The Blood Upon the Rose (21 page)

‘We could that,’ Paddy Daly agreed, glancing at Sean. The young man should not really be in on this discussion, he thought. But I'd trust him with my life; it cannot do much harm. ‘What troubles me,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘is two things. First, how much does the fellow want for them?’

‘A lot, I should think!’ said Collins. ‘That's why he wants to talk to me. Minister of Finance, do you not see it here, at the top of the letter? The man thinks he's writing to a Rockefeller!’

‘Well, that's right. We've not collected all the poor folk's savings just to hand them to some German count. But there's another thing, now, Michael. Is this fellow genuine at all?’

‘And how does it matter if he's not? Do you think I'll be signing him a cheque just for a pretty picture in a catalogue? No guns, no pay, it'll be, Paddy!’

‘I know that, Michael. But does it not strike you too that this is just the sort of pretty fly the British might float on the water to see if we bite? Twenty big Maxim guns would take a deal of carrying. If this man is not all he seems, we'll be leading our lads into one hell of a fine ambush when we take delivery.’

‘That's for us to arrange when we're convinced he's got them,’ Collins said. ‘But first you're right: we need to know if the fellow's genuine. What do you make of the letter?’

He passed it round.

‘It’s proper hotel paper,’ said Mulcahy. ‘And the English is funny, as Paddy said. That could mean he's German.’

‘Or it could mean he just wants us to think he is.’

‘Why Lambert’s Hotel, of all places’' said Brugha suddenly. ‘That's a favourite with old lady dowagers from the colonies, isn't it? If he speaks English as badly as he writes it, he'll stick out like a sore thumb in a place like that.’

‘That’s true.’ Collins sat on the edge of his desk, rubbing his face thoughtfully with the palm of his hand. ‘But I don't have to meet him there. Look, this is what we'll do. I'll write to the fellow and agree to a meeting in a couple of days. Paddy, you go to see him, and if you think he's the genuine article, fix up a time and place. You can take young Sean here and keep watch on him. Find out where he goes, what he looks like, who he meets. That shouldn't be too hard, even in Lambert's. Do you think you can find time in your love life for that, young Sean?’

As always when Michael Collins smiled at him, Sean felt warmed by an inner fire. Despite the man's overbearing ebullience and rowdiness, there was a blaze of energy within him that drew all the Volunteers towards him like moths round a flame. He knew all their names, what they had done, where they came from. His mastery of detail incorporated not only his financial work, his intelligence service, and the administration of the Dublin Volunteers, but also the humanity of the young men and women who worked for him. Those whom he valued he would work into the ground; but they always knew that Collins himself was working harder. If one man can ever gain Ireland's freedom, Sean thought, he can.

He was a little embarrassed that Collins knew of his affection for Catherine. Collins had met her at the Gaelic League, even given her a great big hug when he heard how well she spoke the language. But then Collins did not know, of course, that she had visited him in his new room; and all for his bluff physical heartiness Sean was not sure how Collins would take that. After his experience with the priest, he didn't want to find out.

So he blushed, grinned back boldly, said: ‘A few minutes, Michael, maybe. I'll fit it in while the lady’s doing her hair.’

Collins growled at him and gave him a mock punch in the chest. ‘It's more like a few days this is going to be, Seaneen! You joined up to be a soldier, not a love-sick poet, you know! I want you to find that German and watch him like he was the Countess Cathleen herself - or Mata Hari, if that's what you young fellows prefer. If your young lady's lonely the while, send her to Uncle Michael - I could do with some lessons in the Gaelic. Now clear off out of it -we've serious business to discuss!’

12

AS MICHAEL COLLINS had said, the Lambert Hotel was not the sort of place where Sinn Fein supporters often stayed. Neither was it a place well known to officers of the British Army - people who might know Andrew by sight, and be surprised to see him addressed as Manfred von Hessel. It was, in fact, a moderately genteel establishment favoured by the elderly. There were several permanent residents, old ladies and gentlemen who tottered in and out amongst the potted palms and giant aspidistras that were a feature of the place. They had their own set routine: coffee each morning in the heated conservatory, where the proprietor's pet canaries were allowed to flutter freely in the luxuriant foliage overhead, bringing back reminiscences, for some, of younger days in Malaya and Burma; their own tables in the dining room, with the best views of cold winter streets outside; and evenings for bridge and whist each Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday.

