A Shocking Assassination

by Cora Harrison

  ‘That is interesting that he was a Protestant.’ Patrick felt exasperated with himself. He had started the wrong way around. He needed to find out some more about the dead man before he began to see whether anyone other than Sam O’Mahony had killed him. But if he was a Protestant, and what’s more a Protestant who was suspected of diverting money to his own ends, money that should be used to rebuild shops, offices and a library in order to give jobs and accommodation back to the people of Cork, well, then the Sinn Féin Republicans could certainly have targeted the man for assassination. In fact it was beginning to look like a much more likely motive than a revenge killing for Sam O’Mahony losing his job from the Cork Examiner. But was Sam the agent of the Republicans? That would have to be found out.

  ‘Is Joe in?’ he asked and received a sour nod. Tommy would have preferred to have gone on imparting knowledge, but he was a terrible old gossip who would be eager to report any unguarded word. Joe, Patrick’s assistant, lived with his parents in a terraced house next door to the church that Tommy had mentioned. He would be a safer person to discuss the matter with.

  ‘Hear any rumours about James Doyle and the repair to the church roof next to your place, Joe?’ he asked once the door was closed behind him.

  Joe gave a grin. ‘Funny you should mention that, I was thinking, as I came to work this morning, that I must bring it up. It happened about six months ago. Apparently they had been appealing for funds for ages, had been having collections, having bazaars, all that sort of thing, but, of course, ever since the troubles lots of the Protestants in Cork have left the city so their congregation is getting smaller and smaller and smaller. You’d see them of a Sunday, a dozen of them, if that, going into the church, not like our churches where you have to fight for a space if you don’t get there dead early.’

  ‘And so the roof was repaired,’ said Patrick. ‘And there was talk about it, is that right?’

  ‘Well, there are eight houses on the terrace – seven of them Catholics but the people in number one are Protestants – people of the name of Good – and the eldest boy there told my youngest brother that Mr Doyle paid to have the roof done himself, or at least gave the labour free. There was a lot of talk about that, people saying that the builders that were employed should have been doing other work, such as repairing the houses at the top of Maylor Street. I don’t know whether you know those houses in Maylor Street, inspector, but their roof timbers were burned when Cash’s Department Store was destroyed in Patrick Street. These houses could have been saved but the rain has got in and the plaster has crumbled off the walls and now they have a notice up saying: “Unsafe to enter. In danger of collapse.” And, all the poor people who lived there have had to find somewhere else.’

  ‘So it could be a political assassination,’ mused Patrick. It would certainly be a better and an easier solution, but these political killings often brought revenge killings in their wake. ‘Well, we’ll see soon,’ he said. ‘If it was done by the Republicans, they will probably claim it tomorrow.’ An assassination of a corrupt public official would, he thought, be a popular move, and might gain them some support. There must be many people in the city who were still homeless, or who had a relative or friend homeless because of corruption in high places. James Doyle must have had many enemies.

  ‘The word on the street last night, when I was strolling down Patrick Street, was that Tom Hurley of the Ballinhassig crowd had something to do with it. Some of Battalion One are hiding out somewhere there, so they say,’ added Joe hastily disclaiming any real knowledge of the Republican Army. ‘And Tom Hurley was seen going real fast down the Grand Parade yesterday morning.’

  ‘I see,’ said Patrick. If he were going to interview Tom Hurley, he would have to take a battalion of soldiers with him, and the likelihood would be that either he would be shot from behind a hedge, or that Tom would be impossible to track down – or both could happen. It would be easier to explore other avenues first of all.

  And, of course, the easiest thing of all was to go along with the evidence from fifty people, with the strong conviction of the superintendent of the barracks, and build the case against Sam O’Mahony.

  He thought back to the Reverend Mother and realized that the easy option was not available to him.

  ‘Are we going to start the book of evidence against Sam?’ asked Joe, watching his face.

  ‘Certainly not,’ snapped Patrick. ‘You’ll never get anywhere if you act in that sort of sloppy way, Joe. We take it step by step. The first thing is find out a bit more about the victim. I think that we’ll take a trip to the city engineer’s office. I’d like to have a word with the assistant – that’s Mr Browne, isn’t it? Was he a Protestant, too, do you happen to know?’

