“I was mugged by a leprechaun,” Scarne replied.
A course ranger driving a cart retrieved him on the second hole. The man looked him up and down with barely concealed distaste and brought him back to the club house, where his reception by the club manager was equally frosty. The manager huffed something about the club’s standards but Scarne was in no mood for anyone’s disapproval.
“Listen, a man tried to kill me. He’s lying at the bottom of the cliff on No. 4. Call 911 or whatever the hell it is over here and get me some cops. A club where caddies try to pitch players off a cliff may want to work on its standards. Now, point me to the pro shop. I want to buy some goddamn pants. And see if you can find me some medical supplies before I bleed all over your lovely carpet. And I want to make a call.”
The manager looked dubious. Scarne pulled out his American Express card from his wallet.
“I never leave home without it.”
After Scarne bought some clothes and patched himself up, the manager offered him the use of his office to make a call. Clancy’s body had been spotted at the bottom of the cliff and the staff had become much more accommodating. Scarne called his office and left a message for Evelyn.
“I’m having such a relaxing time over here I’ve decided to stay a few more days. Just hold the fort.”
No use worrying her. And he also decided not to contact Noah Sealth. Let the man enjoy his honeymoon.
“Mr. Scarne? The Garda is here.”
He looked up. The manager walked in, accompanied by a nattily dressed man. Scarne could see uniformed police, both men and women, in the hallway.
“I’m Inspector Seamus O’Neill of the Garda Síochána. I’d like a word with you.”
CHAPTER 19 - THE GARDA
The Garda Síochána, meaning "the Guardian of the Peace", is Ireland’s police force, most of whose members are unarmed. Inspector Seamus O’Neill looked like he wouldn’t ever need a weapon. A short, barrel-chested man with a ruddy face and reddish brown hair cut short, his most prominent feature was his nose, which Scarne guessed had been broken more than once.
Scarne stood and took O’Neill’s outstretched hand. The manager left.
“Boxing or rugby?” Scarne said.
“What?”
“The nose. You weren’t born that way.”
“Both.” The inspector stared at Scarne’s face. “You?”
“College rugby. But they tried to fix mine.”
“Not a bad job. I would have had to go to Lourdes, and I’m not sure that would have been enough.”
Both men sat. A younger officer, in uniform, came into the room and stood near them with a notebook.
“Now, let’s have it,” O’Neill said. “From the beginning.”
Scarne told him what happened. When he finished, O’Neill smiled.
“That’s a pretty detailed account, Mr. Scarne. Why do I think you’ve done this sort of thing before?”
“I’m a private investigator. Used to be a detective in New York.”
“Got any people we can call on your behalf.”
Scarne recited some names and numbers.
“I think we’ll start with the New York City Police Commssioner,” O’Neill said dryly. “Tell me, Mr. Scarne, are you in Ireland on business?”
“A wedding and some golf, up until now. Listen, Inspector, I’m worried about Mahoney, my real caddie. I have a bad feeling about it.”
“You don’t think he’s involved?”
“No. How many killer caddies do you have over here? Besides, I’m a pretty good judge of men.”
“Including the chap you say tried to throw you off a mountain?”
“Point taken, Inspector. But I only knew Clancy for a couple of hours. I spent a lot of time with Corrick. He was a good man.”
O’Neill looked at the cop who had been writing everything down.
“Michael, get some people on it right away. Have them start at the Killarney Park. They knew the Mahoney chap there.”
‘Yes, sir.”
The cop left.
“Excuse me a moment, Mr. Scarne,” O’Neill said. “How about a cup of coffee? I’ll have the manager send one in.”
“Perhaps with a shot of Jameson in it?”
“I think we can do that.”
O’Neill returned 15 minutes later, just as Scarne was finishing his coffee.
“It may be some time before they get the body. Have to send the M.E. by police launch. I’m afraid you will have to come with me to the station in Cork. You can ride with me. Don’t worry about your clubs and all. I’ll have everything sent to the station. It’s evidence, you know.”
