At eight o’clock he walked up the train, stopping only to check his appearance in one of the toilets. Not too bad for such a dissolute life, he told himself.
They were in the middle of the crowded dining car, the priest facing forward.
“Mr. McColl,” she greeted him warmly. “Won’t you join us? You’ve met Father Meagher.”
“Father,” McColl said, taking the seat next to him. The priest had a mouthful of toast and looked more surprised than annoyed. “How was your stay in California?” McColl asked him jovially once his order had been taken. “Were you on vacation?”
Father Meagher wiped his lips with a napkin while considering his answer. “I was on vacation, yes. Seeing old friends.” He looked at McColl for the first time. “You’re on a working trip, I understand. Miss Hanley tells me you’re a salesman.”
McColl managed to look a trifle aggrieved. “I represent a British automobile manufacturer,” he conceded.
“And now you’re on your way home?”
“On the way, yes. I have some business in New York, but then I take ship, I’m glad to say. I’ve already been away from my wife and children for far too long,” he added, trying to look as if he meant it. “I miss them a great deal.”
“As you should, sir.”
“Indeed,” McColl agreed, knife and fork poised above his omelet. “Though I have to say that on my travels I meet many men who seem to feel differently, who are only too ready—how should I say this?—to abuse the trust of those left at home.” Caitlin, he noticed, was keeping a straight face with some difficulty, but Father Meagher was nodding his agreement. “As a man of the cloth,” McColl went on, “you must be only too aware of human frailty.”
The priest nodded some more. “Too much so, I sometimes think. But I suppose it’s an occupational hazard. What man confesses his good deeds?”
McColl smiled sympathetically. “It must be dispiriting sometimes.”
“Sometimes. Miss Hanley tells me you’re from Scotland.”
“From Glasgow. My father’s parents came over from Donegal in 1851, so I’m half Irish really.”
“So you’re a Catholic, then?”
“I am,” McColl declared, rather too glibly for his own good. He hoped he wouldn’t be tested on doctrine.
“Well, I’m pleased to meet you,” the priest said before drinking the last of his coffee. “Now, Caitlin, what are you doing today?”
“I have some writing to do. And you?”
“Well, I know I could do with a haircut. And then perhaps some reading. But I can meet you for lunch at one o’clock.”
“That suits me,” she said, “but this evening I think I’ll take dinner in my compartment. The noise of the train kept me awake until dawn, and I’m sure I’ll want to retire early tonight.”
“That suits me.” Father Meagher said. “I’m sure I can find a bridge game to while away the time. Now, Mr. McColl, if you’d just let me out …”
McColl watched the priest exit through the vestibule door. “So,” he said, sitting back down, “am I included in the early night?”
“Of course,” she said, taking his hand. “But I really do have a piece to finish this morning. Let’s meet up this afternoon.”
“In the observation car,” he suggested. “I’ve more or less taken up residence there.”
And that was where he spent the morning, watching the desert slide by and considering his next move. He needed to search through Father Meagher’s compartment, but when would be the best time? Not when the priest was in it, obviously. Not when he might return at any moment. And not when someone else might witness the break-in. An ex-burglar on Cumming’s payroll had taught him the art of picking locks—it was almost the only training he’d had—but it wasn’t something one could manage in an instant.
There were more people walking up and down the train during the day, so there’d be less chance of his being seen at the door in question after dinner. So midevening, he decided, while the father was playing cards. And it would have to be today—he couldn’t risk leaving it for the final night, when there might not be a similar opportunity.
Caitlin, though, was a potential problem. He would need an excuse for leaving her company and would have to make sure she didn’t hear him moving around in Father Meagher’s compartment. Tiredness, he decided, would do for the first, and it might well turn out to be true. The second he would just have to manage.
He made do with a snack in the club car for lunch and returned to his post in time to enjoy the twelve-mile crossing of the Great Salt Lake. The train had a lengthy stop in Ogden, the connection for Salt Lake City, and he took the opportunity for some exercise, walking the length of the platform as he smoked a cigarette. It was bitterly cold, and by the time he reached the locomotives, he was hugging and shaking himself to generate warmth.
When he got back to the observation car, she was there, talking to one of the few children on the train, a boy of ten or eleven. “Marty here tells me that we’ll soon be seeing the Devil’s Slide and the Thousand Mile Tree,” she told McColl.
“And what are they?” he asked the boy.
“The Devil’s Slide is like a huge playground slide,” Marty explained. “On the side of a mountain. It’s hundreds of feet long.”
“And the tree?”
“That’s a funny accent you’ve got,” Marty decided.
“I’m Scottish. What about the tree?”
“It’s just a pine tree, but it’s exactly a thousand miles from Omaha. That’s where they started building the line.”
“Okay. And how long do we have to wait?”
“About half an hour after Ogden, the conductor told me.”
It passed quickly, the valley narrowing as the train climbed away from the desert. Marty seemed starved of conversation—he was traveling with his mother—and eager to talk about almost anything. He told them his father was a soldier and currently in Europe attending a conference that he wasn’t allowed to write home about, in case his letters were intercepted. The boy’s father thought there would be a war in Europe, because the Europeans all distrusted each other. But the United States would keep out of it, because these days Europe didn’t really matter to Americans. “I’m sorry about that,” Marty apologized to McColl.
“Don’t mention it,” McColl told him.
The tree, when it appeared, was disappointingly small, the slide exactly as Marty had described it. He insisted on shaking their hands when he left—his mother, he said, would be wondering where he was.
“Will there be a war, do you think?” Caitlin asked McColl.
He shrugged. “Who knows?”
She wasn’t to be put off. “I just can’t believe it could happen. Not in today’s world.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, so many reasons. Who would hope to benefit, for God’s sake? Businessmen would know that their profits would be slashed, and the workers would know they were risking their lives for someone else’s profit. Why would they fight? Why would German workers agree to kill French workers?”
“They always have.”
“In the past, yes, but now there are organizations like the Second International to put the case for peace and solidarity.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“But you don’t think I am.”
“I don’t know.”
She was silent for a few moments. “You know what war’s really like, don’t you? You should be out there telling people.”
He gave her a wry smile. “I know what mine was like. But no one would listen if I tried to tell them. Any more than I would have done. Old men desperate to leave their mark and young men lusting after glory—it’s a marriage made in heaven.”
“Or hell.”
“Yes.” He had a sudden mental picture of the Indian from Spion Kop. “Have you heard of an Indian named Mohandas Gandhi?”
“Of course—he’s the leader of the protests in South Africa. Why?”
“I met him once, duri
ng the war there. He’s famous these days, but back then he served in the Ambulance Corps. He was one of the men who helped carry me down off a mountain when I was injured. We talked for hours, or rather he did—I could hardly breathe, let alone talk. He seemed so positive about everything. I was still half convinced I was going to die, and he just took it for granted that I was going to live. I often think about him.”
“As an inspiration?”
“Yes, I suppose so. It would be better if men like that were running the world.” He shrugged. “But they’re not.”
“All right,” she said. “But people do evolve. We did get rid of slavery, and women will get the vote. And men like Gandhi will win more support.”
“Maybe. And one day organizations like the Second International might really make a difference. But it won’t happen quickly and not, I fear, in time to prevent a major war.”
“Well, I hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I.”
She smiled. “Why don’t we go back to my suite and order in some dinner?”
“All right, but will we have to eat in silence?”
“He won’t be in his compartment, but no—inviting a man to dinner wouldn’t upset my aunt. It’s dessert that has to be discreet.”
The food was excellent, the lovemaking even better—long and languorous, with no distracting noises through the wall. Hating to leave, but knowing he must, McColl seized on a yawn as proof of her tiredness and insisted she have an early night.
She voiced her reluctance but was almost asleep by the time he got dressed. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, let himself out, and went in search of Father Meagher.
He found him in the club car, sharing an end booth with three other men. They were playing poker rather than bridge, and the priest’s face reflected the pitiful pile of chips beside his hand. He was losing but with any luck might survive a few more hands. As far as McColl was concerned, it was now or never.
He swiftly retraced his steps to Caitlin’s carriage. The car attendant was sitting in his tiny cubicle, reading the Zane Grey novel Jed had enjoyed so much, and only glanced up as McColl passed by. There was no one in the corridor and no reason to wait—he inserted the burglar’s thin metal tool and twisted and turned it the way he’d been taught. The lock clicked open rather more loudly than he’d hoped, and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him with more control. For a moment he considered relocking the door, but what would be the point? He couldn’t leave by the window while the train was moving at speed, and anyway there wouldn’t be time.
He turned on the overhead light and looked around the compartment. There was a suitcase on the cradle, but it wasn’t the large one in Palóu’s picture—if that was on board, it must be in the baggage car. He quietly opened the connecting door, turned on another light, and examined the dressing room, where three identical cassocks were hanging on hooks. There were two pairs of shoes on the floor, the usual toiletry items around the basin, and nothing much else.
He went back to the suitcase, where socks and undergarments overlaid several books, a San Francisco newspaper, an illustrated New Testament for children, and a folder full of sheet music for traditional Irish songs. Underneath the music were two sealed envelopes bearing names but no addresses. One was for John Devoy, the head of Clan na Gael, the other for Erich Rieber, whoever he might be.
Success, he thought. And then he heard sounds through the wall, a clump on the floor as she got out of bed, and then footsteps. Had she heard him? She seemed to be pacing up and down, for heaven only knew what reason.
He forced himself to ignore her. What should he do now? He could tear the letters open and read them, but only at the cost of alerting Meagher, who might well suspect him of being responsible. That wouldn’t matter in itself, but as Cumming was fond of saying, half the value of knowing something lay in the other side’s not knowing you knew. If there were plans in either letter, then disclosure would lead to their being changed, and nothing would be achieved.