The owners of the hotel, in their sixties themselves, cherished these ancient residents just as they cherished the plants, the antique, polished furniture and the exquisite arrangements of dried flowers and stuffed birds that were everywhere under bell jars, to keep them free of dust. Their other clientele - middle-aged commercial travellers, and foreigners visiting the city for the races, perhaps, or the theatre - were treated with a detached, gentle courtesy that made it clear to them that they were guests in a unique establishment with unchanging traditions and a quiet, restful charm all of its own.

After a day or so, most guests either decided that they liked it, or left, shaking their heads in despair.

Andrew - as Manfred von Hessel - liked it very much.

He liked it for several reasons. First, no one who knew him as Andrew Butler would ever come to a place like this. Second, it was highly improbable that there were any active Sinn Feiners on the hotel staff. The staff were mostly too old, and lost in a dreamy backwater, to care about such matters. So his room was unlikely to be searched, or his movements spied on. And third, he hoped the hotel would appear to Collins as a plausible, if slightly eccentric, choice for a foreigner who wished to avoid the unwelcome attention of the authorities. Hotels used by Sinn Feiners might at any time be searched by the police or army, and Manfred von Hessel would naturally want to avoid any risk of that.

But the fourth reason was that it was only five minutes' walk from his own town house, in Nelson Street.

Apart from an elderly housekeeper, Mrs Sanderson, who came in once a week, the house was empty. The solitude pleased him. In the evenings, he sat alone by his fire, brooding, and listened to the occasional shout or clatter of sound from the street. He felt a little like a ghost, and relished the thought.

He had had a second key made, for Radford.

Andrew hated the idea of cooperating with Radford at all. But if it had to be done, they would have to meet face to face - telephones or letters were impossible. And so the house in Nelson Street was a godsend.

He had met Radford there twice in the past week - once to explain his plan, once to take delivery of a leather bag with two oilskin packages in it. The second time he had shown Radford his letter to Collins before it was sent. They had agreed to meet tonight at eight o'clock, to discuss the response, if any. Andrew hoped someone would have got in touch with him before then.

The first approach came at four o'clock. He was sitting in the conservatory of the Lambert Hotel, sipping tea. There was an animated discussion at the table opposite him, about the relative merits of the Raffles Hotel in Singapore, and the Imperial in Colombo. Andrew listened with amusement. The canaries flitted to and fro in the shrubbery, and he wondered what would happen if they dropped something unpleasant in the old people's tea.

An elderly waiter pushed aside a swathe of dangling greenery. ‘Count von Hessel? I'm sorry to trouble you, sir, but there is a gentleman to see you.’

‘Oh? Send him through, please.’

In a few moments the greenery was moved aside again, this time by a large, healthy-looking Irishman in a thick coat and flat cap. He looked suspicious and ill at ease in these surroundings, as Andrew had expected he would.

‘Count von Hessel?’

‘Yes.’ Andrew smiled, stood up, clicked his heels together with a small bow, and held out his hand, in the way that his mother's German relations did. The Irishman shook hands, frowning.

Andrew said: ‘And you?’

‘Er - Daly. Patrick Daly.’

‘Will you sit down? Some tea, perhaps?’

‘No, thank you.’ Paddy Daly glanced irritably at the ancient residents, who were scrutinizing him avidly from their table behind two potted palms. ‘Look, is there somewhere else we could talk? It's a private - a business matter.’

‘As you wish.’ Andrew turned, and bowed politely to the old people. ‘You will excuse us, I hope. Some day I must speak to you of the delights of the Hotel Otto von Bismarck in Dar es Salaam. This way, please, Mr Daly.’

He led the way to his rooms on the third floor. He had a sitting room and a bedroom, both facing out on to the street. Andrew lit the oil lamp and indicated an armchair, but before he sat down, Daly walked to the window and stood there, gazing out.

‘A fine view you have, Mr Hessel,’ he said.

‘It is a beautiful city, in the daytime,’ Andrew agreed. But now, at four o’clock, it’s getting dark, he thought. And no doubt you make a fine silhouette there in the lamplight, for whoever is watching from the street outside. So now your friends know which room I'm in. It's as good a way of signalling as any.

