McGarr’s hand was weary by the time he got to the bar, and there in front of him he was faced with a half-dozen whiskeys. “Could you put these in a large tumbler with lots of ice?” he asked the bartender.
Through all the noises he could just barely hear the phone ringing.
A policeman picked it up, listened, then shouted, “I’ll be goddamned if it ain’t Dublin!”
On his way by, McGarr saw a policeman handing Paddy Sugrue a twenty-dollar bill. “For the army,” he said.
McGarr stopped.
Sugrue said, “Unsolicited.” He placed the bill in a large wallet. “Right?” he asked the policeman.
“Right. Anything I can do. I only wish I could afford more.” He could see the question in McGarr’s eyes. “It’s for the people at home, ain’t it? I mean, if we’d all pulled together a couple hundred years ago, I wouldn’t have to be living here. Don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly. “This is the greatest nation in the world, but Queens—” His voice trailed off.
McGarr patted the man’s arm and went for the phone. There was no use explaining that the I.R.A. and the Irish Republic were two different and often opposed political entities, but McGarr doubted the man had ever been “home.” It could well be he was a second or third or even a more distant generation American, yet still he nurtured the feeling of being Irish. Perhaps it was a necessary identity here among two hundred and ten million people. Because of the diversity of the sprawling country—more a collection of many different countries than a single nation state—the term American really couldn’t mean much. To say you were Irish was something else. Ireland had only four million Irishmen, England about the same if nothing but names were counted, and America perhaps eight or nine million whose ancestry was traceable to the olde sod. The twenty dollars had probably made the policeman feel very Irish indeed and was for him money well spent.
McGarr wished he could trace the transit of the money and find out where and how it was spent. He didn’t doubt that Paddy Sugrue was a fairly honest man or that the cause he represented was dedicated solely to the establishment of a united Ireland, but he wondered how that man would feel if he knew that his twenty dollars had been spent to purchase the explosive used to blow some innocent Londoner out of his seat in a restaurant five hundred miles distant from the trouble in the North. Would he then have thought twice? McGarr believed so.
In McGarr’s mind the problem really didn’t rest with the man who gave the twenty dollars alone but with the I.R.A. leaders who had chosen terror as a guerrilla tactic. McGarr himself longed for a united Ireland, but at what price—the labeling of the Irish for good and all as a people more savage than any in Europe? In that light the twenty dollars was wrong.
“Peter? Peter?” a voice was saying through the receiver. It was Bernie McKeon at McGarr’s office in Dublin Castle, where it was three in the morning. “I’ve been waiting for your call. What gives over there? Sounds like a tinker’s wedding or a free-for-all. Who’s the bloke with the busted throat in the background?” He meant the music, but he didn’t wait for McGarr to answer. “Got a full report on the pitchfork we found in Schwerr’s trunk. It can’t be the murder weapon. The prongs are spaced too far apart. They don’t match the punctures on her chest nor the width of the scratches on the car. But we did find where it came from—the farm nearest the murder scene. Fellow named Cassidy owns the place. The one Schwerr stopped at to get help and where Fleming patched him up. Cassidy has a whole bunch of sons.”
“So a whole bunch of pitchforks,” said McGarr.
McKeon never heard him. “So a whole bunch of pitchforks.”
“Did he keep them all in one place?” McGarr shouted into the phone.
“Usually, but they’re haying out there now and so leave them wherever they stop.”
McGarr thought back to the morning they’d found May Quirk in the pasture. He had seen men haying not far distant.
“So,” McKeon concluded, “we’re working with a cute one, we are. If Schwerr didn’t do it himself, whoever did was trying to hang it on him.”
“Then why wouldn’t the murderer have placed the real weapon in the trunk?” McGarr asked.
Said McKeon, “Didn’t catch that. Are you hearing me?”
“Yes!” McGarr roared.
McKeon asked nearly the same question as McGarr and answered it. “The only pitchforks with prongs like the murder weapon are ancient. They were last manufactured in the early thirties at a place in Leeds. Can’t be many around. We’re now rechecking the area. Everybody here is being helpful. We should know something by morning.
