Death at Christy Burke's (34 page)

He went downstairs and opened the front door of the house. As soon as he stepped out on the pavement, the sky opened up, so he turned right around and went back inside, with the intention of going upstairs for his umbrella. But he saw the residents’ rain jackets hanging on the clothing stand in the doorway. As far as he knew, neither of the other priests was home, so surely nobody would miss a jacket if he borrowed one. The first one he tried must have belonged to Father Grattan, who was taller and stockier than Michael. He put it back on the hook. Beside it was a dark green nylon windbreaker he had seen on Leo; that would fit, given that they were about the same height and weight. He donned the windbreaker, flipped the collar up, and started out again. It was bucketing rain. He walked, head down, and brooded about the Reverend Merle Odom and the terrible way his life had been taken from him. Michael wondered why there had been no news about a Catholic being kidnapped, as Archbishop O’Halloran had suggested. Had that rumour been unfounded? There was nobody Michael could ask, not even Brennan or Leo; he had assured O’Halloran that he would keep the matter to himself.

Michael had been out for two minutes or so when he heard the squishy sound of tires on the wet pavement. He slowed down as he approached an intersection, thinking the car might be turning. But no, he saw out of the corner of his eye, it was moving at a low speed and did not have a signal light on. So Michael crossed the street and kept on. Rain ran into his eyes, and he wiped it away with his sleeve. He speeded up a bit; the sooner he got to the Shelbourne and out of this downpour, the happier he would be. When he increased his speed, the car seemed to keep pace with him. Maybe it was somebody he knew; a chance for a lift? He turned to look. He saw two men in the front seat and possibly another in the back. The front-seat passenger rolled down his window and peered at Michael. Then the man turned towards the driver and gave a quick shake of his head. The window went up again. The car turned away on the next street and was gone. Michael thought he had seen the man somewhere before, but he could not be sure. A lot of fellows had the same short haircut and, well, it could be anybody. But what about the car? Hadn’t there been a car in the neighbourhood before, creeping along? At night? Michael tried not to be spooked. Nothing had happened, then or now. It was most likely a simple case of mistaken identity, fellows out in the rain looking for somebody they knew. Well, whoever they were, they were gone. Out of sight, out of mind.

Brennan

“Brennan! Are you all right?”

The words came at him through the fog of sleep.

“Che cosa
?
”
he muttered.

“Have we come to the wrong place?” Brennan recognized the voice of Monty Collins then. “Or is this our Brennan, living in a multilingual dream world that the rest of us can’t possibly —”

“I was in Rome. Dreaming of Rome.” But he couldn’t remember one thing about the dream. “What time is it? What are you doing here?”

He lifted his head from the pillow. Blood on the pillowcase. What? Oh, right. He touched his face. The fight with the young fellow, sleeping rough on the pavement. And he was still in his soiled clothing.

“We’re here because we couldn’t reach you. You missed tea at the Shelbourne Hotel. Remember that plan?”

It came back to him. It was Saturday. Still. The MacNeil had called him sometime during the day; they were all to meet for tea at the hotel. But he had passed out from exhaustion. He had heard the telephone at some point, maybe more than once, but had ignored it and gone back to sleep.

“How did you get in here?”

“It wasn’t locked. You’re slipping. You should get more sleep.”

“I should. So goodbye to you.”

“Okay, we’ll leave you to it.”

“No, no. I’ll get up.”

He heaved himself from the bed and stood up. Good thing he had something on him besides the skin he was born in; the MacNeil and O’Flaherty were also in the room. It was then that he recalled his last conversation with the Collins-MacNeils, in the sacristy of St. Audoen’s Church. Nobody alluded to it. Well, they wouldn’t, with Michael here.

Monty gestured to Brennan’s dirty suit and collar. “Another spoiled priest outfit for the dry cleaner at my hotel? They’ll think I’m murdering priests and taking souvenirs.”

“Another!” the MacNeil exclaimed. “Are you saying this happened before?”

“Don’t ask,” Monty replied, obviously remembering a bit too late that the first dirty suit was the result of Brennan’s cleaning out the tunnel in his uncle’s pub.

“Seems to me there are a lot of ‘don’t asks’ in that family,” she said, pointing to Burke.

“
Pòg mo thòn
, MacNeil.”

“This is your curate, Monsignor?” she said to O’Flaherty.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Can’t you do anything with him?”

“Not so far, Mrs. MacNeil, but I’ll renew my efforts.”

Brennan tuned them out and whipped the bloody case off his pillow, grabbed a fresh set of clothing and his shaving kit, and left his guests for the bathroom down the hall. He had a shower, brushed his teeth, dispensed with shaving, and left the pillowcase to soak in the sink. He was back in his room within five minutes.

But he still got slagged. “Did all that have to be done right now?” Monty asked him.

“Are yeh mindless? What else am I going to do, get out of bed in that condition and not clean myself up?”

“You’d arise from your bed wrapped in the purest of white linen, anointed by the holy angels with purifying oils and unguents, and you’d still go off to the showers.”

“Feck off.”

“Well, we missed you at teatime, but we’re glad you haven’t come to grief,” the MacNeil said to him.

“Thank you, my dear. Where are the children?”

“We dropped them off with the sitter after tea. I’ve no doubt Normie will spend the evening designing the tea room she now wants to open in Halifax.” She looked around the room. “This is so
you
, darling. The devil-may-care attitude to window treatments, the casual placement of furniture.” Affecting the mannerisms of a fussy interior decorator, she fluffed the curtains and relocated his chair. “Crucifix over the bed, Roman Missal and Breviary in Latin on the bureau, immaculate clothing in the wardrobe, piles of books and music, and a pack of smokes, whiskey and glasses in a makeshift bar in the corner. Yes, one would say on entering this room, here lies — or should I say
hic jacet —
Father Burke.”

