Long Time Coming (31 page)

‘I’m still looking for him.’

‘If he contacts you …’ Oudermans hesitated.

‘Yes? If he does?’

‘You will advise Meneer van Briel at once, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Oudermans’ expression gave no hint of the weight he placed on my assurances. The truth was that I had no idea what I’d do, or who I’d tell, if and when I found Eldritch. It all hinged on what I could least predict: Eldritch’s own intentions. ‘Now, I must advise you to proceed cautiously at all times, Mr Swan. The police regard you as a suspect in a murder inquiry. They may hope you will incriminate yourself. It’s vital you avoid doing anything they could … misinterpret. You understand?’

I understood all right. The police wanted me to trip myself up. Oudermans wanted me to tread carefully. But Rachel needed me to do whatever it took to expose the truth. Walking away from Oudermans’ offices along the streets of a city I didn’t know, surrounded by strangers, I felt wholly unequal to the challenge. But it was a challenge I wouldn’t dodge. Some kind of reckoning was approaching and I was determined to face it.

I wandered aimlessly round the diamond district west of Centraal station, backing a frail hunch that Eldritch would return to the area of the city he’d worked in. The idea that I’d simply see him there on the street was preposterous, of course, but it filled the hour or so I had to spare before I needed to head back to van Briel’s place to await Moira Henchy’s call. Naturally, there was no sign of Eldritch. And the bland façades of the diamond dealerships and brokerages were designed to ensure that the business conducted
within them was safe from prying eyes. As an outsider, I was permitted to pass by. That was all.

Van Briel returned home to find me sitting by the telephone, waiting for it to ring. He looked tired and a little defeated. He poured himself a large vodka and expressed surprise that I hadn’t already helped myself to one. I gladly joined him.

‘How’s Rachel?’ was my first question. And it was the one that mattered most.

‘She has nerve, Stephen. You maybe know that already. Nerve … and spirit. But she’s being tested. It’s hard for her. They tell her nothing. And there’s not much I can tell her either.’

‘Except that I’m doing everything I can.’

‘
Ja.
And she believes it. But …’

‘What does it amount to? Well, Bart? What can I actually do to get her out of there?’

He studied me over the rim of his vodka glass. ‘No progress, huh?’

‘Not much. I met Mr Oudermans. He told me about Lady Linley. I gather I’ll be meeting her soon.’

‘Tomorrow. That’ll be … difficult, I guess.’

‘Not for me. I’ll just tell her the truth.’

‘Not always good enough, Stephen. They teach you that in law school.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘We’ll see something, for sure. But—’ The telephone’s strident ring interrupted him. He smiled. ‘I guess that’s probably for you.’

And it was.

Moira Henchy was waiting for me in the bar of the Plaza Hotel. She was dressed for business, in a black trouser suit, with a determinedly unfrilly blouse. She had a round, open face, framed by curly auburn hair, Celtically pale skin, a steady blue-eyed gaze and a stubborn set to her jaw. A female freelance journalist, it was clear, couldn’t afford to be thought a pushover.

‘When I heard about Ardal Quilligan’s murder, I knew at once
Eldritch must be involved,’ she said, as soon as the preliminaries of handshaking and drinks ordering were done with.

‘Eldritch didn’t kill him.’

‘And I guess you’re going to tell me Rachel Banner didn’t either.’

‘You’re right there, Miss Henchy.’

‘Call me, Moira, Stephen. We’re on the same side, OK?’

‘Are we?’

‘You promised me information about Eldritch.’

‘I’m here to trade, Moira. What you know about his activities in Dublin in 1940 for what I know about his activities since they let him out of prison.’

‘When I spoke to you a fortnight ago, you claimed your mother and you hadn’t heard from Eldritch.’

‘I lied.’

‘Why?’

‘To protect him. But now I need to protect myself. And Rachel.’

‘Right. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. People who have dealings with Eldritch Swan often end up in need of protection. They don’t necessarily get it, of course. Take my father, for instance.’

‘He knew Eldritch?’

‘Their paths crossed. In Dublin. In 1940.’

‘Tell me more.’

She lit a cigarette to cover a pause while our drinks were delivered. Then she smiled at me and said, ‘This is a two-way street, Stephen. We’re clear about that, aren’t we? I trust you. You trust me.’

‘We’re clear.’

‘I’ll need to know everything.’

‘So will I.’