“We’ve arrested Scannell at the Provincial Bank for fraud. When we checked his books we found them irregular. The bank laid the charges. He’s definitely I.R.A. But I don’t think we can lay anything else against him.
“The tire tracks are still up for grabs. Nothing yet.”
“Have you checked the wreck at the James Cleary farm?” McGarr roared.
He couldn’t hear McKeon’s reply.
“Well, do that. And check there for the pitchfork. Carefully. I want the whole farm covered.”
“Commissioner Farrell has been calling on the hour. That’s about it from this end. What are you doing, presiding over a revolution?”
McGarr shouted his thanks to McKeon and hung up. When he turned back to the crowd he saw a group of men clustered around Sugrue, who was relating a story of the Troubles in a loud voice. McKeon could not have known how well he had spoken.
Some other men with much gold braid on the visors of their uniform caps were pushing in through the door. The man in the middle wore a suit. McGarr suspected he was the police commissioner. McGarr turned, placed a call to the consulate, and left a message for Noreen that he’d be late. There was a vibrancy in the air that was festive and not un-Irish, that of men who needed the excuse McGarr had given them to vent their best emotions. Throughout the bar they were laughing.
The commissioner removed his hat and coat.
The bartender pushed past McGarr and phoned home for help.
Three of New York’s finest were behind the bar handing out drinks and lifting sodden bills off the wet bar top.
McGarr took a drink from his tumbler and resigned himself to a long night.
TWELVE
Synthesis
MCGARR AWOKE without opening his eyes. A circle of pain at the very back of his head was the cause. His back felt little better. And then he heard a rustling about the room, the sound of a window being opened, and was treated to the welcome smells of a breakfast tray by the side of the bed. Flexing his toes, he could tell that the bed was immense, because he was lying across it prone, or so the fingers of his outstretched arms told him, yet he couldn’t feel the other edge.
Now street sounds were keeping him awake, and he began to worry about the coffee on the tray. He preferred it piping hot, especially when he felt as he did this morning, after his bash with the N.Y.P.D. He pushed the pillow off his head, turned his face onto the other cheek.
On a small table was the game board of Potlatch, O’Connor’s invention. It belonged to the consul’s daughter. McGarr and Noreen had played it after his return from Queens, until he had felt he was sober enough to go to bed without disastrous consequences.
While they had played, Noreen had extolled the many virtues of New York: the galleries, theatres, concerts, museums. “It’s the tenor of this place. Just look at what’s going on here.” She had thrust a copy of the New York Times at him. Her cheeks were flushed. “And it’s not just that more is happening here, but it seems to be a whole different order of activity. Everything is bigger, more powerful. Just listen to this.” She had advanced on the French windows, which opened onto the street. “Hear that roaring? You only hear that roaring in London or Paris or Rome, but here it’s louder. It’s the sound of—”
“A great beast,” McGarr had said. He hadn’t been able even to focus on the paper and had been having trouble enough concentrating on the game, which was
interesting even to a man in his condition.
“No, it’s the sound of the heart of a civilization. In Paris it’s mild, just a gentle hush. In Rome it’s brash. In London it’s a steady, busy hum. But over here it sounds like—”
“A bloody, big dynamo roaring through my skull. Close it, will you, Noreen?” But McGarr felt bad about that. She was deflated. After a while he had said, “All right, what does it sound like?”
“Like a shredding machine, if you must know. One big enough to accommodate a pint-sized Dubliner with a rancid disposition.”
