The Death of Love

by Bartholomew Gill

  “On the contrary,” he said. “It is you who are making a mistake on two scores. You are being inconsistent. Worse, you are acting against your own self-interest.” I tried to tell him I’m not, that if the country as a whole is better off, I will be too. But he stormed out.

  So much for Frost’s claim to have backed the Power proposal, McGarr thought. He was about to reach for another group of cards when from the baby monitor he heard what sounded like a key being worked in the lock of a door. Frost himself then said, “Come in, gentlemen. You’ll find drinks and snacks on the bar. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I have a phone call to make.”

  Another voice that McGarr recognized as that of the Japanese banker he had heard that morning now said, “Su’ely.” There was a pause, and, when another door was heard to close, a flurry of low, rapid conversation in Japanese ensued. McGarr checked to see if the tape recorder was running and padded back into the bedroom for the still half-filled glass that, he decided, Noreen had abandoned.

  “Sorry,” said Frost, returning to the room. “I just wanted to make sure I have all my pins in place.”

  A Paddy Power expression, McGarr remembered from the note cards.

  “What—no drinks? Please, help yourselves. When I was over in your country last spring, you weren’t so reluctant.”

  “After hours, Shane. We w’ap this deal up, hey—we pawty.”

  The phrase seemed practiced and American, and McGarr wondered how many times the speaker had employed it. Japanese seemed to own half of Dublin nowadays, and half of New York, from what McGarr had read.

  “Well—I’m going to have a drink, and I’m going to pour you one as well, Anaki.” Frost’s voice sounded already a bit oiled, and, if what Noreen had said was accurate, he was having an interesting day on other scores. McGarr took a wee sip himself.

  “Oh, you Irish,” said the other man resignedly.

  The curse, thought McGarr, which was looked on by most of the cursed as a blessing. And why not? If his work had taught him anything, it was that life was short and often violent. He sipped again.

  “There now. Cheers.”

  “Chee-ahs.”

  Some of the other Japanese were now speaking among themselves.

  “Where were we when last we spoke?”

  “Forty-eight Irish pounds for all eight million, three-hundred-and-thirty-three shares of Eire Bank stock.”

  “But why all shares, Anaki? That will be difficult, if not impossible. Isn’t it enough you’ll have my twenty percent, Mrs. Power’s nineteen, and the fifty-one percent that Paddy left to Gretta Osbourne? With the remaining ten percent we’re certain to get a few curmudgeonly shareholders with money who will choose to sacrifice the quick profit for what they perceive as the possibility of a larger, long-term gain. Also, there’s the government to consider. I’m not at all sure that they’ll allow an outright purchase.”

  “Nonsense, Shane. One, you wouldn’t be wasting our time, had you not that pin in place as you say. Two, with Mr. Powah’s share soon to be in hands that are agreeable to such a sale, it’s only a matter of ten percent of the shares. I can’t imagine you haven’t spoken to the other shareholders in detail and at length.”

  There was a pause in which McGarr believed he heard the distinctive ring of crystal on stone. In his own suite there was a cocktail table with a green Connemara marble top. “Fifty-two pounds per share, and I’ll personally guarantee the sale. Or eat the shares.”

  “Eat?”

  “Refund you the money for the unsold shares out of my own pocket.”

  “Forty-nine.”

  “No—fifty-two or nothing.”

  The Japanese banker’s sigh was audible. “Then, I’m afraid, my friend, it is nothing. Chee-ahs.”

  Crystal again rang, and the voice of Anaki spoke in Japanese to his associates. Standing at the sideboard in his suite, McGarr quickly computed on the pad the value of Eire Bank by multiplying the number of shares by the forty-eight-pound asking price, which was a whopping 423 million Irish pounds.

  Noreen had awakened and now approached him.

  “I’ve consulted my colleagues, Shane. We can go fifty, but that’s all. Our last offer.”

  “For Eire Bank?” Noreen asked.

  McGarr nodded.

  Static crackled over the monitor, and McGarr could almost feel the tension in Frost’s room.

  “No,” said Frost. “If I am to be responsible for all shares, it’ll have to be fifty-two to insure my exposure.”

