Black Welcome

by Nigel Fitzgerald

  By tacit consent Hector and Duffy waited within the fringe of trees to see what would happen; the detective had no wish to provide an alternative target for the interest of the Press, but he was anxious to ensure that the invasion did not get out of hand. The children had waited only to glimpse the state of affairs at the front of the house before running off towards the yard with the avowed intention of getting in by the back door for fear that that, too, would soon be surrounded by reporters. It was at least a relief to find that Mary showed no present desire to be interviewed; her disclosures might be more sensational than discreet. It was while the detective was trying to decide on the best and least conspicuous method of summoning Sergeant O’Callaghan from wherever he might be lurking that drama entered upon the scene.

  That something was afoot was first suggested by a movement of the main body of the reporters away from the hall door. One or two strays had already deserted the group, but it seemed now that the focal point of general attention had shifted to the lawn outside of the drawing-room windows. When what had begun as a gradual drift became a stampede, Duffy realised that the time was over for sheltering anonymously in the trees; with Hector at his side he ran across the gravel to the edge of the lawn. They were just in time to see the group, which had reformed about an open french window, scatter precipitately. A moment later a human projectile came flying out of the house as if propelled by a giant catapult; it landed on the grass, rolled over, started to get up, seemed to change its mind and lay still. In the background Dominick made his appearance framed in the open window.

  “Mrs. O’Brien Moore is not at home,” he said formally.

  The reporters did not seem to believe the announcement or to be prepared to accept it in its conventional sense, but, as they all spoke together, their own vociferousness prevented the emergence of any very intelligible comment. It was a sudden movement from the man on the ground that claimed die attention of his colleagues and brought an end to the din. He sat up and pointed an accusing finger at Dominick.

  “That’s a lie,” he said. “She’s in there. I saw her. I was interviewing her when you bloody well assaulted me.” Suddenly another aspect of the affair seemed to come to his notice, for he clutched his knee and groaned dramatically. “And what’s more,” he concluded, “you’ve broken my leg.” He lay back on the grass grimacing with pain.

  “Then the sooner you see a doctor the better,” said Dominick unfeelingly.

  It was probably his voice that gave away the young man’s identity. From his attire he might well have been taken to be a groom or a gamekeeper or some other employee of the place; only some of die Irish reporters would be at all likely to be familiar with his appearance, and it seemed improbable that they would be prepared to give away one of their few advantages over their rivals. It was indeed surprising that so many newspapermen, surely all of those who could possibly have come down to cover the murder, should have appeared in a body. Duffy would have expected an individual rather than a concerted approach, a series of attempts to get an exclusive interview instead of what looked like one to force a Press conference; he supposed that in so small a town as Newtown Moore it had proved impossible for any one reporter to steal a march on his colleagues. It was, however, indisputable that they were all here, and now each seemed to have made up his mind that the large and violent young man in the window could be none other than the Mr. O’Brien Moore who was said to have enjoyed the company of the dead girl. With ready notebooks and urgent questions the eyes and ears of the Press converged once more; cameras were raised aloft or held at ground level as photographers sought the best angle for a picture that would take in both the scribe on the ground and the man who had thrown him there. It was a tall, thin, inoffensive character in a corduroy jacket who created a diversion by uttering a high-pitched yell, losing his balance, tripping over his prostrate colleague and measuring his length on the ground.

  A jet of very cold water had struck him suddenly in the back of the neck. It had come with a great deal of pressure behind it from a garden hose held and aimed by Mary and Michael.

  It soon became obvious that the children had no especial animus against the man whom they had downed; the moment that they saw that their fire was effective they sought for a fresh target, waving the stream of water left and right by slight movements of the nozzle and impartially soaking anyone who stayed within range. The trouble about getting out of range of a hose, however, is that it is so easy just to step sideways out of the line of fire and so undignified to turn tail and run away with water showering down one’s back that one tends to take the immediately effective action, forgetting that a flick of the aimer’s wrist will redirect the stream upon one. It is also undeniable that the sight of someone else being hosed is extremely funny; the watcher tends to stand still and laugh until flight is pointless because he is himself soaked to the skin. Thus it was that, while the children enjoyed themselves by choosing targets with a Jove-like inconsequence, their victims stood or hopped about, taking temporary avoiding-action but doing nothing either to stop the shower-bath or to get finally out of its range. It was Dominick who took the first practical step towards restoring order.

  “Turn that damn’ thing off, Mary,” he called angrily. He had to repeat the order twice and made turning motions with his hands before the children heard or understood what he was saying.

  “I can’t,” Mary yelled back after a few seconds of struggling with the nozzle and making the jet of water describe even more unpredictable convolutions in the air. “It’s stuck fast.”

  “Oh hell!” Dominick seemed unwilling to leave his position in the french windows; obviously he could not lock them behind him from the outside and he feared presumably, that, if they were left open and unguarded, they would tempt one or more of the reporters to slip through and gain a foothold in the house. A glance however, must have reassured him; the newspaper-men were more immediately concerned with soaked notebooks, dropped–and possibly damaged–cameras, and personal wetness than with anything else. Dominick muttered–“I suppose I’ll have to do it myself,” and ran towards his children.

