The Death of an Irish Sea Wolf Read online

  Ward had, but auto theft in that part of Dublin was rife, and a blistering new BMW with every option very much a target. Since they were posing as ordinary citizens, they could not very well pull up in front of the shop and lower the Garda shield on her visor. “You sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. It’s only a motorcar.” Her manner was nonchalant even breezy, but Ward could tell she was spoiling for a dustup.

  There had been a time—before having become…attracted to Bresnahan (it was hardly the right word)—when Ward had proscribed redheaded, left-handed women with light-colored eyes from his scope of amorous activity. He had never met one who was not in some way dangerous or zany.

  “Give me more on Ireland’s Jews.”

  With the gauntlet down, Ward could scarcely shrink from the challenge, and humbling her was a definite pleasure. “A quick sketch, or in detail?” Getting out of the car, he tossed her the keys like a hurler a ball on his stick.

  “Why the works, of course. Who am I to frustrate your penchant for pedantry? What’s that little gem you keep dredging up about genius being the infinite capacity for detail?”

  “It’s actually ‘The transcendent capacity of taking trouble, first of all.’”

  “Who said that anyhow?”

  Something like it had been uttered by Dickens, Barrie, and Einstein, but Carlyle said it best. But it was safer to stick to Ireland’s Jews.

  Following her up the narrow footpath with cars and delivery vans passing them only a few feet away, Ward nearly had to shout. “Ireland attempted to naturalize Jews in the early part of the eighteenth century. The act passed the Commons unanimously over the objections of the Peers, only to be struck down by George the Second.

  “We tried again later and in 1796, I believe, with the Irish parliament extending full civil liberties to Jews.”

  “I’ll check this with my Jewish friends, don’t think I won’t.”

  “Baron de Rothschild? During the height of the famine he sent Ireland ten thousand pounds, a princely sum at the time, to be used by the needy regardless of religious affiliation.”

  Ahead of him, Bresnahan was walking slowly, careful to keep her chrome yellow suit from brushing against the grimy brick walls of the narrow street. Ward asked himself why—for the love of Yahweh—was he getting into a row with that? It wasn’t what he wanted and would only complicate his life; but it was as though he could not help himself. “And, of course, you know about ‘Little Jerusalem,’” he heard himself say.

  There was no reply.

  “It was a neighborhood off the South Circular Road around Clanbrassil Street. Around the turn of the century, it was lined with kosher butchers, bakeries, delicatessens, and the like. Bloom himself was born there, according to Joyce. Chaim Herzog, the future president of Israel, grew up on Bloomfield Avenue, which name—it’s occurred to me more than once—Joyce might have taken for his ‘cultured allaroundman.’”

  “Who was a model for his time and ours.” They had reached the door of the shop; Bresnahan turned to him. “So tell ’me—how many Jews are there in Ireland now? Few, I bet.”

  “Around three thousand, last count.”

  “There you go. Three thousand out of five million. I was right all along.”

  “Emigration keeps the number stable. Most of it, like Herzog, is to Israel.”

  Bresnahan reached a black-gloved finger to the buzzer. “Now I cop on—you’re about to tell me you’re a closet celebrant of said faith. Or is all of this something you learned in your brief pass through university.” Which Ward had left for the guards, after his father had died and he found himself with a mother and three sisters to support.

  “Well, you could say that. But think of the reams of bracing stuff I could regale you with had I stayed.”

  “Not to worry—I like you fine the way you are.”

  Dare he ask? “Which is?”

  “Oh, cute. Definitely cute. But Monck was not wrong.”

  A face appeared in the square window—that of an early-middle-aged woman who had done little to enhance her dark good looks. Her hair, which was graying, was cropped short, and no makeup disguised the lines that had begun to appear around the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her long, thinly bridged nose was retroussé in shape, her eyes were blue.

