The Death of an Irish Politician

  Bartholomew Gill

  The Death of an Irish Politician

  The First Peter McGarr Mystery!

  (Originally published as McGarr and the Politician’s Wife)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  IN THE TWILIGHT near the Killiney Bay Yacht Club, all…

  Chapter 2

  THE STORM HAD passed and the morning was brilliant, what…

  Chapter 3

  FROM OFFSHORE, INISHMORE was a block of shale. Gorse was…

  Chapter 4

  MCGARR’S DUBLIN CASTLE office had not been designed for the…

  Chapter 5

  MCGARR DIALED HUBBARD’S home phone and O’Shaughnessy answered. “Find anything?”

  Chapter 6

  AND SO THE night passed in a flurry of questions,…

  Chapter 7

  AND ALL THE way back to Dublin, some twelve miles,…

  Chapter 8

  THE CEILING OF McDaid’s pub was sheathed in ornate tin…

  Chapter 9

  IT WAS TWILIGHT by the time the Cooper crested Dalkey…

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Bartholomew Gill

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  IN THE TWILIGHT near the Killiney Bay Yacht Club, all that flowed was grey. The tidefall, a shimmering rush like molten lead, heeled buoys and made the yachts dance at their moorings. White patches of the houses on the steep hill had begun to mute with dusk. Only the gorse of Bray Head ten miles south caught the last of the sun and bristled green. Between these two promontories, a gentle sweep of ivory beach fringed the valley floor. It wasn’t only approaching night that made the wind off the Irish Sea cold. Autumn had arrived.

  Chief Inspector of Detectives Peter McGarr remembered Wicklow from the thirties, when, as a lad, his family—all thirteen of them—would board a tram at Inchicore, a train in Dublin, and, debouching at Bray, would climb the Head to Greystones. Then Bray was a resort town, not the sprawling suburb of small homes he could see before him. But the view from Killiney was still more beautiful than any of those his former police travels for Interpol had shown him. He had jumped at the chance to get away from Dublin Castle. There, even the most trivial item of business involved the politics of the fighting in the North. This case seemed free from that sordid bog and accommodatingly routine.

  McGarr glanced down at his feet. Here the dock was old. He wondered how it would be to lay his head on a yawing plank and sight down its weathered grooves, white as cigarette ash. This the man just pulled from the water by the club steward and dock boy might have done, had his eyeballs not drifted into his head. His sclerae alone were visible when McGarr depressed a tanned eyelid. His bald head was split to expose a buff wedge of cranium, which, now that the seawater no longer rinsed the wound, quickly filled with a thin vermilion fluid like blood. In spasms, his body pushed brine from his nose and mouth. He was not dead.

  “Ah, the poor blighter,” said a towering man in a blue Garda uniform. The chin strap of his cap cinched tightly about a flame-red face. “Easy with him, lads. Go easy.” The ambulance attendants were lifting the victim onto a stretcher. Superintendent Liam O’Shaughnessy was one of McGarr’s assistants, his perennial companion, and good friend. He had yet to accustom himself to the spectacle of others in pain, however, and agonized over every injury.

  McGarr, said, “Go with him, Liam. See what the hospital can discover.” O’Shaughnessy had already searched the man’s pockets and the cabin of the vessel, abeam of which the police inquirers now stood. He had found only a small brass key attached to a wooden float. On it a Dublin phone number had been scratched.

  The boat was a trim schooner of some sixty feet, bug-eye rigged, and perhaps the high point of Alden small-schooner design. The low cabin, spoon bow, and graceful lines betrayed this much to McGarr, who, during the late fifties and sixties, had covered Marseilles and as much of the Riviera as was important to large-scale drug traffickers. Thus, he had learned to distinguish between types of pleasure craft, their potential uses and cargo capacities.

