Red Herring (19 page)

A sepia photograph, cracked and worn, folded in quarters. Frank straightened it carefully and put it on the bar. Walsh leaned in. Six young Irishmen in uniform, Sam Browne belts, boots and puttees, holding an assortment of weapons, Webley Top-Break and Smith & Wesson .38 revolvers, a Lee-Enfield Mark V11. “That there’s me pa,” said O’Flynn. “That’s me Uncle Fintan, of course, God rest his soul. These three fellas you’ll know. And that there” — he pointed — “is you.”

Walsh picked up the photograph and held it to the light. “I should have gone to Hollywood,” he said after a while.

“You’d have been bigger than Edmund O’Brien,” said O’Flynn.

“I was thinking Tyrone Power.”

“Bigger than both of them.”

“I remember your father now. Bernard, wasn’t it?” said Walsh.

“The same.”

“Quiet fella from memory.”

“He opened up with a Bushmills.”

“Don’t we all? So why did you change your name?”

“I got into a spot of bother with the authorities back in Ireland, you know how it is.”

“I do. Where’s this going, son?” said Walsh. “It’s my first night on the town here in thirty years and I was looking forward to a decent chop suey and a brace of strumpets to mark the occasion.”

O’Flynn looked at his watch. “You’re a bit late for the chop suey joints probably, but I know a number of strumpets and I’d be honoured to make the introductions.”

“Never needed help in that area,” said Walsh.

“All right. I’ll be brief.” O’Flynn took a quick sip. “I’m planning a, what would you call it, a caper, a
shenanigan
soon — nothing violent, nothing political, but lucrative if it comes off — and I’m going to have to disappear for a bit, lay low, and I was thinking Tahiti, Fiji, one of them, and then I thought, when I saw you on the stage, why not New Zealand?”

“Some caper.”

“If it works I’ll be well set up. Obviously, I can’t talk about the procedural details.”

“Why are you talking to me at all?”

“I’d appreciate the assistance of someone of influence to get me across the border without having to face too many awkward questions. Someone such as yourself.”

“What’s in it for me? Hypothetically.”

“There would be a fee. And I have certain abilities that you might find useful.”

“Such as?”

O’Flynn leaned in. “I was in the Chemical Wing of the IRA for nine years. There’s nothing too small or too big that I couldn’t open or blow to smithereens. I’ve worked undercover. I’ve shot a man from a mile off and a few this close.” He held a finger close to Walsh’s temple. “There’s no job I couldn’t do.”

“Hell’s bells,” said Walsh. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea about the South Pacific, sonny. You might be better off looking at Chicago.”

O’Flynn stiffened. “Is that so now?” he said, reaching for the photograph and refolding it delicately.

“Hey, hey!” said Walsh. “Don’t get all sulking Paddy on me.” He took a notebook and a fountain pen from his breast pocket. Fats
Waller’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’” was playing on the radio. He ripped out the page and handed it to O’Flynn. “Get in touch if you go through with it. I’ll see what I can do.”

“You won’t be sorry,” said O’Flynn.

“I hope not,” said Walsh. He pointed towards the music. “As that fella said, ‘One never knows, do one?’”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Walsh got out of the lift on the third floor of the Grand Hotel, nodded to the uniformed policeman standing opposite, and walked along the corridor to the Royal Suite, so named because the Prince of Wales had stayed there for two nights in 1929.

It was just after eight o’clock in the morning. A tall man in shirtsleeves wearing a shoulder holster was sitting in a chair by the door, reading the
Herald.
On a side table within easy reach was an ashtray with a lighted cigarette balanced on the edge, and a pistol, a Smith & Wesson .44 Special. Walsh liked the .44. It had a well-deserved reputation for accuracy, one which he had put to good use during a dust-up in Idaho in 1916. The man stood as Walsh approached.

“Good morning, Mr Walsh,” he said.

“Get the door, son,” said Walsh, with a flick of his hand.

Sid Holland, the Prime Minister of New Zealand, was standing in the middle of the room in his underpants and singlet, black socks clipped to garters. He had his hand in one shoe and was buffing the toe with a brush.

“Good morning, Sid,” said Walsh.

“Morning, Walsh,” said Holland.

“You know you can leave your shoes outside the door with a couple of bob, and some flunky will do that for you?”

Holland picked up the second shoe and held it alongside the first. “I’m the Prime Minister,” he said, putting the brogues on the floor. “I can’t ask any bastard to clean my shoes.”

