Walsh turned to Molloy. “Is this the fella who was told to stay away from Frank and didn’t and now poor Frank’s dead, God rest his soul?” said Walsh. “Is this him?”
“That’s him.”
“You know who I am?”
“I know who you are,” said Molloy.
“Then you’ll know what I’m capable of. The stories you’ve heard aren’t even the half of it, you foller?” Walsh grabbed Molloy’s shirtfront. “What’s your game, you nosey bastard? And none of that bulldust about solicitors in Napier.”
“What solicitors?” said Molloy.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Walsh, waving a hand. “Sunny.”
Sunny slung Caitlin over his shoulder and swung open the furnace door. The roar was like an aeroplane engine, ten times louder than before. It was an evil sound and its heat and force knocked them backwards.
Caitlin screamed. Sunny swore. Walsh shaded his eyes, his face glistening. Caitlin kicked her legs frantically and Sunny almost dropped her. “Give me a hand here, Lofty, you useless bugger!” he yelled.
Lofty wrapped one arm over Caitlin’s legs and then grabbed her ankles. Sunny took her wrists. They started to swing her, like children in a playground, getting closer and closer to the raging furnace.
“Johnny!” she screamed.
“It’s an insurance job,” Molloy shouted.
“Keep talking,” said Walsh, flaming shadows leaping and dancing on the walls behind him. “And you two keep swinging.”
“O’Flynn rorted an insurance company in California and faked his death. I was hired to find him.”
“Who hired you?”
“A Yank called Furst. He’s staying at the Auckland, that flash pub in Queen Street.”
Walsh looked hard at Molloy. “What do you think, Sunny?” he said. “Is he telling the truth this time?”
“I think he could be.”
“I agree,” said Walsh. “Drop her.”
They did.
“See, son,” he said to Molloy, flicking open a white handkerchief and wiping sweat off his face. “You’re not as tough as you think. Not by a long shot. But I am.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Lofty opened a storeroom and pushed Molloy and Caitlin inside. He slammed the door and crashed the bolt into place. Molloy felt round for a light switch. There was a bare bulb in a copper fitting above the door. The room was small with a concrete sink and a single tap. A shelf held paint tins and stiff brushes. A worn broom stood upside down in the sink. In one corner was a rust-speckled forty-four-gallon drum with a skull and crossbones label on the lid. The floor was wet and water dripped from a skylight which was set in a sloping roof.
“Come here,” Molloy said, and Caitlin fell into his arms, sobbing. He put an arm around her.
“My God,” she said, eventually. “Would he have done it?”
“He was bluffing,” Molloy said, not believing a word.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and Caitlin wiped her eyes and put on what her aunt would call a brave face. “What now?”
“I’ve got to warn Furst before they get to him.”
He looked around and up at the skylight. There was a rope on a pulley attached to the wall. He pulled it. The skylight opened.
“This isn’t Colditz,” he said. “Just a matter of getting up there somehow.”
“I’ll do it,” said Caitlin, blowing her nose.
“Come off it.”
She took a couple of deep breaths, formed her mouth in a circle, and blew away her doubt. “I won the Blessed Jo Rice Shield for gymnastics three years in a row at Baradene. This is a piece of cake.”
She took off her shoes and threw them through the opened skylight. They clattered on the corrugated-iron roof. Molloy pushed the drum into position. He climbed onto the lid, the effort burning his bruised ribs, and pulled her up. They were very close.
“Squat down,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got very good balance.”
She climbed onto his shoulders, one hand lightly pressing the side of his head.
“Ready?” said Molloy.
“Chocks away,” she said.
He stood slowly. The soles of her feet eased upwards as she straightened her legs.
“I feel like an heiress on a bi-plane,” she said, her arms outstretched.
“Don’t be a dope.” Molloy could feel her balancing on her toes. “Are you there?”
“I can’t quite get my fingers on the ledge.”
“What about if you stand on my hands and I push you up?”
“Let’s try.”
