The Eloquence of the Dead

by Conor Brady

Each pawned item had a numbered tag. The policemen’s task would be to check each one against the shop’s ledgers to ascertain their ownership. In theory, every customer would have to be given the option of redeeming their property and paying off the loan that had been advanced against it. Then, each item that had not been redeemed would have to be checked against the lists. The process carried no guarantee of success, but it offered a possible way of ascertaining what, if anything, had gone missing. If Ambrose Pollock’s killers had robbed the shop, they just might be traced along the stolen goods trail.

  It was going to be a mammoth task.

  ‘Jesus, we’ll be here till Christmas,’ Doolan mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘This is like bloody Ali Baba’s market. We haven’t even started on the rooms with the watches and clocks, not to mention the jewellery.’

  He jerked a thumb to the constable. ‘Take a break for yourself. Go and make a drop o’ tea upstairs.’

  He leaned back against the shelving.

  ‘Any progress elsewhere?’ he asked.

  ‘To be honest, not a lot. I’ve been down at the Northern Hotel with Mossop all morning. They’ve questioned the staff, the guests, any delivery men and so on. But there’s nothing solid coming out of it.’

  ‘Do you think she’s gone? You know, deceased, dead?’

  ‘Could be. Or she might be on the run. Or she could have been abducted. Held somewhere.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be a nice thing to contemplate,’ Doolan said softly. ‘She’s not the strongest in her mind, I’d say.’

  Doolan had worked often enough with Swallow to know the signs of an investigation that was stuck. There were gaps and silences between sentences. When he was frustrated, the G-man had a habit of staring at his feet and scuffing his shoes against each other. He was doing it now.

  Then he grinned.

  ‘But I did come across one interesting item of information. I was in Currivan’s of Fishamble Street earlier. Matt Currivan tells me that Phoebe Pollock has been in and out of the place with a gentleman friend. And she’s been well able to lower a few ports and gins.’

  Doolan whistled. ‘That explains why she was coming home as drunk as a fish the other night. Who’d have thought that she’d have found romance at that stage of her life?’

  ‘There seems to have been another side to Phoebe, at least in recent times,’ Swallow said. ‘We’re going to have to start a search of the living quarters to see if we can learn more.’

  ‘It’s a bloody big house,’ Doolan said doubtfully. ‘There’s three storeys above this one. What are we looking for?’

  He gestured around him. ‘You can see for yourself. This could take weeks.’

  ‘I’d start with her bedroom. If a woman has secrets, that’s where you’re likely to find evidence of them. We want information on her personal life, love letters, tokens, maybe a photographic likeness of this romantic gentleman. She probably had places for any letters and things.’

  He saw apprehension in Doolan’s eyes.

  ‘I’ll do a search of the bedroom myself,’ he said. ‘I might be lucky. But if we need a full search, I’ll get you all the help I can. We’ll need experienced men.’

  By now, the shirt-sleeved constable had returned with three mugs of tea. Doolan took his and propped his backside against the window ledge. Sipping at his brew, he shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Phoebe Pollock. Who’d have thought it? As me old mother used to say, if you keep a thing long enough you’ll likely find a use for it.’

  FIFTEEN

  Christ Church’s bells announced 7 o’clock as Swallow left Lamb Alley. He had spent three hours searching Phoebe Pollock’s bedroom and the living quarters over the pawn shop without any success.

  He was not especially surprised that he found nothing in drawers, desks, or under mattresses. The search that would be necessary would involve nail bars, metal probes and lamps. Floorboards would be lifted. Hollow spaces in walls would be tapped and opened. Cupboards and panels would be prised out.

  When he went to put on his jacket, he felt Katherine Greenberg’s letter in the pocket. The air had been heavy and fetid as he worked through the upper rooms in Pollock’s. It was at most ten minutes to Capel Street. The walk would be refreshing.