  But it was more what she did (or did not do) that caused Bresnahan and Ward to exchange glances. Framed in the door window, she only glanced at Bresnahan before her gaze lingered on Ward for whole seconds. Color came to her cheeks. Turning back into the shop as though for assistance, she looked out at them again with her eyes widened in what looked like panic. Again they fixed on Ward.

  “Well, at least it’s not me,” said Bresnahan. “Did you shave?”

  A dark person himself, Ward—while not hirsute—had a beard that looked almost blue when shaved close. He touched his chin. “No less than usual. Or have I egg on me pan?”

  Finally her hands darted out and freed the latch. A loud alarm bell sounded in the shop as the door swung wide.

  “Oh, hello. Sorry. Please, please come in. It’s just that we don’t get many people dropping in in this neighborhood. Most of our trade is by appointment.”

  Again, eyes met; shades of Monck & Neary went unsaid.

  The alarm stopped the moment the door was closed, and she led them toward a row of glass cases. With a low tin ceiling, the dark shop at first appeared small and cramped, until their eyes adjusted to the shadows. Beyond—in fact, way beyond—some central display cases, they could see a light source. Aisles appeared, some packed with pianos, musical instruments, clocks, chandeliers and candelabras, others with brass sconces, vases and a vast collection of newel posts, among a host of other items.

  She was not a tall woman, Ward noted as she turned to them, but nicely put together for somebody her age, which was what? Late thirties, early forties. All was concealed, however, in a tasteful, if loose-fitting, floral dress. There were plain gold rings in her ears, but none on her hands.

  “Our trade is mostly wholesale, broker to broker. Or commissions.”

  “And you deal in more than jewelry and gold?” Bresnahan’s eyes roamed the other items.

  “Not really. We call those things my father’s ‘collection.’ When he was alive, there were certain things he couldn’t resist. Perhaps one of these days I’ll sell them.”

  Yet again her light eyes flitted over Bresnahan and fixed on Ward. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a ring that was given me.” Bresnahan held out her left hand. “I’d like an estimate of its worth, with an eye toward selling it. I was told Sigal and Sons might be able to find me a buyer. Or is it Sigal and Daughter?”

  But the woman only directed Bresnahan’s hand into the beam of a jeweler’s light on the counter. She then fitted on a pair of watchmaker’s eyeglasses, with a second lens in front of her right eye. Again she examined the large central stone, and then the eight in the surround. “The valuation, now—would it be for personal or professional use, Inspector?”

  Bresnahan’s nostrils flared. So much for anonymity. But she supposed that Ward’s face had been in the papers and on the telly often enough, and she herself had acted as spokesperson for the squad more than a few times. “Shall I take it off my finger? Perhaps you could see it better then.”

  “It would help.”

  Bresnahan had some trouble removing the ring, which was small for her. And after only a moment or so of reexamination, the woman asked, “Do you have the rest of the parure?”

  Neither Bresnahan nor Ward knew what she meant.

  “Parure. A matched set of jewelry, Don’t tell me you never kept up with your French, Superintendent?” she muttered.

  Ward’s head went back. He opened his mouth to ask the woman what she meant by that, but she continued to speak.

  “A ring of this quality and artistry would have been created as part of a matched set. That is, along with a necklace, earrings, and brooch.”

  “We only have the ring.�
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  “What a shame. I can tell you that Sigal and Sons sees a fair few gemstones in the course of a year—for jewelry, for appraisal, for sale, for insurance valuation. And for the last fourteen years the appraiser has been me.” Her blue eyes, magnified through the glasses, flicked up at Ward. “But I’ve seldom encountered stones of this quality. Shall I tell you why?”

  Ward nodded.

  “I’ll start with the diamond, which is a blue-white. The very best. As far as I can see, there is only one slight inclusion in the entire—I’m guessing here—twenty-eight carats, which is remarkable.”

  “What’s an inclusion?” Bresnahan asked.

  “Jewelerspeak for flaw. An imperfection. Officially, it’s a solid body or a gaseous or liquid substance contained in a crystal mass. Very few diamonds are completely free from flaws. This one comes close.