  Joe shook his head emphatically. ‘Not a chance. He’s some sort of relation to the bishop. He’ll get the job as sure as eggs are eggs. Just you wait and see.’ He gave a quick glance at the clock and then a slight cough. ‘And the superintendent is due in here in half an hour. He’s gone to have a word with the Lord Mayor about all of this.’

  That was interesting, thought Patrick. Mr O’Callaghan, the mayor of Cork, was a member of the Sinn Féin party. If he had summoned the superintendent, it may well have been either to confirm or to deny that the Republicans were involved. He would be subtle about it, of course, but he would leave the superintendent in no doubt as to his meaning. He wondered whether to wait, but then decided against it. If the word was that there was no political involvement, then a motive could be found to say that this, though not an assassination, was a revenge killing. A case could be made that Sam had been unemployed for six months now and had brooded on the man who had caused him to lose his job and then had decided to kill him. Sam might not be able to afford a lawyer, but even if he had one, the lawyer for the state could easily demolish any arguments about the unlikelihood of the guilty man just standing there, holding the gun. However, it could be urged that he had been discovered too quickly and had decided to brazen the matter out. No, Sam, if brought to trial even with no more evidence than they had at the moment would, in all probability, be condemned to death.

  When Patrick and Joe were shown into the office labelled ‘City Engineer’, Thomas Browne was seated at the dead man’s desk marking in some lines on a drawing of an enormous building with what looked like almost sixty windows placed along its frontage. He was so immersed in it that he seemed to have difficulty in dragging his eyes away and Patrick waited quietly for a couple of minutes, but still the man did not look up. He had not spoken a word, just nodded at Patrick’s greeting when his visitors were announced and did not appear as though he was going to acknowledge their presence. Patrick felt a surge of anger. He suspected that if his accent had been different that he would not be treated like this. Joe looked uneasy and this added to his annoyance. It should be the man behind the desk who was showing signs of uneasiness. After all, Mr Browne had been standing beside his boss when the man was shot. Yesterday he was just an assistant, today he was Acting City Engineer, with the power that the position brought in a city filled with burned out buildings, all waiting to be reconstructed.

  ‘Are these the plans for the rebuilding of the city hall?’ he asked abruptly.

  Thomas Browne dragged his eyes away from the drawing and frowned. ‘Perhaps,’ he said with an indifferent shrug. ‘Can I help you, sergeant?’

  ‘Inspector,’ said Patrick abruptly. He had spent many long midnight hours, endeavouring to keep his eyes open, striving to keep his brain from bursting with the knowledge that he was cramming into it, anxiously, intensely studying for that promotion and he was not willing to forgo an iota of the respect due from a man who had probably idled a few years at university after receiving an expensive boarding school education. He looked around, found a chair for himself and nodded to Joe, indicating a small table and chair in the background.

  ‘The constable will take notes of this interview,’ he said curtly and watched with annoyance how a look of amusement ca
me into the man’s eyes.

  ‘How can I help you, inspector,’ said Thomas Browne and even the tone of his voice held a mockery. Patrick felt his face grow warm, but he took a grip on his rising temper and deliberately waited for a moment, sitting very straight and gazing around the walls of the room where framed drawings covered almost every inch of space. There was one of what must be the new city hall, but it looked quite different to the one which Browne was folding up. He decided not to ask about it. The man was so arrogant that he would just think that Patrick was trying to curry favour with him. Make them respect you, the superintendent of the barracks had said on his first day of work and Patrick had always kept that in mind. Polite, distant and firm, that was the image that he tried to convey whether he was interviewing a dock worker or a man who had half a million in the bank. He would not try to lead gently into the matter, but question the man directly.

  ‘Mr Browne, you were present in the English Market yesterday morning when your superior was shot dead?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Thomas Browne, still with that look of amusement. ‘I believe that I gave my name, address and occupation to the good constable there and told him that I had no idea what happened or who shot Mr Doyle. And, just for the record, inspector, I did not regard him as my superior.’

