The Death of an Irish Lass

by Bartholomew Gill

  McGarr very much wanted to know what sort of story O’Connor had in mind, if he would write about May Quirk and what she had really meant to him. But he was tired.

  “Have you ever thought about writing nonfiction?” Noreen asked.

  O’Connor only nodded.

  “It seems to me that a really good book has never been written about the I.R.A.”

  McGarr knew what she wanted to add: now that the I.R.A. might in some way be responsible for the murder of May Quirk, a woman O’Connor had loved, didn’t he feel the need to come to terms with that organization?

  But O’Connor said, “That’s because the writer would have to define the organization, make some sense of the present fighting, the mayhem and the chaos, its goals, its needs.” He looked out at the dark shop windows of Bealaclugga, which they were passing. “It’s an impossible task, though May would have wanted me to try now, I’m sure.”

  A half hour later they were back in Lahinch.

  Before going to bed, McGarr got Dan O’Malley, the Lahinch Garda superintendent, to put two of his best men at the Quirk farmhouse. He told O’Malley to make sure they were well armed.

  “Pistols?” O’Malley asked.

  “No. Whatever you’ve got that’s heavier.”

  “Shotguns?”

  “No. Automatic weapons, Dan.” McGarr was exhausted.

  “I don’t think anybody knows how to use them. Sure I’ve never taken the bloody things out of the case.”

  “Pistols will be fine.” McGarr rang off.

  EIGHT

  Histrionic Touches

  THE AROMA of thick, black coffee awoke McGarr. At first he didn’t know where he was. The smell reminded him of Naples and the Hotel Europa, where he and Noreen had lived for nearly a year in what had amounted to an extended honeymoon. That summer had been cool, the winter warm, and the staff of the hotel had served their Irish guests with the care that a despot might command, though not once had the small, red-haired couple asked for special attention. After the newspapers had pictured McGarr collaring an international dope smuggler in Herculaneum, the deference shown the soft-spoken man became embarrassing. The staff whispered to each other when McGarr and Noreen passed. In the reflection of the shiny pink marble that faced the sides of the elevator, McGarr had seen a bellboy imitating the way he walked. Noreen had heard the other employees talking about their manner of speaking Italian.

  Here, however, McGarr was deep in the plush of a feather bed in a bed-and-breakfast three doors from the church in Lahinch. He had one pillow under and another over his head. On the nightstand was a pot of coffee and a bowl of sugar. The cup and saucer were reproductions of willowware, eighteenth-century chinoiserie—pale blue patterns of rivers, trees, teahouses, a farmer in a field leading oxen at a plow—that reminded McGarr of his first cup of coffee, with his aunt on a little laneway off Baggot Street in Dublin. He had only one eye open. He could hear Noreen rustling around the room somewhere in back of him.

  Suddenly, brilliant sunlight flooded the room and McGarr squeezed the pillow over his face. Just that little movement made him know why he didn’t want to wake up: his back. It now began galling him. He lay as still as he could, and gradually the pain went away. He could hear a church bell clanking off in the distance. It was Sunday morning. When Noreen said, “Roll over onto your stomach,” then placed several hot-water bottles on his back, McGarr was quite satisfied to be in a humble Irish bed-and-breakfast. To his thinking a good b & b, of which Ireland had thousands, was one of the most pleasant and relaxed modes of overnight accommodation one could find. He luxuriated in the warm numbness that then began to seep through his injured body. As far as he was concerned, May Quirk’s murderer could go to hell, which was what the blackguard deserved.

  He must have dropped off again, because several times he thought he heard a phone ringing someplace in the house, and finally Noreen said, “That’s probably Commissioner Farrell for you, Peter. He’s been ringing since eight thirty.” She removed the water bottles from his back, fluffed the pillows near him, then helped him sit up and lean back into them. “How’s that?”

  “Not so bad. Now. Thanks.”

  She poured the coffee, which was obviously a fresh pot. It steamed up into the cool air of the bedroom. She added two lumps and handed the cup to him. “I’ll go speak to him.” She started toward the door.