“Didn’t know you had the Latin. Proper thing,” he said. “Find a place to sit, all of you. Here.” He made the bed up; three of them sat on that, and Michael took the chair.

Which was appropriate, because he had the floor. He proceeded to deliver himself of an improbable tale he had heard from Motor Mouth McCrum. Some daft story about Eddie Madigan, Special Branch, and a siren who had supposedly sabotaged Madigan’s undercover mission at the Public Record Office in London.

That was met with great hilarity on the part of Monty and the MacNeil. Brennan felt the same way.

“Only one way to find out, boys,” MacNeil said. “Michael, this is a dirty job and beneath the dignity of either of us. But this pair —” she flapped her hand in the direction of Monty and Brennan “— have shown themselves to be less than scrupulous on too many occasions to count.”

“Objection!” Monty cried.

“I second that,” Brennan said. “When have I ever —”

MacNeil cut him short. “You want I should diss you in detail in the presence of your pastor, Burke?”

“I cannot imagine anything you could say that would cause Monsignor to regard me as anything but his humble and obedient acolyte.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s a
move on.
”

“That’s what I thought. Now, let me get it figured out. I’ll do the costuming for this production. Monty, I’m going to dress you as a plumber. That worked so well in recent years in the U.S. You’ll arrive at this Abigail’s little love nest, with its scarlet flocked wallpaper and mirrored bedchamber, in a van painted with the catchy motto ‘Wherever you GO, we’re right BEHIND you.’ You’ll wear a cap with those words emblazoned on it. Your task will be to talk your way into her flat, where no doubt she has a cache of secret documents that, if discovered, will blow the lid off the Madigan affair and bring down the governments of two countries. You go into the loo and sit there with your butt crack showing until Burke, who will play the role of cheap seducer, shows up to distract her and lure her into the boudoir. Then Monty goes into action and searches the place. If he has to creep in and burrow under the bed, well, as I say, it’s a dirty job.”

“Why don’t I get to be the seducer?” Monty asked.

“Typecasting,” his wife replied. “Burke, on the other hand, saintly and pure as he is, might enjoy playing out an unaccustomed role. So. Burke. I envision a riverboat gambler look for you: a tight, shiny suit with wide lapels, a shirt open nearly to your waist, and gobs of gold chains on your chest. Your hairdo will be a pompadour, and I think a pencil moustache would add to your appeal.”

“I’d give anything to see that!” Michael exclaimed.

“No reason you shouldn’t, Michael. I can’t think of any reason on earth why this plan won’t succeed.”

The foolishness went on for a bit until the MacNeil said, “I wonder if there really is an Abigail.”

“However will we find out?” Monty asked. “Oh, I know. The same way we find out who is calling when the phone rings. Pick up the phone.”

“Makes sense,” Brennan agreed.

“That was a jibe at me, Brennan. Sometimes I tend to speculate aloud as to who it might be who is calling. It sets Collins crazy. ‘Answer it, mystery solved.’ But I can’t fault his logic. So, who’ll make the call?”

“You will,” Brennan declared. “If this person exists, she may be lulled into the utterly unjustified impression that a woman calling — you — would be less threatening than a strange man. If only she knew.”

“Good. I’ll do it. But she won’t be at work in the archives on a Saturday night. First of the week we’ll find the
femme fatale
of the file room.”

Christy Burke’s door flew open and banged against the wall Sunday afternoon. The regulars all turned at once, pints in hand, to see who had come in. The young barman, Sean Nugent.

“Have you heard the news, gentlemen?”

At the bar, all the heads shook in tandem.

“They found the man!”

“What man have they found?” asked Eddie Madigan.

“The fellow who was doing the painting on the walls — the vandal! He’s dead!”

“Dead where?” Madigan demanded. “When? Who is it? How do they know it’s the vandal?”

“Because they found him with the paint on him. Same paint. That’s what they’re saying.”

“Who?”

“The gardaí, on the radio. Well, all they’re saying is they found a body. Out past Finglas, by Dunsink Lane. But I ran into Johnny O’Keefe, and his da’s a garda. The guards say it’s the fellow who’s been spraying up the place because he had green paint sprayed back on him. As if he got killed in the middle of doing his dirty work! Executed, more like. Two bullets in the back of his head!”

“Who is it?” Madigan asked in a quiet voice. “Have they given him a name?”

“If they know, they’re not telling.”

Brennan had been as gripped by the announcement as the others, which meant that his investigative abilities, such as they were, had momentarily deserted him. Belatedly, he looked at the Christy Burke Four to see if any one of them appeared especially rattled by the news. But all of them were focused on Sean Nugent, and Brennan could not pick out anything revealing in the expressions of one or the other. It would have been every bit as interesting to see the expression on Finn’s face as he heard the “news” of the body being “discovered.” Discovered in the place where Finn and Larry Healey had decided to inter the remains. But Finn remained in the shadows behind the bar.

There was more news on the dead vandal the following day. And wouldn’t you know it would come from Motor Mouth McCrum. He had missed the scoop on Sunday; on Monday he was wiping up the rear with some tidbits about the guards. He stood at the bar just after noontime, holding something against his chest and fumbling with a handful of change, while Finn got him a glass and half-filled it with whiskey.