by Ralph Dennis
“Rough seas out here now and then.” Mac waited while Hall finished his drink. Glasses held in one hand, elbows out like a football player, he dipped into the crowd and headed for the bar again.
By ten that night, the passengers had settled in for the long voyage. The lights were dimmed in the second-class seating compartments and most of the people were trying to sleep. Hall was restless. He’d tried sleep and that had been impossible. His knees were stiffening. He stood and stretched his legs. Mac, from his seat to his left, stirred and blinked at him.
“Going on deck,” Hall said. “The air’s used up down here.”
“Right with you … or behind you,” Mac said.
Hall struggled into his parka as he moved down the aisle between the even rows of sleeping people. He reached the lobby and the wide staircase that led to the deck. The ferry lurched under him and he caught the railing and used it as he climbed the staircase.
A raw wind blew across the deck. Hall walked a distance from the doorway and huddled in the shelter of a lifeboat and used the shield of it to light a cigarette. The gusting wind almost blew the cigarette from his hand. He took two puffs and then walked to the rail. He tossed the butt over the side. Lights from the cabins and compartments below lit the sea. There was a white boil and churn along the side of the ferry.
Hall heard the door to the deck open. He turned. “That you, Mac?”
He saw a blur of pale cloth. A tan trench coat. Not Mac. Mac was wearing a dark blue lined raincoat that was almost military issue.
“Mac?” The man stopped a couple of feet from Hall. “Afraid not.” Closer, Hall could see gray streaks in the man’s hair. “Stifling below, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps a bit of chill will wake me.” The man opened his trench coat and removed it. He tossed it up, onto the lifeboat cover. Under the coat he wore a heavy black turtleneck sweater. “You have a light? I’m afraid I’ve used the last of my matches.”
“Too much wind,” Hall said. “Here.” Hall dug the lighter from his parka pocket. “Light your own.”
The man stepped forward and extended a hand. At that moment, Hall remembered him. The man in the trench coat who’d been watching him from the other side of the bar.
“Damn.” The man seemed to lose his balance, as if the ferry had moved under his feet. The hand that reached for Hall’s lighter grazed his hand. It grabbed at hall’s parka sleeve.
“Hey, watch it.” Hall spread his legs to distribute his weight evenly. The man slammed against him.
“Sorry, I can’t seem to get my …”
Hall could smell whisky on the man’s breath and the scent of some kind of garlic sausage. He realized the man’s weight and strength were forcing him toward the ship’s railing. The man’s other hand, his left, pinned Hall’s arm to his side. Hall tried to lean forward and force a shoulder in the man’s chest. The man turned slightly to avoid it. Hall slammed hard against the rail and felt it in his kidneys.
A door opened in the distance. There was a flash of light and then darkness again. The man looked over his shoulder. His breath was ragged. A grunt as the man mustered his strength. Hall’s left foot was lifted from the deck. Hall reached back and grabbed the rail with his left hand. The rail was wet with spray and freezing and Hall didn’t know how long he could hold on.
There was a blur in the corner of Hall’s eye. A tall man faced him beyond the man in the black turtleneck. An image of pale skin. Then Mac stepped forward and grabbed the man by the back of his sweater and the seat of his pants and threw him overboard. Hall almost went with him. He was pulled that way by the final desperate grab. Mac caught Hall by the shoulders and wrapped him in a bear hug.
“Willie, what have you been up to? Kissing strange men on the deck of a ferry in the Irish Sea? What will you do next?”
“It was more like dancing,” Hall said. He struggled for his breath.
Mac backed away from the rail, taking Hall with him. “Who was he?”
“I don’t know. Somebody I saw watching us from across the bar.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“It didn’t seem important at the time.”
“Ready to go below?” Mac released Hall and watched to see if he was steady.
“Yes.” A step and Hall remembered. “A second.” Hall walked to the lifeboat and felt along the cover until he found the tan trench coat. “He left this.”
“You’re getting a chill.” Mac took the coat from Hall and followed him to the doorway and down the staircase to the cabins.