  “All right! I’ll see to it,” shouted Hector simultaneously. The American had been an interested, and apparently amused, spectator of the scene during the riotous few seconds for which it had so far lasted; now, unlike Duffy, he was renouncing his neutrality. He began to trot gently towards the firing-line.

  One of the things that makes a hose a menace in the hands of any but the most strong-minded is that when the holder turns to look at anything he tends to turn the jet of water in the direction of his glance. This was precisely what Mary did when she looked at her father. She was, it seemed, a little apprehensive as to what would happen when he reached her side; so she stared at him and soused him thoroughly, centring the stream on the middle of his chest.

  “Turn it away,” he roared, waving his arm.

  Mary turned it away, this time without looking; the water met the oncoming Hector full in the face.

  A moment later both of the men grabbed the hose and three pairs of hands strove to wrestle with the refractory nozzle; a fourth pair, Michael’s, were busy in the background, but whether they were helping or hindering it was difficult to tell. Certainly there was no abatement in the force of the jet that soaked each of the struggling group in turn with impartial abandon.

  Duffy had deliberately remained an onlooker; he could see and sympathise with the points of view both of the reporters and of the O’Brien Moores and he had no wish to appear to throw the weight of constituted authority into the balance on either side. He had consequently stayed out of range of the hose. There was also, however, one of the actual participants in the events who was fortunate enough to be still comparatively dry; the man who had complained of a broken leg, being supine on the ground, had remained below the trajectory of the watery bombardment and had escaped all but a few errant drops. It was not clear whether the loud bellowing noises which he had made during the height of the excitement had
been occasioned by pain or amusement, just as it was not now clear why he began to crawl stealthily towards the open french windows; he was no longer the centre of attention and he may have heard opportunity calling him to ignore his disability and get on with the job. While he crawled, observed only by Duffy, the struggle went on for the control of the hose.

  “It’s jammed all right–damn and blast it.” A powerful squirt in the face rendered Dominick’s utterance indistinct and disimproved his temper. “Look, will you aim the bloody thing at the ground, Hector, and hold it steady. I’ll try and turn the nozzle.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be holding it,” said Hector mildly. “Oh, f-fiddle!”

  The noise of gushing water had abated suddenly; Mary jumped with satisfaction. “Oh goody,” she shouted. “Clever you–you’ve done it.”

  “No, I haven’t.” The American too had begun to perform a sort of tarantella, but not from pleasure. “The spout’s got stuck up my sleeve.”

  For a moment his coat ballooned out and looked as if it were being ripped from his back by the force of the water, but only for a moment; his frantic movements dislodged the nozzle from his sleeve and at the same time tore the hose-pipe from Dominick’s grasp. Like a snake the hose squirmed and twisted on the ground looking for a new victim.

  “To hell with it,” said Dominick finally. “We’re all so wet now that it doesn’t make any difference. Go and turn it off at the main, Mary. Then take Michael in; I want both of you to change–quickly.”

  It was not strictly accurate to say that everyone was already wet. The broken-legged scribe had managed to remain dry and had almost reached the french windows when a questing jet found the seat of his trousers and by some whim of the sprites who control the movements of water concentrated there. With a yell of unmistakable anguish the man leapt to his feet and ran out of range without even a trace of a limp. He was, however, a tougher nut than his colleagues; moreover he could not but be conscious of the fact that, while they had been soused by children, the hose which had deluged his posterior had been dropped from the hand of a grown man who must be held accountable for his actions. Avoiding the stream that still swirled about the lawn, the reporter advanced belligerently on die two remaining O’Brien Moores, the Irishman and the American.

  “I suppose you think that’s bloody funny,” he suggested.

  “Just about as funny as your broken leg,” said Dominick sourly. “As a matter of fact I don’t. I’m even sorry–because I suppose all you chaps will have to come in to get your clothes dry.”

  “Oh, well that’s different.” The reporter felt in his pocket to make sure that his notebook had come to no harm. “Funny how getting wet outside makes one dry inside,” he observed. “It’s time anyway that we got on with our little chat. Come on, boys; we’re all going in for a drink.”

  “Not in my house,” said a calm voice from behind him.

  Mrs. O’Brien Moore was standing in the french windows; for once she was without her cigarette-holder but otherwise she seemed in no way different from the charming woman who had received Duffy that morning, or the benevolent matriarch whom he had seen surrounded by her family in die drawing-room. There was no sign of anger in her expression; indeed the beginnings of a Gioconda-like smile hovered about her lips. Only her stillness suggested implacability. Her hand was on the Great Dane’s collar.

  “I’m sure these gentlemen would not wish to intrude any further, Dominick,” she pursued gently. “They have probably realised by now that they are wasting their time. It’s regrettable that they are so wet but they have only themselves to blame for it.”

  An angry flush crept up Dominick’s face to the roots of his hair. Damn it all, Mother! They’re soaked to the skin,” he protested. “And my children are responsible for it. I’m not going to let them go back like this–they’d get their death of cold.”