“I have some stuff in Clancy’s car, clothes and the like.”
“All impounded. I’m sure we’ll be able to sort everything out at the station. You were a copper. You know the drill. Shall we go?”
***
The Garda station in Cork was a modern four-story glass-and-brick building on Anglesea Street, next to a tavern prominently displaying Heineken signs. Several white patrol cars with distinctive fluorescent yellow and blue bordered horizontal strips were parked out front when Scarne pulled up in O’Neill’s unmarked car. They’d spent the hour-long drive going over Scarne’s story in detail. Scarne didn’t mind. O’Neill was obviously a good detective. Once inside the station, Scarne was escorted to an interrogation room and supplied with more coffee and some sandwiches. After an hour, a policewoman brought him to O’Neill’s office.
“More coffee, Mr. Scarne?”
“No thanks, Inspector. I’ve already survived one murder attempt. I won’t push my luck.”
“Pretty bad, right?”
“One more cup and I’ll confess.”
O’Neill laughed.
“You don’t have to. We made some calls. Condon, the New York City Police Commissioner, said you were a royal pain in the arse but not a murderer.
“He’s Irish, and you believed him?”
“Well, there’s something else. We’ve identified the dead man. His name isn’t Clancy. It’s Barton. Darrock Barton. Our M.E. says he died in the fall and was still clutching your trousers as if his life depended on it. Which, of course, it did. The only other explanation would be if he was really fond of you. Barton is, or was, a bad actor. Did freelance work for a couple of the local gangs, here and in Kerry. Suspected in a couple of contract killings, but never convicted. He was a real pro. Went into the clubhouse and said that you preferred to play alone, so that there would be no witnesses. Picked the most isolated section of the links to chuck you off the cliff.”
O’Neill smiled at Scarne.
“Bloody miracle you’re alive. Someone has it in for you, my friend. Any idea who?”
“My last couple of big cases probably made me some enemies in Europe. This might have had something to do with it.”
“Tell me about them.”
Scarne did. When he finished, O’Neill said, “I think Condon might have hit it on the head. You must be a pain in the arse.”
The phone on O’Neill’s desk rang.
“Yes. What is it?”
He listened for a minute, frowning.
“Thank you, sergeant. Will the Kerry Garda make the notification to his family? Right then.”
He hung up and looked at Scarne.
“They’ve found Corrick Mahoney’s vehicle. He was in the back, covered by a blanket. Shot through the head.”
***
By the time O’Neill finished with him, it made little sense for Scarne to go back to Killarney. He took a room in a small hotel on the shore of the River Lee a few blocks from the Garda station. He spent much of the next day being interviewed by other detectives and representatives of the Crown Prosecutor. He was finally cut loose late in the afternoon and O’Neill arranged to have patrol car take him back to Killarney, along with his golf clubs and personal belongings. Including Scarne’s cell phone, which, as expected, was found on Barton’s body, remarkably undamaged.
“It was in his
back pocket,” O’Neill explained. “He landed face down. Not a pretty sight. Still, pretty impressive for a cell phone. I’m afraid the battery’s dead.”
“Better it than me” Scarne said.
He promised to make himself available if he was needed, although both he and O’Neill knew he probably wouldn’t be.
“Barton’s mates say they don’t know who he was working for,” the Inspector said when Scarne took his leave. “And even if they did they won’t tell us. Crooks have their own code of honor. Probably the same on your side of the pond.”
“Yeah. Listen, will you do something for me, Inspector?”
“What is it?”
Scarne handed him a thick envelope with the logo of the hotel Scarne had slept at the previous night.
“It’s the fee I owed Mahoney. Will you see to it that it gets to his wife?”
“Of course.”
“And send me her contact information. When I get back to the States I want to send her something extra.”
“You are not to blame, you know?”