“Here.” Mac dug around in the side pocket of his carry bag and found a silver flash. “Have a taste of this.”
They were back at their seats. No one around them stirred. In the dim light, the airless room, there was snoring and blubbering and wheezing.
Hall uncapped the flask and had a swallow of pure fire. It had the mild smoke of a single malt scotch in it. Hall lowered the flask and offered it to Mac.
Mac said, “Have another.”
Another swallow and Hall could feel the heat in the pit of his stomach. The shivering had almost passed. He thought he’d recovered from the cold or the danger.
Mac took the flask and wedged it between his thigh and the side of the seat. The trench coat was spread over his knees. “American made.” He pointed at the manufacturer’s patch. “Harbor Master.” He lifted the flask and sipped the scotch. He passed the flask to Hall. Hall capped it and held it.
Hall watched Mac turn the coat and empty the side pockets. “Kents. One open packet. One full.” He placed the cigarettes on the seat beside him. “One box of Swan matches.” A twisted wad of papers followed. Mac smoothed the papers and struck a match. “Car rental from London to Fishguard.” He put that paper aside. “Ferry ticket. First class.” Mac stuffed the cigarettes and the papers in the coat pockets. He patted his way across the rest of the coat. He stopped at a place high on the inside right of the trench coat. “What do we have here?”
It was a zippered pocket. Mac pulled the zipper downward. He reached inside the pocket. “Bingo. Isn’t that what you Americans say?”
First a passport. Then a tan envelope without writing on the outside of it. Hall took the passport and held it open while Mac struck a match “American. Warren Blair Baker. Hometown is Copper City, Utah.”
Mac dropped the match before it burned his fingers. He stepped on it and lit another one. Hall flipped through the pages. Entry after entry. “He’s been a busy little bugger,” Mac said.
Hall closed the passport and put it in his pocket.
Mac passed Hall the Swan matches. “You light one.” Mac opened the tan envelope. “Traveler’s checks and cash.” Mac flipped quickly through the traveler’s checks. “Roughly five hundred pounds. There was a flat sheaf of new money. Twenty- and ten-pound notes. “About three hundred pounds,” Mac said.
“What do we do with this?”
“Dump the checks and spend the pounds. In fact, first chance we get we’ll have a drink to the bugger.”
A few minutes after one a.m. the ferry docked at Rosslare. Before they left their seats, Mac wadded the trench-coat into a ball and stuffed it under a seat on the other side of him. They left the huge seating compartment and joined the line in the inner deck outside the cabin and waited until the gangway was in place and the doorway opened.
CHAPTER TEN
Two hours, and a bit after they left Rosslare in the rental Escort, they passed through the dark and sleepy village of Kinsale. From the instructions given over the phone, Mac took the right fork at the end of the main street and they climbed a high and winding road that took them to the entranceway of The Keep.
A light burned in the parking area outside. A Cortina, two other Escorts and a black Mercedes sedan lined the gravel space that fronted the high stone arch that led to The Keep.
As instructed, Mac pulled the rope on the right side of the door. A bell rang in the distance.
They were registered by an effeminate blond young ma
n with only the pale whisp of a beard. “You spoke to my father when you called. He wasn’t feeling well so I waited up for you.” The light was on in the dining room beyond the lobby. A sleek-haired Irish boy in his teens sat at a table there drinking white wine. He had bad skin and two teeth were missing in the upper front of his mouth.
“There are only twelve rooms in The Keep,” the young man told them as he led them up the stairs “It’s out of season. Usually you wouldn’t find a vacancy.”
They were registered in rooms 11 and 12 on the fourth level of the hotel. The walls of the staircases and the halls were papered with hunting scenes and the floor, creaking gently under their feet, was carpeted with heavy pile. There were four rooms on each level and a bathroom with each.
When they were left to themselves, after the footfall of the young man faded into the levels below, Mac stuck his head into Hall’s room. “Almost half three now. Let’s give them two hours.”