  ‘But he employed you, that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, inspector, the city council employs me. I was Mr Doyle’s assistant and now I am Acting City Engineer.’ There was a note of triumph in the last words and Patrick felt a slight thrill of excitement. The man was beginning to expose frustrated ambition and jealousy and perhaps he could be needled into saying more.

  ‘So you felt that you were a better engineer than Mr Doyle, or as good as, and you resent it when I call him your superior?’ He made his voice as bland as possible. Years of dealing with drunken dock workers had trained this manner. Never give them an opening to accuse you of bias; he always kept that in his mind.

  Browne resented his comment, though.

  ‘What the hell do you mean? What are you insinuating?’

  ‘I merely asked a question, sir.’ From the corner of his eye, Patrick noticed Joe lift his head.

  ‘Well, it came across as damn offensive.’ He took a cigar from the drawer of the desk, clipped the end from it and lit it.

  Patrick sat silently, and allowed him to have a few long moments to inhale some soothing smoke before he said, ‘You’ll understand that we have to ask all sorts of questions, sir. I’m sure that you are anxious to have this matter cleared up.’

  ‘But wasn’t it that young fellow, the chap with the gun in his hand, Sam O’Mahony, that was his name, wasn’t it? I understood that he was sent by the Republicans to assassinate Mr Doyle. Saw something in today’s paper about it.’ The voice was a bit quieter and the manner not so aggressive.

  ‘We have to consider all aspects, sir,’ said Patrick. ‘And, of course, the first matter that we have to consider is the victim. People tend to be very kind about a man who has just died, but we would prefer to know the truth – was he a liar, a cheat, a bully, violent, dishonest, anything like that? All these things can form a motive for murder. You would be surprised at the things that we uncover and how sometimes the reason for a killing is hidden in a man’s past. Perhaps, sir, you could enlighten us about Mr James Doyle. You would know him well, having worked alongside him for many years, I understand. Could anyone have had a motive for killing him?’ Patrick waited for a full half minute and then added quietly, ‘In your opinion, sir.’

  There was an even longer pause after the question was asked. With satisfaction Patrick saw a flicker of interest in the dark eyes that met his from behind the veil of cigar smoke. Were they his own cigars, he wondered, or some of the possessions of the dead man, like the expensive leather blotter, the gold Waterman pen, the elaborate box of pencils, labelled Günther Wagner, and the marble, carved paperweight.

  ‘Well, I suppose that he was not too popular, the late James Doyle, just between ourselves, inspector.’ Thomas Browne’s voice was almost sleepy, but his eyes were watching the police inspector, watching to see whether he was going to swallow the bait, thought Patrick, remembering how he and his friends used to tie bits of dead rats to lengths of string and dangle the tasty morsel in front of the eels that came up through the street drains on days when the river flooded the streets. There had been great excitement in it and a tasty meal afterwards when the eel was boiled in the kettle over the fire. Now he felt some of that old thrill as he added another morsel of bait.

  ‘Of course it may have been a political assassination, but the Republicans could have used someone with a grudge to do the dirty work,’ Patrick said, leaning towards the desk and lowering his voice to a confidential undertone.

  Thomas Browne gave a short laugh. ‘Well, if you’re looking for someone with a grudge, inspector, there would be a queue to choose from. The city is full of men with a grudge against the late James Doyle.’

  ‘Such as?’ Joe had his pencil poised over his shorthand notebook.

  ‘To start with there are all of those people whose shops, homes, offices were destroyed that night when Cork burned.’

  ‘But Mr Doyle had nothing to do with that, or did he?’

  It seemed to Patrick that the acting city engineer hesitated a little over that, but then he waved his cigar. ‘Well, let’s just say that he wasn’t hurrying himself to rebuild the small men’s places. Too busy negotiating the big contract.’ Thomas Browne puffed at his cigar for the moment and then said maliciously, ‘Not that I believed any of the rumours about bribes, of course.’

  ‘But you heard them?’

  ‘This is a city full of gossip, inspector. You’d want to be stone deaf not to hear some of it.’

