The Death of an Irish Consul

by Bartholomew Gill

  O’Shaughnessy looked into his teacup. “The pot and the kettle.” He took a sip, then added, “Tell me what two intelligent human beings from another part of the world are doing out in this godforsaken place?”

  “Exactly my sentiments, gentlemen,” said a man who was standing in the doorway of the lounge. He too wore a hard hat and a yellow down jacket that made his arms look puffy. “I’m Enrico Rattei. What can I do for you?”

  McGarr stood.

  O’Shaughnessy extended his hand and introduced them.

  Rattei was a tall man whose looks were rugged but not unhandsome in a southern Italian manner—his complexion was swarthy and rough, nose angular, eyes dark and clear. His moustache was, like the man in the car, black and full, crimping around the corners of his mouth. His smile was full, however, and he seemed genuinely pleased to meet them. He removed the hard hat. His full head of gray curls, almost white, made him identical with the person McGarr had seen in the inn on the Shannon and in the car with the black man.

  “We’re investigating two murders.”

  “Where?” Rattei was rubbing his hands together. “Here? Not here. In Dublin?” He walked toward the tea station and poured himself a cup of thick, black coffee.

  “In—rather, near—Dingle.”

  Rattei added several sugar cubes to his coffee. “I’ve been there,” he said. “One of the men who works for me——” He stopped stirring and looked up at McGarr. “Not Hitchcock.”

  “And Browne,” said O’Shaughnessy.

  Both he and McGarr were staring at Rattei.

  “How?” He seemed shocked.

  “Bullets in the backs of their heads.”

  Rattei walked over and closed the conference room doors. “Maybe we had better step into my uffizio,” he said, then corrected, “off-fiss,” as though his thoughts were preoccupied. He was wearing a navy blue V-neck sweater over a yellow shirt. His pants were uniform khaki; his heavy-duty shoes had steel toes. He wore no jewelry, not even a wristwatch. Evidently, when he was working, McGarr mused, he left the Via Veneto in Rome.

  The interior of the small office was similarly businesslike. What with the desk and at least six filing cabinets—geological charts stacked on top and nearly to the ceiling—there was hardly room for McGarr and two big men like O’Shaughnessy and Rattei. Yet, the latter shut that door too. At his desk, he opened the top drawer and took out a tin of mints. He offered them to the two policemen, then placed one on his tongue. McGarr concluded from this and the absence of ashtrays in the office that, unlike most Romans, Rattei didn’t smoke. He certainly was an uncharacteristic refugee from the Via Veneto.

  “But why?” Rattei asked. His brow was furrowed, eyes worried. “Could it have been because of their former——” He glanced over at the other two.

  O’Shaughnessy said, “We know who Hitchcock and Browne had been before coming to work for you. We’ve cleared this investigation with the British government. It’s possible, but not likely, in view of our investigation. What I mean is that no other power would have ordered them murdered. They were retired, and that sort of thing just isn’t done to heads of a department.”

  Throughout the interview O’Shaughnessy was to do most of the talking. They had planned it that way, so McGarr could assess the effects of their questions on Rattei.

  “Well then, who—why?”

  O’Shaughnessy reached into his suit coat and drew out a small black notebook. The Garda superintendent was so large that he had to have his clothes tailored to him. Today he was wearing a light gray suit, double-breasted, that fit him perfectly. He had shaved his red face so closely it shone. His nose was straight, eyes light blue. His sandy hair had begun to gray at the tips. He was sixty-one. “May I ask where you were yesterday, Signor Rattei?”

  “Certainly. Here. All day. Why this question, if you don’t mind?”

  “Because a man who resembled you was seen at Shannon airport.”

  “Well”—Rattei flicked his wrist—“there are many men who look like me. But the fact is, I didn’t leave the rig. We’re having some—er, difficulties that I want to oversee personally. If you like, you can question the personnel. I could be mistaken, but I don’t believe any of our craft left the rig yesterday.”

  “Did you have any deliveries?”