He took a breakfast tray from the sideboard to the table and sat down. Weet-Bix, a hot dish under cover, damp toast, orange cordial, a pot of tea.

“Don’t mind if I eat in my undies, do you?” he said, removing the cloth and tucking it into his singlet at the throat. “Tea?”

“Not for me. You go for your life.”

“I will, don’t worry,” said Holland. “Flew up on an aeroplane last night from Wellington. Got airsick over New Plymouth and had my head in one of those brown bags all the way to Whenuapai. Empty as billy-o now. How did those Bomber Command blokes do it, night after night?” He poured milk onto the Weet-Bix and sprinkled on a tablespoon of sugar.

“What’s on your mind, Sid?”

“What’s on my mind? Anarchy, that’s what. Those blasted watersiders.” He turned in his seat and pointed towards the door with his spoon. “See that bruiser outside? Assume he’s still there? A
bodyguard.
With a
revolver.
In New Zealand, for goodness sake.”

“So what’s the story, do you reckon?”

“Depends,” said Holland, wiping a trickle of milk from his chin. “Where does the Federation of Labour stand? Will we have your support if we crack down on the wharfies?”

Walsh sat on the edge of a chair, balancing his hat on his knee. “Depends, Sid,” he said. “You take half measures, the Federation risks getting caught in the middle. No telling how the membership will react.”

“The membership will react in the way you damn well tell them to react, won’t they?” said Holland, sliding the Weet-Bix to one side
and taking the cover off the dinner plate. “Isn’t that how it works?” Bacon and eggs and a watery tomato.

Walsh ignored the comment. “If you come down hard on the wharfies, using the full force of the Emergency Regulations, you’ll have no trouble from us.”

Holland threw up his hands. “Not you too? Everyone thinks those blasted Regulations are the answer! They’re not! They’re incomprehensible! It would take a Philadelphia lawyer to understand them. I should have left the damn things in the drawer.”

He sipped his tea and put the cup down on the saucer with a clatter. “Barnes and Hill are a couple of ding-dongs, no question,” he said. “But there are good men in the rank and file from what I understand, blokes who’ll see reason. I’m giving a speech at the Town Hall tomorrow. I’ll send them a clear message.”

Walsh stood and put on his hat. This was going nowhere. “You’re the man of the hour, Sid,” he said. “I’ve every confidence you’ll do the right thing when the time comes.”

He left the hotel. Sunny was leaning against the Plymouth, one foot up on the running board, a smoke dangling from his bottom lip, talking through the open window to Lofty. He straightened up, flicked the cigarette away and opened the rear door for Walsh. He went round the front and got into the driver’s seat.

“Jesus Christ and the saints eternal,” said Walsh, sinking into the leather. He let out a long sigh. “Give me a smoke, someone.”

“Right here, Mr Walsh,” said Lofty, passing a packet over his shoulder.

“You had a word with O’Flynn?” said Walsh, lighting a match.

“Yep,” said Sunny. “He’s getting fidgety about Molloy.”

“So am I,” said Walsh. “And his girlfriend. And Furst, for that matter. Is Brenda at the hotel?”

“I told her to stay put till we said otherwise.”

“She coping all right?”

Sunny laughed. “Rita Hayworth’s little sister,” he said.

“You’ve got the uniform, Lofty?” said Walsh.

“Wearing the strides,” said Lofty, pointing. “Tunic and helmet are in the boot.”

“Good,” said Walsh. He lit a cigarette. “Right-o. Time to get rid of the Yank and his pal the private eye.”

“Get rid of?” said Lofty, after a moment.

Walsh laughed. “I keep telling people,” he said, “this isn’t Chicago.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Furst opened his door an inch or two and squeezed his face between the gap, looking out into the corridor. He was wearing a vest and holding up his pants with one hand. He had pulled them on in the hallway, bouncing along on one leg. He was unable to find his boxers. They were probably curled up in the sheets or hanging over a lampshade. His hair was dishevelled and his face felt sticky with lipstick and sweat. There was sunlight in the corridor.

It was shortly after nine in the morning. There was no obvious reason why he should be receiving a visit from a purse-lipped hotel manager and a uniformed policeman at this time. His heart was thumping, and not just from his recent exertions.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked.