  He crossed Cornmarket, and turned down High Street. Then he passed under the Christ Church arch to Winetavern Street, making for the river. The city was slow and quiet with the offices and shops now empty. A solitary tram, drawn by two tired horses, creaked slowly along Essex Quay, its proclaimed destination the Phoenix Park. Swallow reckoned that the willing animals were due their rest and a good feed at the end of the day.

  A man walking upriver on Essex Quay called him by name through the dusk and stopped him. Swallow recognised him as Friar Lawrence from the Franciscan Monastery on Merchants’ Quay.

  ‘That’s a shocking thing to happen up at Lamb Alley … absolutely shocking to think of a man done to death in his own business, may the Lord have mercy on him. Do you think you’ll be long getting whoever did it?’

  ‘Ah, we’ll get them all right,’ Swallow attempted to sound confident.

  Friar Lawrence wagged a finger.

  ‘It better not take too long. The people are frightened … terrified.’

  He went on his way up the Quay, still muttering.

  Greenberg’s was one of the oldest houses on Capel Street. In its heyday, before Dublin society moved south to the fine squares around the Duke of Leinster’s house, this had been the most fashionable street in the city, home to wealthy merchants and professionals. Greenberg’s was a spacious Georgian building with the double-fronted shop on the ground floor and with living quarters above.

  The Jewish community around Capel Street was not as numerous as it had been when Swallow was a young constable. There had even been a shul – a synagogue – close by, incongruously located in the site of the medieval Cistercian Abbey of Saint Mary.

  Many families had migrated to ‘Little Jerusalem,’ the area around Clanbrassil Street across the river. But Capel Street still had a dozen Jewish businesses; tailors and hatters, a bakery, a kosher butcher. And there was Greenberg’s, dealing in statuary and paintings, valuable coins and objets d’art.

  Swallow knew the shop’s cycle of business from his days on the beat. At 6 o’clock in the evening, Ephram Greenberg would draw down the blinds and fix a metal grille across the porch. Then he would lock the shop door from inside and climb the back stairs to the living quarters for his supper.

  Swallow’s haul on the bell cord at the side door was answered by a young female servant. When he stated his business, she led him up the narrow staircase and showed him in to the parlour at the back of the house.

  He knew this room. Velvet drapes framed high windows that faced westward across the city to the Four Courts and the Phoenix Park. A heavy Persian carpet warmed the pine floor. Two matching Highland scenes in layered oils faced across from the walls. A Carrara mantle filled the space between the windows.

  He remembered sitting here as a young beat man, talking with Ephram Greenberg, his Roman-style police helmet on the tabletop. There would be strong Arabica coffee and sometimes small iced cakes from the kosher bakery down the street. The household smells surged back, bridging the years; wax, camphor and something hinting of cinnamon.

  ‘If you’ll take a seat, Sir, I will tell Mr Greenberg that you are here.’

  The girl’s English was perfect, but deliberate and accented. Swallow guessed it was from somewhere in Eastern Europe.

  He sat facing the windows, and realised he was looking at the scene that Katherine Greenberg had painted for Lily Grant’s class. The silver fruit bowl and the fluted decanter sat on the same damask tablecloth. The backdrop of the tall mantle with its dark marble was true to life.

  He heard voices in the corridor. When the door opened, it was Katherine.

  ‘Mr Swallow. It was good of you to come. You got my letter?’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get to s
ee your father at the shop while it was open,’ he said. ‘I’ve been engaged in a serious crime investigation all day.’

  She smiled. She was wearing her hair full length to her shoulders. Swallow liked the way its dark gloss caught the evening light.

  ‘I know about that. The whole city is terrified. Everybody is locking up early and putting up bolts and bars.’

  ‘That’s not difficult to understand. People are right to be careful. But there’s nothing to suggest that there may be another attack.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I hope you’re right. My father has gone to his room to fetch something he needs to show you. Can I have something brought in? Some coffee or tea, perhaps a glass of wine? There’s a very fortifying Lebanese. My father likes a little of it in the evening.’

  ‘That sounds very tempting, thank you.’

  She moved to the door. ‘I’ll have the maid bring it. I hear my father coming down the stairs. He’ll only be a moment.’

