by Joe Joyce
‘Can I bum another cigarette?’ Sullivan asked.
Duggan slid his cigarette case and lighter along the table to him. ‘When are you going to buy some?’
‘I’ll buy you a packet next time I’m out.’
‘Buy one for yourself, too.’
‘Ah, I don’t really want to start smoking,’ Sullivan lit a Sweet Afton and slid the case and lighter back to Duggan.
‘Smoking other people’s is still smoking,’ Duggan flicked his lighter to a cigarette.
‘I’m just bored,’ Sullivan sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘This Mulhausen fellow’s broadcasts are boring as hell. Only talks about the Black and Tans and the lovely days he had in the currach and bits of old Irish poetry. It’s like listening to the old man. Without the currachs and the poems. I prefer Haw-Haw any day.’
‘They could be coded messages,’ Duggan said idly. ‘The poems.’
‘That’s what the commandant said.’ Sullivan took a pull on the cigarette and blew out the smoke without inhaling it. ‘Had me looking them up, to see what they were about. All double Dutch to me.’
Duggan rolled the paper out of the typewriter, took the carbons from between the sheets and dropped them in a waste basket. He looked at his watch.
‘You off again?’ Sullivan sighed.
‘No rest for the wicked.’ Duggan stood up and put his overcoat on his arm and took the report and copies he had typed.
‘You’ll come back with a whiff of perfume again?’
‘Goes with the job,’ Duggan sighed like it was a burden. ‘There’s not going to be any raid tonight, is there? What’s the weather forecast?’
‘That’s classified information,’ Sullivan smirked.
‘I’ll be back anyway.’
‘I won’t be here,’ Sullivan said. ‘Got a big date tonight. A foursome. We’re going out with your friend Breda and her new beau.’
‘The American?’
Sullivan gave him a meaningful nod. ‘She’s eternally grateful to you for not bothering to turn up on time that night.’
‘Tell her I’m very happy for her,’ Duggan said, meaning it, still feeling Gerda’s hands on his skin and the taste of her lips.
‘An bhfuil sé fein sa bhaile,’ Duggan asked the young maid who opened the door of Timmy’s house.
‘Tá sé ina sheomra,’ she inclined her head towards the room Timmy used as his office.
Duggan heard music from inside as he knocked on the door and opened it after a moment. Timmy was sitting at the table, his jacket off and the collar of his shirt freed from its studs and open like two wings from his thick neck. His sleeves were rolled up and he was writing with a fountain pen on a sheet of lined foolscap. There was a well-stacked coal fire behind him and a wind-up gramophone was playing a tenor singing ‘Love Thee Dearest’ at high volume.
‘Well, ’tis yourself,’ Timmy grunted, leaning back in his chair.
‘I’m not interrupting, am I?’
‘What?’ Timmy waved at the gramophone. ‘Turn that down a bit.’
Duggan stepped over to it and twisted the volume knob.
‘Have you heard him?’ Timmy’s casual words were at odds with his cautious eyes. ‘The new McCormack. Michael O’Duffy.’
Duggan shook his head and slipped off his overcoat as sweat broke out on his forehead.
‘That’s what your mother gave me for Christmas,’ Timmy repeated.
‘You’re just back from home,’ Duggan said, half statement, half question, glancing at what Timmy had been writing. He knew he was jotting down notes of requests from constituents and other bits of political information from his weekend down the country.
‘Aye,’ Timmy said, still cautious. ‘They’re all well.’
‘I’m sorry for interrupting,’ Duggan waved towards Timmy’s notes. ‘But I need your help.’
‘Half the fucking country wants my help all of a sudden.’ Timmy screwed the top onto his fountain pen and placed it on the foolscap page with an air of finality. He didn’t seem perturbed by the idea. ‘You’ll have a drink?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ Duggan took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair facing Timmy’s across the table. He wondered what the temperature in the room was.
Timmy went to the sideboard and took out a bottle of Paddy whiskey and two glasses. Then he changed his mind and left back one glass. He dropped on one knee to peer into the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Guinness and a half-pint glass.
‘Better not feed you whiskey,’ he said, putting the bottles and glasses on the table, ‘or your mother will have my guts for garters.’
‘You see them?’
‘Just coming out of Mass,’ Timmy handed him the bottle of Guinness. ‘There should be a corkscrew somewhere in there.’ He pointed to a drawer in the sideboard. ‘They’re in grand form. I told your father where to get the petrol if he needed some.’
Duggan found the corkscrew and opened the bottle of Guinness and poured it slowly into the glass. Timmy half-filled his glass with neat whiskey, raised it, said ‘Sláinte’ and drank half of it. They sat down. ‘Now,’ Timmy said, putting his glass down and tossing Duggan a cigarette.
‘First of all, thanks for the information about Quinn,’ Duggan leaned across the table to light Timmy’s cigarette and then his own.
‘That’s not a good place to start.’ Timmy held up his cigarette between two fingers and waved it at him. ‘You didn’t have to lock up the harmless little fecker.’
‘Wasn’t our doing,’ Duggan protested. ‘That cousin of his wife’s started shooting at the Special Branch.’
Timmy sighed as if that was a minor matter. ‘There’s still too many Blueshirts in that outfit,’ he muttered, his usual comment about the Special Branch. ‘Should’ve been cleared out properly long ago.’
Duggan inhaled a lungful of smoke. ‘You know Surgeon O’Shea?’
Timmy gave a half nod at the sudden change of direction.
‘And his wife?’
‘Why?’ Timmy cut to the chase.
‘I think they might be able to help us,’ Duggan took an unconscious deep breath. He didn’t like doing this, letting Timmy in on any information. But he had to use any avenues open to him. ‘Get in touch with a German intelligence officer.’
‘Well, now.’ Timmy emptied his glass and reached for the Paddy bottle and poured himself another one. ‘You want to lock him up too? Like you did with the others?’
‘We want to get a message to him.’
‘Seen the light, have ye?’
‘I don’t make the decisions,’ Duggan kept his voice even, determined not to get into an argument with him. ‘We just want to ask him a question.’
‘What question?’
‘Why they have been dropping bombs on us for the last week.’
Timmy gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t you fellows read the papers? It was there in black and white the other day for everyone to read. From the horse’s mouth in Berlin. They haven’t dropped any bombs on us.’
‘Our people have no doubt that they did. The bombs were German.’
‘But who dropped them?’ Timmy wagged a finger.
‘The Luftwaffe. From Heinkels.’
‘Did you see them?’
‘Enough people did,’ Duggan took another drag to calm himself. ‘It’s not that hard to tell planes apart.’
‘And who was flying them?’
‘Where would the British get Heinkels even if they had German bombs?’
Timmy shook his head, unconvinced. ‘You couldn’t be up to the fuckers.’
‘How well do you know the O’Sheas?’ Duggan tried to get the conversation back on track.
‘I know him to say hello to. He was very helpful to us in the old days, when he was a medical student. Patched up a few lads who couldn’t go near hospitals. He’s got a bit lah-di-da since then. Now that he’s qualified, raking in the money.’
‘What about her? Do you know her well enough to have a quiet word with her?’<
br />
‘Mona’d know her better than me. They’re in the same bridge club. And something to do with the church. Altar committee or something.’
‘Maybe I should talk to her.’
‘What are you saying?’ Timmy narrowed his eyes.
‘Mrs O’Shea is in touch with this German. Hermann Goertz.’
‘Well, now,’ Timmy said, with a slow smile. ‘Isn’t that something?’
Duggan drank some of his Guinness, wondering why Timmy was smiling and what machinations were going on in his head. He couldn’t avoid the feeling that this information meant more to Timmy than he knew. But then, he reminded himself, Timmy was an expert in appearing to be more knowledgeable than he was. It was part of his stock-in-trade to appear to always know more than anyone else. ‘Could you ask aunt Mona to ask her to pass the question on? Ask him why they’ve been dropping bombs on us?’