  “Missus McGarr. Missus McGarr,” a voice was saying in a whisper behind it. “It’s him again. The commissioner.”

  “What time is it?” McGarr croaked.

  “That’s last Mass ringing now, sir,” said the proprietress in through the door. “Would you care for breakfast, or”—she paused—“brunch.” The word was odd in her mouth; she was trying it out.

  McGarr tried to say “breakfast,” but only managed a cracked, throaty sound.

  “Right away, right away.” The woman rushed off.

  McGarr began looking around the room for his clothes, but more for the flask he kept in his pocket.

  “It’s gone,” said Noreen.

  He then glanced at her handbag.

  “Mine too.” She closed the door.

  McGarr shut his eyes and wondered why he had chosen at age forty-five to get married to a woman twenty years younger than he. He was no match for her. Right then he was acting like an octogenarian. True, he needed the coffee that was burning the palms of his hands, but much more he needed further sleep or at least several stiff eye-openers.

  After a while the door creaked again.

  McGarr didn’t bother opening his eyes until he heard and felt something being poured into his cup. He then smelled peat smoke and, lifting the cup to his face, inhaled the lovely essence of vaporizing malt whiskey. Using both hands, he drank long from the cup. When he lowered it to his lap again, he had begun to think somewhat differently of the advantages of having a young wife. “Was that Farrell?” He opened his eyes.

  Noreen was standing beside the bed with a large, full bottle of Powers in her right hand. She was wearing a white blouse that seemed almost transparent in the sunlight and blue slacks paler than the china. Her skin was golden. She gestured at the bottle.

  McGarr nodded. “What’s he want?”

  “From his tone, maybe your head.”

  McGarr pulled the covers off his legs, which he swung out of bed. “Tell him he can have my back.”

  “I’ve been telling him about your back all morning.”

  “Then tell him to buzz off. It’s Sunday. I’m tired.” McGarr didn’t think he had enough energy to stand. He took another sip from the cup.

  “Liam says Hanly’s so soft he’s mush now. And you’ve got that plane to meet at Shannon later this afternoon. Schwerr’s father and mother are waiting for you at the barracks. The Garda you posted at the Quirks’ has called twice, too. McAnulty reports there’s not a print on that pitchfork. For that matter, there’s not a fleck of paint or anything to make it the murder weapon. He says he’d like to talk to you before you speak to the commissioner.”

  McGarr gently got to his feet. The pain wasn’t so bad. He knew what McAnulty wanted.

  “And then there are the reporters. Two of them are in the dining room. They’ve taken picture after picture after picture of McAnulty’s operation on the cliffs, and now they want the story from you.”

  McGarr took a step toward the sink. He was dressed in a pair of tan boxer shorts. He looked in the mirror and winced. He looked ancient—fifty-five, at least. He had tufted bags under his eyes, which were red. The light shadowed the red stubble on his chin, making it look like dirt. Thin wisps of red hair along the sides of his bald head bristled.

  Noreen wrapped a bathrobe around his shoulders and opened the door. McGarr followed her down the hall to the phone.

  “McGarr here.” Through French doors he could see the two reporters in the dining room. They were smoking and talking, tea cups before them.

  “Just back from Mass?” asked Fergus Farrell.

  “I said a prayer
for you.”

  “That’s only fair, since I’ve been invoking the Spirit that Negates All to intercede for me in whatever dark affairs you’ve been pursuing the morning long, Chief Inspector.”

  “And there all the time I was having a nightmare. I dreamed I’d become commissioner and was trying to get in touch with my chief inspector of detectives. I wanted to know if the big search he initiated and I had okayed and the media people were watching was fruitful. I waited forever, it seemed, through one whole night and a good part of the next morning, and when I finally reached him by phone, what should I get from him but lots of lip and the knowledge that the Technical Bureau had managed after all to come up with a pitchfork.”

  “They did?”

  “So I’ve been told. McAnulty is very thorough.”

  “Where did he find it? Below the cliffs? What luck that must have been!” Farrell’s tone had changed.

