I had a few suitably grimy sheets of paper taken from the Unicorn Hotel in my pocket. On one of them I scrawled the following ludicrous message.
This is a recommendation for Joe McCloy. He is a good man to have around.
SHAUN HOUSEMAN
MANAGER
As I expected, the kitchen manager gave me a job. It was also the sort of job that I expected, and I set about it with the expected measure of inefficiency.
The time of my flight came and went, which gave me a rather greater degree of freedom. They might be looking for Thomas Sherwood, the precise, pedantic student, back in there, but they wouldn’t notice rough, tough Joe McCloy unloading supplies outside the kitchen door.
I struck up the acquaintance of a boilerman with the improbable name of Rory Parnell, and as he was able to find me very rough sleeping quarters I decided to stay on for a while in my new guise. I bought shaving equipment, a cake of soap and a clean shirt, the latter a villainous green-check affair that looked quite the part.
It was three days later, sometime after ten o’clock in the evening, when one of the waiters in the lounge pulled me aside.
“Joey, me bhoy,” says he, “I’m after getting away for a few hours. I’m asking you to take me place like a true friend.”
Since this was the first time we had spoken together it was hardly clear how I came to be his true friend, but nothing abashed he went on.
“And it’s only a few wee orders for tea and coffee that you’ll be getting, and maybe an odd glass of whiskey. And it’s the tips you’ll be pocketing.”
I acted the part of wooden obstinacy to the point of stupidity, and only when the fellow had offered quite a considerable bribe did I accede. Either he was engaged on some nefarious activity or he was visiting a girl; so much was clear from the size of the bribe. I put on his white jacket and took over.
The job was of course quite easy. Each new flight brought in a fresh crop of customers. In the abstract, I was surprised to see how much in the way of tips I was beginning to accumulate. No wonder these jobs were sought after, and no wonder their holders soon developed a bland and debonair confidence.
I imagine it must have been about 2:30 A.M. when I noticed a lone man signaling me from an alcove. I went over to take his order. Our eyes met, and I saw it was the New Jersey Sno-man, but now without his wind jacket.
“And so we meet again, young fellow. Would you be good enough to step outside? I’ve a proposition to make and I don’t want to be overheard by every busybody.”
When we had found a quiet spot he went on. “If they think Hiram Q. Savage is going to be beaten by all these rules and regulations, well, they’re going to learn something different, doggone it. I said I would see this I.C.E. and see it I will. I don’t aim to become a laughingstock back home in Elizabeth, no sir! But I’ll need your help, young fellow.”
“How can I help?”
“This is the deal. I have a boat all ready, moored in the river, right near here. I was mortified when I learned that I couldn’t use a motored craft because of the noise, and I’m too old now to row very far.”
“So you want me to row you across the river?”
“Right. Maybe I ought to say that I’ve got an idea that you aren’t quite what you claim to be. Maybe I ought to go right back in there and tell ’em what I think. But I won’t. I’ll make you a fair offer instead.”
We haggled for a few minutes, and in the end he offered me fifty Irish pounds to land him into I.C.E. territory. Two things were plain: one that he was very innocent and the other that he must want to get through the barrier rather badly if he was willing to risk a hazardous river trip. For I had no doubt that, quite apart from the patrols that must be operating on the river, it would be a risky business to try crossing the currents of the Shannon during the night hours in a small boat.
Of course he might be an
agent provocateur
but I thought the chance sufficiently slight; it would be worth while following his proposal a little further. My idea was to use his boat, not to cross the Shannon at all but to cross the wide mouth of the river Fergus. This would save a long detour by land. If I could get ashore in the neighborhood of Kildysart, it would only be an easy day’s walk into Kilkee.
“How do you know I won’t go back in there and tell ’em about you?” I asked.
“When a man has lived as long as I have, and when he’s done as much business as I have, he learns to be some judge of character. Either he learns or he goes out of business, and I’m not out of business yet.”