‘It’s her?’ Timmy raised an eyebrow. ‘Not him?’
‘Definitely her,’ Duggan said. ‘Could be him too, but I don’t know that for a fact.’
‘And who would we say wanted to know?’
Duggan shrugged. ‘We wouldn’t have to say, would we? You’re a member of the government party.’
Timmy gave him a slow smile. ‘You’re getting to be a crafty little fucker,’ he said, a compliment. ‘But we’ll leave Mona out of it. You don’t want too many middlemen. Or middle women. So what’s the question again?’
‘Why are they bombing us? Is it in response to something we’ve done or are doing?’
‘Like what?’
‘That’s what we want to know. If they’re sending us a message we want to know what it is.’
‘I could give you a few reasons why they mightn’t be happy with you lot.’
‘We want to hear it from them,’ Duggan cut him short.
‘Fair enough. We’ll see what we can do.’ The look on Timmy’s face showed that he was already thinking about the possibilities this request opened up for him. Duggan didn’t want to think too deeply about what they might be.
The spinning record on the gramophone, its song long ended, broke into the sudden silence. Timmy stood up and lifted the needle with care and settled the arm back on its rest. He tossed his cigarette butt into the fire and shovelled some coal from a scuttle onto it. He stood in front of the fireplace with his thumbs under his braces, the lord of the manor.
‘There’s something else,’ Duggan said, putting out his butt in the full ashtray.
‘Jaysus,’ Timmy gave him a happy grin. ‘You’re a mine of information all of a sudden.’
‘Do you know someone called Roddy Glenn?’
‘Roddy Glenn?’ Timmy rocked back and forward for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Where’s he from?’
‘I don’t know exactly.’ He doesn’t know, Duggan thought. There hadn’t been the slightest flicker of recognition. So Roddy Glenn wasn’t the source of the photographs of the British government documents that he had. At least not directly.
‘Glenn? Glenn?’ Timmy shook his head. ‘Another intelligence fella?’
‘I don’t know,’ Duggan said truthfully. ‘Just a name that came up and I wondered if you might’ve heard of him. You come across so many people.’
‘Glenn? Is he Irish?’
‘I know nothing about him.’ Duggan stood up and put on his jacket. ‘I better let you get back to work.’
‘It’s more or less done. Finish your drink.’
Duggan poured the remainder of the bottle into the glass and waited it for it to settle. ‘By the way, they’re very interested in the photographs you gave me.’
‘You passed them on.’
‘I gave them to Commandant McClure.’
‘And?’
‘They’ve had several meetings about them. They’re convinced they’re genuine.’
‘Of course they’re genuine.’
‘They want to know where they came from.’
‘And what’d you tell them?’
‘Nothing.’ Duggan drank most of the Guinness in his glass. ‘But they know you gave them to me.’
‘How would they know that?’
‘They know we’re related,’ Duggan shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell them and they didn’t ask. But I know they know.’
Timmy nodded, not unhappy. That was exactly the sort of conclusion that he would have reached in their situation. Imparting information without saying anything was another of his specialities.
‘And they want me to ask who the original source is,’ Duggan continued. ‘And if he will talk to them.’
Timmy switched his hands to his pockets as if to hide them. ‘I can’t tell you that,’ he frowned.
Can’t or won’t? Duggan wondered. Can’t because he doesn’t know. Or won’t because it’s a suspect source of some kind. A German? An IRA man? But the documents seemed to be real. And sources were often suspect. ‘Captain Anderson is handling it,’ he said. ‘The man you mentioned to me.’
‘The northern fella with the reddish hair?’
‘That’s him. He’d like to have a word with you about it.’ Anderson hadn’t said any such thing to him but it was a fair assumption. And a way of keeping Timmy at arm’s length.