“Is your name Furst?” said Lofty, in the sort of flat, accusing tone he had heard so often directed at himself. He was holding a helmet under one arm. Next to him was the hotel manager in a morning suit, glaring. The Auckland was the city’s deluxe hotel. It had never once been mentioned in
Truth
and he didn’t need any American riff-raff soiling its good name.

“That’s me. What appears to be the problem, officer?”

“You’re under arrest,” said Lofty, taking a set of handcuffs from his back pocket.

“Arrest? What for?”

Lofty rose slowly on the balls of his feet. “Unlawful carnal connection with a minor,” he said, enjoying himself.

“A minor?” said Furst. “I wasn’t aware that she—” No,
stop,
he said to himself. My God. What were the rules around self-incrimination in this South Pacific hellhole? Let alone the rules around carnality?

“What’s going on?” said Brenda, appearing from behind Furst. She was wearing a hotel towel, loosely arranged.

“What age are you, young lady?” said Lofty.

“I’m sixteen,” said Brenda. “Just about.”

“You’re
fifteen?”
said Furst. He turned to Lofty. “I had no idea.”

Lofty shook his head in disgust. “No. No, I bet you didn’t. Your type never does.”

“Now, look here. I’m a retired San Francisco—”

“Can you hold your wrists out, please,” said Lofty.

Brenda stepped forward and put her hand on Lofty’s arm. “Now hang on, buster,” she said. “Have you heard of Fintan Patrick Walsh? He asked me to come over and keep company with Mr Furst, who’s visiting New Zealand for the first time. There was no funny business. You should keep your impure thoughts to yourself.” She tossed her hair and adjusted the towel over her cleavage, giving the manager an advertent eyeful. “What do you take me for?”

“F.P. Walsh?” said Lofty. His confidence seemed to wane.

“What’s he got to do with anything?” asked the hotel manager.

“You’ll find out, Grandad,” said Brenda. She turned to Furst. “I’ll sort this out, sweetie,” she said, giving him an incriminating kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry.”

Furst rubbed the spot furiously, checking for lipstick. Brenda turned and walked down the hallway towards the telephone, giving the men a good view of her undulating behind. “Won’t be a tick.”

She dialled. There were cigarettes on the table. She tapped one on the glass top and lit it. “Yes, hello, operator,” she said. “Can you connect me to 33176, please?”

“Good girl,” said Walsh, talking into the House phone in Reception. “Say, ‘yes, I’ll wait’.”

“Yes I’ll wait,” said Brenda. She turned to Furst. “Don’t worry about a thing,” she said, indicating Lofty.

She turned back to the telephone. “Mr Walsh? It’s Brenda. Brenda. Yes. Good, thank you. There’s a bit of a problem with Mr Furst. He’s being arrested. Yes, arrested. Carnal knowledge with a minor. Beg pardon? Me. Yes. Almost. In August. That’s right, fifteen. Didn’t I? Gosh, sorry. There’s a policeman here and a funeral director. Just a minute.” She put her hand over the receiver and called out to Lofty. “Mr Walsh would like to talk to you, Constable.”

She sat on the end of the bed and crossed her legs, the towel barely in place, then leaned back and blew a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling. The hotel manager was spellbound.

Lofty took the phone. “Are you there?” he said.

“Just say your name,” said Walsh.

“Constable Doolan,” said Lofty.

“Now just say, ‘yes’ a few times, then ‘certainly, Mr Walsh’, then hand the phone to Furst.”

Lofty said ‘yes’ a few times with a varying intonation, and ‘certainly, Mr Walsh’, then turned to Furst. “He wants to speak to you.”

“What the hell, Pat?” said Furst.

“Al, I apologise. I thought you could use a bit of company. I had no idea she was little more than a child.”

“A chi—?” said Furst. “Oh, my God.” He sat on a chair and covered his face with his free hand.

“Best thing for you to do would be to get out of the country quick as a flash,” said Walsh. “There’s a flying boat going to Sydney tonight. I’ll send one of my blokes around to pick you up in half an hour.”

“What about the police?” said Furst, mumbling into the phone.

“Don’t worry about them. Put the plod back on. In the meantime, pack your bags.”

“Grateful to you, Pat, I mean it.”

“After what you blokes did for us in the war, least I could do.”

Furst handed the phone to Lofty, who listened, said “will do”, and “I understand, Mr Walsh”, and hung up.

Lofty glared at Furst and shook his head and then edged past him out into the hallway.

“What’s going on?” said the hotel manager.

“Nothing to see here,” said Lofty, with what sounded like disgust.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT