One possibility remained. No one had returned to Number 34, though the room was taken. It was worth a look.
Or perhaps it wasn’t, he thought as he searched the almost empty drawers. There was a cheap suitcase on top of the closet. He took it down. It bore the initials D.McH.
He was a man not without culture. MacHeath?—he thought. Perhaps that’s where the guy was, out robbing coaches.
He smiled as his thumbs snapped back the catches.
The blast caught him, lifted him and slapped him back against the wall so hard that it ruptured most of his internal organs and brought a picture off the wall in the neighboring room. Flames licked across the neatly made bed and for a lot of hotel guests and a good number of firemen, St Patrick’s Day dawned earlier than usual that year.
The early editions ran a couple of paragraphs on the story. Hotel blast. Man killed. Extensive fire damage. Room occupied by English tourist.
The Preceptor read the report over early morning tea and smiled. The Americans did these things so efficiently. Perhaps the next Tyler should be American?
And how McHarg would have hated that English!
Flora McHarg didn’t see the report, but her thoughts turned to her father as she ate her frugal breakfast. He had gone so abruptly, she had no way in which she could contact him. Did she wish to contact him? Not particularly, she assured herself. At the same time she knew that for some reason she definitely did not wish to lose contact with him.
After breakfast she showered and got dressed. Usually she was pretty indifferent to what she wore, merely dragging on the jeans and shirt she’d discarded the night before as long as they weren’t too disgusting. But this morning she took great care, and with her hair too, and when she’d finished she stood in front of a mirror, her eyes moving between her own image and a sheet of paper she had in her hand.
Satisfied, she now checked her watch and went out. As she felt the fresh morning air on her face, she suddenly felt confident. Everything would work out. Troubles may pile deep as winter snows, but spring comes. In the end spring always comes.
CHAPTER 2
Christie Connolly breakfasted late and alone.
Usually he hated St Patrick’s Day, but this year, with the old man safely out of the way at Castlemaine, and his wife and daughters even further removed in Carolina, he was looking forward to it. He experienced a strong surge of euphoric optimism. This was going to be one of the good days. A good book, a good bottle, and he’d envy no one, least of all poor fools like Conal, stuck in that long dreary crawl up Fifth Avenue in dirty, dangerous, claustrophobic New York.
The door opened and Deirdre came in. “Morning,” she said.
“Morning. Hey, you look nice and colorful. But where’s the green?”
Deirdre was wearing red slacks, a yellow windcheater and had her long hair tied up in a bright yellow scarf with a primrose pattern.
“The Porsche will have to say it all for me,” she said, grinning. “And I don’t see you covered in shamrocks.”
“To be sure, I have them pinned right next to me skin.”
“You enjoy your day,” said Dree, looking at her watch. “I won’t be disturbing you. ’Bye now.”
Sam Nixon, seated in his Mustang Fastback, folded his paper as Deirdre came out of the house. He had just been reading about the hotel explosion, with some small interest. Not that the story meant anything special to him, but as an ex-cop, he’d found himself considering possibilities. Most exotic was the Mob; most likely, a gas-leak. There wasn’t a large proportion of the exotic in a cop’s life, though perhaps rather more than in an ex-cop’s life. Still, the money was good, and the Connollys were pretty nice people.
Miss Deirdre, for instance, she didn’t much care to be looked after, he knew that. But she always went out of her way to be nice, like now.
He rolled down the window and said, “Good morning, ma’am.”
She smiled at him as if she meant it. She was a good-looking girl even with half her face shaded by the big orbed sunglasses she wore against the bright but unwarming dazzle.
“Morning, Sam. I’ll be going down to the marina. I’ll probably spend most of the day pootling around on the boat, take her out if the wind doesn’t freshen too much. OK?”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you. Will you have company?”
“I’m not expecting any.”
“Right, ma’am.”
It seemed a strange way to him for a good-looking young filly to spend a day. And it would probably seem an even stranger way to Old Pat Connolly for a true-bred Irish lass to spend St Patrick’s Day. But that was her business. He was paid to keep her from harm, not report on her private life. She’d made it clear to the old man that this was the only basis on which she would tolerate him.
“Oh, and I’ll probably stop for gas on the way,” she warned.
That’s what he liked about her, no side and lots of consideration.
The green Porsche drew away and he slid into the traffic after it.
After a few minutes she signalled right and turned into a filling station. He watched as the attendant pumped gas into the Porsche. Miss Deirdre paid and drove forward just a little way clear of the pumps before stopping again outside the ladies’ john.
Well, even the very rich had to go when they had to go, thought Sam philosophically.
A moment later she reappeared and ducked into the low-slung car.
Sam followed, yawning. He hadn’t been sleeping too well lately. Maybe he could get a couple of hours later in the morning if the girl was going to be bouncing around in that boat of hers. His responsibility ended at the waterline. If Old Pat Connolly wanted her protected beyond that, let him hire a killer whale.