  His mother stared at him for a moment while his flush deepened. “We can’t let that happen, of course,” she said at last. “A fire can be lighted in the harness-room, and some whisky can be sent out. I have no intention of treating trespassers as guests, whatever the circumstances.”

  An incredulous murmur ran round the group of newspaper-men; it was probably the incongruous gentleness of Mrs. O’Brien Moore’s expression and the sweetness of her voice that surprised them more than her obduracy. A camera clicked. Other photographers, taking their cue, made haste to get pictures of the motionless woman in the window and the equally still young man who stared angrily back at her from eyes so like her own. It was the reporter whose broken leg had mended itself so miraculously who broke in on the clash of wills.

  “Just who the hell do you think you are?” he inquired.

  Her smile became more definite but it remained enigmatic; she looked at him as she might have looked at an ill-bred child whose impertinence is no fault of his own. “Is that for publication?” she asked.

  “I just want to know who the hell you think you are.”

  “The owner of the ground you’re standing on,” she said calmly and turned away from the window, leaving it open behind her.

  For a moment nothing moved; then the Great Dane ambled majestically out onto the lawn and began to play with the water that was still gushing from the hose. He bit the nozzle and shook it, rolled over on his back, thoroughly sousing himself and sending unregarded sprays over the bystanders until the flow of water slackened and then ceased. Thereafter he continued to lie with his paws in the air and the hose-pipe clenched between his teeth; a look of deep melancholy was in his eyes.

  “We’ve got plenty to write about, even if it’s not quite what we came for,” said the reporter who seemed to regard himself as the spokesman of the group. “Is there anything you’d care to add?”

  He was addressing Dominick, but his words went unnoticed. The young man had continued to stare at the open french windows where his mother had been; now, with the same fixed expression on his face, he followed her into the drawing-room and disappeared in his turn. Without relinquishing its grip on the hose-pipe or changing its inverted position, the Great Dane gazed sadly after him.

  The way into the house was now clear for the reporters but they no longer had the wish to take it; by common consent they turned towards the path that led to the jetty and their boat. One of the Dublin men lingered behind the party to shoot an interrogative glance at Duffy; getting merely a shake of the head in reply, however, he shrugged and followed his colleagues. There was no point in giving away the detective’s identity to those who were not already familiar with it.

  “Well, don’t we have fun,” Hector observed. He had taken off his water-logged coat and was wringing it out over the Great Dane’s stomach to the dog’s intense pleasure. “Do you know what I was thinking about all the time that water was whizzing about all over the place?”

  “I’ll buy it,” said Duffy.

  “I was thinking that it wasn’t really happening at all. Here is Ireland, I thought, putting on a show specially for me, the sort of crazy performance that one is led to expect from the old country. I was remembering the theory that character on the plane wished on me you know. But if everybody finds what he expects to find in Ireland it can’t be because it actually exists–it can’t even be because the people purposely conform to the visitor’s preconceived ideas–therefore the visitor must just imagine the happenings. One is deluded by the air, or the whisky, or something.” He gave his coat a final squeeze and the dog a final instant of ecstasy. “This water’s real enough though.”

  “And cold enough, I should think,” Duffy agreed. “Go on in and put on something dry. Better give yourself a good stiff whisky, further to delude you. I’ve imagined worse things in my time.”

  “Are you coming in for a drink?”

  “No thanks. I have to look for a lost sergeant–and a lost gun.”

  It did not take long to find the sergeant. Duffy got into the driving-seat of his car and sounded the horn two or three times; then he turned the ca
r so that it faced towards the avenue and settled down to wait. Almost immediately, however, O’Callaghan and the driver appeared from the trees. They had covered the entire shore-line of the peninsula and as a result of their observations they were convinced that the murderer could not have come to Moore Court or left it by water.

  “Not at low tide, unless he landed openly at the pier,” O’Callaghan asserted. “There’s a lot of sticky mud exposed when the water’s low, and a swimmer or a boat would be bound to leave marks. They wouldn’t be washed out around the high-water line anyway, and I swear there isn’t the smallest sign.”

  “We can exclude the possibility of a boat having been used,” said Duffy, getting out of tire driving-seat to make room for his official chauffeur. “I’m pretty sure a swimmer couldn’t have done it unseen, but all the same we may as well find out who are the crack swimmers around here. Though Lua Kennedy would have seen anyone else crossing the bay, it’s always possible that she may have made the journey herself.”

  “I have news for you about her, sir,” Sergeant O’Callaghan began but he was not destined to impart his information at that time.

  “Wait a minute,” said Duffy.

  The superintendent’s eye had caught a furtive movement in the trees not far from the path to the jetty; two small figures were moving on tiptoe from the direction of the path towards the side of the house, or–to be strictly accurate–the larger figure went on tiptoe dragging behind it the smaller one, which seemed incapable of independent movement. Seeing that she had been observed, Mary left her brother where he was and came out onto the gravel but she still walked stealthily. She wore the smug expression of a cat which has just disposed of a mouse; behind her Michael rolled on the ground in paroxysms of what could now be identified as mirth.