The City of Strangers (20 page)

The older man smiled. ‘Ernie Phelan was telling me.’

He looked across the room in the direction of Inspector Phelan who was talking vociferously to some junior officers, all listening with dutiful attention, waiting anxiously for him to hit the punchline of a very long joke.

‘You chose the right man to save from a beating. Mikey Phelan’s father’s got a long way to go in the NYPD. I’d put my money on him getting to Chief of Department, and not too many years from now. Aaron’s already a captain. You’ve met them all haven’t you? Mikey’s father, his brother?’

‘Yes, at the parade.’

‘Mikey’s Mikey, of course. He’ll settle down though.’

‘I don’t think he’ll be doing that today,’ smiled Stefan. ‘He’s here somewhere, investigating something, but I don’t think she was interested.’

Carroll laughed. As a waiter passed by with a tray of drinks he lifted one off. He took a sip and looked at Stefan for a moment, more serious.

‘You should think about it yourself.’

‘About what?’

‘The NYPD.’

It was Stefan Gillespie’s turn to laugh.

‘Why not? You wouldn’t find it so hard to get in either.’

‘I’m not looking to emigrate, Mr Carroll.’

‘If you’ve got what it takes, you’ve got what it takes, and something tells me you have. I don’t have a lot of time for the Guards, but I’d have thought even Ned Broy could find something better to do with you than stick you out with the mountainy men.’ The American grinned. ‘And you know people who matter here already. That’s some going in a couple of days.’

‘Well, it’s a bigger thought than I had in mind.’

‘You should think big thoughts, Stefan. They’re the only ones worth thinking. That’s why I’m standing here, with this, instead of carrying a hod.’

‘Maybe someone has to stay in Ireland.’

‘Does it feel that much like you’ve even left?’

‘It didn’t in McSorley’s this afternoon.’

Dominic Carroll slapped him on the back in a way that was almost fatherly; he reached out his hand and grabbed the arm of a man passing by.

‘Seán, come and meet Stefan Gillespie!’

The man stopped. He turned a serious, slightly preoccupied face towards Stefan Gillespie, as if interrupted in the middle of something important, though he had been doing nothing and talking to nobody. He was in his late forties, his hair starting to recede; his eyes moved from Stefan to Dominic Carroll, and kept moving, around the room, as if he still had something else on his mind. He wore a dark suit that had seen better days, and had seen them some time ago. Unlike most people he wasn’t drinking.

‘Seán Russell, Stefan Gillespie. You may know who Seán is.’

Stefan simply nodded. He didn’t know what Dominic Carroll expected him to say, but he sensed that the American enjoyed putting people at a disadvantage; the best way to deal with it had to be to do nothing. He shook the IRA chief of staff’s hand. Russell’s handshake was very quick and slightly tentative. He was waiting to be told who he was talking to.

‘Stefan’s a Garda sergeant,’ the Clan na Gael president announced.

‘Well,’ said Russell with a curt smile, ‘that’s unexpected.’

‘He says he’s not Special Branch, but then perhaps he would do.’

‘You’re having a good time anyway?’ The IRA man smiled again, more warmly for a moment. He knew Carroll’s fondness for mischief.

‘I’m only here a few days, Mr Russell.’

‘He’s on his way home with an axe-murderer, isn’t that it?’

He clapped Stefan on the back again, more forcefully, laughing.

‘It’s a state secret. At least Dev would like it to be, right Sergeant?’

Russell looked puzzled, understanding none of it, as his host led him away, amused, offering no explanation about de Valera and axe-murderers.

As they walked across the room Stefan was surprised to see Captain John Cavendish coming towards him, his path crossing Dominic Carroll’s and Seán Russell’s. The army officer was in the dark blue dress uniform of the Irish infantry; there were red stripes on the trousers; on the jacket white, starred epaulettes, white braid, a red and white belt. He stopped and spoke to the host and the IRA chief of staff. They all shook hands with studied politeness.

The conversation was short, but there was time for Seán Russell and John Cavendish to exchange a joke. It was clear the intelligence officer and the IRA leader knew one another. The captain walked on, saying hello to several people, working his way to Stefan Gillespie in a way that made his eventual arrival more like chance than intent. He had seen Stefan before Stefan saw him. He reached him by the windows over the park.

‘I see you had a chat with the chief of staff.’

‘I think it was Mr Carroll’s idea of a joke.’

‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen Seán myself. We don’t move in the same circles normally, but I’ve bumped into him from time to time. He was my commanding officer once, in 1920, before the Treaty.’ Cavendish was more thoughtful, but then he laughed. ‘He was a pain in the arse even then.’

‘He wouldn’t have reckoned much to the uniform.’

