by Joe Joyce
That was the easy option, passing the hard part to Nuala, and he knew it. Letting her tell the whole story. That it was really Timmy who was behind the whole thing and the reason why. But withholding that information, even for a few hours, could delay the further investigation. Even decide Bradley’s fate. Time was running out. His father had said that he didn’t owe Timmy any loyalty. But, still. He was family. More his family than his father’s family in a way. His mother would be devastated. She’d always felt a need to defend Timmy for her sister’s sake.
And what about Billy Ward? He’d promised to leave him out of everything. It wasn’t his fault that Bradley had been moved after his arrest. What a mess, he thought, acknowledging the sentry’s salute at the Infirmary Road gate to headquarters. He’d keep it simple. But that depended on McClure’s response. If he starts asking loads of questions I’m fucked. I’ll have to tell all.
He took a deep breath as he walked into the office. There was no one there. One of the morning papers was open on the table, a double page spread, editorials on the left and the war news on the right. The main headline across the right-hand page said ‘French Army Lays Down Its Arms’. Stacked under one side were three sub-headings: ‘Armistice Signed With Italy’; ‘Day of National Mourning Ordered in France’; ‘Hitler Calls For Bells And Flags’.
He skimmed down through the opening paragraphs. The French Army had laid down its arms at 12.35 that morning, shortly after he had gotten back to the barracks. Hitler thanked the Almighty for victory and ordered bells to be rung for seven days and flags to be hung for ten. The war on the continent is over, the editorial on the opposite page said.
Sullivan came in with a mug of tea as he continued to read bits and pieces. ‘Peace in our time,’ Sullivan nodded at the paper.
‘You think that’s it?’
‘The English will agree terms now. Swap around a few bits of the empire with the Germans and it’ll all be hunky dory,’ Sullivan said. ‘So my father says. And he’s a military expert.’
‘Why should they stop now? The Germans?’
‘Because we want them to,’ Sullivan gave him a crooked grin.
‘If we’re lucky,’ Duggan agreed. ‘Where’s the captain?’
‘Gone down to Kingsbridge. There’s a German spy coming in on the train from Kerry.’
‘What?’
‘Some fellow who landed on the Kerry coast yesterday. Seen acting suspiciously. His English is not too good. Or they couldn’t understand him in Kerry. Which might mean his English is too good. Anyway, he got on the train this morning. They’re down there waiting for him.’
‘When will he be back?’
Sullivan shrugged. ‘He left the latest letter from Hans for you.’
Duggan looked around the table and lifted the newspaper and found it underneath. It was addressed to the Abwehr’s house in Copenhagen and signed by Harbusch. He sat down and read through it twice. ‘We are on the point of making a profitable sale,’ it said. ‘It would be the wrong time to end negotiations now. We admit that progress has been very slow but we advise that a new manager has now taken an interest in the order. He is enthusiastic and we are confident of making a successful sale in the coming weeks. Please send a further payment on account to cover the extra expense.’
It was a reply to the letter from the woman in Amsterdam, Duggan decided. That letter had been an order to end negotiations. But Harbusch was arguing against it. And asking for more money, as usual. All these letters from Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Zurich were parts of the same correspondence.
Duggan pulled over the Harbusch file and extracted the copies of all the letters to and from Harbusch. He lit a cigarette and read through them all in sequence, immersing himself in the detail. There were a few gaps but by and large they did add up to a continuous correspondence about the supply of weapons to the IRA. Possibly to different factions. The ‘new manager’ was probably another faction.
He sat back, thinking that there was only one big gap in the picture. Harbusch never met anyone as far as they knew. They had been following him now for weeks and he never went anywhere other than his regular walks to Grafton Street. And nobody ever called on him, as far as they knew. He had Kitty Kelly posting letters for him and picking up replies. And she had led them to Goertz. She could be meeting other people as well, they’d only been following her for a few days. Unlikely as it seemed, maybe she was the real agent and Harbusch was just a front, a diversion to attract their attention and deflect them from the real action. After all, Duggan had only discovered Kelly’s role by accident. And she had actually led them to Goertz.
The other possibility was that Harbusch was merely a confidence trickster, making up these stories for the Germans and making a good income from doing nothing more than writing a few letters. The Abwehr probably has loads of money, he thought, but they’d hardly waste it on a con man. He must be producing some real results or they must have reason to believe that he can produce them.
He slouched back in the chair and closed his eyes and the fanciful idea he’d had on the train flashed before his mind’s eye and he dismissed it again with an unconscious shake of his head.
‘Pleasant dreams?’ Sullivan interrupted. ‘Was that another dirty letter?’
Duggan opened his eyes. ‘No, just a business one.’
‘Pity.’
Duggan picked up the phone and asked for Timmy’s home number. He had to get this other stuff out of the way, free himself to concentrate on Harbusch.
‘Well?’ Timmy said when he got through to him, a note of suspicion in his voice.
‘Can you come to the Shelbourne Hotel at three o’clock?’
‘Why?’
‘To meet someone.’
‘Someone I know?’
‘Someone you want to meet.’
Duggan toggled the pips on top of the phone to break the connection and get the switchboard’s attention and asked for the number Nuala had given him.
‘Is Nuala there?’ he asked when a woman’s voice answered.
‘There’s no Nuala here,’ she said. ‘You must have a wrong number.’
‘This is Paul,’ he ignored her. ‘Tell her to be in the Shelbourne Hotel at three o’clock. It’s important.’
The woman said nothing and Duggan thanked her and hung up.
Sullivan was watching him. ‘Got another one on the go?’
‘I can hardly keep track of them all,’ Duggan winked.
‘You’re all talk, Duggan. Full of shite.’
‘Hello, stranger,’ Sinéad said as he passed by her office.
He turned back and said hello.
‘I was beginning to think you’d been promoted or something.’
‘More likely to be demoted,’ he said.
‘And why would that be?’
‘Because we’re not making much progress.’
‘Following the little fat fellow and his floozy?’ she asked.
‘You’ve seen them?’
She shifted in her chair and looked away. ‘Petey asked me to go with him yesterday. For cover, he said. I was just going out to lunch when he was following them.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly.
‘Where did they go?’
‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘Down to Grafton Street. Where they always go, Petey said. Had lunch together.’
‘That’s a change,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen them eat together.’
‘She’s not his wife.’
‘How do you know?’ he asked with more than a passing interest.
She gave him a patient look. ‘Because,’ she said. ‘Look at him. Look at her. She’s after his money. Or something else.’
‘Doesn’t mean they’re not married,’ he suggested, thinking that’s the second time in twenty-four hours a woman has given me that ‘are you slow’ look.
‘It won’t last, if they are. She’s with him for what she can get out of it. Probably money. And he’s with her to show
her off and tell everyone what a great fellow he is.’
‘You could be right. What does Petey think?’
‘He just wants to ogle her backside.’
‘Oh,’ he said, surprised at her directness.
‘Men,’ she shook her head and dismissed him.
Upstairs, Gifford had his chair propped in the window and his feet up on the folded shutter on the other side and was reading an evening paper.
‘Hiding behind women’s skirts now,’ Duggan said. ‘For cover.’
‘Much better cover holding hands with her than holding hands with you.’
‘Oh, you were holding hands.’
‘Had to. Cover.’
‘She didn’t tell me that bit.’
‘And what did she tell you?’
‘That you were only interested in Eliza’s arse.’
‘She said that? Eliza’s arse?’
‘Not in those words.’
‘Whew,’ Gifford stood up. ‘I should hope not. I wouldn’t like to think of Sinéad using such coarse language. Like a common solider.’
‘What did you think of her theory?’
‘That Eliza’s a whore?’
‘She said that?’
‘Not in those words.’
Duggan laughed. ‘That they’re not married. That she’s after something else.’