  “You are a hawd man, Shane Fwost.”

  “No—anybody will tell you, I am an easy man who merely wants to be dealt with fairly, Anaki. Eire Bank will give you what you need, an unfettered toehold in post-’92 Europe. It will also get you continued government support.”

  “Gua’anteed?”

  “I have it from the taosieach himself. Look—from the cash flow on government deposits alone, you’ll have your money back in a decade. Meanwhile you have the trading and finance base. Face it, given your needs, it’s a bargain price and you know it.”

  “How much are Eire Bank’s deposits?” McGarr asked Noreen.

  “Because of government accounts, billions. Since O’Duffy has been in office, tax receipts have been lodged in Eire Bank.”

  O’Duffy again, McGarr thought.

  “Then I suppose we can’t do business.”

  McGarr heard what he believed were hands slapping thighs. “Such is life,” said Frost.

  Or death, thought McGarr. Perhaps Paddy Power’s for the possibility of the sale of Eire Bank. And now no sale.

  Again McGarr jotted down some figures. Twenty percent of the first figure mentioned was a king’s—or, rather, a chief executive officer’s—ransom of some 84.6 million. Just over 80 million to Nell Power and her children. And nearly 16 million to whoever inherited Paddy Power’s share. Frost had just said it was Gretta Osbourne, and, as Power’s solicitor, he would know. Motive enough for murder? McGarr rather believed it was.

  And Frost was willing to let the deal walk out the door? What did Frost know? How much was Eire Bank really worth? Had he another, better offer waiting in the wings?

  “Let me say that I have nothing but the greatest respect for you, your associates, and compatriots.”

  “Good aftahnoon, Shane.”

  “Well, I suppose in one way it is. Paddy would have wanted Eire Bank to remain Irish, now he has his wish.”

  “Ah, yes. Me. Pow-ah,” the man, Anaki, said. “A tragedy. He was so cha’ming.”

  “Good afternoon, good afternoon, Pleasure,” Frost was saying to the others.

  Noreen reached out and gripped McGarr’s bare arm. “They don’t know Irishmen.”

  All of whom had a bit of horse trader or cattle dealer in the blood, thought McGarr. Frost wouldn’t be able to live with himself, did he not let the Japanese walk at least as far as the door.

  “Anaki?” Frost said.

  Noreen shook McGarr’s arm.

  “Fifty-one, and I swear to God they’ll give you a medal when you get back to Kyoto.”

  A Japanese phrase that was evidently “Fifty-one” was repeated among the other men. Some discussion followed.

  “And you will become chai’man and remain on the board for five years?”

  “At a level of remuneration to be negotiated only upward, plus an allowance for any inflation.”

  “And Ms. Osbourne will agree to everything?”

  There was a pause and then: “I wouldn’t have brought you this far, Anaki, were I not certain.”

  “Well, then—” McGarr heard the door close. “Now we will dwink with you. May I use your phone, Shane?”

  “Only if it’s a local call.”

  There was yet another pause, in which, McGarr supposed, the man called Anaki translated what Frost had said. Suddenly the room burst into laughter, through which they heard Frost say, “I just happened to have some champagne on ice, gents. But, remember, this has to be between us, at least until Paddy is dece
ntly in the ground and has his will read and made public. If anybody asks, we’re celebrating Anaki’s birthday and not his great triumph in purchasing Eire Bank for what in a few years will be seen as peanuts.”

  “Satisfied that it’s Frost?” Noreen asked.

  McGarr canted his head, wishing her to continue.

  “Being Power’s lawyer, he knew that Power was planning to leave Gretta Osbourne his share of Eire Bank. When Power vetoed Frost’s plan of selling Eire Bank, he murdered Power and stole the note cards.”

  “Why steal the note cards?”

  “To deflect attention from himself. To make it look like it was Gladden or Nell Power or even Gretta Osbourne, considering the way he edited the contents of the cards. As I’ve heard you say time and again, murderers always try too hard.”

  Which was the problem with saying something too often. “But that only called attention to the possibility that it was murder. Without the theft of the cards, I would have reported it as a death by misadventure.”