“Just the same.”
The men shook hands and Scarne got into the patrol car. Two hours later, after a sandwich and a glass of wine at the bar at the Killarney Park Hotel, he crawled into bed, exhausted.
***
It was nearly noon when Scarne, sick of sandwiches, put himself together the next day and went downstairs for something serious to eat. Reflecting on his near miss on the golf course, and happy to be alive, he ordered a fillet of Irish beef, with mushrooms, fries, grilled tomato and peppercorn sauce. He asked his waiter for a wine list.
“Bring me a glass of the Espirit de Nijinsky Cabernet Sauvignon,’ he said, laughing. “We have something in common. He was famous for his entrechat, after all.”
“Entrachat? I don’t know that vintage.”
“It’s not a wine. It’s a ballet leap through the air. I bet Nijinski would have appreciated my moves at Old Head.”
“I’ll get your wine, sir.”
Scarne had just been served his meal when a group of well-dressed people, including several children, walked into the hotel dining room. They were greeted warmly by just about everyone in the place and then took a large round table, on which sat two large floral arrangements.
“First Communion,” the waiter explained when Scarne looked at him. “The little girl in the white dress just made hers.”
She was a cute thing, all red hair and freckles, and was basking in the admiration of her family. On an impulse, Scarne took a 50 Euro bill out of his pocket. It was the last of his cash, but he knew he could get more from an ATM if he needed. He walked over to the little girl’s table.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I understand that today is this young lady’s First Communion.”
“That it is,” one of the men at the table said.
“Well, with your permission, I’d like to give her a small gift, from her friends in the States.”
“Well, that’s very nice. Thank you.”
Scarne handed the girl the bill and wished her good luck. She beamed and said thank you. Saying that his meal and drink were due momentarily, he declined an offer for a pint. He could hear the little girl’s delighted chatter as he walked away.
After finishing his lunch, Scarne headed back to his room to pack. He went to see if his cell phone had charged. It had. He turned it on and saw that he had a voicemail. Four voice mails, in fact. Scarne checked the calls. All had come from Bob Huber at the Times. He checked his watch. It was almost 2 P.M. local time; 8 A.M. in New York. He called Huber’s number.
“For Christ sake, Scarne, don’t you answer your cell? What kind of private dick are you? I hope you were screwing some babe. That would be the only excuse.”
“Nice to hear your voice, too, Bob. I’m on vacation. In Ireland.”
Trying not to get murdered, Scarne thought.
“Oh, yeah, right. Now I remember. The wedding. But why turn your phone off?”
“Lost it for a couple of days,” Scarne said, not wanting to go into details with a Times reporter, even if he was a friend.
“Well, at least you got my messages. What did you think?”
“I don’t think anything. I didn’t check my voice mails yet. So, what do I think about what?”
There was a long pause, the kind, Scarne suspected, that usually precedes bad news. He wasn’t mistaken.
“Cassie Mulloy is dead.”
The long pause was now at Scarne’s end.
“Jake? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah. How did she die?”
“The cops say murder-suicide. She and her boyfriend were found side-by-side in her bed, shot to death.”
“I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”
“She apparently kept it on the down low. He was a Calusakee deputy. Name of Robles.”
“Herberto Robles?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
Scarne pictured the young cop who had brought him a coffee in the Calusakee station house.
“Met him once. Seemed squared away.”
“They claim he killed Cassie with his service revolver and then blew his own brains out.”
“Sure, he did.”
“Yeah.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Somebody just took out a nosy reporter and her source.”
“Of course, it might not be connected.”
Yeah, Scarne thought, and Ireland is full of murderous caddies. It was obvious whoever killed Mulloy wanted him dead, as well. And waited until he was out of the country. Then he thought of the First Communion party. The little girl was probably opening her presents on what was undoubtedly one of the happiest days of her life.