‘Fair enough.’ She frowned, ordering her thoughts, wondering, I supposed, how much
everything
really meant. ‘OK. Dublin: July 1940. My father: Lorcan Henchy. And your uncle: Eldritch Swan. Some of it I don’t know. Most of it, maybe. But this is what I do know. For sure.’

The weather has changed in Dublin. Rain is falling on St Stephen’s Green, from clouds driven in on a keen westerly wind. Through the half-open window of his room at the Shelbourne Hotel, Eldritch Swan can hear the soughing of the trees and the hiss of the heavier bursts of rain. He lies on the bed, propped up on two pillows, smoking a cigarette and lethargically reading an Edgar Wallace novel he picked up earlier in the day for sixpence at a second-hand bookstall. At intervals, he glances at his watch, noting the progress of the hands towards seven o’clock. He wonders if Lorcan Henchy will actually ring on the stroke of the hour. He hopes so, for he cannot leave his room until Henchy’s call comes through. Until it does, he must wait as patiently as he can.

He finishes one cigarette and lights another. He turns a few more pages. The rain grows heavier again. The hands of his watch move at their set and stately pace. And then …

‘Hello?’

‘Front desk here, Mr Swan. There’s a Mr Henchy on the line for you. Shall I put him through?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Hold on, sir.’

A moment’s silence was broken by a click. ‘Hello?’

‘Good evening, Mr Swan. Your humble servant Lorcan P.
Henchy here.’ The confounded fellow sounded as if he had been drinking.

‘Better luck at the races today, Mr Henchy?’

‘A little, yes. It’s kind of you to ask. And yourself ? A successful day?’

‘From your point of view, certainly.’

‘Your friends are happy to accommodate me, are they?’

‘Let’s just say willing. On certain conditions.’

‘Conditions? That’s not a word I like the sound of.’

‘They want you to leave Ireland, Mr Henchy. They want you … out of the way.’

‘Do they now?’

‘You can have your money, but not all at once. Five hundred pounds down, then a hundred at weekly intervals until the balance is paid, collectable by you in person from Martins Bank, Lombard Street, London.’

‘Meaning I have to desert the golden city of my forefathers for the lair of our ancestral oppressor, on which Herr Hitler may soon be raining bombs, if I’m to be paid in full.’

‘Those are their terms.’

‘And if I reject them?’

‘I can’t answer for the consequences.’

‘Can you not? Well, sir, I call you a famishing poor kind of negotiator.’

‘What’s your answer?’

Henchy fumed silently for a moment, then said, ‘If you think I’m going to pay you ten per cent of a sum before I’m in possession of it …’

Quibbling over commission was a promising sign. Swan smiled to himself. ‘I’ll settle for seven and a half per cent.’

‘Two and a half.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘I have to wait for a full settlement. You can take your share out of the initial payment. It’s a generous offer.’

It was far from generous. But there was something undeniably attractive about removing the irritant that Henchy was from his
life within twenty-four hours. Being paid anything at all into the bargain constituted a bonus. Largely for form’s sake, however, Swan pushed for more. ‘Five.’

And he got it. ‘Very well, damn you.’

‘We’re agreed, then?’

‘We are. Now, as to the arrangements for delivery of my four hundred and fifty …’

‘Ah, that’s the other condition, Mr Henchy.’

‘What?’

‘They want you on your way tomorrow night. Aboard the eight o’clock ferry from Dun Laoghaire to Holyhead.’

‘They’re in a tearing hurry to send me into exile, aren’t they?’

‘You’re better placed to understand why than I am.’

‘Am I so?’

‘I’ll be on the seven o’clock train from Westland Row to Dun Laoghaire, with a first-class ticket through to Euston in my pocket and a Gladstone bag containing a large amount of money in my hand. I suggest you get on at one of the intermediate stops. I’m to see you off on the ferry.’

‘Make sure I’m gone, you mean.’

‘If you like.’

‘Well, I don’t like.’

‘Possibly not. But you’ll do it anyway, won’t you?’

The answer to that, as Swan reported to Linley in the Horseshoe Bar shortly afterwards, was a reluctant yes. Naturally, he left the details of his commission unreported, though Linley was so pleased he would probably not have complained.

‘Dextrously managed, Cygnet. Congratulations. And many thanks on behalf of His Majesty’s Government.’

‘Do I get an MBE for this?’

‘No. But you do get the evening’s bar bill paid for you by the British Legation. I rather think this calls for champagne, don’t you?’

