by John Holt
Once again Peterson had to admit that he had never heard of the man. “Peterson,” the voice continued. “Find him, and persuade the fool that he knows nothing.”
Peterson said nothing. “Peterson, are you there,” the voice asked.
“I’m still here,” Peterson replied.
“Silence him,” the voice said. “Understand.” The line went dead.
Peterson looked at the telephone and shook his head. As he slammed the handset down, he realised that instead of being home free and clear, he was anything but. He was still in trouble, deep trouble. An American detective asking a lot of questions, and that old fool Mulligan thinking he knows something. He shook his head again. And he knew nothing about either of them. And he still had no idea where the missing merchandise was.
He could handle the detective, and Mulligan. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible. Perhaps an unfortunate accident would achieve the desired result. But there was another important item which was much more difficult, and one that concerned him even more. His supplier clearly knew more about what was going on than he did. One of the men working for him was clearly sending back bits of information. But who was it? And why? And far more importantly what could he do about it. He couldn’t very well dispose of the person could he? His supplier would know straight away, and take appropriate action.
But who was this mysterious person anyway? Clearly it wasn’t Nadir, he had been neutralised. So who was it? It suddenly occurred to Peterson that perhaps Nadir hadn’t been the one branching out on his own. Maybe he hadn’t helped himself to a few packets of heroin after all. But if it wasn’t him, then who? There was still someone out there, who was planning a takeover.
Peterson shook his head. There was nothing that could be done, not at present. He just needed to be more on top of things, be aware of what was going on. Not leave himself open for any more criticism.
He needed to make a call, but could he really trust the person at the other end of the line? He took a deep breath. Clearly he couldn’t trust anyone, but the call was still necessary. He reached for the telephone and dialled a number. “We’ve a couple of problems,” he said as the call was answered. “There’s a detective asking a lot of questions.”
“We know all about Kendall, he’s staying at O’Rourke’s,” came the response. “We’ll keep a look out for him, and put him straight, you don’t have to worry.”
“He’s working for Scotland Yard,” Peterson continued.
“We know,” the voice replied. “We can handle him, boss.”
Peterson wasn’t entirely convinced. There was too much to lose. He had to be sure. “I don’t want any slip ups,” he said. “Nothing must go wrong, not now, not at this stage.”
“You’ve no need to worry,” the voice continued. “I’m looking after him, shall we say. Besides what can he do now? The incident happened months ago, and Charters goes to trial soon. What can go wrong?”
“Kendall has got to be convinced that the police already have the murderer,” Peterson said. “He has got to realise that he’s wasting his time, and should just go home.”
“I said you don’t have to worry,” the voice continued. “He’s getting nowhere with his questions. No one knows anything except what they’ve already told the police. So what’s he going to do?”
Peterson was still unconvinced. “What about the old man, Mulligan?”
“What about Mulligan?”
“The old fool thinks he knows something,” Peterson explained. “He might talk.”
There was the sound of laughter. “He’s just a foolish old man, who drinks too much. The town drunk. No one ever listens to ....”
“I want him silenced,” Peterson interrupted. “Now.”
“But he’s harmless,” the voice protested. “No one takes any notice ….”
“Now, I said,” Peterson repeated. “Make it look like an accident.” He slammed the handset down. It hit the desk hard and rolled towards the edge.
Peterson slammed his fist on to the table. There had already been one murder. Now there was to be another. How many more, he wondered?
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
Just Like The Other One
It was just after nine o’clock, when Kendall and Mollie entered the bar that evening. As normal it was already busy, and the usual crowd was already there. Quinn was seated by the bar. Old Mulligan sat quietly in the corner, nursing his drink. O’Rourke was busily wiping the counter down. He looked up as they came in, and nodded.
“Ah now, Mr. Kendall, welcome back, and you to Miss Adams. Good to see you both,” he said. “Have you had a good day?”
Kendall agreed that his day hadn’t been too bad. “Mr. and Mrs. Mallory were very kind, and yes it was a good day. Very enjoyable I have to say.”