  “As I said, McAnulty is good. If he can’t do it, nobody can.”

  “Well, what’s next?”

  One thing about Farrell, he was nosy. What was more, he had a right to be involved in the planning of any investigation, but it had long been McGarr’s policy to tell his superior as little as possible about the manner in which he pursued a criminal. McGarr’s methods were never the same and not really known to him until he actually decided upon the course of action. Even more to the point, however, was the fact that Farrell was an administrator, pure and simple. He had always been an office man, like McKeon back in Dublin, and had gone to too many criminology conferences and university lectures about police procedures, and thus he had many impracticable ideas about investigative methodology. McGarr had never once questioned the value of somebody like McAnulty, but Fergus Farrell’s contributions to an investigation were always slightly suspect. McGarr knew this was a sort of cabin fever, however. Farrell was bound to his desk. But McGarr saw no reason to allow the commissioner’s insouciance to get in his way. And so McGarr answered, “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, sir. And I’m not going to try to think about it until I’m fully awake.”

  “And when, pray tell, will that be?”

  “This after’, perhaps; or maybe tomorrow. Even the Bible doesn’t exclude policemen from the proscription, you know.”

  “Are you putting me on?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, but if it’s going to ruin your weekend otherwise, I’ll check back at half-hour intervals.”

  “McGarr!” Farrell hung up.

  McGarr opened the French doors and stepped into the dining room.

  The two reporters stood. One fumbled to close the newspaper he’d been pretending to read as both of them had strained to overhear McGarr’s conversation with Farrell. The other offered McGarr his hand.

  McGarr sat down. “What gives?”

  The young man smiled. His name was Quinlan, from the Press.

  Fogarty, from the Times, was older. He had been their police reporter for ages. He said, “The May Quirk murder, of course. Remember, Inspector, they have to pay us to speak to you. It’s not my idea of fun to be gassing with you of a Sunday morning.” Fogarty had a large hairy mole on the left side of his bald head, but otherwise his face was hawklike and tough. He wore a dark suit.

  Quinlan said, “They’re coming from America in droves, so it’s said. You know, guys like Jimmy Breslin and such. Newspaper people and writers. She had a lot of friends.” Quinlan was young and a better reporter than Fogarty by far. He had a large handlebar mustache and long brown hair. He wore a green knit shirt.

  McGarr shook his head. “Never happen. They’ll turn rabble like that back at Shannon.”

  The woman of the house was leaning in front of him, setting a place there, though she’d already arranged McGarr a table in front of a window. Seeing his cup empty, she rushed to fill it.

  “Don’t want ’em,” McGarr continued, “don’t need ’em. Probably not a line between ’em that’d get by the censor.” He waited while the woman added some Powers to the coffee. If he wasn’t tough with Fogarty, the old man would badger him into a bad mood. “Parasites. Trading in tragedy and sorrow.” Fogarty was the only member of the Irish press corps who had it in for McGarr. McGarr didn’t know why.

  Fogarty looked away. He’d been watching the whiskey spill into the hot coffee. The woman had even stirred the cup for McGarr.

  Quinlan said, “They say it’s an I.R.A. thing. Now, how do you suppose somebody like her from the New York Daily News and all ever got mixed up with the I.R.A.?”

  “Why ask me?” said McGarr. “The procedures of your craft”—he waited until Fogarty looked at him, then smiled—“are a mystery to me.” He took a sip from his cup. There was almost enough whiskey in it to make him gag.

  “Eye-opener?” Fogarty asked.

  “Enough to pop the pennies off the eyes of a dead man.” McGarr fluttered his eyelids. “Or woman.”

  The woman set a hot plate in front of him. On it were two fried eggs, rashers, pork sausage, a tier of broiled cherry tomatoes, and hash browns. Another dish was heaped with white and brown breads, especially the whole-wheat soda loaf McGarr favored. There were also scones and sweet biscuits. The pot of coffee was enough for the three of them. The spread wasn’t specially for McGarr, though. The newspapermen had probably been served a breakfast that was no less grand. There was nothing fancy about an Irish bed-and-breakfast, but a guest certainly got value for his money—plain, honest, wholesome fare and a good bed.