‘Elementary.’ Gifford glanced out the window. ‘Oh, time for our daily exercise. They’re on the move.’
He grabbed his jacket and Duggan followed him down the stairs, two steps at a time and jumping down the last three to the hall. Gifford paused at Sinéad’s office and said, ‘He won’t let me hold his hand. It’d be great cover.’
She threw a pencil at him. It bounced off the jamb and hit Duggan as he went by. ‘Sorry,’ she called after him as they went out the hall door.
The day was overcast but warmed by a strong breeze from the south. They ambled along more than fifty yards behind Harbusch and Eliza, the routine now so familiar they barely noticed them. She tottered along on her high heels, linking Harbusch and taller than him even with his hat on. He held himself erect, his girth causing him to roll slightly as he walked.
Duggan filled in Gifford on the latest letter from Harbusch and what he thought it meant. ‘Something struck me,’ he added. ‘It might be ridiculous.’
‘But,’ Gifford prompted.
Duggan hesitated. Would it sound even more fanciful if he said it out loud? he wondered.
‘What?’ Gifford prompted again.
Duggan took a deep breath and said it. ‘Eliza and Kitty Kelly are the same person.’
Gifford stopped and gave him an admiring look. ‘You have a devious mind,’ he said. ‘I like it.’
‘My mind or the idea?’
‘Both.’ Gifford started walking again and turned his attention to the couple ahead of them. ‘But I don’t like to think of Eliza as an old woman.’
‘Why does she wear those very high heels?’ Duggan asked, voicing the questions that he had been asking himself. ‘Why is she exaggerating her height? The difference between them?’
‘Because she’s a whore,’ Gifford suggested, speeding up so they could get closer. ‘Like the other culchie says.’
‘Because she wants to look as different as possible,’ Duggan persisted. ‘So you’d never think she was Kitty Kelly in her other disguise.’
‘But you think it.’
‘Imagine her without the heels. With an oversize old coat. Shoulders hunched. Scarf flattening her hair. Shuffling along.’
‘Oh Eliza,’ Gifford sighed. ‘Are you really an old woman?’
‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘She’s really the spy. Hansi is the cover. A pretend spy.’
‘Have you been drinking one of those strange country drinks that looks like water?’
‘Has anyone seen Kitty Kelly and Eliza at the same time?’
Gifford stopped for a moment. ‘We need to have a look in Kitty’s flat.’
‘Yeah,’ Duggan nodded as they continued on to the corner of Clare Street and waited for a motorbike with a side-car to roar by.
‘Even a look through the window might do,’ Gifford suggested.
‘That could be enough.’
They walked along into South Leinster Street, both paying more attention to Eliza swaying alongside Harbusch and wondering if it were possible.
‘Where’d you get this crazy idea?’ Gifford asked.
‘My cousin Nuala.’
‘Oh, Jaysus,’ Gifford sighed.
‘Something she said to me about picking up the ransom money I had left in Wicklow Street. There were lots of women wandering in and out of the shops there. And she had put on an old coat and scarf to go into the building and pick up the envelope and Billy Ward and his friends didn’t notice her.’
‘Because they weren’t looking for an old woman. Nobody pays any attention to old women.’
‘Exactly.’
Gifford nodded as the idea took hold. ‘Have you told your superior intelligents this theory?’
‘No. Not yet. I wanted to bounce it off you first.’
‘Oh, I like it,’ Gifford laughed as they crossed Kildare Street. ‘And I’d really love it if it was true.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s just so …’ Gifford searched for a word. ‘Smart.’
‘They know we’re watching and they have us looking the wrong way.’
‘Exactly.’ Gifford groaned. ‘But Eliza as an old woman. I don’t really want to think about that.’
‘But she’s not. She’s a young spy.’
‘That does make me feel better. If she just asked I’d tell her all my secrets. Wouldn’t you? Which reminds me,’ Gifford punched him in the shoulder, ‘have you told the powers that be your own secrets yet?’
