectability was standing solemnly directly outside.

  Waiting.

  Roger looked at the dark end of the bar where the notice pointed to the telephone.

  A moment’s calculation.

  He turned to Fergus Peck again.

  ‘We’ll have another,’ he said.

  ‘No, no. Not for me, if you don’t mind. I should be getting back to my office. There’s a terrible amount of work to be done and I’m off to the United – Oh, but I think I mentioned that. But let me get you one.’

  ‘No, thank you all the same,’ Roger said. ‘I think this will do me. I must be toddling myself in another moment or two.’

  Fergus smiled.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s been pleasant seeing you.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger.

  He glanced at the door again. It looked as if the black form on the far side of it was gathering himself up for action.

  Roger rose to his feet.

  Fergus bounced up and began briskly putting on his coat.

  Suddenly Roger sat down again.

  ‘There was one other thing I meant to ask you,’ he said.

  Fergus looked down at him apprehensively.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Just how well do you know Bosenwite?’

  Fergus’s mouth opened twice. A surprised fledgling.

  There was a long silence.

  Roger looked at the door. The watcher had his hand on it.

  ‘Bosenwite,’ said Fergus at last. ‘I don’t think I know anybody called that.’

  ‘Not Professor William Bosenwite, director of the Institute for Human Relations, Leeds?’

  ‘No. No, I’m certain I don’t know him.’

  A declaration upon oath.

  ‘That’s funny,’ Roger said. ‘I thought someone told me that you had expressed a great admiration for him.’

  He looked steadily at Fergus. He sensed that the bar door was slowly opening.

  ‘Well, I don’t know him. I don’t know him at all. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my office.’

  A distinct paddy.

  Fergus almost ran towards the heavy swinging door. He reached it at the moment that the black pillar of respectability had definitely entered the bar. He brushed past him and pushed furiously at the door. He caught it at just the wrong moment as it was at the fastest point of its swing towards him. It threw him half off balance. With a little shriek of anger he barged full at it and shot out into the street.

  The pillar of respectability stood f
or a moment in amazement.

  Roger seized his chance. He strode quickly towards the dark back of the bar where the dingy notice pointed to the telephone and escape.

  He had taken only two steps when the diminutive figure of Collins and the floating bulk of the Bosun loomed up out of the gloom in front of him.

  He swung round wildly and ran full tilt towards the still swinging main door. The pillar of respectability took half a pace forward and put out his arms in a gesture of entreaty. Roger ran past him. At the last moment the man made a clutch at his coat. But Roger had got to the door. He caught hold of its brass handle and swung violently round on it. His coat came free. With a wild jerk he hurtled out.

  One or two passers-by looked curiously at him, but he dodged round them and set off at a good run into Grafton Street and away up towards Stephen’s Green.

  After a minute he looked over his shoulder. The Bosun, Collins and the tall man were in full pursuit. The little stable lad was dodging nimbly through the shoppers and seemed to be progressing faster than he was himself. The pillar of respectability was making a better showing than his rather feeble effort in O’Brien’s Bar had indicated would be likely. But he was handicapped by a tendency to apologize to people for brushing past them. The Bosun slowed to a walk as Roger looked back and began shouting for a taxi.

  Roger ran across the road as soon as he got to the Green and entered the big iron gates. There was enough cover in the various clumps of bushes in the big gardens to give some hope of dodging the nippy Collins, and it was always safer to neutralize the directing intelligence of the Bosun. Cruising round the Green in a taxi he would be little help to his hirelings.

  Roger ran as fast as he could towards the centre of the little park, looking from side to side for a patch of shrubbery where he could take cover. A fiercely throbbing stitch developed in his left side.

  He slowed almost to a stop and, to give himself a moment’s unwasted respite, turned round to see how far off his pursuers still were.

  A shock of fear swept coldly over him. Less than twenty yards away running strongly towards him was the towering man in the long black coat. Clear of the buffeting of the crowds in the street he had put on a remarkable turn of speed. He ran with curious smoothness, holding himself very upright and scarcely moving his arms as if he had been put on wheels.