Now McGarr rolled over and placed the pillow on his face again. He thought of O’Connor and how he had reacted to May Quirk’s articles about him—seemingly without anger, only a kind of quiet disappointment. He had let her take her shots at him, and not once but twice. The tenor of the second article had been strident, as though she had become enraged over his and the country’s seeming unconcern for her opinion of his work. Obviously, the articles had bothered him—he had then tried to write something with which, he had thought, she might be satisfied. And he had still cared very much about her. His reaction to the news of her death had seemed genuine enough. He also had somewhat of an alibi for the period of time during which she was murdered. He had remained in Griffin’s pub at least until closing, certainly too long to have gotten to the scene before Schwerr and Hanly. But could he have followed May Quirk to Ireland and, if so, why? He had said not, but…
What had struck McGarr as most interesting was the similarity of O’Connor’s and Fleming’s approaches to New York. They had even both dwelt upon the odd word potlatch. McGarr wondered what a wealthy young man, a writer who seemed to have lost interest in his writing, would do with his time. O’Connor had told McGarr that he didn’t care for the tactics of the I.R.A. Could he be believed? And if so, did that matter? Phil Dineen himself had admitted as much, and there Dineen was Galway CO and a major Provo tactician.
Nora Cleary: She had been in Ireland the night of May Quirk’s death and had lied to him about it. Why? She knew how to use a gun, in fact, the very same type that May Quirk had had in her hand. How had she come by that knowledge?
Fleming: May Quirk had written two articles about him as well. In both, Fleming had tried to debate her. Here the issue wasn’t personal; it was an assessment of the quality of life in two vastly different areas of the world. Whereas O’Connor had sidestepped her thrusts, Fleming had confronted her on every issue. She had found a sore spot and had kept probing. Fleming had no real alibi either; he was near the scene of the crime, and he was involved with both Hanly and Schwerr and the men who had tried to kill McGarr and Dineen. What was more, he had made no bones about his dislike of May Quirk even from the first interview. And then Sugrue had told McGarr to check Fleming’s house carefully.
Who else?
Schwerr: McGarr didn’t think he’d murder the woman he had wanted to marry when, in fact, she had admitted to carrying his child. The very mention of abortion had set him off. That was his story, of course, but his statement of having knocked her around made McGarr believe him. He would abuse her some, but he wouldn’t kill her.
And Hanly: He was beyond murder, McGarr believed, even a murder designed to implicate his young rival Schwerr. In fact, Hanly had probably been beyond design the night of May Quirk’s death. McGarr had watched him closely that next morning. And if he had killed her, why hadn’t he concealed the proper pitchfork, the one that had killed May Quirk, in the trunk of Schwerr’s car and not some other that was dissimilar? In his shape, could he have been capable of such intrigue? But McGarr had been wrong before. And McAnulty had thought Hanly had been acting. That was important. McGarr had been doing so much acting himself that morning that he was probably beyond assessing the histrionic element in Hanly’s answers.
The pitchfork itself was the crux of the case, McGarr believed. Whoever had killed May had in a panic tried to pin it on Schwerr. Whoever had killed her had probably heard them arguing, witnessed her shooting Schwerr, and then taken the opportunity that the wild, dark place afforded to creep close to her and jab her. After the deed had come the realization that the pitchfork could be traced back to him. And that was the reason a second pitchfork had been placed in Schwerr’s trunk.
Also, May Quirk’s work diary was central to the case. She had kept such diaries on every other assignment she had ever done. Where was the diary on the financing operations of the I.R.A? Perhaps she had found out too much, some hitherto unknown source of funding, or some of their plans.
Yes—McGarr sat up. That would be a credible reason why she would be killed in a manner that would make it look like an ordinary murder of passion. That would be the reason McGarr and Dineen had nearly been killed and McGarr followed at Shannon. McGarr wondered how Hughie Ward was coming along with his search of the Quirk farmhouse.
He placed a call there.
“Nothing. I’ve just about finished. Not a word about the I.R.A.”
McGarr hung up and groped for his coffee.
Who else was there?
James Cleary: Certainly he was desperate enough to do something mad like killing her. The tire tracks could have been his. The car McGarr had seen burning in front of his farmhouse was an ancient Triumph Herald, just the sort of car that would have a bald front tire through which the cord was showing. Could he have followed her, overheard her telling Schwerr she was pregnant and was going to abort the child? That would definitely have outraged his peasant and Catholic sensibilities.