Duggan sighed and shook his head. ‘The captain was out of the office today.’
‘That was a relief.’
‘A temporary respite.’
‘You want me to do it?’ Gifford offered. ‘Throw Bradley’s name into the ring the way we discussed?’
‘No,’ Duggan sighed. ‘It’d be too much of a coincidence if you supposedly overheard something in a pub the same day I told my people about Nuala’s boyfriend.’
‘People do get ridiculously suspicious about coincidences,’ Gifford agreed.
Harbusch and Eliza turned into Grafton Street and he peeled off and crossed the road into Switzers.
‘Your turn to look at the knickers today,’ Gifford said. ‘But I better do it. Your imagination is already in danger of blowing the mercury out of the thermometer.’
The commissionaire opened the door to the Shelbourne Hotel with a cursory ‘good afternoon’ and Duggan stepped into the high lobby. The metal cage of the lift faced him and he turned right into the lounge. It was empty apart from four businessmen huddled around a table with documents between their drinks and a pianist playing in the corner. He chose a table by the empty fireplace, away from the windows, and studied the menu card. The prices were out of his league.
He lit a cigarette and settled down to wait. An elderly waiter approached and Duggan told him he was waiting for some people. The pianist was playing something classical, his eyes half-closed, moving his head from side to side slowly with the music, away in his own world. Two women came in with shopping bags and picked a table in the centre.
Duggan wondered again about Kitty Kelly and Eliza. It was a mad theory but these were mad times. And it made sense of things. Or did it? It could make sense of things.
Timmy appeared in the lobby, moving slowly. He caught Duggan’s eye and came towards him, scanning the lounge, still moving slowly, as though he feared he was walking into an ambush. ‘Well,’ he said, taking the other armchair with its back to the wall. ‘Just the two of us.’
‘So far.’
‘And who are we waiting for?’
‘Nuala.’
Timmy nodded once as if that confirmed his expectations. He looked at his watch: it was just af
ter ten past three. ‘You think she’ll come?’
‘I don’t know,’ Duggan said. ‘She said she would.’
‘And what does she want to talk about?’
‘You said you wanted to talk to her,’ Duggan reminded him, trying to remain calm. He had lost all patience with Timmy’s games. ‘And I persuaded her to come and talk to you.’
‘Was this her idea?’ Timmy nodded at the surroundings.
‘No, mine.’
Timmy picked up the menu and pursed his lips as he glanced down it. ‘We wouldn’t want the afternoon tea,’ he said. ‘But we might as well have a drink.’
He waved at the waiter and ordered a small Paddy and a half pint of Guinness for Duggan.
‘What do you think she wants to talk about?’ Timmy began again.
‘Jim Bradley.’
Timmy dropped his voice. ‘I’ve put the word out that there might’ve been a mistake about him being … you know.’
‘And?’
‘And we’ll see what happens.’
Duggan shook his head. ‘That won’t be good enough. She wants you to get him back.’
‘I’m doing my best.’
‘You got him into this. You have to get him out of it.’
Timmy settled back in his chair and joined his hands on his stomach. ‘Hold your horses now,’ he said. ‘I didn’t start any of this. She and Bradley started it. Pretending to kidnap her.’
Duggan shook his head. ‘Bradley wasn’t involved. It was all Nuala’s doing.’
‘And why was he picking up my money if he wasn’t involved?’ Timmy leaned forward with the certainty of proof.
The waiter arrived with their drinks and they waited while he put them on coasters before them and left a jug of water beside the whiskey.
‘Because Nuala had told him about it by then,’ Duggan continued the conversation. ‘And he thought it was too dangerous for her to go herself.’
Timmy poured a small amount of water into his whiskey and tasted it. ‘You believe that?’
‘Yes. Ask Nuala yourself.’
‘Have you never wondered why this fellow came back to Ireland?’
‘Nuala will tell you.’