“How did you get hold of this boat?”
“And he learns not to give his friends away. Don’t forget that, young man.”
“Very well. Let me see your boat.”
I cached my white overall; it was obviously too conspicuous. We skirted the airfield, the little man leading the way with the sprightliness of a gnome. At length we reached the east-west channel that separates the mainland from an island to the north. Instead of a waiting posse of guards there was indeed a small boat moored near the western end of the channel. The oars I noticed were muffled. I reckoned it would be reasonably safe to essay the crossing of the Fergus estuary. This opinion was backed, I might say, by an extensive experience in the VIIth eight of the First and Third Trinity Boat Club.
There was no moon but sufficient starlight for me to have a clear view of my passenger as I sculled out from the shore. I saw him take a round instrument from his pocket, which I realized must be a compass.
“You’re far too much to the west. Turn to my left until I give you the word to stop.”
Of course I was keeping to the west as closely as I could judge from the stars. I followed my original course without deviation.
Now he pulled a second instrument from his pocket, however. I caught a glint of starlight on it and knew it for a revolver.
“There will be no nonsense. Turn the boat as I tell you.” Once again I realized that I had blundered.
I set the boat on its new course, and said, “You realize that what you’re trying to do is extremely risky.”
“Of course I realize it,” he answered with scorn.
“But it’s mad. It means going through Tarbert race.”
“Of course it does, but the tide will be in our favor, if you get ahead and don’t talk so much. Come on, take her along faster.”
“You’re welcome to try if you think you can do better. I tell you it’s crazy. There must be some easier way of getting into I.C.E. territory.”
“If there is I haven’t found it, and I’ve been trying for a long time.”
“That doesn’t justify such an extreme risk.”
“In my case it does. I’m an old man without many more years to live. If I were in your position, young fellow, I might of course think differently.”
“I do think differently.”
“But you aren’t doing the thinking,” he answered with a chuckle.
Would he shoot if I changed course? Probably the risk was about the same as the risk from the river. If we made the trip to the I.C.E. shore I should be where I wanted to be. So on balance it was probably best to head downriver, but I didn’t like the way the current was already beginning to grip the boat.
“Surely you weren’t relying on a chance encounter to provide someone to row for you on this trip?” I remarked out of curiosity.
“Surely I was not,” he replied. “The young man whose job you had taken at the airport contracted to accompany me. He received a considerable payment on account, so that when he refused to make good the bargain I was obliged unfortunately to deal rather severely with him.”
“And how did you decide to put your proposition to me?”
Again the chuckle. By now the boat was moving at a fair pace, and the water was getting a bit heavy.
“I knew you were compromised. I guessed it already in the bus.”
“Then I have you to thank for what you did. I’ll repay you by-offering a piece of good advice.” I paused to readjust the boat, which seemed to have been pushed somewhat off course.
“And what is that?” he asked.
“Get rid of the pistol. In my experience pistols always cause trouble for their owners.”
Again he laughed. “Well, well, we shall see.”
It was now high time to stop talking, to give all my attention to the boat. We were approaching the main stream of the Shannon and there were a number of islands on the westward flank. We rounded them successfully and began to move downriver. I kept the boat on the northern side, for I wanted to avoid the central current as long as possible.
The tug of the current was indeed now very obvious, and I think we must have been approaching Foynes when a bright light flared up quite close to us. It was the searchlight of a patrol boat lighting up, not our little craft, but a larger one with a whole group of people—maybe six—in it. I recovered my wits quicker than the old fellow and in a flash I brought the blade of one of the oars across the hand that held the gun. Luckily it was knocked into the water without going off.
In an instant I turned the boat and pulled hard toward the northern shore.
It was a long grinding struggle but I made it by the first faint light of dawn. I was pretty spent and the old chap was moaning that I had broken one of his fingers. Crossly I waded through shallow water and brought the boat into land. As I helped him out I remarked, “There was never any chance of getting through that way. Don’t you realize that the whole river is endlessly patrolled and that those boats are equipped with radar? And for another thing, I told you it was unlucky to carry a gun.”
