Last Out From Roaring Water Bay
Page 33
“Where else would I have found it? Thailand?”
Deveron was frothing at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve actually seen it?”
“Naturally, since I found it.”
He smiled, seemingly lost in his thoughts. And then he suddenly snapped out of his daydream. “Splendid! Splendid! Tanamoto and the Japanese government will be overwhelmingly ecstatic. You might even become folklore in Japan; an honourable guest of their Country forever.”
“Forget the romantics,” I said. “We need to resolve a few points of interest between us first.”
Deveron’s tinny voice squeaked with excitement. “I can’t wait any longer, Mister Speed. Where does she lay? I have to know.”
“Not until we’ve covered a few facts from the past.”
“Do you never give up?” Deveron said disappointed. “What this time, Mister Speed?”
“What do you know about IRA terrorists assisting the Third Reich during the war?”
“I find that a rather strange enquiry, Mister Speed?”
“Did you know of any?”
“There wasn’t as many as statistics supposedly recorded. Naturally there were those Irishmen who hated the British more than the Germans. But I certainly couldn’t name any of them. I went to fight in the war, don’t forget. After the war finished it didn’t make a damn bit of difference who did what.”
I held up McCracken’s ring in front of his eyes, so he could have a good look at it without fobbing me off. “Seen anything like this before?”
Deveron gasped. It was a good sign that he had. “Good gracious! Where did you get that?”
“You recognize the ring then?”
“I think I do.”
“Then you’ll know all about an active IRA terrorist named, J. McCracken. No doubt he was causing havoc when you were involved in playing with bombs.”
“There is no need to undermine my beliefs at the time, Mister Speed.”
“You’re talking to someone who doesn’t give a frigging toss in your beliefs. Is the name McCracken familiar or not?”
“Was McCracken involved in the disappearance of the I-52?”
“Why am I experiencing problems in getting a simple answer to a simple question? What about McCracken?” I reminded him. “Did you know him?”
“I knew of him. There’s not many disgruntled Irishman who were around in the late thirties who hadn’t heard of Jimmy ‘the merciless’ McCracken, Commanding Officer of the Munster Brigade. Realistically he was nothing but a powerful warlord with big ambitions.”
“World domination I suppose?”
“I hardly think so, Mister Speed. McCracken was a true patriot regardless and his main interest was a free Ireland, not to conquer the world. But he was a controversial character. He never kept to protocol. He did things his way. His contribution to the Cause was to victimize the loyal Irish people who ran shops and businesses, forcing them into paying money for protection. The protection money bought his brigade weapons to fight the British. There were many followers who fought for the Cause who believed McCracken was nothing more than a common racketeer using the backbone of the I.R.A. to fill his pockets with wealth.”
I glanced at Shayna. “There you are, Shayna. Exactly what I told you when we were engaged in riveting conversation back at the farmhouse; terrorists are born racketeers and criminals and nothing more.”
She pulled her tongue out at me which actually made her look childishly cute.
Deveron invaded our private war. “Please can we dispense with this trivial bickering amongst ourselves and concentrate on McCracken.” I waved him his freedom of speech. “There was many an Irishman who saw McCracken as a born murderer and ideally suited for the IRA. His hatred for the British was brutish. He specialized in bombs; big bombs. He liked to listen to the sound of his bombs exploding. He would stay in the vicinity to witness his work. When the Second World War began he defied the agreement amongst the Irish factions for a ceasefire, so the Irish contingency could concentrate on fighting the Germans instead. Most Irishmen didn’t want the Germans on their shores as much as they didn’t want the British. McCracken disagreed with the decision and swore he would slaughter every Irish traitor that fought alongside the British during the war.”
“He sounds like an exciting guy.”
“Not a person I wanted to be around, that was for sure. What has McCracken got to do with the submarine?”
“I think he was part of a hijacking gang that made the I-52 disappear.”
“But how would he know what the Japanese were planning?”
“From the Germans I should imagine.”
Deveron snorted a brief laugh. “Then the rumours were true that McCracken did collaborate with the Third Reich. McCracken hated the British so much that he didn’t care who stood beside him as long as he could continue his fight for freedom. But if he was guilty of intercepting the I-52, then he obviously double-crossed the Germans. Now why doesn’t that surprise me! The conniving rat must have smelled some profitable arrangement.”
“He wanted the gold, obviously.”
“Absolutely no other reason,” Deveron said solidly. “And I’m not surprised that McCracken stamped on German toes, as well as the Irish. Do you know why they called McCracken ‘the merciless’?”
I shrugged, “Because he was a nasty bastard through and through?”
“That’s exactly what he was, Mister Speed. In reality, McCracken practically invented the suicide bomber. He’d prime the bombs to go off the moment the bomb planter set the timer. He killed comrades to gain success. And all because he didn’t want to give the bomb disposal teams any chance to diffuse the situation.”
“So I guess you didn’t rate him highly?”
“I was an Irishman that hated another Irishman purely because he killed innocent Irish people, and that was never part of the campaign for total freedom from British rule.”