She put one foot and then the other onto the heels of his hands. He lifted her up like a circus strongman, trying to ignore the pain in his ribs. He could feel her take her own weight as her elbows went through the gap and rested on the frame.
“Et voilà!” she said, and then she was on the roof.
“Try to walk on the nail lines if you can. It’s probably rusty.”
Molloy could hear corrugated iron groaning as Caitlin moved delicately along the roof. Silence. “I can drop down to the street.”
“How far?”
“Not far.”
“Find the night watchman,” he said.
“What should I tell him?” she said.
“Oh, I don’t know. What would Martha Gellhorn say?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
A concrete parapet about a foot thick ran along the edge of the building overlooking Drake Street. Caitlin sat on the ledge, her legs dangling over the side. The paving stones seemed a long way down. She took a deep breath. She put her hands across her body, gripped the inside edge of the parapet, and swung around so that now she was facing the building and hanging by her fingers. Hoping for some pommel horse magic, she lost out to gravity and dropped, vaguely aware of scraping down the wall, and then landing, crumpled, on the footpath.
She lay there for a while. Then she got up onto her hands and knees and somehow stood, leaning against the wall for support. She tried a few steps. Nothing felt broken. Amazing. I’m made for this, she thought.
She walked down Drake Street, keeping close to the wall. Hot air came out of an entranceway. She stopped. She could hear furnaces roaring. She took a few steps up the ramp. Across the vast hall she could see the boilers. There was no sign of the Plymouth.
She forced herself to think about what had happened earlier. Lofty had taken them across the floor to a metal stairwell. She walked over to it. There was light at the bottom. She eased down the stairs, her hands on the rail. A corridor led off to the right.
A burst of laughter sent her back against the wall, mouth dry, heart pounding. A door opened and a middle-aged man with a sweat-stained face and a dirty brown dust-coat came out of a doorway, hoicked onto the floor and swung up the stairs, his hobnail boots clanging on the metal treads just above her head. One of the night-shift men going to check the boiler?
Who else was laughing? Walsh and his cronies?
Now what? The only way forward was past the door. Caitlin could hear pieces of conversation. She leaned against the far wall, in shadow, and slowly moved her head to see inside. Two men in overalls were sitting on opposite sides of a long table, playing cards.
“Good game’s a fast game,” said one of the men. He was about eighteen, tall and skinny, bony chest visible where the top few buttons of his overalls were undone, the dirt stopping at his pale white skin.
“Bugger off,” said the other man, reordering his hand. “I like to take me time.” He was English, his accent northern and thick.
“You’re telling me,” said the boy. He reached for the tea pot in the middle of the table and began topping up his enamel mug.
Caitlin was weighing up the best approach when a voice said, “Hello-hello.”
She jumped. Her head snapped around. It was the workman who had gone up the stairs a few moments earlier. He was not much taller than Caitlin, big bellied, and sweet faced under the dirt.
“Hey, you blokes. We’ve got a visitor.”
/> The card players turned and looked at her. The younger one stood. Well brought up, she thought. Hopefully.
“Young lady like you doesn’t want to be in a place like this. Especially at night,” said the man in the dust-coat.
“You all right?” said the Pom. “You don’t look too good.”
“Oh. I fell, and . . .” said Caitlin, pointing vaguely.
“How did you end up in here?” he said.
“Well . . .” she began.
Something slithered across her shoe.
A rat.
She screamed.
“Caitlin!” Molloy’s voice not too far away.
“Crikey,” said the boy, with a laugh. “It’s like blimmin’ VE Day.”
“Oi,” said the Pom. “Lady present.”
But Caitlin was already running down the corridor.
“Molloy?” she yelled.
“Here!” yelled Molloy.
She slid the bolt and opened the door.
“About time,” he said.
CHAPTER FORTY
The barman put a DB coaster down in front of Furst, placed a glass on it and stood back.