“Their house is beautiful,” added Mollie. “And I loved their garden.”
“Ah, it is that. It’s a grand old house,” agreed O’Rourke. “Now then, you’ll be having a drink I’d be right in thinking.” Without waiting for an answer, he started to pour the drinks.
“I’ve not had a chance to ask you before now, but how did you get on with our local Constable the other day?” he asked as he placed a whiskey in front of Kendall, and a martini in front of Mollie. “A nice enough man isn’t he. A bit young but bright enough.”
Kendall shrugged, and took a long drink. “Okay I guess,” he replied unenthusiastically. “I didn’t learn anything new though.” That wasn’t strictly true, he thought. He had learnt a great deal, but he wasn’t entirely sure what it all meant, and he certainly wasn’t ready to broadcast it to all and sundry. “Nothing definite, that is,” he added.
“I didn’t think you would,” said O’Rourke. “Charters is as guilty as the nose on your face, and no mistake. There’s no doubt about it. The evidence you see. So what did Police Constable Donovan have to be saying for hisself?”
Kendall took another drink, and shrugged once again. “The police believe that Charters had arranged to meet with the murdered man, Abel Nadir, that night. The meeting was probably something to do with the heroin that was found. There was an argument about something, and Nadir got killed.”
“That’s the way I understood it,” said O’Rourke nodding. “But would I be right he thinking that you don’t agree with that, do you now?”
Kendall shook his head. “No, I don’t, I think ....”
“It was just like the other one, I tell you,” said a voice. It was Mulligan who had decided to join them at the bar.
“What did he just say?” asked Kendall, turning to face the voice.
“Oh it’s just Mulligan,” replied Patrick Quinn, who was sitting on a bar stool at the end of the counter. “Who knows what he says. He’s just an edgit, and he doesn’t even know what he says himself. Pay it no mind.”
“You don’t take no notice of him,” said O’Rourke, tapping the side of his head. “He’s just a bit lacking in the brain department.”
“I’m telling you it was just like the other one,” Mulligan insisted, as he moved closer to Kendall.
“What other one?” asked Mollie, sounding baffled.
“Don’t be encouraging him now,” said Derren Lynch, who had just entered the bar.
“Ah, what other one says you,” said Mulligan. “And I’ve a dry throat says I.”
“See, that’s all he wants,” said Lynch. “A drink.” He started to laugh. “He’d say, and do anything for a drop of hard stuff. He’s a disgrace, and no mistake.”
Kendall looked puzzled for a moment. Then he nodded. “A whiskey for the gentleman,” he said to O’Rourke, pointing to Mulligan. “Make it a double.”
O’Rourke shook his head, and shrugged. “You’ll be sorry, mark my words. There’ll be no stopping him,” he said as he poured the drink, and handed it to Mulligan. “Now you can just thank Mr. Kendall for your drink, and stop bothering him.”
Mulligan took hold and took a drink. “That’s mighty nice of you sir,” he s
aid. “For a yank that is, considering.”
Kendall heaved a sigh. “Now what are you saying? The same as what other one,” he asked.
“In 1942 it were, in May,” Mulligan commenced his story. “There was another one found on the beach.” He paused to take a drink. “It was one of those Germans. Washed up he were, ship had been sunk. Shot from right under him.”
Patrick Quinn smiled, and shook his head. “I told you, an absolute edgit.”
“Take no notice of him Mr. Kendall, I’m telling you,” added Derren Lynch. “There were no Germans here in 1942, or any other time come to that.”
“There were so,” insisted Mulligan, taking another drink. “Washed up on the beach he were, I seen him. All wet and lying there all quiet and still on the sand. Like he was dead.”
Lynch moved towards the bar and placed a hand on Kendall’s arm. He looked at Mulligan and smiled. Then he shook his head. “Mr. Kendall, now why would anyone be taking any notice of Mulligan here? And him being no older than a year old in 1942. Do I need to say anything more?”
Kendall nodded and smiled at Mulligan. Just story-telling, he thought, just to get a drink, or three. Or maybe to get some attention.