“He doesn’t sound welcoming even by his own breed. Where was he originally from?”
Deveron mauled his way through the question. “He was a Corkonian…Is the bastard still alive?”
I shook my head. “Not unless someone else was wearing his ring at the time. He was the victim of a rock fall inside an uncharted cavern beneath the ruins of Dun an Oir.”
“Good heavens above!”
“I thought you’d be pleased that he found his own personal coffin.”
“A cavern, you say? Beneath Dun an Oir. Isn’t that the old fort on Clear Island, the one referred to as the ‘fort of gold’?”
“That’s the one.”
“How ironic he chose that particular place.”
“There was nothing ironic about his choice at all. It was the perfect place and large enough to hide a submarine. The cavern isn’t on any maps or charts, but McCracken knew the location and used it to his advantage when he hijacked the I-52 in 1944. Only his plan backfired. He never anticipated the possibility of the cavern tumbling down onto his frigging head.”
“So the gold’s still there?”
My, “no,” was savagely blunt. I suspected he was treasure hunting again
“Where is it then?”
“How the frigging hell should I know!”
“Do you intend to keep looking for it?”
“Will you continue paying me?”
“If you think you can find the gold?”
“I intend to because if you weren’t responsible for ordering the deaths of my friends, then the guilty bastards are going to come creeping out of their hiding places when I dangle the golden proof under their fat, greedy noses.”
“Such a deep vendetta will be the killing of you, Mister Speed.”
“And do I look like as if I care a frigging toss! Oh, while we’re on the subject of money and wealth and that promise of unlimited expenditure. I’m going to need a substantial amount to replace a fishing vessel that was blown up.”
Deveron’s eyelids widened. “Good gracious, Mister Speed! You’re very clumsy.”
“Dinner, Mister Speed?”
“Thank you for offering. Shayna and I are ravenously hungry. We’ll also be staying for a while. It’s unsafe to return to my hotel due to the probability of awkward police questions or a bullet in the back of my head and I don’t wish to confront either of them at the moment.”
Deveron slowly shook his head. “Dear me, Mister Speed, you have a remarkable knack of landing yourself in despair.”
“Not intentional, I can assure you.”
Chapter Twenty
Deveron protested that I should take Shayna along with me when I informed him that I’d a few things to sort out before I returned to Baltimore to face unknown resistance. I put him firmly in his place and told him I would be conducting my business alone. I never mentioned I was going to Cork City. I didn’t want the cunning sod to have me followed.
I considered that my next line of action was a private matter and would be done with the least of embarrassment to the recipient of my enquiry. That’s if any relatives of the Jimmy McCracken family still lived around Cork.
I parked the Roadster on a pay car park and went in search of the registrar office for birth, deaths and marriages in South Mall. I entered the building and approached the reception desk. I displayed one of my charming and cheeky smiles to the middle aged woman with a face like a Sergeant Major and built just as solid. I explained my predicament, the importance in tracing the whereabouts of the McCracken family, and were there any living relatives still in the area where I could be directed to.
I got a stern look in return and her reply was straightforward and typical of a pompous twit.
“It is against company policy to divulge confidential information to any one unless they have a perfectly good reason or have a direct family connection. Are you a family member? We would require proof of your identity.”
“I have no family connections.” There was no need at this stage to be dishonest as it would serve no useful advantage. I showed her the ring and pointed to the name engraved. “It’s my intention to return this piece of valuable jewellery to the family of the inscribed name.”
She mellowed as she gazed at the sparklers. “Rather expensive looking.”
“I’ve no idea of its true value, just interested in returning it to its rightful owner.”
“I would advise you to contact the local Garda.”
“I don’t think they would be much help on the matter, it’s not exactly a missing person’s case. I would be willing to leave the ring in your custodial safety if you could guarantee it reached the right owner. I’ve no other intentions other than an honourably one.”
I was lying through my teeth. I had niggling questions that I wanted to ask the right McCracken’s
“I’m very sorry, Mister-Ah?”
“Speed, Shackleton Speed.”
“I would like to help, Mister Speed, but I can’t go against company policy. And neither can we accept responsibility for returning property to the rightful owner.”
I’d hit an invisible brick wall in the form of stubbornness and I’d no argument over the matter just because she didn’t know how to flex a rule or two. Our short intimate meeting was cut even shorter when she blanked me to answer the telephone. I made to leave, not wanting to push hard and draw attention to myself, when another receptionist beckoned me over while iron drawers had her back turned.
I got a strong smell of cheap scent when she leaned over the counter. In a whispered voice, and maintaining a constant check that she wasn’t under observation, she said, “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I know a lady by the name of Millie Malloy. Her mother died six months gone. Her mother’s surname was McCracken. She might be able to help. Millie runs a craft shop in Corn market Street.”