  This boat, however, was a near wreck, its brightwork weathered grey and blackening with rot in places. The shrouds were rusted, deck caulking heaved, winches appearing to be locked with corrosion. The main hatch cover had been split months past as though a forcible entry had been gained. A halo of charring ringed the perimeter of the aftmost porthole on this, the port side. McGarr speculated that the man, while drunk, had set the galley afire. Also, the mainsail was lying in heaps, blood-spattered, on the cabin roof. In the shadows of a soda-pop case that was set on an edge and read “Canada Dry,” an inch of Mt. Gay rum shimmered in a quart bottle. A jelly glass nearby held less.

  McGarr asked the dock boy, an ancient man who wore a battered yachting cap, service khakis, and a heavy cardigan through which the elbows of his shirt peeked, “Was this the Yank’s port of entry? How much and what sort of cargo did he off-load here? Certainly you required him to log in with the club’s commodore—may I see the book, please? How much rum did he drink daily and where did he purchase it? Lastly, how did the accident occur?” The inspector didn’t really expect answers. The battery of questions was merely his way of catching the wary off balance: that he knew with one glance the origin of the victim, a good deal about the boat, and something of nautical procedures; that he was fully prepared to ask all the questions should the dock boy or the steward, who now pushed through the other policemen and faced McGarr, prove reticent. Once either of them began speaking, however, McGarr would say as little as possible and simply stare at the speaker, his hazel eyes unblinking and attentive.

  The ploy worked, for the eight men on the dock turned to him. McGarr was very short, not reaching, it seemed, shoulder level of the tallest. Even by Dublin standards, McGarr’s dress was nondescript—full-length tan raincoat, dark suit, tie, white shirt, and cordovan bluchers polished to a high gloss. Bald, McGarr always wore a hat or cap, depending on the weather. Today it was a brown derby. But for a rather long and bony nose, his features were regular. He perpetually smoked Woodbine thins, puffing on one often enough to keep it lit. In all, he looked like a minor civil servant or a successful racetrack tout. Anonymity, he had found, was the most effective mask in police work.

  The steward was a large man with a barrel chest and a full, curly beard, frosting at the tips. This made his protrusive lower lip seem very red and wet. He took one inclusive look at McGarr and then turned his shoulder, which was bulging in a blue blazer with the yacht-club insignia on the pocket. “You see,” he said to the other, more official-looking policemen—one from Internal Security, the other from the Dun Laoghaire barracks of the Garda; McGarr and his second assistant, Hughie Ward, comprised the lot—“this was a curious fellow.” Like most Englishmen in Ireland, the steward’s accent had become hopelessly exaggerated, a drawl more groan than voice. “He would sit here all day long, sipping from that bloody jam jar and staring—” The steward became aware that all the other police were not looking at him but at McGarr. He turned to the inspector—“at that bloody barge.”

  McGarr said, “You’re too kind. Did you find him first?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see the accident happen?”

  “No.”

  “Then if you’ll husband your opinions until all of us can give you our individual attentions, we’ll be eternally grateful.” He took the dock boy by the elbow, and passing by the steward, added, “Jealously, jealously.”

  McGarr led the old man over the cap rail and onto the afterdeck of the schooner. “What’s she called?” he asked in the conspiratorial whisper in which the
older generations of Irish prefer to converse.

  “Virelay, New York.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He, the poor bastard, says it’s a sort of poem, but I’d say, looking about, it’s something more like ‘Come Back Paddy Riley,’ sung in a weak tremolo.”

  “Smoke?”

  “Thank you, sorr. I’m Billy Martin.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Martin bent for McGarr’s light. He had a porter nose and McGarr could detect the sweet reek of rum on him. “As you can see from the sail, the winch handle bashed his sconce.”

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “No, sir, I had gone for something”—Martin turned his back to the steward on the dock and confided—“something to cut the stuff with. I don’t know how the bloody Yank could drink it all day and all night. Christ, it’s hotter than horse piss, and kick! I ducked out to mix mine with Miwadi and water.”

  “And?”

  “And when I got back I heard him thrashing about the water, blowing like a porpoise. I grabbed the boat hook and pulled him alongside. We”—Martin indicated the steward—“pulled the unlucky bugger on board. It was desperate shape he was in.”