  When he came in, Swallow could see that Ephram Greenberg had aged. He was stooped, and now he walked with a stick. His once silver beard and hair were snow white. Swallow knew that he should not be surprised. Ephram had to be well past eighty, but the brightness that he had always seen in his eyes was still there.

  He placed a small wooden box on the table and shook Swallow’s hand.

  ‘Joseph, it’s good to see you … very good to see you, after such a long time.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Ephram. I should have called long before now.’

  Greenberg raised a hand dismissively. He laughed.

  ‘No, Joseph, you have become a busy man, a famous detective. I always read about your exploits in the newspaper. I say to Katherine when I see your name that we must be proud to know such a famous and important person.’

  Swallow smiled. ‘When I get my name in the papers it’s not classified under good news.’

  ‘I understand,’ the old dealer nodded. ‘But it is important work. I see that you are working on that terrible business at Lamb Alley. Poor Pollock killed and then his unfortunate sister disappears. Do you think she has come to a bad end, Joseph?’

  ‘We don’t know. It may be that she was somehow involved in his death. Or she may be in danger herself. Or she may be dead too.’

  ‘May his soul find peace. His time in this world was not very happy.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘I met him from time to time. Jewish people have a name sometimes for driving a hard bargain, but Ambrose Pollock was known as the hardest man in the business.’

  The young maid came through the door with glasses and a decanter of red wine on a silver tray. She placed it on the table and withdrew silently. Greenberg poured.

  ‘Zayt gezunt … good health, Joseph.’ He clinked his glass against Swallow’s.

  It was strong, aromatic, heady.

  ‘From the Beqaa Valley in Lebanon,’ Greenberg nodded to the decanter. ‘Better than any Burgundy, I tell you.’ He smiled. ‘It helps to keep me alive. So, tell me about yourself, Joseph. You have never married, never settled down? I would have thought you would be a fine catch for many a girl.’

  Swallow smiled. ‘No, Ephram. I came near to it once or twice but I’m still a free man.’

  The old Jew wagged a finger. ‘A man needs to have a wife, Joseph. I have a good business here. I have my daughter as a support in my old age. But I miss my Ruth every day … every single day.’

  ‘She was a good woman,’ Swallow said quietly. ‘I remember her very well.’

  Greenberg drank deeply from his glass.

  ‘Now, Joseph.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Enough of this talking. I asked you to come here for a reason that has to do with your work.’

  He reached across the table to the wooden box. He lifted out a section of green baize, perhaps a foot square. Then he gently tipped the box so that its contents came out onto the cloth.

  Swallow was looking at six small, silver coins.

  ‘Have a look at these, Joseph,’ Greenberg said. ‘Go ahead, get their weight. Feel them.’

  The coins were smoothed with age, but Swallow could feel their detail under his fingers. The obverse depicted a human head with stylised hair, a strong nose and well-defined eyes. The reverse showed a bearded and seated figure with a bird perched on one hand and a sceptre or trident in the other. It reminded Swallow vaguely of Britannia on the penny.

  Greenberg replenished their wine glasses.

  ‘They’re beautiful items,’ Swallow said. ‘But I know nothing of coins. I assume they’re special, rare?’

  Greenberg placed one in his palm, the head upwards.

  ‘That’s the face of Alexander the Great you’re looking at, Joseph. More than two thousand years ago these were part of the currency of ancient Greece. They’re called the tetradrachms, each one worth four drachmae. The silver is very fine, very pure.’

  ‘And valuable?’ Swallow asked.

  The old dealer shrugged. ‘They are not by any means the most valuable of ancient coins. Although personally I think they must be among the most beautiful. They are rare enough. In London, I would expect to get not less than £20 for each one.’

  Swallow drank from his wine glass. ‘So tell me why a policeman should be interested in these.’

  Greenberg replaced the coins into the box.

  ‘Because these, and other good coins, have been appearing in dealers’ shops all over Dublin during the past couple of weeks. I was offered six, as you see. A shop in Camden Street has another two. I know that Isaac White, my neighbour here in Capel Street, has taken in three rare denarii. There may be more elsewhere. Ordinarily, you might come across one or two tetradrachms in a year of business.’