  “Also, it was cut by a master as a ‘marquise brilliant’ with fifty-eight facets or sides, thirty-three above the girdle.” She pointed to the widest part of the rectangular-shaped stone. “And twenty-five below. It’s spectacular.

  “The sapphires are no less so. They’re a matched selection of Kashmiris in cornflower blue, which are highly prized both because of the rich light blue color that you see and their rarity. There’re very few sapphires of this quality in the world. Like rubies they can be cut so that, in the light”—she held the ring so Ward and Bresnahan could see—“a beautiful, luminous, six-point star appears on the surface of the gem. And finally, star sapphires of this sort are semi-opalescent. All that milky iridescence.”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Yes, but imagine it with the other pieces. Now”—she turned the ring over—“as for the shank, setting, and designer. The hallmark says it’s twenty-four-karat gold, which is the purest, a karat being a one twenty-fourth measure. But the setting is probably eighteen or fourteen to keep the stones in place. Pure gold is soft and malleable.

  “The designer?” With a jeweler’s tool she pointed to a symbol that was concealed on the band in the shadow created by the stone. “Peter Carl Fabergé, Saint Petersburg, which means it was created before Fabergé’s removal to Paris. He cut his name only into those creations of which he was proudest.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  She glanced up at Bresnahan. “Depends on the buyer. Were the other pieces of the set as spectacular and owned by one person, then the ring’s value would easily double or triple. A complete matched set of this quality would be of inestimable value, comparable to the parures worn by royalty on state occasions or displayed in national museums. Think of the effect were the queen or princess to possess light-colored blue eyes.” Hers, which were that color, flickered up at Ward.

  “But as it is here in Dublin today,” Bresnahan pressed. “What’s it worth?”

  “The ring alone?” The woman swayed her head from side to side. “A hundred thousand pounds. Maybe a hundred and a quarter were the buyer to possess the wherewithal to use these stones as the basis for creating another matched set. The problem would be finding stones of this quality, which would take time and cost…millions. May I ask you a question?” Which question was directed at Ward. “Have you researched the ring?”

  Ward shook his head. “We only just came by it this morning.”

  “Something this good might have been written about or, at least, registered in some way or other. With the police, some insurance carrier, a bank or Fabergé. Since it’s you, I can take a few photos and fax them to a service we use to locate rare items and document others. They might be able to run it down.”

  Since it’s us, the police? Ward wondered. Or should they know her? “Yes, please. That’d be grand. Any expense—”

  “Nary a bit. The service is one price, whether I use it once a month or a hundred times. And I’m rather intrigued now myself.” She fitted the shank into a small, chamois-lined vise and trained the light on it. “And if the owner would ever wish to sell it, why then—” Over the top of the glasses her eyes again met Ward’s with a glint that he thought for a moment he recognized. But from where?

  From beneath the counter she drew out a camera and took several shots of the ring from various angles.

  “Would you know a Clem or Clement Ford?” Bresnahan asked, as the woman worked.

  “I don’t believe so. Who is he?”

  Bresnahan turned to Ward; it was up to him to decide how much to divulge.

  “He’s a man from Mayo who wrote the name and address of your shop on a pad in what may well have been his last act. This ring was his wife’s. It was found in a car with the corpse of a murdered former guard.”

  “You mean, the trouble on Clare Island? It was in this morning’s papers.”

  Ward nodded.

  “Ford, you say? I can check our records.” She turned into an office area beyond the counter. “Clem or—”

  “Clement.” Bresnahan lowered her head to examine the stones of the ring again in the bright light.

  Ward kept his eyes on the woman; under the billowy dress she was still rather interesting, in spite of her age.

  She tapped in the name, waited a moment, then shook her head. “When do you think we might have had dealings with him?”

  “Hard to say, but he’s described as a man in his late seventies.”

  “Then maybe my father dealt with him.” She turned to a wooden cabinet that looked like it had been a card catalogue in a library at one time.

  “What was your father’s name?” Ward asked.

  “Lou. Short for Aloysius. His mother was a gentile. I have a John Ford, a Reginald Ford, and a Maurice T. J. Forde with an e on the end. None from Mayo.” Closing the drawer, she yet again stared directly at Ward, a slight smile puckering her dimples. Her eyes were shining.

  “Have you ever dealt with anybody from Clare Island? The man is described as tall and broad-shouldered.” Ward blocked them off. “Immense. Six feet six, twenty stone.”

  The woman wrapped her arms around her back, and Ward could see that with even a slight attempt at stylishness she could be fetching. Her brow wrinkled, and she smoothed back her silvery hair. “Do you know—I seem to remember somebody, like that, coming into the shop. But it was years ago, back when I was only a girl. But he was an Englishman, as I recall. With a great beard and a big voice. Always laughing. You know, a ‘hearty chap.’”

  “That’s just the person,” said Bresnahan.

  “And his name was not Ford. It was—”

  They waited, while she tried to recall, but after some time she said, “Sorry. I can’t come up with it now, but I will, if I go through the files. We have nothing to hide.” She pointed to her father’s catalogue. “Would you have a card or something, so I can get back to you?” The request was plainly aimed at Ward.

  Said Bresnahan, “Say an ordinary customer walked in here with that.” She pointed to the ring. “Wanting to flog it, no questions asked. Would you buy it?”

  “Of course. At my price. Or, at least, a fair enough price. Stones like that—” She shook her head.

  “How would you go about it?”

  “The same way we just did. I’d make inquiries via fax and modem. My service?”

  Bresnahan nodded.

  “It’s updated daily via the Internet with reports from most of the world’s major police agencies, including the Garda Siochana and the Interpol master list. For something of this worth I’d do what I just did—take some snaps and fax them out. If nothing came up, we could begin…negotiations.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Somebody with something like this? Never in my fourteen years. Somebody with something over, say, fifty thousand pounds? Once a year, or twice, depending on referrals. Usually, after the death of some rich individual.”

  “Are you the sole proprietor here?”

  “Since the death of my father.”

  “Fourteen years ago,” said Ward. There was something definitely familiar about the woman, but he did not know what. “I wonder,
is there any way you could begin the search now? Perhaps your father noted down Clare Island or Mayo on the cards in his files.”

  The woman glanced at her wristwatch, then scanned the blotter calender on the desk. “Well, today is out. I have to drive to Cavan to value a number of items in an estate. I’ll try to set aside tomorrow or the next day, but it will take some juggling. You’re welcome to look yourselves. You might have some trouble reading my father’s handwriting, but”—she paused, and her eyes widened—“I could provide you some help. My son can read his grandfather’s script, and he’s a great fan of yours.”

  Of whose? Ward was tempted to look behind him. He waited.

  “Hasn’t he followed your career in the ring since he was a wee lad? In fact, he’s a boxer himself now. Well, let’s say he’s learning. Do I call him? He’d be crushed, if he didn’t meet you.” She did not give Ward time to reply; turning, she vanished into the dark interior of the shop.

  Said Bresnahan, “Well now—even if the investigation is a bust, at least you’ll come away with something.”

  Ward waited resignedly, knowing he was about to be slagged.

  “Proof positive of the detestable notion that some men have an hypnotic effect over certain women.” But not over herself went unsaid.

  Or some women over certain men, thought Ward, shaking his head; it was as though he had lost his identity, the best of what he had known about himself in what now seemed like the distant past, after only two years with Bresnahan. What would any more permanent arrangement be like? he wondered.

  The woman was returning. Behind her was a dark boy, tall and well-made for his age which was his early teens.

  “Hugh Ward—this is my son, Lou.”

  Ward reached his hand to the boy. “My pleasure.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” the boy blurted out. “I never thought I—” He blushed and turned to his mother.