He had to steam them open, and he couldn’t do that where he was. He would have to take the letters with him and hope that their temporary absence was not noticed. The chances had to be good—Father Meagher didn’t strike him as the compulsive sort, someone who needed to check where everything was at regular intervals. The man was too sure of himself at the best of times and, judging by the amount he was drinking tonight, seemed likely to collapse at the sight of his bed. And when he woke up, the priest would be too busy nursing a hangover to think of checking through his belongings. If McColl could put the letters back in the suitcase while Meagher was having breakfast, then he should get away with it.
A sudden creak next door, which he hoped was her climbing back into bed, gave way to what seemed a lasting silence. He took a deep breath and cracked the door open, half expecting to find the priest outside. There was no one there, but he could hear footsteps. Inching an eye around the jamb, he saw the car attendant briskly walking away—a few seconds earlier and there would have been some explaining to do.
Once the man had disappeared into the vestibule, McColl slipped out, clicked the door shut, and set about relocking it. For what seemed an age, the latch wouldn’t take, and by the time it did, sweat was beading on his brow. Again the click sounded terribly loud, and he almost ran to the sanctuary of the following car.
In the club car, Father Meagher was still playing poker and looked to have recovered some of his losses. There was now a whiskey chaser by the side of the beer, and the priest seemed redder in the face. McColl hoped he didn’t have a heart attack, or the letters would never be delivered.
Walking on, he considered ways of steaming the envelopes open. He would go to one of the kitchens, he decided—tell them he felt congested and ask for some boiling water to give his sinuses a face bath in one of the washrooms. It sounded a good idea, but not for very long. The envelopes were bound to look different after such treatment, and how would he ever restick them?
As he passed the stenographer’s office a simpler idea occurred to him. Office hours were long since over, but the door was open, the typewriter waiting for anyone wanting to use it. McColl went through the bureau drawers and found what he was looking for—a selection of plain envelopes. Reasoning that he might need more than one attempt to copy the names on the originals, he took six of similar size and walked on toward the observation car, expecting to find it empty.
It wasn’t, but the young couple at the far end were too bound up in each other to care what he was doing. With a keen sense of anticipation, he used his pocketknife to slit the envelopes open.
The letters within did not disappoint.
The one to the Clan na Gael leader was from Larry de Lacey and ran to four pages. The letter looked dangerously high-spirited—de Lacey was fond of exclamation marks and found it hard to write in a straight line—but the content was sober enough. He began with some social news—one mutual acquaintance had gotten married, another had sired twins—before saying how glad he was that Devoy’s health had improved.
The niceties dealt with, de Lacey turned to the news from Ireland. He saw the workers’ defeat in Dublin as “an opportunity for the Brotherhood to reassert its own truly Irish agenda.” The ejection of the British was what mattered, and the Irish people must not let “utopian social goals” distract them from this task, particularly at this juncture, when other events seemed to be moving in their favor. De Lacey was pleased that the Brotherhood had secured control of the recently formed Volunteers and adamant that they should resist any attempt by Redmond’s Nationalists to usurp them.
So much, so predictable, McColl thought.
A report on funding followed. The California chapter of Clan na Gael had raised $1,704 for the struggle back home, a figure that de Lacey seemed more than pleased with, and several additional events were planned for St. Patrick’s Day.
Relations with “our Indian friends” were said to be good. “The British and BOI are making every effort to get HD declared persona n
on grata, and will probably succeed. But whether or not they shut the stable door, I think this horse has bolted! The organisation HD built up is strong enough to do without him, or at least without his presence here in the US. The focus of their efforts is already shifting home from exile, partly thanks to our joint efforts. The first shipment left here on the 26th of last month, and is expected in Singapore around the 15th of March. The second shipment is currently being organised by our other friends.”
Which could only be the Germans, McColl assumed.
“I had quite a long talk with vB the other evening, and he more or less admitted that they weren’t expecting very much but would be grateful for whatever we can give them. Which seemed realistic to me, and I told him it did. When the moment of opportunity comes, of course things will be different. They will give us the guns we need, not because they love us but because it will be in their interests to do so. And we will give our all in return, not because we love them but for the cause of a free and independent Ireland.
“I also talked to GF, who says he saw you a few months ago. He let slip that a joint operation on enemy soil is under consideration but proved remarkably coy when I pressed him on names and what was intended. Have you heard anything about this?”
Having asked this rather plaintive question, de Lacey asked to be remembered “to all at the Gaelic American office” and brought the letter to a close.
Who was GF? McColl wondered. He would have to cable Fairholme and ask if any known official at the German consulate had those initials.
He turned to the letter for Erich Rieber. This was much shorter, comprising less than two whole sheets of neatly written German, headed San Francisco, March 8 and signed Ernst Reischach.
The first half of the letter dealt with the Indians. Reischach spoke highly of Har Dayal and stressed the need to make good the material assistance “we previously discussed,” a reference, presumably, to the shipment de Lacey had mentioned. He added that the Ghadar organization had been subjected to a British-inspired campaign of harassment by the American authorities, but that this had been thwarted, at least in the short term, by the unmasking and punishment of several informers.
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