  ‘If you want the police to know about this you must believe that they’re stolen or somehow improperly on the market,’ Swallow said. ‘So where are they coming from? Who’s selling them?’

  Greenberg raised his glass. ‘Yes, I believe they may have been stolen. As to where they are coming from, I have no idea. Who is selling them? My daughter may be of some help on that. I think it’s best that she speaks for herself.’

  He rang a small silver bell. A few moments later, Katherine re-entered the room. She smiled when she sat with them.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I saw you two talking here together.’

  She reached to the decanter, took a glass from the tray and poured for herself.

  Ephram Greenberg mused. ‘I suppose it’s a few years all right. You were a young girl then, Katherine.’ He turned to Swallow. ‘Now she is my partner in the business, you know.’

  ‘Zayt gezunt. Good health, Joseph.’ She sipped the wine.

  ‘Your father has been telling me about these Greek coins, Miss Greenberg. I gather you dealt with the person who brought them in for sale.’

  ‘Yes, I bought them. But before we go on, perhaps it’s time to do away with “Mr Swallow” and “Miss Greenberg,” wouldn’t you say? You’ll recall my name is Katherine.’

  Swallow was momentarily unsure if he was impressed or mildly shocked by her self-assuredness. She had confidence and poise. On balance, he had to admire it.

  ‘Of course, Katherine,’ he smiled. ‘And you know I’m Joe.’

  It felt odd. He preferred the articulation of his name, rank and title. It was a shield, a barrier. He opened his notebook on the table.

  ‘When did you acquire the coins?’

  ‘It was on Friday of the week before last. My father always leaves the shop early to prepare for Shabbat, and I stay on until 6 o’clock. I am not at all a religious person, you see. The woman with the coins came in at around 5.30.’

  Swallow thought he saw Ephram wince slightly at his daughter’s peremptory dismissal of her family faith.

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘She was about my own age, respectably dressed. She wore a wedding ring and a small engagement diamond. And she was quite nervous. It was obvious that she was not a dealer and that sh
e was inexperienced in transacting business. She put the three coins on the counter and asked me what I would offer her. She clearly had no idea of their value.’

  ‘You say three coins. But you have six.’

  ‘Yes, she came back again last Friday at about the same time with three more.’

  ‘So she’s been here twice.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you give her an especially good price for the coins on the first visit?’

  Katherine looked momentarily embarrassed.

  ‘No, that’s the thing. When she offered the first three, she asked me what I would pay, and I said I would give her five pounds for each coin. I knew they could be worth probably four or even five times that sum. I expected her to bargain upward. But to my surprise, she accepted my price.’

  ‘Did you ask her where she had got the coins?’

  Katherine shrugged.

  ‘When one is looking at a fine profit like that, one doesn’t ask too many questions.’

  Swallow grimaced disapprovingly. ‘You might have suspected that they were stolen?’

  ‘Greenberg’s has never knowingly dealt in stolen property, Joseph.’ Ephram’s tone was sharp. ‘You know that. If that were the case here, why would I have asked to see you this evening?’

  Swallow decided to let it pass.

  ‘I’m sorry. Please go on, Katherine.’

  ‘I simply thought this was a naïve person who didn’t have any idea of the value of what she had. She was a respectable woman. I guessed that perhaps she was in need. She wanted money and I saw an opportunity to buy at a very good price.’

  ‘So tell me about the second visit. You say she came back with three more coins.’

  ‘Yes, she was quite upset again on the second visit. She said she knew the coins were worth more than I had paid on the first occasion. But she was willing to give me the additional ones at the same price, so naturally I accepted.’

  Swallow was less than impressed.

  ‘So you have six coins, worth … what? Perhaps £150? You’ve paid £30 for them. Why do you want the police to look into it? It seems to me that you’ve had a good couple of weeks’ trading, albeit through this woman’s foolishness.’