  Noreen offered a palm and smiled, as though the facts were plain for any fool to see. “But Frost needed something to mask what we’ve just heard him accomplish—the sale of Eire Bank. By sending a copy of the sections that, he knew, would be incendiary to Mossie Gladden as well as an edited version to the…fiery Nell Power, he hoped to create a furor in which the sale of Eire Bank would seem like no big thing. If you’re going to muddy the waters, make them black.”

  Or mix metaphors, McGarr thought. “What about Nell Power and her…tryst or whatever with Shane Frost?”

  Noreen hunched her shoulders and looked away. “Maybe the three of them were—are—in on it together.”

  “Then why steal the cards to shift any blame?”

  “Onto Mossie Gladden with his readily identifiable country gorsoon costume? It strikes me that he was the perfect party to blame.”

  It was McGarr’s turn to think. He remembered the letter that Nell Power had been writing to her daughter in America that mentioned Gretta Osbourne as “That blessed perfectionist woman.” Could Nell Power enter into a conspiracy with her? Not if O’Shaughnessy’s theory of premeditated murder was at all accurate and could with-stand the exigency of a quick £423 million.

  He also thought of one of the objects that he had found in the pocket of Mossie Gladden’s greatcoat. The blond wig. What use would Gladden have had for that? Did it fit in, and where?

  “I suppose it all boils down to who delivered the photocopies of the note cards to the Waterville Lake Hotel. You know—who was the rough-looking country gorsoon?”

  Noreen blinked. A furrow appeared in her brow, then cleared, as her green eyes brightened with insight. “You should run a lineup, is what you should do. You know, with Gladden’s hat and greatcoat, all the prime suspects, and the desk clerk from the Waterville Lake Hotel.”

  “Just like in the movies.”

  “Tomorrow, right before the funeral mass for Paddy Power. If Gladden won’t cooperate with the coat and hat, I’m sure I could find similar objects in a shop in the village and a blond wig.”

  McGarr considered the suggestion for a moment, then nodded. What would it cost? Fifty or sixty pounds. It would also obviate the need to “disturb” the truculent Gladden, who would be nursing his damaged image after his disastrous press conference on the bridge. “What about Maddie? Perhaps she’s ready to return—”

  “Oh, Jesus—I completely forgot about her!” Turning on heel, Noreen rushed into the bedroom.

  McGarr turned an ear to the celebration, which was continuing loudly in Shane Frost’s room. In Japanese exclusively. He checked the tape recorder to see if the reels were still spinning. It might be interesting to have it translated and transcribed, when they got back to Dublin.

  CHAPTER 19

  Saint Rut’ie

  AT 11:07, WELL PAST the hour at which he should have been back in his dormitory digs, barman-trainee Hughie Ward ambled into the lobby area of Parknasilla and nicked a silver ashtray from the receptionist’s desk. In the public toilet he washed and dried it until the surface gleamed. From the coat of his service tuxedo, he then drew a buff-colored envelope, which he had lifted earlier from one of the several writing desks that were scattered throughout the hotel. He placed the envelope on the tray, and he fitted on his white gloves.

  As though delivering a message, Ward made a pass through the public rooms of Parknasilla: the sun room with its sweeping gray-stone walls and views of the dark bay and starlit sky beyond. In one corner of the large, L-shaped room a pianist was rendering classical and old Irish favorites for the bankers, some of whom were playing cards or chess; others were engaged in cigar-smoky, animated conversations, mainly in English. A fresh heap of coal was burning in the fireplace, an oily yellow flame licking at the flue. There, a group of French women had gathered, two of whom tried to order another pot of tea from Ward, who said he’d refer their request to the kitchen.

  The Shaw Lounge came next, which had become a kind of reading room. Every seat, divan, chair, banquette, and sofa was taken by somebody with something legible in his hands, and the feeling was rather collegial and pleasant, Ward judged. Again he had to fend off brandy and cigar orders. There too the hearth was giving off the deep heat of a mellow coal fire, and Ward decided that someday, if and when all this was over, he would return as a guest. With Bresnahan.