I fixed up the old fellow’s hand as best I could—it wasn’t seriously damaged—and got him onto the road for Kildysart. As soon as I decently could I stopped at a small farm for breakfast.
Although this improved me a great deal, I was pretty tired, partly from the long row and partly from walking with wet feet. I was therefore quite pleased to see a motorist at work on his car—this was perhaps five miles from Kilrush.
“Can I give a hand?” I asked.
There was something vaguely familiar about this motorist. He was peering into the engine and he now looked up at me. The shock of seeing Houseman and the false canon together on that fateful morning back at Slievenamuck had been no greater than this. The true canon’s belief in ghosts was vindicated. For here was none other than Seamus Colquhoun.
10. Beyond The Barrier
“Well, well, Mr. Colquhoun. And how does it feel to be raised from the dead?”
“So it’s Mister Sure-fire, trying to be funny.”
Of course the report in the
Irish Times
hadn’t mentioned Colquhoun by name. I had simply jumped to what seemed a reasonable conclusion. I did what I could by way of explanation.
“Now isn’t that just like Mr. Clever-Dick?” he said. “Was there nobody but meself in the whole of Dublin on whom the guards might be wanting to set a hand?”
“The time and place seemed singularly appropriate.”
“They did, did they?”
Colquhoun rose threateningly, a wrench in his right fist.
“And where would the notebook now be?” he asked.
“With Mr. Houseman of the Unicorn Hotel, Longford, of course.”
“You shrunken pin-wit,” he roared, “you should have found out that the man was sold to the divil.”
“As a matter of fact I did find out, but orders are orders. Mine but to do and die, you know.”
“You’ll be dead before your time,” he growled, taking a step toward me.
“Quit fooling, Colquhoun. If you don’t drop that spanner I’ll knock all Hades out of you. When I found Houseman had thrown in his lot with the P.S.D. crew, I burned the book. It’s fertilizing some farmer’s field.”
He put down the wrench and leaned against the car. “Is that the truth of it?”
“Of course.”
“What a shocking pity you didn’t keep it!”
“Stop being a pinhead yourself. I might have been caught half a dozen times these last three weeks. Did you want the police to get hold of the damned thing?”
“No, I suppose for an amateur you did the best you could,” he conceded.
“What news do you hear of Houseman?”
“The best,” he answered. “There is a good chance that he may have departed from this vale of tears.”
“How did you come to hear that? I had quite a bit of trouble with the man.”
“Listen to little Mr. Wren, the King of Birds. Listen to him sing! He had trouble with the man!”
“It looks as if you’ll be having quite a walk, Mr. Colquhoun, unless you can get your car running again.”
“It’s a strange tale. A horrible huge mountain of a fellow appeared one day in the town of Tipperary with a cracked skull.”
“Which strikes me as one of the most unlikely statements I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m telling you again, and for the last time, not to be always interrupting me. As I was saying, this horrible fellow appears in Tipperary with multiple fractures of the cranium. What makes this such a noteworthy incident is that this same fellow is known to be bodyguard of the moguls of P.S.D.”
“Which doesn’t seem to me to make the story any more probable. Surely you can see that for yourself?”
Colquhoun was now getting thoroughly angry. But he plowed determinedly on. “A strange tale this fellow tells when at last they get him to talk.”
“Who gets him to talk?”
“The guards, of course. Then up they went to a high mountain farm, where they found a most terrible scene, a scene of shocking debauchery. Apparently the whole party was carousing and became so drunk that the place was set on fire, and all were burned to ashes before anyone could notice the approachof death.”
“Colquhoun, you’re a grammarian’s nightmare. Don’t you think it would be a little more profitable if we were to get the car started? Was Houseman one of the party?”
“That is not known for certain, but it is my belief that he was. Little was found to identify the divil’s party, except this.”