*

Swan woke late the following morning, champagne in the bar having progressed to dinner at Jammet’s and a foray to a dance-hall. Most other breakfasters had been and gone by the time he made it downstairs and he was consuming bacon and eggs, washed down with black coffee, in conditions of virtual solitude, when an unexpected face appeared at the entrance to the room: that of Ardal Quilligan.

‘I have some news for you, Eldritch,’ he announced, joining Swan at his table and accepting the offer of coffee. ‘And I had to see a client in Fitzwilliam Square, so I thought I’d drop in on you on my way back to the office to deliver it in person.’

‘Good news, I trust.’

‘For you, certainly. A Mr Boyle from the Justice Department rang me first thing this morning, regarding Desmond’s application for release from internment.’

‘What did he have to say?’

‘That he could see no reason why Desmond shouldn’t be a free man by the end of next week.’

‘Excellent. None of the foot-dragging you feared, then?’

‘Apparently not. It—’

‘Excuse me, Mr Swan,’ one of the bellboys breathlessly interrupted. ‘There’s a phone call for you from a Miss Quilligan. Do you want to take it?’

Swan was momentarily lost for words. He looked across at Ardal, who frowned back at him. ‘Well, well. Issie never mentioned she was intending to contact you.’

‘I’d better go and see what she wants.’

‘Yes. I suppose you had.’

Swan hurried into the foyer, part of him intrigued by Isolde’s call, the other part annoyed by its timing. The concierge directed him to one of the phone booths to take it.

‘Isolde?’

‘Stephen,’ she responded breathlessly. ‘I’m so glad I caught you.’

‘You caught Ardal as well.’

‘Oh God. He’s with you?’

‘Waiting for me in the restaurant.’

‘Damn, damn, damn. What did you say to him?’

‘That I’d go and find out what you wanted.’

There was a lengthy pause, filled by a crackle of static. Then she said, ‘You know what I want, Stephen.’

‘Indeed. Would you like me to explain that to him?’

‘Don’t be cruel to me.’

‘But I was. And it seemed to me you rather enjoyed it.’

‘You are an evil man, Mr Swan. And a corrupting influence on well-bred young ladies.’

‘So I should hope.’

‘What are we to do?’

‘Now? Or next Wednesday afternoon?’

‘I rang because I want to see you. That’s all. Just … be with you … for a while. I thought we could meet … in the National Gallery, perhaps.’

‘This morning?’

‘Unless you’re busy.’

‘No, no. Let’s meet, by all means. I’ll tell Ardal you were … concerned I might think Dublin an uncivilized city and rang to … offer your guidance to its artistic treasures.’

‘Yes. He’ll believe that of me. Why has he come to see you?’

‘To give me news of Desmond. He should be out by the end of next week.’

‘So soon?’

‘Ardal will expect you to be pleased.’

‘And I am. But … Never mind.’ Swan knew what she was thinking, of course. He would have no reason to remain in Dublin once Desmond was free. He heard her sigh. ‘The National Gallery, an hour from now?’

‘It’s a date.’

Ardal Quilligan seemed more amused than puzzled by Swan’s account of his telephone conversation with Isolde. ‘I’m afraid she thinks me rather a Philistine, Ardal. A dose of Hibernian art has been prescribed. And apparently I have no choice but to swallow it.’

‘Quite right too.’

‘She was delighted to hear Desmond will soon be free.’

‘I suspect she’ll follow him to London before long. She can’t wait to get to know her nephew.’

‘Will you go with her?’

‘I can’t readily leave my practice. But I’m sure … I can rely on you to entertain her.’

‘Certainly.’ Swan smiled obligingly. ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’

Aesthetic enlightenment was unforthcoming for Swan that morning in the thinly patronized, muddily lit rooms of the National Gallery. Nor did Isolde exert herself to bestow any upon him. They drifted from room to room, exchanging whispered remarks, whose contents would have scandalized anyone who heard them. But they took good care to ensure no one could. And the fleeting kisses they occasionally allowed themselves went unobserved.

They left and strolled around the flower-bedded park in the centre of Merrion Square. The weather was damp and cool, the day grey and muted. Isolde shared a cigarette with Swan and spoke, as Ardal had predicted, of visiting Desmond and her nephew in London as soon as possible.

‘No doubt you’ll be too busy to see me once you’re back there,’ she said, fishing for reassurance.