  “Of course, throughout the day.”

  “And at night?”

  “No, certainly not. It gets—how do you say?—sacked——”

  “Socked,” McGarr supplied.

  “That’s right—socked in here at night.”

  Rattei picked up the receiver on his desk and said, “Prego. Abbiamo ricevuto noi alcuni consegni questa mattína? Alcuni genti—operàio o visitatóre?” When he put down the phone, he said, “This morning the sea was too rough. One helicopter pilot is on leave. The other is in hospital at Aberdeen. You are the only two visitors today, or, for that matter, forever. Nobody but ENI personnel has ever set foot on this installation.”

  “We would like your permission to check all of this,” McGarr said.

  “Certainly, Signor——”

  “McGarr,” McGarr supplied.

  “And——” Rattei glanced at O’Shaughnessy.

  “O’Shaughnessy.”

  “O’——” Rattei began copying their names onto the top sheet of his blotter, which McGarr had noticed and wanted to scan earlier. It was covered with jottings.

  O’Shaughnessy handed Rattei his card.

  McGarr placed one of his on the desk too.

  “Irish names,” Rattei explained, somewhat embarrassed, “are probably like Italian names to Irishmen. Impossible to spell.”

  “Tartan Limited,” said O’Shaughnessy. “What can you tell us about that outfit?”

  “Ladri, rapinatore, predone!”

  “Have you ever had that company investigated?”

  “It is a Panamanian concern, which means the principals do not have to reveal their identities. In any case, I am too busy to deal with these scarafaggie. I have lawyers for such characters.”

  “Hitchcock and Browne were the co-owners of Tartan Limited.”

  Rattei snapped his head to O’Shaughnessy. His eyes flashed. “That’s a lie. I don’t believe you. Have you any proof? Why couldn’t my lawyers discover this?”

  “They probably did,” said McGarr. “But the names meant nothing to them. Your lawyers, I take it, are not involved in the everyday operation of your company.”

  Rattei nodded. He paused, then said, “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do we,” said O’Shaughnessy. With one long finger he flipped a page in his notebook. “Now—Moses Foster, what can you tell us about him?”

  “Foster?”

  “He works for you.”

  “Really? Here?”

  O’Shaughnessy nodded.

  Rattei reached over and opened a file cabinet which he thumbed through. He drew out a file. “So he does.” He placed it on his desk and opened it. “Ah, yes, the black man. Browne hired him. An African, isn’t he?”

  “Jamaican.”

  “That’s right.” Rattei flipped through the file, then handed it to O’Shaughnessy. “I can’t tell you any more than what you see here. I’ve met the man once, seen him on this and our other Scottish rigs on other occasions, but I can only afford to spend a small amount of my time up here. You must realize that ENI is——”

  O’Shaughnessy said, “Yes—we understand. Do you know that he now becomes chief of ENI security here in Scotland?”

  “Obviously—he’s next in line.”

  “Do you have confidence in him?”

  “Now, if what you tell me about Browne and Hitchcock is true, I don’t know. Could he be involved with this Tartan as well?”

  “We don’t as yet know.”

  “When you do, could you tell me?”

  O’Shaughnessy looked at McGarr, who nodded.

  “I’d appreciate it, but, in light of these disclosures, I should imagine the entire security operation
should be examined. I often wondered how this Tartan could have discovered our surveying error. I always thought the engineers themselves were involved in this thing. I dismissed the lot of them outright.”

  “Seven days ago, where were you?”

  “London.”

  “Where did you stay?”

  “I didn’t. I stopped there only to have dinner with a friend.”

  “Name?”

  “Can I trust you to be discreet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her name is Cummings. Her husband is presently——” He looked up to find both O’Shaughnessy and McGarr staring at him. “——but you probably already know who he is. Her name was Enna Ricasoli before she married that——” Rattei reached for another mint and placed it on his tongue. “——person.” He looked out the narrow double window into the rough water of the North Sea. “I knew her when I was a student in university.”