“He was here I tell you,” Mulligan said to no one in particular. “Don’t like Germans,” he mumbled.
Kendall started to smile. He turned his head and looked at Mulligan. “He doesn’t like anyone does he?”
“Sometimes I wonder if he even likes the Irish,” said O’Rourke, shaking his head.
Mulligan finished his drink, and placed the empty glass on the counter in front of Kendall. “’tis thirsty work,” he said. “Makes it all the harder to think.”
Kendall looked at O’Rourke, who simply smiled and shook his head.
“I’m trying hard to remember,” stammered Mulligan. “Perhaps a whiskey might help. It does sometimes you know.”
Kendall shook his head. “Another drink for my friend, here,” he said.
O’Rourke shook his head. “I did warn you Mr. Kendall.” He poured the drink, and placed it on the counter in front of Mulligan. “Now you behave yourself,” he said to Mulligan. “I told you not to be bothering Mr. Kendall here.”
Mulligan said nothing, and merely waved his hand dismissively. He picked up the glass, and took a long drink. He then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s beginning to clear now,” he said. He took another drink and drained the glass. He placed the empty glass down in front of Kendall. “It’s still hazy, though,” he said. “Maybe just another small drop might just ….”
“Another whiskey for our friend,” Kendall said as he pushed the glass towards O’Rourke. He looked at Mulligan, “But that’s it,” he advised.
“To be sure,” said Mulligan, taking hold of the glass. “Now where was I?”
“On the beach,” O’Rourke replied.
“With the German,” Lynch added helpfully.
“So I was, to be sure,” said Mulligan. “I remember it as clear as day, like it were only yesterday.”
“Get on with it,” coaxed O’Rourke. “And then, enough of this fool acting. Mr. Kendall has been very patient with you. More than you deserve.”
Mulligan glared at O’Rourke, then he looked back at Kendall. “It were about six o’clock in the evening,” he continued. “That’s when the first explosion was heard. It were followed by two more loud explosions. Flames lit up the night sky, and the smell of oil was everywhere.”
“There’s no stopping him now, I’m afraid,” whispered O’Rourke.
“It’s alright,” said Mollie, who was beginning to enjoy the story.”
Mulligan looked at O’Rourke for a few moments. “The smell was everywhere, and then there more explosions.”
“It was probably the Guinness exploding,” suggested O’Rourke, trying not to laugh.
“It were the ammunition,” Mulligan corrected. “And then there came the sound of the screaming of the injured.”
“They probably wanted a glass of porter,” said Quinn, smiling.
“Ah, now leave the poor old fool alone,” said Lynch. “He’s enjoying himself.”
Mulligan said nothing, but continued with his story. “And then the night sky darkened as the ship began to sink beneath the waves, putting the flames out.” Milligan paused for a moment, taking a drink. “It were a little while later that things were washed ashore,” he continued. “Wooden crates, and then pieces of clothing, and then ....”
“So what about the man that was washed ashore?” asked Kendall.
“A German sailor he were,” explained Mulligan. “The waves brought him in, more dead than alive. His clothes all torn, his face bleeding, and covered in oil. Washed him right on to the beach. He just lay there. I seen him. He was barely breathing.”
“Then what happened?” asked O’Rourke.
“The leprechauns came and took him away,” suggested Vincent Mulvy.
Lynch and Quinn started to laugh.
Mulligan glared. “They did not,” he said. “Did you see him? No you didn’t. So you don’t know nothing about it. But I seen him, clear as day. So I knows what happened.”
“So what did happen?” asked Kendall, wondering where this was all leading, if anywhere. Why he was even listening to the story was a mystery. Perhaps the three large whiskies had something to do with it.
“The police came. Then an ambulance came and took him away,” explained Mulligan. “They took him to the hospital, and then to Belfast, the Crumlin Road.”
“The prison you mean,” suggested Mallory, who had come in during the story.
Mulligan nodded.
“Okay Mulligan, that’s more than enough of your story telling, now,” O’Rourke announced. “Leave Mr. Kendall alone, let him enjoy a nice quite drink, without being pestered to death.”