Hall stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes. He was fully clothed except for his shoes. It seemed he’d hardly closed his eyes when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Mac leaned over him. “Time,” he said.
The registry book was still on the counter beside the door that led outside. While Mac watched, Hall flipped through the book. He reached the present. A Mr. and Mrs. Carl Hubbard from Washington, D.C., U.S.A. were registered in rooms 1 and 2. Two rooms for a married couple? Even out of season it seemed an extraordinary expense. Another couple, the Tindles from Gravesend.
Something strange about the name the American couple had. Carl Hubbard? Wasn’t that the old screwball pitcher for the Dodgers? Maybe not, but it was something close. Close enough to make a person wonder if it wasn’t based on it.
Hall closed the book and joined Mac. He was about to tell Mac what he’s learned when an overhead light in the lobby flared on. “Is there something I can do for you, gentlemen?” A tall man in a bathrobe stood in a doorway to the side of the lobby, near the dining room. He wore his hair close-cropped and his thick mustache was reddish gray.
“We wondered …” Mac began.
“We hoped your son might still be awake,” Hall said. “After the ferry ride and the car trip we’re too tired to sleep.”
“And you wanted …?”
“A dram or two of your best,” Mac said.
“It’s past hours,” the man said. “But you are guest and I could say it was for your health.” He led them across the lobby to the bar. He unlocked the door and switched on a lamp. He placed three glasses on the bar. “Jameson black?”
“Beautiful,” Mac said.
“I’m your host, Thomas Hinson.” Hinson poured. “No ice, I hope.”
“I’d as soon drown my mother,” Mac said.
“One never knows about Americans,” Hinson said.
“I trained this one myself.” Mac laughed.
Hall lifted his glass and drank. “Your health, gentlemen.”
There was little talk over the drinks. Mac allowed himself to be nudged into telling Hinson some lies about why he was in Ireland. “A nephew at medical college in Galway,” he said. “And a chance to show my American friend around.”
“The colleges in Scotland aren’t good enough?” Hinson said.
“Oh, no.” Mac seemed surprised that Hinson had read his accent so easily. During his time in the R.A.F. he’d acquired a better than average covering English accent. “The boy … poor lad … he’s not bright enough.” Mac tapped the side of his head.
A second drink finished; Hall was ready to pay.
“They’ll be added to your total,” Hinson said. He followed them from the bar and switched off the light and locked the door. Then, for the first time, he seemed to notice that neither Mac nor Hall were wearing shoes.
Mac lifted a stockinged foot and grinned, “We didn’t want to wake your other guests,” he said.
“Our thanks again.” Hall started up the stairs. Mac was right behind him. Halfway up the first flight, Hall turned and looked down at Hinson. Hinson glanced from them to the guest book on the counter. He was headed in that direction when Hall climbed three more steps and went out of sight.
At the landing between the second and third levels, Hall stopped and touched Mac on the arm. Mac leaned toward him.
“I’ve got a hunch,” Hall said. “Hinson knows now why we were down there and he’s doing the same thing.”
Mac lifted an eyebrow.
“He’s checking the book to see who we are and where we’re from.”
“And … ?”
“We’ll wait and see.”
After a minute or so, they could feel movement on the stairs, Hinson’s footpace. Hinson reached the top of the first flight and paused. He was in the hallway that led to rooms 1 through 4. Then he was moving again, the slippee-slip of his slippers. When that sound ended, there was a knock on a door. Two raps, a wait and two more.
A door opened. The voice had a northeast twang and the faint whine of an American. “Yes, Hinson? This had better be important.”
“You asked me to tell you …” The door was closing. “Two men registered early this morning. A Mr. Duncan MacIntosh, a Scot, and the other is American …” The door closed and Hinson’s voice was cut off.
Hall let the voice of the American man echo in his mind for a time. It found a face. Rivers. The voice fitted Rivers. That was interesting.
Hall nodded at Mac. They finished the climb to the fourth level. Mac stopped at room 11. “I think there’s a drop or two left in the flask.”