Scarne’s face hardened into a cruel mask. He thought of Cassie Mulloy. Probably a Catholic kid who had a First Communion party much like the one downstairs.
“I’ll catch the first flight tomorrow to New York.”
CHAPTER 20 - PARISIAN INTERLUDE
Except the first flight Scarne caught the next morning didn’t go to New York. While he was packing the previous evening, there was a knock on his door. He cautiously looked through the eye port and was relieved to see that his visitor wasn’t a murderous caddie holding a 7-iron. It was Moira from the front desk. He opened the door.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Scarne, but a man just dropped this off downstairs with instructions that it be delivered to you personally.”
She held out a small sealed envelope as her eyes drifted down to the bottle of Jameson that Scarne was holding by its neck. He didn’t remember picking it up on the way to the door.
“Thank you, Moira,” he said, taking the envelope with his free hand.
“He was a rough-looking fellow. Never saw him before. Not the kind we normally see in this hotel. Said he was to hand it to you but I didn’t like the sound of it, so I convinced him that I would see to it myself. He was stubborn but I threatened to call security and he took off.”
She looked at the bottle in his hand again. Sheepishly, he put it on a sideboard.
“You did right, Moira.”
“Do you still plan to leave tomorrow, Mr. Scarne?”
“Yes.”
Probably not soon enough for you, Scarne thought.
After she left, Scarne opened the envelope. There was a note, in elegant handwriting:
Dear Mr. Scarne,
Once again I understand you almost had another nasty fall. I have information that may prevent another “accident.” Please join me for dinner tomorrow night at Restaurant du Petit St. Benoit, 4 rue St. Benoit, Paris at 8 P.M.
It was signed, Roddenberry.
***
Scarne had no trouble finding the restaurant, a small family-owned establishment in the 5th Arrondissement in the Right Bank of Paris within walking distance of Notre Dame. Sobok was sitting alone at a table in the rear. He smiled at Scarne’s approach and stood. The men shook hands.
“I was afraid you might not come, fearing a tr
ap Mr. Scarne,” the killer said in almost perfect English. “The spider luring the fly.”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Scarne replied, “but it’s not really your style, is it?”
“Hardly. I make it a point never to conduct business in Paris. One doesn’t soil one’s home. If I wanted to kill you, I would have traveled to Ireland. I love Killarney, by the way. The French restaurants there are almost as excellent as those in Paris.” He looked around. “Although I wouldn’t say that too loudly. The chef here might kill us both.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“I was approached by the same group that hired the unfortunate caddie who apparently could not fly. They are persistent and wanted me to succeed where the other man failed. I’m sorry they didn’t approach me first. I might have saved you from an unfortunate experience. I told them I was otherwise occupied. Of course, I neglected to mention that I knew you. Then, I made some inquiries. I have some contacts in the Irish underworld and with the Garda. Since the principals will undoubtedly keep looking for someone to fulfill the assignment, I thought you should know.”
A waiter came to the table.
“Will you allow me to order for the both of us? This is one of my favorite restaurants in Paris. They never disappoint me.”
I bet, Scarne thought.
“Please do,” he said.
Sobok smiled at the waiter and in rapid-fire French placed an order.
“Très bien, monsieur Sobok,” the waiter said and walked away.
Sobok looked over at Scarne.
“Two orders of fois gras, with a bottle of their best Sancerre. Salad verte. Then coq au vin, with a bottle of Bordeaux. Cheese and strawberries, and a creme brulee to split for dessert. I told him to bring the Sancerre right away.”
“If this meal kills me,” Scarne said, “can you still get paid?”
Sobok laughed.
“Very good! I didn’t think of that!”
“So, your name really is Sobok?”
Sobok smiled.
“It is now. Often mispronounced, which has led to what you might call is a nom de guerre I once found distasteful, “The Vulcan”, which has actually proved quite useful in my line of work. Many people seem to associate it with a cold efficiency and a certain menace.”
PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Page 17