  McGarr said, “I make it a point to do as little supposing as possible. But between both of us, the I.R.A. bit is a red herring. A man who might have I.R.A. connections through his family happened to discover the body. Right now he’s assisting in our investigation. No charges have been placed against him, and probably none will.”

  “What about Schwerr?” Fogarty almost snarled. When McGarr had been appointed to his present post, Fogarty had written a feature article asking the Garda why it had to break with tradition and appoint an outsider when so many senior officers were also qualified. It had seemed a fair criticism to McGarr at the time, but the fact was that McGarr had the job and Fogarty, who would have to work with McGarr, had been stupid to release the column in his own name. If he had thought he could intimidate McGarr, he had been mistaken.

  “Gunshot,” said McGarr. “In the side.”

  “We know that.” Fogarty’s face was impassive, but his eyes were watching every bite McGarr took. And he wasn’t liking what he saw.

  McGarr added, “Nice boy. Good family. Good Irish family.” He knew how Fogarty would receive that.

  The old man turned his body from the table and looked out the window. His bottom lip was working.

  Quinlan asked, “Who shot him?”

  “Can’t say until I hear from Ballistics.”

  Fogarty muttered something. He couldn’t bring himself to look at McGarr anymore.

  “Did May Quirk shoot him?”

  “Could be.”

  “Why would she want to shoot him?”

  McGarr hunched his shoulders. His mouth was full.

  “What was she doing with him, anyhow. She’s a New Yorker. He’s—” Quinlan let his voice drop off, “—a country boy. In trees, I think.”

  Fogarty liked that least of all.

  “Maybe romance,” said McGarr. “But don’t quote me.” He was playing Fogarty like an organ now. Everything he said made the old man twitch.

  “What about Rory O’Connor, the novelist?”

  “Pleasant fellow. Big, bright, good looking. Credit to his country.”

  Even Quinlan was smiling now. Fogarty was fuming.

  “Wasn’t he in love with May Quirk?”

  “Couldn’t help but be,” said McGarr. “She was the very best of what’s meant by the expression ‘a fine piece of work.’” McGarr took another sip of coffee. “But don’t quote me. I don’t think her parents would appreciate that, coming from me, an outsider.”

  Fogarty st
ood, grabbed his hat and camera bag, and, never once looking at either of them, left the dining room. He didn’t bother to close the French doors.

  Quinlan looked at McGarr, who said, “Did I say one word against the man?”

  “No.”

  “Did I answer the one question he asked me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I find his behavior here today inexplicable and insulting. To have waited here how many hours?”

  “Three.”

  “Only to get the chance to walk out on my press conference is a cut that only a man as big as I can forgive.” McGarr smiled.

  Quinlan chuckled.

  “We wouldn’t want him to lodge a complaint against me with the commissioner, so I hope you’ll cut him in on what I’m about to tell you.” McGarr knew that would happen anyway.

  McGarr then told Quinlan the details of the murder and how he had checked with the I.R.A. and learned how they had never marked her for execution and how the manner in which she had been murdered, coupled with Schwerr’s gunshot, indicated it was a crime of passion. “Right now Schwerr is the most obvious suspect, though I’ve not placed him under arrest yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just don’t think he’d kill her. Temper or no. He would and did knock her around some, but the last thing he’d do is jab her with a pitchfork.”

  “Isn’t that supposing too much?” Although mild, Quinlan was as aggressive a newsman as Fogarty.

  “Yes and no. I interviewed Schwerr at a time when he had little opportunity to construct credible lies. He spoke openly to me. And remember, I’ve had some experience at this business of question and answer.”

  Quinlan smiled.

  McGarr added, “Let’s say as of now the investigation is progressing, and an arrest seems imminent. Two men are assisting the police.”

  “Are you trying to write my story for me?”

  “No, but if you’d like me to repeat that, I’ll speak more slowly.”

  They both laughed.

  McGarr could see Fogarty outside the bed-and-breakfast, pacing the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette in a savage manner.