Hall shook his head. “I need four or five full hours of sleep.”
“And you’ll explain this to me later?”
“At breakfast.”
Hall entered room 12 and undressed. He got into bed and left the light on. He had to fight off sleep. He had to make a grab at understanding what was going on. Now, or it might slide past him.
He’d seen Rivers at the Potomac Motel how many nights ago? One? Two? Three? No, four to be exact. And now Rivers was in Kinsale. How and why? How did Rivers go from being on the chase, behind him, to being ahead of him?
And then he couldn’t fight the sleep anymore. He switched off the light and the Jameson black pulled him under. It was like stepping into a bottle of ink.
It was late morning when he awoke. His eyes felt gritty and his tongue thick and rough. By the time he’d shaved and drawn a bath he could hear movement in Mac’s room. The bath was hurried and uncomfortable. The tub had been built for people no taller than five-five.
Mac opened the door in his underwear. “Order me an American style breakfast. Lots of everything. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The dining room was almost empty. There were two couples seated at different tables. English or Irish country squire types, tweedy and bulky with sweaters. To Hall’s right, with her back to him, a woman was having breakfast alone. Something about the color of her hair, the shape of her back and shoulders, was lodged in his memory. Perhaps. Perhaps not. He headed toward her table. On the way, the kid with missing teeth who’d been with Hinson’s son in the early hours moved to block his path.
“Sir …?” the waiter began.
“I think I see someone I know.”
At the sound of his voice, Denise Lawton turned and looked over her shoulder. Yes, it was Denise, far away from the University of North Carolina and her political and Russian studies.
“May I join you?” Hall stopped behind the chair on Denise’s left. “Or are you expecting Rivers?”
“Mr. Rivers is out for the moment.”
“Does that mean I can sit with you?”
“Do.”
Hall took his time over the breakfast menu. For himself a mixed grill and for Mac soft scrambled eggs, a rasher of bacon, toast and juice. Handing the menu to the waiter Hall said, “Mr. Macintosh will be joining us in a minute or two.”
“Funny finding you here,” Denise said.
“I laughed first,” Hall said.
She was dress
ed in the American way. A dark wool skirt, a white sweater with beadwork down the front and knee length leather boots. “Mr. Rivers will be surprised to find you here.”
“Is it still Mr. Rivers? I thought the relationship might have progressed beyond formality.”
Mac stopped in the dining room doorway. He spotted Hall. Grinning, almost laughing to himself, he headed for the table.
Denise blushed. Or it was the flush of anger. “This is not a vacation. No matter what you think …”
Mac dropped a huge hand on Hall’s shoulder. “Hello, Willie. It looks like you’re up to it again.”
“This is Mac.”
Mac executed a courtly bow.
“And this is Denise. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten her maiden name.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Denise said.
The waiter, who’d gone into the kitchen when Mac arrived, returned with their breakfast plates.
With Mac at the table the atmosphere changed. Hall and Denise kept a polite balance while Mac chatted away, until Denise stared at him as if she couldn’t decide whether he was the craziest man she’d ever met or the sanest.
They were over a second pot of coffee when Hall noticed that Mr. Hinson, their host, had entered the dining room. He seemed hurried, nervous, and he crossed the room at almost a gallop. He came to a stop directly behind Denise. “Mrs. Hubbard?” His voice was low and respectful. “Mrs. Hubbard?”
Hall tapped Denise on the arm. “That’s you, dear.”
Denise looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“There’s been an accident. Mr. Hubbard’s been injured.”
Denise pushed back her chair. Hinson caught it and moved it aside. “Where is he?”
“In his room. The injury was not serious and he was treated at hospital and brought here.”
Mr. Hinson and Denise crossed the room, heads together. “What kind of accident?”
“I’m afraid the car went out of control and …”
Hall signed his breakfast check. Mac left a small but adequate tip. He did not believe, as he said often, in spoiling the common man.
In the lobby Hall said, “How about a breath of air?”