Timmy rocked back and forth on his heels, attracted by the prospect of having another contact in G2, cautious of the pressure it might put on him. ‘No, no. We’ll just leave it as it is,’ he said at last with a hint of regret. ‘Anything I come across I’ll pass on through you. And if they want to jump to conclusions about where it came from we can’t stop them.’
‘They’re going to keep on at me about it,’ Duggan sighed and drained his glass. He didn’t relish the prospect of continuing as the go-between. ‘It’s important that they know.’
‘Tell them you can’t get blood out of a stone,’ Timmy gave him a crooked smile. ‘They’ll just have to accept it for what it is.’
Twelve
Duggan reversed the car over to the steps of the Red House and kept the engine idling as he waited for Commandant McClure. He watched Captain Anderson come in the gate past the sentry and catch his eye. Both held their stares as Anderson approached and Duggan began to wind down his window.
“Have you ever seen this Roddy Glenn character?’ Anderson demanded without preliminaries.
Duggan shook his head.
‘How do you know he exists?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How do we know this source of yours hasn’t made him up?’
‘Why would she do that?’
Anderson gave him a withering look. ‘You trust her?’
‘Others have seen him,’ Duggan retorted.
‘Who?’
McClure bounded down the steps with a buff folder in his hand. ‘Any response from Captain Collison?’ he asked Anderson over the roof of the car.
‘He says the name doesn’t ring any immediate bells. But he’ll investigate.’
McClure gave a sardonic laugh, sat in the car and Duggan drove away.
‘He’s still trying to find out about Gerda,’ Duggan said as they went along the quays and told McClure what Anderson had been hinting at. That Gerda might be feeding information to them.
‘Is that possible?’ McClure asked in an even voice.
Duggan glanced at him, taken aback that McClure would even raise the question. ‘No,’ he shook his head to emphasise his reply.
‘Agreed,’ McClure said. ‘I’ve had a word with Mrs Lynch and she confirms Glenn’s existence. But she doesn’t know where he lives or anything else about him. Except that he’s a troublemaker and she has barred him.’
‘So Gerda was telling the truth,’ Duggan said with an unconscious hint of victory.
‘Did you have reason to doubt it?’
‘No, no,’ Duggan glanced at him again, wondering why he was raising the question again. McClure had a way of discomfiting him like this now and then. Perhaps to keep me on my toes, he thought. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘I doubt he’ll go back to Mr
s Lynch’s again. It’s a dead end for him. He can’t sell his paintings there, if he really is an artist. And the German internees won’t talk to him. So there’s no point going back.’
‘So what do we do?’ Duggan turned onto O’Connell Bridge and stopped at the signal of the garda on point duty.
‘Circulate your description of him and hope someone picks him up somewhere. He might try and contact the German legation directly now if all over avenues are closed.’
They watched the garda trying to hurry along the cross traffic with fast waves of his baton. Most of it was made up of cyclists and drays: there were noticeably fewer cars on the roads with the new year’s shortage of petrol. The city itself was sinking back into his mid-winter torpor, the last signs of Christmas disappearing from shop windows. There were few people on the streets, moving fast against the penetrating damp.
‘Does Captain Collison really run MI6 here?’ Duggan asked, seeing an opportunity to inquire. McClure was always more discursive on these car journeys.
McClure grunted an affirmative.
‘So they’re spying on us while we’re cooperating with them?’ Duggan looked at him.
‘That’s it,’ McClure gave him a wan smile. ‘But different organisations. MI6 runs their spies abroad. MI5 tries to catch foreign spies. Like us. So we have a common interest with them. Up to a point.’
‘That’s mad,’ Duggan let up the clutch as the garda waved his baton at them. ‘So we should be chasing them at the same time as we’re cooperating with them.’
‘We are,’ McClure said, indicating the corner of College Street and Westmoreland Street with his thumb as they went by the statue of Tom Moore. ‘Their main undercover operation is based in that building over there. The StubbsGazette offices.’