*
I was glad to get the information because it meant I hadn’t had a wasted journey. I went straight to Corn Market Street, a tight pedestrian through-fare, all vehicles prohibited. Brightly painted shops gave Corn Market Street a sort of magical avenue. I found Millie’s Crafts, a sea-blue painted shop filled with an assortment of wares. The shop attendant standing behind the counter, a red haired girl with a freckled complexion with a nice smile, was far too young to be the proprietor.
I said, pleasantly, “Could I possibly speak to Millie?”
“She’s in the back baking. Who shall I say wants her?” She spoke with a strong Northern Ireland accent.
“Shackleton Speed. Tell her it concerns a piece of jewellery that I have in my possession which belongs to a member of the McCracken family. I believe Millie’s nee name was McCracken.”
“I’ll only be a moment.”
I nodded my thanks and watched her disappear into the rear of the shop. I hummed a tune to break the boredom while I waited for the girl’s return, thinking how nice it was to be in an area where trust was highly thought of, since I could have quite easily ransacked the shop and till and be on my way in half the time it took her to return from the back.
My quest looked promising when she returned, because she had an inviting smile which indicated that I’d been successful with my request.
“Come through to the parlour, Mister Speed.”
I went behind the counter and followed her through. The smell of freshly baked bread grew stronger as we entered an old fashioned kitchen. The podgy built woman I saw washing her hands in the pot sink had long dark hair lined with wisps of grey and tied back in a ponytail that hung down as far as her lower spine. She wore a white apron over a flowing flowery patterned cotton dress.
She looked directly at me and said, in a soft Irish voice, “Mister Speed is it?”
The suspicion in her tone matched the suspicion distorting her eyebrows. Her grey blue eyes appeared watery. At first I thought she maybe upset, only that notion was soon squandered by the strong whiff of onions that suddenly invaded my nostrils as I approached her.
“Yes. Shackleton Speed, but please, call me Shacks.”
She clinically wiped her hands on a towel and gestured me to the kitchen table. “Please, sit down, Shacks. How can I help?”
I sat, took the ring from my pocket and showed the piece to her in the hope she might recognize it instantly. She didn’t. Her blank expression told me the ring meant nothing to her.
She eased into a chair opposite me. “A very beautiful ring, Shacks. What has it to do with me?” She smiled. She had a nice smile, too. “I’m a little too old for the proposal lark.”
“Better than that, Millie,” I said. “I think this ring belongs to a Jimmy McCracken. I’m led to believe your maiden name was McCracken?”
I was expecting her to start asking a pile of awkward questions on how a complete stranger should have a dossier on her, but she didn’t. If anything she was a little confused by it all.
“Before I married I was a McCracken.”
“Is the name Jimmy McCracken familiar to you?”
She stared at me shell-shocked. She said slowly, deliberately, “My father’s name was Jimmy.”
“Maybe then I’ve found the right place. Does this ring look at all familiar to you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
“And your father; would I be able to speak to him?”
“I haven’t seen my father since I was a child, Shacks.”
“Have you any ides on the whereabouts of your father?”
“No. According to my mother, God bless her soul, he left home one late July morning in 1944 and never returned, deserted us, my mother often reminded me. He hasn’t been seen since. I was a year old when he went. I suspect he went off to fight in the war and was killed in action, that’s why he never returned. Quite frankly I can’t remember him being part of my life at all. There’s a saying: what you don’t have you don’t miss! Of course my mother could have told you more about him, but unfortun
ately, she passed away a short time ago.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“You can’t beat the old age syndrome; the wear and tear. It happens to all of us eventually. What makes you think the ring belonged to my father?”
“I can’t be sure it does, Millie. That’s why I need to know more about his background. If he is the right person, then you’re the rightful heir.”
“How did you come by the ring, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It’s an extremely long and complex story to explain properly. And I’m not sure if I have all the right pieces to fit together to make any sense of it all.”
“If it is my father’s ring, I think I’ve a right to know.”
“In due course, Millie, you will be told everything that you need to know. I promise. You’ll have to trust me. First I need to ask you some questions if that’s all right with you, Millie?”
She smiled. “You have beautiful blue eyes, Shacks. I have a tendency to believe people with blue eyes.” She paused a moment, as if she’s remembered something of importance. “There’s an old trunk upstairs in the attic. It was my mother’s. It’s where she kept all my father’s personal belongings. She couldn’t bear to part with his things. We could start there though I’ve no idea what’s inside the trunk. I’ve never really found the time to look to be truthful.”
“There’s no time like the present.” I prompted.
“You’re right, Shacks. Follow me.”
We climbed two flights of creaking stairway and passed through a small door. She blindly located and flicked on the light switch. The attic was illuminated by two pendants at either end of a spacious well maintained storeroom filled with a collection of bric-a-brac, different sized cardboard boxes, piles of neatly stacked newspapers and the inevitably scary headless corpse that doubled as a seamstress’s dummy you can always find hiding away in any attic.
Millie crossed to the far corner of the room and dragged out a large hand carved wooden trunk. I marvelled at the craftsmanship, such detailed carvings delicately etched into the wood and worth a hefty price in today’s antique market.