He had registered unconsciously that Deirdre was not driving with her usual panache, but it was not until they reached the harbor area and the steel-grey sweep of the ocean began to fill the gaps between the warehouses that he began to suspect anything might be wrong. For a start this wasn’t her normal route, but what the hell, with her money she could drive where she wanted. More worrying was her driving. It might have been uncharacteristic before but now it was plain erratic. The Porsche was pursuing a serpentine path along the highway as though its driver were drunk, or having mechanical trouble with the steering. Anxiously Sam drew close and blew his horn. He knew this stretch of road. Just ahead it dropped down steeply and swung round in a wide curve to join the dock-side road—not a good place to have steering trouble.
With relief he saw the Porsche’s brake-lights come on and he stamped on his own pedal. He had almost stopped before he acknowledged that the Porsche wasn’t slowing down. Brake-lights flickering like a distress signal, it was gathering speed away from him down the slope.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” exclaimed Sam whose distant Catholicism, long lapsed, had been an additional recommendation to Old Pat.
The Porsche was now completely out of control. He could see Deirdre struggling to open the door. But there was no time. It shot across the dock road between two horn-blasting container trucks and for a brief second seemed to hang in the air, beautiful as a bird.
Then it was gone, and by the time Sam had tumbled out of the Mustang and rushed to the dockside, there was hardly a trace on the wind-chopped surface to betray the Porsche’s passage.
CHAPTER 3
The jeep came fast down the hillside, bucking the exposed roots of ancient trees. At the bottom where a great sweep of firs began, Chris Emerson cut the engine and coasted over a thick yielding carpet of fallen needles till they came to a halt in the musty half-darkness between the soaring pillars of wood.
“This is it,” he said.
Prince Arthur leapt lightly from the jeep, removing his red-and-green-checked hunting jacket. A man came out of the trees and took it from him. Also his Robin Hood hat with the little yellow feather.
Inspector Dewhurst, the Prince’s personal detective, regarded this transaction with amazement.
“It’s all right, Mr Dew
hurst,” said the Prince with his most charming smile. “I’m not being kidnapped. There, I think he should pass muster in the dark with the light behind him.”
He stepped back to examine the newcomer who had now put on the Prince’s garments.
“Better than that,” said Emerson. “He’s been practicing your funny walk.”
“I don’t think I wish to see that,” said Arthur. “Mr Dewhurst, I owe you an explanation. I’m having a day off, that’s all. I’ve no wish to get you into trouble, so if you wish to come along with me, I’ll be glad of your company.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” said Dewhurst, his round face expressing puzzlement as his mind raced in search of an explanation for this strange behavior. “I’ll have to check any change of plan with the RCMP when we get back to the cabin.”
“If you must, you must,” agreed the Prince solemnly. “Meanwhile, I’ll be on my way.”
“Hold it!” commanded Dewhurst as Arthur turned away. “I’m sorry, sir, what I mean is, I’ll have to come with you.”
“Thought you might,” grinned the Prince. “Right. Jacket off. Hat too.”
Dewhurst was wearing a lumber jacket even more garish than the Prince’s had been and on his head was a bright orange tam-o’-shanter.
He removed them, the realization dawning on him that their brightness, against which he had protested when Emerson’s foreman had provided them that morning, was very functional.
“Captain Jopley,” he said. “Do you know what’s going on?”
Jopley, seated beside the policeman in the back seat, had no difficulty in looking perplexed. He had been expecting a move, but this had taken him unawares.
He shook his head and said, “I haven’t the foggiest.”
The Prince smiled apologetically.
“Sorry, Edward,” he said. “Security. Chris will explain all. We’ll need your help in the charade.”
A second man had appeared, this one very like Dewhurst in size and shape. He took the policeman’s jacket and hat and put them on.
“Come on, Inspector,” said the Prince impatiently.
Slowly Dewhurst climbed out of the back seat and the second man took his place. The first was already seated beside Emerson.
“Mr Emerson, I must protest,” said Dewhurst formally.
“By all means,” said Emerson. “Everything OK? Enjoy yourself!”
“Captain Jopley, I’ll rely on you to inform the authorities…” cried Dewhurst, but the rest of his words were drowned in the roar of the engine as Emerson gunned the jeep out of the pine trees.
“Come along, Inspector,” said the Prince in a kindly voice. “Just a little walk, then I really will explain. I’m afraid we’ve got rather a long drive ahead of us.”
Together they set off across the carpet of pine needles to where Dewhurst could now dimly discern another vehicle parked deep among the trees.
This is it, he assured himself as he trotted slightly to keep up with the Prince’s springy stride. This is definitely it! When this lot was over, it was a transfer to traffic for him. Or down to the seaside like that hard bugger, McHarg. Oh yes. There were no flies on McHarg. None at all. He’d have likely bopped the Prince on the head before he let him take off like this. Whereas he, Charley Dewhurst, was trotting obediently along, like a good little dog, heading God knows where.
Captain Jopley would sort it out. Perhaps. He wasn’t as daft as he looked, that one. Perhaps. Well, anyway, there wasn’t anyone else. It was all down to Captain Jopley.
Jopley meanwhile was genuinely concerned about the Prince’s departure, but not in any way that would have made Dewhurst happy. He had promised to signal the move as soon as possible. The trouble was that Emerson clearly had no intention of going straight back to the cabin and there was no chance of passing on the news while they were stuck out in the middle of this God-forsaken wilderness.