Furst studied the cocktail. “Okay,” he said. “Number one, that’s not a martini glass. Martini glass is shallow, comes in at an angle.” He demonstrated with his hands. “Puts you in mind of a voluptuous woman, see?”
The barman, round-shouldered with long teeth and liver spots on his hands, nodded. Furst took the slice of lemon floating on the top of the drink and held it up. “You don’t want that,” he said. “You want an olive. Or if you’re from New York, maybe an onion.”
“An onion? Yeah?”
“Got to have ice,” said Furst. “Ice is critical.”
“I put some ice in it,” said the barman, pointing.
“Ton of ice. So that when you shake the ingredients together the ice bruises the gin. Gets the flavour out. That’s why it’s better to use a shaker than a pitcher, see.”
“I see,” said the barman. Yanks, he thought to himself. Jesus.
“O-kay,” said Furst. “Time for the drum roll.”
He picked up the glass, had a sip, rolled it round in his mouth, swallowed it, sucked in some air and thought about it for a second or two.
“You know what? It’s not bad for a first-timer.” He had another sip. “Get you shot in any self-respecting joint west of the Mississippi, but like I say, not bad.”
“Well, you know, little country,” said the barman, sourly. “That’ll be two and six, thanks.”
“But what a great little country,” said Furst, toasting its greatness with a third sip. “First time, but I’m sold.”
“Yeah?” said the barman. “You like it?”
“Very much so.”
“Lot of you blokes here during the war.”
“Oh, sure. They talk about it all the time.”
“Do they?” said the barman. Maybe this Yank wasn’t such a bad sort of a fella after all.
Furst looked around the bar. It was empty.
“What time you kick us all out?” he said.
“No hurry,” said the barman. “I could make you another one, if you like.”
“Hell, why not?” said Furst, putting the glass down on the bar. “Join me?”
“Oh, yeah. Might give it a go.”
“Joint could use some music,” said Furst.
There was a Regal Fleetwood on a ledge above the bar. The barman turned it on and twisted the dial to 1YA.
“Onions?” he said, waiting for the valves to warm up. “What? Like tripe and onions onions?”
“Cocktail onions. Little ones,” said Furst, demonstrating the size. “I’m an olive man, myself.” He tapped out a cigarette and lit it.
The barman put a second martini down in front of Furst. Les Paul and Mary Ford came on the radio. Furst hummed along.
“I’ll have a whisky and milk,” a voice said. “Not too heavy on the milk.”
Furst glanced. Solid feller. Ruddy, raw-boned face. Good suit but lived-in.
“Are you a guest in the hotel, Mr Walsh?” the barman said.
“Get me the drink, son.”
“Whisky and milk coming up,” said the barman, in a small voice, reaching for a glass.
“Where’s the dunny?” said Walsh.
The barman pointed. “Through that door, end of the hall, Mr Walsh.”
Walsh put his hat and some coins on the bar. “Keep an eye on my hat.”
The barman watched until Walsh had disappeared into the toilet. He leaned towards Furst and lowered his voice. “Big wheel in the unions,” he said, putting an ice cube into a glass and the glass under a whisky jigger.
“That so?”
“Real hard man,” said the barman. “I could tell you some stories about that joker.”
“What sort of stories?”
The barman put the whisky on the bar and drew his finger across his throat. “Those sort of stories.”
“You don’t say?” said Furst.
“Too right. Reckon he threw a stoker overboard in the middle of the Tasman once. Bloke said something Walsh didn’t like? Over the rail into the drink he goes.”
“Well I never.”
The barman poured a splash of milk into the whisky. The song finished. Walsh came back into the bar. He picked up his glass.
Furst put out his hand. “The name’s Furst,” he said. “I’m staying here at the hotel.”
“Walsh,” said Walsh, and sipped the whisky. “I’m picking you for a Yank,” he said.
“You’re right,” said Furst. “San Francisco.”
“Frisco?” said Walsh, with joy. “Know it well.”
“No kidding?”