  But no Bresnahan was to be found there. Nor among the guests lingering over coffee in the Pygmalion Restaurant, nor in the Snooker Room, nor the Derryquin Suite, where some sort of banking meeting was still taking place, nor the swimming pool, into which he glanced on the off-chance that Bresnahan might be taking the only other sort of vigorous exercise that she practiced regularly. Bresnahan swam like a great red dolphin, taking powerful strokes even in heavy surf, the waves just washing right over her. Ward sank like a stone.

  Another difference, he thought bleakly, climbing the stairs to the second floor and the Shaw Library. There, an exotic-looking Italian woman asked him if, in fact, George Bernard Shaw had actually stayed in the hotel. Ward had noticed her on the day before with an aged husband, who was now nowhere to be seen. She pointed to photographs of the dramatist, which had been hung on every wall.

  “Yes. He wrote his best play here. Saint Joan.”

  “Why best?” the woman asked with an intensity that neither the play nor Ward, as barman-waiter, merited. He begged off the gambit, claiming it was only his personal opinion. Smiling, he then glanced down at the silver tray with its envelope and back up into her hazel eyes that a gold choker around her neck made seem gamboge.

  The woman spun around and stepped quickly back to the red chintz love seat on which she had been reclining in wait. Another country as yet unconquered, thought Ward as he withdrew strategically up the stairs toward Bresnahan’s room. He wished he had fifty pee for every opportunity he had ignored in the past two years; he’d have enough money for a holiday in Trieste, which was where the woman’s husband owned his bank.

  Ward was about to step into the hall on which, he had earlier learned, Bresnahan’s room was located, when he saw her, or at least he thought he did: her wide shoulders, thin waist, that certain athletic swing to her stride that he so much admired, even the unmistakably particular aroma of her costly perfume, which had been recently applied and now pervaded the hall.

  Ward opened his mouth to call out, but restrained himself. What if her “sugar daddy,” as it were—the one who had “sprung” for all the designer “threads” and the Merc—was in residence at the hotel and that was the reason she had been avoiding him. His heart pounding in his temples and with all his senses jacked up to ring-readiness, Ward followed in her spice-musky train, employing the even deeper shadows along the sides of the walls to conceal his pursuit.

  In the stairwell he waited until she had passed beyond the rail where she might look down and see who was behind her. But she neither stopped nor turned her head left or right. Instead she made straight for Frost’s door. There she raised h
er hand to knock, but the door opened, and Frost—reaching out—pulled her to him and kissed her.

  Ward was on the final stair, and his entire body went taut. The pattern of the carpet spun before his eyes, and he felt lightheaded and weak in the way that was disastrous in the ring. Control. He did not know if he could keep hold of himself, job and profession be damned. How could he work with her, how could he go back to Dublin, after this…mockery of their relationship. He’d make hash of Frost, so he would. And resign.

  Ward’s right calf tensed, and he was about to propel himself forward when she pushed herself away from Frost, saying, “Get away from me, Shane. You’ve been drinking. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times, I will not confer with you while you’re drunk.”

  “Who’s drunk? I’m just celebrating. We’ve done it—fifty-one bloody pounds per share, outright purchase! Even Paddy could not have refused that.” In the brilliant light spilling from the doorway, Frost raised both arms, his mane of silver hair lapping back over his bare shoulders. He was wearing only shorts, and his tall, square body looked lean, well exercised, and deeply tanned. One hand held a bottle of champagne. “Well…?” he demanded.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided not to sell.”

  Ward’s eyes cleared. It was not Bresnahan after all, but rather the other tall woman—Gretta Osbourne, Paddy Power’s former…assistant.

  “Why for Jesus’sake?” Looking up the hall in one direction and then—Ward flattened himself against the wall of the staircase—the other, Frost closed the door.

  Ward’s body was tingling, and sweat—something that usually took as many as two rounds to gather—now beaded his forehead and upper lip. His arms were shaking, and, when he looked down, he saw that his hands were still knotted in tight white fists. He told himself to relax, and he did.

  Until he turned to descend the staircase and, looking out the casement window, saw the Merc that Bresnahan had been driving. It wheeled around and came to a stop with its lights focused on the back bumper of a red Audi.