  Glancing up at the hill, McGarr caught the rainbow flash of high-powered glasses and made mental note. “How long were you gone, Billy?”

  “Not long. To be honest, it was about quitting time and there was just the wee-est drop left, and rather…I hurried back.”

  “So this”—McGarr pointed to the greening winch handle—“is what did it.”

  “No question about it, sir. A thin piece of his pate, there”—Martin pointed to a bloody smear between the cranking handle and the lever arm—“proves it. Ah, Jasus, I should’ve been a cop. Think of the pension I’d have now—medical care, a union to protect me.” He shook his head and commiserated with himself for several moments. When he looked up, McGarr was staring at him. “We were raising the sail to dry her, we were. ’Twas the only job the feller would allow to be done on the craft. He’d just get jarred and pop up the mainsail now and again. Apart from that, he sat on that case and smoked and stared.”

  “Was he broke?”

  “Don’t know. Could be. But he paid dockage right on time and took a cab to Dublin and back for supplies.” Martin jerked a thumb toward the dock and the soda case with the bottle inside. “It’s not everywhere you can purchase that stingo, you know.”

  “How does this thing work, Billy?”

  “Well, you take this lever—” He reached for the winch handle.

  McGarr restrained him. “Don’t touch it, please, Billy.”

  “—like so and you crank it until the mainsail is raised. When the slide is so corroded like this, it takes a ton of man to hoist her aloft. Then you slip this holding tooth into the cam and she locks.”

  McGarr looked up at Martin as though expecting to be further enlightened. So far the old man had told him nothing.

  “But if she doesn’t hold, the weight of that sail will make the winch spin like a top, and the handle—feel it.” Martin again reached for the lever but McGarr restrained him. “—could give a man one hell of a knock. You saw so yourself.”

  “But how could the holding tooth become disengaged from the cam?”

  “Aw, c’mon, McGarr,” said Will Hare from Internal Security. “We all know this is a busman’s holiday. Let’s adjourn to the Khyber Pass”—which was a large hotel between the hills that separated Killiney from Dalkey. “The man got drunk and his finger slipped.”

  “Was he an experienced seaman?” McGarr asked the old man.

  “Fine, I should imagine. The boat plate says she was built in Camden, Maine. The transom says New York. He had the air of a sailor, if you know what I mean.”

  “Friends here?” McGarr indicated the homes on the hill, the yacht club.

  “Not a one, in fact…” Martin again glanced over his shoulder at the steward on the dock.

  “Could somebody else have seen the accident occur?”

  “Nobody. The season is spent. As you can see, things have been so arranged that these two cabin cruisers shield the boat from the observation deck. Maybe owned by somebody who maintained her properly this boat might fit in around here. She’s a sweet craft in spite of her condition. But—”

  “I understand.” McGarr flicked the butt of his Woodbine into the grey water of the Irish Sea. The person who had phoned the authorities had an accent that the switchboard operator said was not exactly Irish. “Who called us?”

  “The skipper, I believe. Anyhow, I didn’t. I stayed right here and ministered to the gent.” Martin again meant the yacht-club steward on the dock.

  McGarr’s coworkers were impatient, hands in raincoat pockets, staring up at the hill or shifting from foot to foot. “Shall we meet you there?” Hare asked.

  “Have one in triplicate for me,” said McGarr.

  “Inspector?” Hughie Ward asked. He was a black Irishman—curly black hair, black eyes, sallow skin, and white, well-formed teeth. Now in his early thirties, his capacity to attract women seemed as infinite as their power to please him, but in numbers alone. Ward was a confirmed bachelor. On Friday nights, such as this, the Khyber Pass was filled with unattached young women. Since the bomb blast in Dublin two months ago, the pace of Ward’s police work had been grueling. McGarr tossed the key they had found in the Yank’s pocket to Ward and said, “By Monday.” Ward went off with the others.

  To the steward on the dock, McGarr said, “Hand me that bottle, would you please, skipper?”