And then it struck McGarr that his sister was right. He would have a pitchfork of the type McKeon had described. His farm was an inheritance, had been worked for centuries. That would be a weapon for a farmer. How curious it was that May Quirk, a creature who had spoken for the modern world of New York and had condemned the ethos of Clare, should be killed by such a crude instrument, one of the symbols of that barren, backward land.
The phone was ringing.
McGarr picked it up.
“Dublin calling, sir,” said a pleasant female voice.
“Peter?” It was McKeon. “We found the murder weapon. You’ll never guess who owns it.”
“James Cleary,” McGarr said without a pause. All he could hear was the crackling of static and the odd word of other conversations that intruded on the wire.
Then McKeon said, “How d’you know that? McAnulty call you?”
“Lucky guess.”
“But do you know it’s been wiped clean of prints?”
“No. How do you mean ‘wiped clean’?”
“Just that. The rag used to wipe the handle was greasy. McAnulty says it’s some sort of nitrate solution on it.”
“Fertilizer?”
“Or gelignite. He’s working on it himself right now. And you know those two gunmen you had Shannon lift?” McKeon didn’t wait for McGarr to reply. “When they clammed up, we decided to do a thorough search of them. The linings of all of their pockets were coated with a fine film of cedar sawdust. We checked records. Neither of them has ever had anything to do with carpentry, lumberyards, wood cutting, and so forth. So we provided them with prison ordinaries and did an analysis of their clothes. I bet you can’t guess what we found on the cuffs of their pants.”
“Gelignite,” McGarr said, again without hesitation, speaking of the gelatin dynamite made from an absorbent base of sodium nitrate or some other nitrate and sawdust.
McKeon was deflated no less. “Did you buy a bloody crystal ball over there?”
“Just guessing. You gave away all the hard parts.”
“Then where the hell else do you think we found some of this particular gelignite that had cedar sawdust in it?”
“In the remains of the room in Salthill I got blown out of.”
“Well I’ll be goddamned! Are you pulling my leg? Have you been talking to McAnulty?” When McGarr didn’t say anything, McKeon went on. “Well, here’s something nobody knows. In the offal of the outbuilding near where we found the pitchfork, which, incidentall
y, wasn’t there two days ago when a guard checked, was a print of a shoe with a strange heel and sole. It’s the kind hikers or mountain climbers wear; you know, full of little rubber blocks for traction. Where the prints were situated makes McAnulty believe they were left by whoever leaned the pitchfork against the wall.
“And listen to this—in the trunk of Hanly’s car is a pair of them shoes. They’re called Dunham treking boots and sold at Callaghan’s on Dame Street.”
“Hanly buy them?”
“Nobody else. Last spring.”
“The proper size print?” McGarr, in spite of this evidence, still didn’t believe Hanly had killed May Quirk. To begin with, Hanly had been in custody since the morning following the murder. “Has McAnulty checked those shoes?”
“Yup—I knew you’d ask that. The composition of the mud found between the treads of those shoes is far different and too dry for those shoes to have made the prints.”
“But it’s the proper size to have made the prints?”
“Yes.”
“So—somebody’s still trying to hang it on Hanly, and whoever it is, he’s getting careless. Sounds like another coup for the Technical Bureau.”
“And they need one, too. Farrell has discovered the little fib you told him about the first pitchfork.”
“Me? A fib?” McGarr asked, as though smitten. “I only told him what was found.”
“But not where it was found.”
“That’s not a fib. It was early in the morning. I was tired.”
“Just the withholding of vital information.”
“Vital for whom? Vital to what? The information was only vital to Farrell’s curiosity. I want you to prefer a murder charge against Hanly.”
McKeon paused, then asked, “What?”
“Just what I said. Tell all the papers. Make sure they blow it up big.” McGarr wanted to make sure Fleming and O’Connor heard about it.
“But Hanly couldn’t have killed her, could he have?”
The Death of an Irish Lass Page 19