  “Siena?” McGarr asked.

  Rattei nodded. “Her name, as you probably know, is that of one of the original noble families of Tuscany. We attended lectures together and became friends. It’s been the same ever since. Whenever my schedule allows me to visit London, we dine together.”

  “Does her husband know about this?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked her. I should imagine so—it’s been going on for some time.”

  McGarr cleared his throat. “You’re a powerful man, Signor Rattei. Your personal history is more or less public knowledge. Is this the woman people speak about as being the reason you never married?”

  Rattei looked away. “I don’t care to speculate about that.”

  “Well then—do you love Mrs. Cummings?” asked O’Shaughnessy.

  “Nor that either. You’re getting too personal, gentlemen. I didn’t murder Hitchcock or Browne. And I don’t know who did.” He stood. “What’s more, I must get on with my work.”

  “One more question,” McGarr said. “How much does Tartan hurt you?”

  “With a dozen rigs they could pump this cistern dry. But they are enjoined now from erecting others until our countersuit is settled. And then—I don’t know if you realize the dynamics of the problem—they had to run their pipe under our claim. See that portable rig?” Rattei pointed out the window in back of him. “It has been placed there solely for the purpose of finding the Tartan well pipe and smashing it. Did you notice any crude in the water when you came in, gentlemen?”

  The policemen shook their heads.

  “That’s because ENI is so good at its job that yesterday we cut their pipe and pieced our own into it. Eventually a permanent well will be erected there.”

  McGarr asked, “But what about ENI’s international financial position? Aren’t you overextended?”

  Rattei smirked. “I’ve read that too in some financial journals. But that’s why those men must spend their time writing about men like me. They’re rabbits, afraid to take chances.”

  “Unlike the men who founded Tartan. Certainly they weren’t afraid to take chances.”

  “I think you know how I feel about them.”

  “But in a large sense Tartan complicates your financial picture. You floated loans for further oil exploitation based on your purported success here.”

  Rattei sighed, opened the desk drawer, and took out the pastille box again. “Signor McGarr, the oil industry is booming. ENI is opening more new wellheads than any other single entity in the world. If one half of these produce even moderately, ENI will dominate the oil picture in twenty years.”

  “But if——”

  “No ‘but ifs.’ I have no time for ‘but ifs.’ I personally examined all the research reports, and then made my decisions based on forty years of unequaled success in this industry. Fifty percent of the wellheads is my minimum estimate. It can go no lower.” Rattei said that with a conviction that would convince most investment bankers, McGarr believed.

  “Now then,” said Rattei, “would you like to speak to my men and this Foster?” He picked up the phone. “Afterwards, would you please ask Foster to get in touch with me immediately? He should be at our docks in Aberdeen.”

  But when after five minutes of ringing Rattei got no answer, he called his job-site chief into the office. Also an Italian, he said he had not been able to reach Hitchcock for the past week and a half, Browne for several days, and had never, in fact, spoken to Foster.

  Rattei shrugged. He was disgusted.

  As McGarr and O’Shaughnessy put on their overcoats, they could hear Rattei and his job chief discussing their security arrangements. In a rush of Italian, Rattei was saying, “No wonder those bastards knew about that error. They weren’t doing a thing around here but looking for a way to bilk us. I want you to get that Foster in here as soon as you can find him, Maurizio. And have a severance check ready. I don’t care if he’s guilty of corporate theft or not. He had something to do with those——” Rattei couldn’t find an adequate descriptive term. “——and that’s enough for me. Get rid of him.”

  For over two hours, the policemen checked Rattei’s explanation of his whereabouts on the days of the murders. McGarr’s Italian passed through a formal, rusty stage, and finally became colloquial again. They could not find one man who appeared to be telling anything but the truth. All corroborated Rattei’s story.

  They reached the docks of Aberdeen at nightfall. The ENI office was dark; and the watchman, after much convincing, finally called Rattei’s office on the oil derrick, received permission, and allowed the Irishmen to search Hitchcock’s and Browne’s offices. They discovered each to be as neat and as free from personal effects as one would expect of two former C.’s of SIS.