Kendall shrugged. “It’s alright,” he said. “He’s not really bothering me.”
O’Rourke came out from behind the counter. “He’ll go on all night if you let him,” he said. “Enough’s enough. Come on now, off you go.” He took hold of Mulligan’s arm.
Mulligan lifted his glass, and finished his drink. “There now, I’ve finished.” He said placing the empty glass onto the counter. “I’m going now, and I bid yers all a good night.” He turned and walked towards the door. As he did so he stumbled, and fell against the wall.
“Oh, that’s typical Mulligan,” a voice called out. It was Vincent Mulvy. “He drinks too much, and is always getting drunk.”
“There’s not a bit of harm in him really,” said Lynch. “He’s just a crazy old coot. The secret is just take no notice of him, just let him ramble with his story telling.”
“He’s nothing but a fool, and you know it,” said Quinn. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t had more accidents. Sean, what about your window that he broke a few months back? No harm in him, indeed. One day he’ll break his stupid neck.”
“Ah, maybe so,” said O’Rourke. “But as Derren says he’s harmless.”
Quinn shook his head, and stood up. He looked across at O’Rourke, and started towards the door. “Either way, it’s getting late, so I’ll be going as well,” he said. “Good night all.”
O’Rourke nodded and waved. “Good night Patrick.”
“I’ll be going as well,” declared Lynch, as he stood up. “I’ve a busy day tomorrow.”
“Be seeing you Derren,” O’Rourke called out, as he watched Lynch walk to the door. “Odd, it’s not like him to be leaving so early.”
“I think he has a party going out on the boat tomorrow,” explained Mallory. “Whale watching, or something, so an early start.”
“Maybe so,” said O’Rourke, not really concerned one way or the other.
Lynch reached the door just as it was closing behind Quinn.
It was a cold evening and a fog was coming in from the sea. Lynch could see Quinn, a few yards ahead, but there was no sign of Mulligan.
* * *
After Mulligan had left Kendall turne
d to Mollie. “So what did you make of that?” he asked.
“Mulligan couldn’t possibly have seen any of it, could he?” Mollie replied.
“Of course he couldn’t,” said O’Rourke. “Mulligan would have been one year old at the time. There was no German, and no ship blown up, that’s for sure.”
“So where is all of this information coming from?” asked Kendall.
“Whatever you say about Mulligan, he can spin a good yarn,” said Mallory. He shook his head. “That’s all it was you know, a good yarn. There’s not an ounce of truth in it.”
“But he was so precise, so detailed,” said Mollie.
“Just a great imagination, helped by the whiskey, that’s all,” said O’Rourke. “Nothing more than that.”
Kendall smiled. “Just a story teller, is that it?”
“That’s right, there’s always one,” said Mallory. “It’s an Irish tradition, the storyteller.”
“Even so, was it necessary to get him to leave like that?” asked Mollie.
O’Rourke shrugged. “Ah, maybe I was a bit over the top,” O’Rourke agreed. “But I know that unless you put a stop to him he would just go on and on.”
“He’s right,” said Mallory. “Can I get you a drink?”
“That’s very civil of you I’m sure,” replied Kendall. “I’ll have a whiskey.”
“And for you Miss Adams?”
“I’ll have a martini thank you,” she replied.
“And that’s a gin and tonic for me,” said Mallory as he turned towards O’Rourke. “And one for yourself.”
“Oh thank you, but not for me,” said O’Rourke, as he poured the drinks. “I’ve some business to attend to.” He placed the drinks onto the counter. “Now if you’ll be excusing me for a while,” he said, as he walked around the counter. “I just have to make a phone call.” He then left the bar.
Kendall idly wondered who he would be calling so late in the evening. “I wonder who he’s calling,” he said. He looked at his watch. “This time of night.”
“His wife,” suggested Mollie, unconvinced.
Mallory shook his head. “He isn’t married,” he replied.
Kendall made no reply. He was still wondering what O’Rourke was up to.
