I SAT IN the jeep, parked across the street from the bank, and watched. I wanted to get a feel for the pattern of movement in and out, where people came from and where they went after their banking was done. The clientele was mixed, businessmen and workers, older ladies in big hats, and a couple of guys in uniform. Respectable, like a downtown bank in Worcester or Springfield on a slow day.
I walked up and down the street. Lots of limestone had gone into this burg, the buildings all three or four stories, neat and square, the line of rooftops following the curve of the ground, chimneys dotting their procession like a connect-the-dots drawing. I heard the bells of both cathedrals chime, the high notes of the Catholic Saint Patrick’s competing with the deeper tones of the Protestant Saint Patrick’s. Either way, they both told the same story. Time was slipping away. It would have been helpful to have Kaz along. We could have split up, asked our questions, and be done in half the time. But there had been no chance of that. Kaz hadn’t made the trip to Jerusalem. He’d been ordered back to London by the Polish Government in Exile—the folks who actually were in charge of him, if anyone was. He was listed as a liaison officer with Eisenhower’s headquarters but he worked with me in Ike’s secret Office of Special Investigations, dealing with low crimes in high places, the kind of thing Uncle Ike wanted taken care of quietly, so as not to hinder the war effort. With me in Northern Ireland helping the Brits, Diana with the SOE, and Kaz back in London on whatever was up with the Poles, the only guy minding the shop in Algiers was Corporal Mike Miecznikowski—Big Mike—a Detroit cop who’d joined us after Sicily. I hoped Kaz would be back soon, and I began to think about the past few months as the good old days, the four of us working together, never thinking we’d soon be scattered all across Europe like this.
I stopped in O’Neill’s pub. It looked bright and cheery, the outside painted yellow and the door sporting a fresh coat of varnish. I asked the barkeep if he’d seen any of the guys in the pictures I laid out on the bar.
“Are you not drinking?” he replied, more in amazement than confrontation.
“Too many stops to make. I’d be drunk before I was done. Recognize any of these fine fellows?”
“Who are you then?” He kept running a rag over a glass that was by now bone-dry.
“Just a Yank. Humor me, OK?”
He puffed out his cheeks and sighed at the demands I put upon him. He looked at the two old men at the bar and one older gent at a table, and probably decided this was the most interesting thing that was going to happen today. He looked at the photos of Pete Brennan, Eddie Mahoney, and Adrian Simms, picking up each one, studying it, and setting it down with careful ceremony.
“Never saw any of them,” he said. “But I know that’s Clough.” He tapped his finger on the picture of Adrian with Sam Burnham standing near him as he directed traffic.
“Congratulations,” I said. I described Red Jack Taggart and Andrew Jenkins. He said they reminded him of several fellows, all regulars. I guess bald and stocky did cover a lot of men.
“Do you do your banking over there?” I pointed with my thumb toward the Northern Bank, visible through the front windows.
“Course not, are ya daft? That’s a Protestant bank. Bank of Ireland for us. For a smart lot of boys, you Yanks don’t really know very much, do ya?”
“Lucky for us we’re quick studies. Thanks.”
I stretched my legs for a couple of blocks and turned around, crossed the street, and walked back to the bank. A few doors short of it, I stopped at a small tobacco shop and newsstand. I bought some penny candy from a barrel so I could at least hand some coins over as I asked my questions. This fellow wasn’t as wary or talkative as the barkeep.
“No, no, certainly not.”
“Why ‘certainly not’?” I asked, noticing he had said that after looking at the picture of Adrian.
“Don’t care much for the RUC. They killed my brother, they did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Twelve years ago this December.” He handed me my change.
“I am sorry.”
“Murdered him.”
“Thank you,” I said, and left, wondering how these people lived within sight of each other every day.
I walked past the bank and stopped at a greengrocer’s shop. A gray-haired fellow in a heavy green sweater was stacking apples out front. I picked one and he put it on a scale, hardly looking at me. I guess it wasn’t a big enough sale to impress him.
“Can you tell me if you’ve ever seen any of these men around here? It would be a big help.”
“To who then?”
“Well, to me.”
“Exactly,” he said, holding my change in his hand.