‘I have a letter for you.’ Daly held it out.

Andrew broke the seal and read.

Dail Eireann

c/o The Mansion House

Dublin

14 January 1920

Count Manfred von Hessel

Lambert Hotel

Dear Count von Hessel,

I have received your proposal which is, on face value, very interesting to me. I will meet you within the next few days. The arrangements will be made by the bearer of this, whom you may trust absolutely.

Michael Collins

Minister of Finance.

Andrew refolded the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, and tapped it on his knee reflectively.

‘So, Mr Daly,’ he said. ‘You are a colleague of Mr Collins. Shall we say a soldier of the Irish Republic?’

‘You can say that,’ Daly agreed.
And who the hell are you?
he thought, as he studied the face before him. The left cheek was horrifically scarred; the white ridge of the scar zigzagging across it like the track of some drunken, sharp-toothed snail; but the rest of the face was sharp, cold, intelligent. Daly had not met any Germans before. He only knew of the propaganda stereotype: square head, bulging eyes, broken, snarling teeth. This man was nothing like that; but then of course he wouldn't be. That was all lies put about by the British. This man seemed suave, confident, with the arrogance of an English landlord. Yet he had those funny foreign mannerisms, and the accent seemed genuine enough.

Nonethless, Daly was suspicious. Bluntly, he said: ‘You say you've got some machine guns to sell. Where are they?’

Andrew raised an eyebrow. He took out a cigarette case, offered one to Daly, and, when the Irishman refused, tapped his own reflectively against the hard metal of the case before lighting it. His voice, when he spoke, was deliberately sharp.

‘I had asked for my proposal to be kept in strictest confidence, but I see you know everything. How many others, then?’

Daly was impressed by his tone. ‘Not many. Only the inner council. I'm the officer in charge of the Dublin Squad. I have to know. Where are these Maxim guns?’

‘In Germany.’ Andrew took a drag of his cigarette and waved his hand contemptuously around the hotel room. The gesture asked:
You think I could hide them here?
He gazed at Daly calmly, assessing his strength. No fool, he thought; no weakling either. He doesn't trust me, and if he decides his opinion is right, he'll kill me without a thought.

Andrew decided to humour him. ‘I have the pistols here, of course. You will like to see them, perhaps?’

He got up and fetched a folding leather bag from a wardrobe. He lifted out an oilskin bundle, unwrapped it carefully, and held out an automatic pistol. It was heavy, clean, well-greased.

Daly looked mildly interested. ‘I’ve used them. 9-mm Parabellum. But it's got a longer barrel than ours.’

‘Correct,’ Andrew said. The weapon was nearly a foot long. ‘This is the artillery model. Much more accurate than the small one, and the sight - is that how you say? - this aiming part, is good for 800 metres. Also, it is possible to fit with this - what we call snail magazine - to hold thirty-two cartridges instead of eight.’

Andrew passed over the pistol and magazine. Both were empty; there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks. Daly played with them curiously for a few moments.

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘But it's a big thing to carry round in your pocket. Have you not got any of the smaller ones?’

‘Unfortunately not. Most officers at the front required the best possible aiming power. I have also this.’ Andrew unwrapped a second oilskin bundle, to reveal an equally large pistol with a magazine in front of the trigger guard, and a large red number 9 stamped on the butt. ‘Mauser Selbstladepistole C-96. Also fires 9-mm Parabellum cartridge.’

Daly examined that too, clearly impressed with the weight and quality of the weapons. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Still, it’s a pity you didn't bring the Maxims.’

Andrew reached inside his jacket pocket, took a photograph out of his wallet, and passed it across. ‘You have not seen a Maxim, perhaps? Here. I have twenty like this.’

Daly looked at the photograph. Despite his suspicion, he was fascinated. The gun was short: about two and a half feet long, perhaps. It was mounted on a low four-legged stand slightly longer than itself. There was a periscope sight at the rear end, and the gunner presumably gripped the gun and fired by looking through this and holding on to two handgrips just below it. There were pads on the rear two legs of the stand, for him to rest his elbows on. There was no stock, so he imagined the stand absorbed most of the recoil. The bullets were fed in by a belt from the side, and a curious long rubber hose trailed from the covered muzzle, ending in what looked like a squashy foot-bellows.