  “I beg your pardon.” He was a fat man with a frog’s build, all his weight up front in his chest and stomach. His hips were very narrow and legs thin. He wore white duck trousers and a blue Trinity rugby shirt.

  “The bottle. In the box. Would you hand it to me, please?”

  With exaggerated disdain and much effort, the steward bent and pulled the bottle from behind the soda case. Reaching over the cap rail of the schooner, he handed it to the inspector. It was nearly dark, and lights had begun appearing on the hillside.

  “Will you join me?” McGarr asked the dock boy.

  Martin said to the steward, “It’s past time, sorr,” took the bottle, and drank. He handed it back to McGarr, who followed suit. The rum was smooth, unlike any McGarr had ever tasted. It pleased him and he took another sip.

  “May I go?” the steward asked.

  “Just a few moments more, please, sorr,” said McGarr. He then offered the bottle to Martin once more. “How do you think he managed to land in the water?”

  “In a blind stagger, whether from the booze”—Martin drank—”or the blow. That bites without a chaser.” He meant the rum.

  McGarr could hear the police car working up the steep grade toward the hotel.

  Taking a pocket torch from his raincoat, McGarr stepped down the ladder of the companionway. As he had suspected, the galley area had recently suffered a grease fire that had charred the interior cabin trunk and roof. The port bunk was a nest of funky clothes, marine periodicals, and another half-filled bottle of rum. This McGarr put in the deep pocket of his raincoat. Everything—lockers, head, fo’c’s’le—was so damp, mildewy, or actually wet, McGarr speculated the water that filled the bilges was more rain seeping through the deck chinks than hull leakage. As he replaced the floorboards, he noticed how totally they were stained. McGarr ran a corner of his handkerchief over the stained area until a smudge appeared in the cotton.

  He then noticed a band of what proved to be the halter top of a woman’s bathing suit dangling from a partially open locker. The label read B. Altman, 38C. The starboard lockers were filled with neatly folded women’s clothes purchased from smart shops in New York, London, Paris, Curaçao, Barbados, all, however, rank with mildew. Some things—hosiery, underwear, a lilac dress—had decomposed. McGarr failed to find one identifying mark, laundry or personal, on anything. McGarr poised himself, and when swinging the chart locker down from its perch, stepped out of the way. As
he had expected, the chart locker had caught a puddle of rain from the leaking deck. The light from the pocket torch glistened on the sodden charts, which stuck together, so that McGarr had to pull one from the others. The Caribbean islands, east coast of the United States and Canada, the North Atlantic, and Ireland were included. In red pencil, a transatlantic route had been traced, giving dates and times of sun sightings. If the map was correct, landfall had been somewhere in Galway fourteen months before. His last bearing would have taken him into Kilronan on the Isle of Inishmore.

  Below these charts he found the ship’s documents. The title, issued by the U.S. Coast Guard, said one Andrew A. Mucci of Essex, Connecticut, had been the last owner, having purchased the Virelay on September 11, 1947. McGarr doubted he was the man who had been lying on the dock, since between ’54 and ’67 the boat had remained unregistered.

  Also, at first McGarr couldn’t locate the boat’s auxiliary engine. One did not sail such a large boat in the often windless and shoal-draught waters of Long Island Sound without power, much less the often squally Irish Sea. With the pocket torch, he found the engine emplacement bolts and the oil-stained framing pieces behind the companionway ladder, where the engine had been resting not long past. Much of the grease was still glistening.

  On deck, he removed the handle from its chock in the winch and wrapped it in his handkerchief. This he carefully slipped in his other raincoat pocket.

  Martin had finished the other bottle.

  “What is your opinion of the man?”

  Martin raised the bottle. “I liked him. I mean, I like him.”

  “Was he married or did he, say, ever have a female companion on board?”

  “Him? Never. He was—how shall I put it—a drinking man.”

  “Thank you.” McGarr stepped off the boat. He asked the steward, “How was it that you were so near this boat when the accident happened?”

  “I manage the club and your man.” He meant Martin.

  The booze had made the old man voluble. Stepping off the boat, he muttered, “Feckin’ blimp.”