“Keep the change,” I said. “And the apple.”
He frowned but dropped the coins into the pocket of his apron and dutifully wiped his hands on it before handling the photos.
“Hmm. No. No. This fellow, yes,” he said, snapping his finger against the photo of Adrian. “He liked my apples, I remember.”
“How long ago?” I asked.
“Four, maybe five days. I can’t be sure, son, but he stood out because of the uniform. We don’t get many Yanks shopping for apples here.”
“Yanks? What do you mean?”
“This fellow you showed me, right here.” He pointed to Sam, standing beside Adrian.
“The American, not the constable?”
“Aye, that’s what I’m telling you. He liked my apples, he did. They come from an orchard not two miles away. Do you want to buy some for him?”
“He’s dead.” As if that explained everything.
“Terrible, this war. Anything else, lad?”
“Was he alone?”
“Let me think. I was stacking cabbages, I believe. He stopped by and asked, real polite, if he could buy just one apple. I said sure, and he went off, biting into it. After that, I didn’t pay him any more mind. He may have stopped in front of the bank and chatted with some fellows, now that I think back, but I’m not sure. Maybe a half hour later, he came back and bought another apple. Said they were sweet and crisp, and they got no such fresh fruit on his base. And now you say he’s dead.”
“Where do you buy your fruits and vegetables? From Andrew Jenkins?”
“Well, aren’t you full of the odd questions! Some, yes. Most from the local farmers, right outside of town. The rest from Andrew. A good man, he is.”
“Thanks,” I said, walking down the sidewalk, trying to figure out what this meant. What had Sam been doing here? Sightseeing? Was he meeting someone here? Who, and why? Was it a coincidence or did it have something to do with why Sam had been targeted by Red Jack? Good questions, all. Problem was, I didn’t have answers, good or bad.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the city air, hints of chalky limestone, coal smoke, piss, and buried anger floating on the wind. It had grown colder, and heavy gray clouds hung in the eastern sky, promising rain before the day was out. Irish weather fit the mood of the island, bathing you in warm sunshine one minute, then pelting you with cold rain the next. It made me homesick for the constant heat of North Africa or the clammy fog of London, and I wondered how I would ever describe my feelings to Dad and Uncle Dan. Or if I would try.
I decided to transact some business, to get the wind off my back. Pushing on the brightly shined brass handle on the main door, I entered the bank. The floor gleamed as well, black and white tiles spread out in a geometric pattern. Tellers’ cages ran along the wall to my left, and a series of desks, out in the open, were on my right. Straight ahead, a secretary sat at a small wooden desk near a door of pebbled opaque glass. A custodian in a dark blue workman’s coverall worked a cloth around the brass doorknob with gusto.
“Is the bank manager in?” I asked, giving the secretary a smile before I added, “Miss…?” I could see she was married, but my policy with secretaries and doorkeepers of all stripes was to butter them up with the Boyle charm.
“Whom shall I say is asking?” The
whom
came out like the foghorn on Little Brewster Island. She fixed her eyes on me as she tapped a very sharp pencil on the nameplate at the edge of her desk. It left no doubt, she was Mrs. Turkington.
“Lieutenant William Boyle,” I said. “U.S. Army.”
“Quite. Mr. McBurney is unavailable.” She sat with her hands folded on the desktop blotter, waiting for me to leave. She was on the distant shore of forty, lines beginning to creep in at the edges of her eyes, double chin starting to show. Her eyes, hazel with flecks of green, had zeroed in on me.
“Well, it’s official business, Mrs. Turkington. He’s expecting me.”
“I doubt that, young man.”
“I doubt that he’d reveal confidential information to you. It might be dangerous.” I leaned closer to her and lowered my voice. “I’m on the trail of a German spy.”
Her only response was to button the top button of her blouse.
“Pardon, sir,” the custodian said. “You’re in me way.” I stood aside as he knocked, then opened the door to the office and stood in the doorway, applying polish to the knob on the other side.
“Bailey, really!” Mrs. Turkington said.
“Mr. McBurney, he’d have me head if I left one knob unpolished, right, Mr. McBurney? Today being polishing day, that is.”