It wasn’t his fault, of course. And he had warned the Preceptor that something like this was likely to happen, so he presumed that arrangements had been made.
But as always when any doubts about his role or his performance came into his mind, they were rapidly joined by a picture of the Tyler with scalpel and tongs probing into the chasm of a dead man’s mouth which Jopley’s shaking hands held open.
He settled back with as much patience as he could muster, eager for the moment when he could get his hands on a telephone.
CHAPTER 4
The winch that was hauling the Porsche out of the dock suddenly developed a high keening note as the car broke the surface.
It was entirely appropriate, thought Christie dully as he stood with Sam alongside a little knot of policemen. A small crowd of dockworkers, growing all the time as the news got around, were watching the operation too, but at a greater distance, held back by the crush barriers the police had erected.
Sam was sodden wet, a blanket had been found to drape round his shoulders but he had refused to go and change. In his eyes, he’d fallen down on the job and the least he could do now was stay there and face it out to the finish.
He’d plunged into the water after the car but in the murk could see nothing. After half-a-dozen desperate dives, he had been dragged out exhausted by the dock police who were quickly on the scene.
The news had bereft Christie of speech for several minutes. Then instantly he had rung Old Pat before the prospect entirely drained the courage out of him.
The response had been brusque.
“It’s certain, is it? Tell Conal. I’m on my way.” Then the phone had gone dead.
Conal, dragged to the phone from the preliminaries of the New York parade, had seemed confused. He seemed to think something had happened to Mary at first, but when the truth got through, his anguish was audible over all those miles of wire. And then, sick to his stomach, Christie had headed down to the dockside where a team of frogmen were already diving armed with powerful lights.
The car was on its side, they reported. The passenger door was uppermost. It was either locked or jammed. Not that it mattered at this stage. They could see inside and the open mouth and staring eyes of the drowned girl told them there was no need to hurry.
The best and safest thing was to leave her in there till the whole caboodle could be winched up at once.
Now the car hung motionless in the air, water cascading out of it, molten in the sun glare which struck bright scintillas of light off the vivid green paintwork. Its sleek elegant lines gave it the look of some once fast and powerful marine creature now dragged from its element by a triumphing angler.
Finally the falling water shrank to a trickle and then to a string of glass beads. The winch keened once more and the vehicle was swung round and lowered on to the dock.
The dead woman could be seen quite clearly through the tinted glass. Christie wanted to look away but he couldn’t. An ambulance was backed up to the Porsche and two orderlies with a stretcher stood ready.
A police officer opened the driver’s door. The orderlies moved forward.
As they manoeuvred the body out, they obscured Christie’s view. But Sam had a better angle and as the girl was laid on the stretcher he said, “Hey, hold it!”
He went forward and stooped to the body over which the orderlies had quickly draped a sheet. Pulling this aside, he gazed down at the face.
“Mr Christie, Mr Christie!” he called with excited incredulity. “It’s not her! It’s not Miss Deirdre!”
Bewildered, Christie approached.
Sam looked up at him triumphantly.
Christie looked down at the girl.
It was a moment of sheer nightmare.
“It’s not Miss Deirdre!” asserted Sam again as though fearful his judgment was being questioned.
But to his amazement and the amazement of all around him, Christie’s only reply was a roar of grief and pain, and he knelt down and gathered up the corpse of Flora McHarg to his breast, where he held her as though by his own vital warmth he could bring her back to life again.
When Conal reached Boston two hours later he went straight to the Beacon Street house where he found Old Pat in a state of almost manic delight and Christie plunged into near-catatonic grief.
The Granda had no sympathy at all for his elder grandson and was not going to let anything interfere with his euphoric sense of relief.
“But where is Deirdre?” asked Conal after the first wave of joy at the news had rolled over him.
“Off on some madcap jaunt, no doubt,” answered Old Pat almost gleefully. “Something she didn’t want Sam hanging on her coattails at. She really fooled him! She’s a real Connolly, slick as they come!”
He shook his head in rueful admiration. He didn’t give a damn about anything as long as Dree was alive, thought Conal.
“And the dead girl…?” he asked.
“Some English student she’d got friendly with,” said Old Pat dismissively. “You know what a nice outgoing girl Dree is, ready to make friends with anything. But it seems she was Christie’s whore as well, this girl. He’s been blubbering like a baby. Thank Christ that Judith and the girls aren’t here to see him!”
“And what caused the accident?” asked Conal.
The Granda poured him a tumblerful of Irish and freshened his own glass.
“The English whore, what would she know about driving a car like that?” he asked dismissively. “Your sister now, she has the touch, else I’d never have made a present of it to her.”
Conal shook his head. He felt uneasily that there was a great deal more to it than that and his feeling was confirmed a few minutes later when Captain Gilpin of the Police Department arrived at the house.
“Mr Connolly,” he said, addressing himself to Old Pat, “we’ve had some of our people looking over your grand-daughter’s car. In their opinion it’s been interfered with.”
Who Guards a Prince? Page 19