  In fact, a film of dust covered the top of Foster’s desk.

  McGarr picked up the phone and called Hugh Madigan in London.

  “Peter! Where in hell have you been? I’ve been calling Dublin and half of Scotland trying to get in touch with you.”

  McGarr said nothing. Madigan really never expected dialogue when he had something to disclose. “My contact in the Panamanian embassy got in touch with a certain record keeper in her country. Guess who else is listed as a Tartan officer?”

  “Cummings.”

  The line remained silent for a moment. “You knew?” Madigan was deflated.

  “No—just a lucky guess. I figure Hitchcock, Browne, and Cummings were all part of the same set. When they needed money to launch a venture that might have proved lucrative, they would have kept it among themselves. It’s common knowledge that Cummings is quite wealthy.”

  “Do you think, then, that ENI ordered their murders or that Cummings is next?”

  Shaking his pack of Woodbines, McGarr placed his lips on the pack and drew out a cigarette. He flicked open the top of his lighter and lit it, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette. The smoke was sweet, relaxing. It was his first cigarette of the day. He was trying to cut down. The office was very quiet. McGarr could hear the slosh of water below them, underneath the docks. “Perhaps Cummings is also a target. It’s been made obvious that Foster is either the actual killer or an accomplice. It’s been made equally clear that Rattei had plenty of, let’s say, ‘overt’ motives to murder Hitchcock and Browne. But why would Rattei have been so careless about traveling with Foster, about being seen with him in public and even by me? Could he have wanted to kill them himself so badly that he couldn’t think of anything else? The crimes themselves were utterly devoid of passion, more colpi di grazia”—he used the Italian term instead of the French—“than murders.”

  The Garda superintendent nodded once.

  “And Rattei could be a consummate actor. Today he seemed so shocked, so completely surprised about the Tartan details.” McGarr was trying to remember something Gallup had told him about Rattei having appeared on television, smiling like a contented tiger. “And now it appears he has two motives to murder Cummings. That bothers me.”

  “Why two?” Madigan asked.

  “It’s complicated,” said McGarr, not want
ing to breach the trust Rattei had asked him to observe. “Lookit, Hugh—could you contact Ned Gallup at CID and tell him everything you know? That way he can provide Cummings with immediate security. This Foster fellow is certainly effective. If Cummings is Foster’s next target, he’ll need some protection.”

  “Will do,” said Madigan.

  McGarr imagined that giving Madigan the opportunity of calling Gallup with this information would be worth more to Madigan than a thousand formal introductions to the assistant commissioner of CID.

  “And another thing,” said McGarr, knowing the time was ripe to ask for a favor. “Could you put a few feelers out about Rattei? You know, personal things, what he’s like as a human being, his passions, vices if any, his hobbies and preoccupations.”

  “I wasn’t the only one who has been making inquiries about Tartan in Panama.”

  “Really?”

  “Lawyers in London by the name of Loescher, Dull, and Griggs made a query three weeks ago.”

  “Could you find out who they represent?”

  “For a fee.”

  “Of course.” McGarr rang off.

  “Hadn’t we better call Cummings himself?” asked O’Shaughnessy.

  McGarr remembered that he had used operator 78-H and surmised that in the case of emergency she could connect the proper party with the C. of SIS. A half-hour later, during which time both of them ransacked the office for a drink with no success, the phone rang. It was Cummings.

  When McGarr told him his life was in imminent danger, Cummings scoffed, “That’s the nature of my profession, Mr. McGarr.” But plainly he was concerned.

  “Well, the nature of mine is that of apprehending whoever killed Hitchcock and Browne. And for either of two reasons or both, I believe that you are the killer’s next target.”

  “That’s rubbish—who would want to kill me and why?”

  “I can explain it to you in detail.”

  “Not now, you can’t. I’ve got a dinner engagement.”