“Right you are, Bailey,” came a distracted voice from inside. I leaned forward and saw a balding man at a desk, jet black hair circling his crown, nothing on top. His five o’clock shadow was getting a jump start on the afternoon. He glanced up and met my eye.
“Someone to see me, Mrs. Turkington?”
“A Mr. Boyle,” she said, laying heavy emphasis on the Catholic last name. She probably imagined I had had a roasted Protestant baby for breakfast.
“Oh, well,” McBurney said as he squinted and took in my uniform. “An American, is it? An officer? Show him in then.”
“All done here,” Bailey said, giving the knob a final polish and holding the door for me. As I passed between him and Mrs. Turkington, he winked.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant Boyle?” After checking my bars, McBurney stood and extended his hand, then gestured to the chair next to his desk. Either he was more liberal in his religious views than the Turkington outside his door or he might have hoped I was bringing the army payroll to deposit. Or maybe being American and an officer, no matter how lowly, made a Boyle acceptable here. It was clear to me that Bailey, by his name and his accent, was closer to the Boyles than the McBurneys or Turkingtons.
“I’m conducting an investigation, Mr. McBurney. Sorry, but I can’t reveal the details—”
“An investigation of what? I assure you, this bank—”
“The branch is not involved, Mr. McBurney, in any way that would discredit you or the Northern Bank. But you may have been used.”
“Used?” He said it as if he didn’t understand the meaning of the word. Tiny beads of sweat popped out on his shiny forehead.
“By enemy agents,” I whispered, leaning in over his desk.
“I can’t believe it,” he said indignantly.
“Exactly,” I said, as if he’d proved my point. “They’re very clever.”
“Do you have any idea who the agents are?”
“That’s what I’m working on. All I want you to do is look at some pictures and tell me if you recognize anyone. They aren’t necessarily enemy agents, I just need to know if you know them or have seen them in the bank. OK?”
“Very well,” he said, straightening up in his chair for the task ahead. I almost expected him to add
For king and country
.
I laid out the pictures, Adrian and Sam first, then Pete, then Eddie Mahoney. He stared at all of them, his eyes flitting from one to the other. He licked his lips. Nervous or hungry, who knew?
“No, I don’t think so,” he said.
“Look again, take your time,” I said. “Give your subconscious a chance.”
“I don’t go in for all that Jewish claptrap,” he said, shaking his head. “Freud, indeed.”
“My father’s not Jewish, and he sets a lot of stock in the subconscious,” I said. “I didn’t know the Jews invented it. You learn something new every day.”
I stood and walked around his office, leaving him to study the photos. He had a grand view of the back of another building and a gravel parking lot. Lots of pictures on the walls, most including Mr. McBurney himself, shaking hands with various dignitaries a local fellow might have been impressed with. In one, he was standing with a bunch of other dark suits, all of them wearing bowler hats with red sashes around their chests. It was a parade, and they all carried flags or banners. British flags, black flags with red crosses and a crown, one with a skull and crossbones set beneath a red cross.
“No, I’m certain. I haven’t seen any of these men.”
“Andrew Jenkins does his banking here, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t intend to reveal any details about our customers, Lieutenant.”
“But he is a customer?”
“It would stand to reason. He’s a prosperous local businessman, and we are the leading bank in the area.”
“For Protestants.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Your people don’t make the effort to better themselves, so most don’t have funds to save. The bank would be happy to take their deposits if they did.”
“My people?”
“Don’t take offense; you’ve obviously done well for yourself in America. Unfortunately, those papists who remained here were the least able to care for themselves and their families. That is the source of many of our troubles.”
I resisted the urge to snap off a quick left hook and break his nose.
“If no offense was intended, then I won’t be offended. You’re a Royal Black Knight, I see.”
“Yes. It’s a local lodge. Like the Freemasons. I believe you have them in America.”
“Yeah, we do, along with the Knights of Columbus, and they all march in the same parades. You must be a head honcho, leading the parade here,” I said, tapping my finger on the framed picture.
“Worshipful District Master is my title. That was taken at our annual Last Saturday in August parade,” he said, huffing himself up.
“Impressive. You must be involved with checking new applicants, to see if they’re good Protestants through and through.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with anything. I’ve a mind to call the police.”