  ‘Did you contradict the rumours?’ Patrick looked steadily across the desk, suddenly feeling rather sorry for the dead man. It must be a strange thing to work closely with someone who was full of hate for you.

  Thomas Browne shrugged. ‘Not my place. When I make any public statements I like to think that they are true statements.’

  ‘Meaning that you believed the rumours; or, perhaps, that you knew that the rumours were true.’ When he didn’t answer, Patrick said sharply, ‘I have to press you, Mr Browne. This is not a social chat. A man is lying dead in the mortuary at the police barracks and I intend to find out who killed him. I’ll ask you again, did Mr Doyle, to your certain knowledge, take bribes?’

  Browne allowed a moment’s silence, then put down his cigar onto an elaborate ashtray moulded in the form of a sleeping dragon.

  ‘Let’s just say that I could not be sure that he had not,’ he said eventually.

  ‘From builders?’

  ‘Of course. But the design for the public buildings like the library and, of course, the city hall, had to be his. And, of course, he had great plans to rebuild the English Market and make it a show place. He had his eye on a big job in Dublin, or in London. Never liked Cork. He used to get asthma every time that there was a fog. The place didn’t suit him at all, he used to say.’

  ‘So builders who couldn’t or wouldn’t pay a bribe didn’t get the job?’

  A shrug answered this and Patrick repressed his anger. This man was infuriating, but he could be a dangerous enemy. He belonged to one of the merchant princes’ families, the twenty or so families who had built up the trade in Cork city and whose sons and grandsons had gone to expensive schools and then into the professions, he had that air of affluence, of privilege. He could make a lot of trouble for a humbly born policeman. He looked around the office.

  ‘It would be a great help to us, sir,’ he said evenly, ‘if you could give us a list of builders available in the city, and, also, if you would be so good, a list of builders employed by this office.’

  For a moment he thought that the man would refuse. He had a sarcastic, rather mocking gleam in his eye. Patrick faced him steadily, and did not allow his eyes to drop. In the background he was aware that Joe
’s busy pencil had ceased and that his assistant sat motionless, his eyes, no doubt, on both protagonists.

  In the end it was Thomas Browne who gave way. ‘Well, if it’s any use to you,’ he said with an exaggerated sigh, and he rose, went to a filing cabinet, leafed through the folders and then came out with a list.

  ‘Some of them we used; others we did not,’ he said with an exaggeratedly nonchalant manner.

  ‘That’s very useful, sir,’ said Patrick, surveying the list, but not touching the sheet of typewritten names and addresses. ‘I wonder whether you would be kind enough to put a tick opposite to those builders whom you know were employed by this office during the last couple of years.’

  For a moment he thought that the man would throw the list in his face, but with a half-suppressed oath, Thomas Browne took the sheet back from him. He picked up the pen from the tray – had a certain amount of difficulty with it, noticed Patrick, seemed unaccustomed to the slant of the nib – and then put ticks opposite to names. When he handed it over, there were gaps against over half of the names.

  Patrick looked at it, hoping that his face did not betray him. There would be a lot of work in checking out this dozen or so of building firms that had not been used by the city engineer. And then would come the work of checking through those that had been used. This might, actually, he thought, prove more fruitful. There might be one firm, one man, there who had hoped, because of past experience, to get a prize commission for one of those new splendid buildings. The Munster Arcade, Cash’s and Grant’s had all been rebuilt, but there were many, many others which still remained as blackened skeletons.

  And, of course, the prize building of all, the city hall – whose design was going to be chosen for that, and which fortunate builder would receive the commission to erect an edifice that would be the focus of admiring eyes from Britain and from the continent of Europe, and perhaps even from America? Once more his eyes went to the drawing on the wall and then to the chest where Thomas Browne had shut up the drawing which he had been working on when they arrived. He had a sudden desire to look at that again. It had been, he thought, quite different to the rather pedestrian sketch on the wall, where the new city hall looked very much like the building that had been around for a few hundred years. He looked at the defensive and rather mocking face of Thomas Browne and thought that he could not justify that request. He would have a word with the Reverend Mother, he thought. She had a great knowledge of the old Cork families. She would know all about Thomas Browne and would have some wise advice for him.