“Lived there for a bit, oh, this’d be a good thirty years ago, even more,” said Walsh. “Still remember the address. 2011 Turk, Apartment 4H.”
“I’ll be darned. I worked the Tenderloin for twenty years. San Francisco Police Department.”
“Go on?” said Walsh. “I thought you looked familiar.”
They both laughed.
“What took you to the Golden State, Walsh?”
“Between ships,” said Walsh. “Met a gal, as you blokes say, decided to stay put for a bit. Pat, by the way.”
“I arrived there at the end of the war. Took my discharge and stayed. 1919,” said Furst. “I’m from New York, originally, and call me Al.”
Walsh tapped the bar with his knuckles and pointed at his glass. He turned to Furst. “Top you up there, Al?”
“Hell, why not?” said Furst, finishing his martini.
“What brings you down this way?” said Walsh, as the barman made the drinks. “Chasing a bank robber?”
Furst chuckled. “I’m retired. I work for an insurance company now.”
“Insurance, eh? What sort? Life? General?”
“More the investigation side. Fraud.”
“Really?” said Walsh. “Sounds interesting.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Molloy and Caitlin walked quickly up College Hill. A truck passed them. One or two cars. A woman walked in the opposite direction with her head down, high heels clacking on the footpath. There was a phone box on the corner of Geraldine Street. They crammed in.
Molloy looked up the Hotel Auckland in the telephone book. He put two pennies in the slot and rang the number. The operator put him through to Furst’s room. No reply. He asked her to try the house bar. She doubted it would still be open. Molloy insisted.
“House bar,” said the barman.
“Is there a bloke called Furst there?” said Molloy. “Big Yank, about fifty. Staying in the pub.”
“Yes there is.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“Just a tick,” said the barman, putting down the receiver.
The barman walked over to the unlit fireplace where Furst and Walsh were sitting in armchairs, smoking cigars and telling war stories.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “You’re wanted on the telephone.”
Furst looked at his watch.
“Must be head office,” he said. “You mind?”
“Go for your life,” said Walsh.
Furst went to the bar and picked up the receiver. “Al Furst,” he said.
“Al?” said Molloy. “It’s me. Johnny Molloy.”
“Hey,” said Furst. “You stood me up tonight, you limey bastard, you and your Girl Friday.” He was in a good mood.
“Got tied up,” said Molloy. “I’ll tell you about it. But listen, there are people who are on their way over to see you. Watch out.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“The Maori who did me over the other night. His name’s Sunny Day. And a lanky kid called Lofty,” said Molloy. “They work for a bastard named Walsh.”
“Fintan Walsh? Union bigshot?”
“Yeah.”
“Hell, I’m having a drink with him right now.”
“Furst, listen to me,” said Molloy. “The other two nearly threw Miss O’Carolan into a furnace an hour or so ago on Walsh’s orders.”
Furst laughed. “Oh my, Molloy, you’re giving me the vapours. Telephone me in the morning and we’ll tie up the loose ends, okay?” He hung up.
Molloy stared at the receiver for a moment before putting it in the cradle. “They’re boozing together in the house bar,” he said. “Best of pals.”
The phone booth was suddenly flooded with light. Molloy grabbed Caitlin and drew her in. The light swept past. A car driving down College Hill.
Molloy relaxed his hold. They were an inch apart.
“Wow,” said Caitlin, a little breathless.
“Don’t get excited. I thought I recognised that car for a second.”
“Whose did you think it was?”
“Does it matter?” said Molloy, his throat dry.
“Not to me,” said Caitlin, softly, closing her eyes and tilting back her head.
Molloy tightened his arms around her and felt a stab of pain.
“What?” she said, alarmed.
“Nothing,” he said, trying to brush it off. “Ribs are a bit sore, that’s all.”
“Oh dear. Are they broken, do you think?”
“Wouldn’t think so.”
“Good thing I’m almost a nurse,” she said. “Come on. There’s a taxi stand in Three Lamps. I’m taking you home.”
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