‘Wasn’t it fancy dress then? I always get these things wrong –’

The captain looked out over Central Park and sipped his drink.

‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning and drive to the World’s Fair.’

Stefan was immediately aware that this was about the package he would be taking back to Dublin when he left New York with Owen Harris.

‘I’d appreciate that. I’d like to get a look at it, however brief.’

The G2 man nodded, turning back to the party, scanning the crowd.

‘I wouldn’t have expected to see you here,’ said Stefan.

‘At least I was invited!’

‘Well, I came with the NYPD.’

‘You’re right, that’s invitation enough around here. Carroll always has a big Lá le Padraig bash,’ continued the captain. ‘It’s good to see who’s at these things. Who’s chatting to who, and who isn’t! It beats reading about it in the social column. But I’m actually among the guests of honour this year.’

‘You and Seán Russell?’

‘Quite possibly. There’s a thought. No, he asked everyone from the Irish Pavilion at the Fair. Now the thing’s open, some people are going home, so we’re all here to have our success toasted. And we’re not the only ones. There’s the Cork hurling team. I think you can spot them as the lads most obviously destined for a very good night and a very bad morning. At least they’re ahead of the game at the minute from what I’ve seen. The consulate staff always politely decline Mr Carroll’s invitation, but then there are even more important bashes for them to go to at City Hall and the like. And other consuls make up for it.’

He gestured idly across the room with his glass.

‘The man in the horn-rimmed glasses is the German consul general, Becker, cornered by a gaggle of congressmen and a couple of state senators. A heavy conversation about keeping America out of the war, I think. As a fellow neutral I’m tempted to go and join in. The man behind the consul, in the brown suit, the one who’s nodding and not saying much, works in the German Tourist Office, Herr Katzmann. But he’s an intelligence officer really, Abwehr. He might not have much to say to Seán and Dominic today, except “Top o’ the Morgen”, but they’ll be down to it soon enough, sorting out the parade past the GPO after Germany’s flattened Britain. Or did you think your new pal Carroll was in Berlin for tea with his long-lost Uncle Fritz?’

The pianist had stopped playing. There was a round of applause as a boy and girl in their early teens moved across to the small platform where the piano stood and people began to gather round it. The boy had a bodhrán, the girl an accordion; he started to beat out the rhythm of ‘The Lark in the Morning’; toes began to tap and a few hands to clap.

As Stefan and John Cavendish walked forward, away from the window, Stefan noticed two men, in their mid-twenties, staring at them. They both looked red-faced and slightly dishevelled; they had been drinking at a rate that was now catching up with them. Cavendish seemed unaware of them, looking towards the young musicians.

One of the men, small and dark, stepped in front of them. The other, taller, heavier, grabbed his arm to pull him back.

‘Will you leave it, Colm!’

But Colm shook off his friend’s hand.

John Cavendish smiled at the fierce, glowering face in front of him. He had no idea why the man looked so angry, except that he was very obviously drunk. In fact the young man had been watching Captain Cavendish for a long time before approaching.

‘How’s it going, lads?’ said Cavendish benignly. ‘I heard a bit of the match on the radio in the car.’ He turned to Stefan. ‘The lads were hurling at the Polo Grounds this morning. They thrashed New York.’

He looked back at the two hurlers, laughing.

‘And so you should have, coming from Cork!’

The dark-haired man steadied himself, his gaze still fixed. In the background the music continued, and most eyes were on the stage. Stefan assumed, like Cavendish, that they were dealing with a lad who had had too much to drink and just taken an arbitrary dislike to someone. The captain glanced back at Stefan and shrugged; a few more words – then let’s walk on.

‘The lads are with the Cork team. Did you ever play yourself, Stefan?’

‘We’re not great ones for hurling in Wicklow,’ smiled Stefan.

‘What’s your name, Mister?’ asked Colm, still staring, glaring. It didn’t look like the confused anger of drunkenness to Stefan; it was as if the man was trying to put together something that he saw in Cavendish’s face.

‘I’m John Cavendish.’ The army officer held out his hand.

The dark-haired man didn’t shake it. If anything he stared harder.

‘Were you ever in Cork yourself, Mister?’

‘I have been over the years.’

‘And when was that?’

‘Too long ago!’

Cavendish laughed, but now he looked slightly puzzled as well.

‘Come on, Colm.’

The other hurler grabbed his friend’s arm again, but as he tried to pull him away, Colm turned angrily.

‘Will you fuck off, Ryan!’

He pushed away the hand once more, and stepped even closer to the man in the uniform, into the space where a stranger’s proximity starts to threaten.

‘West Cork, was it? Was one of them times in Béarra maybe?’

‘Do we know each other, Mr –’

‘Perhaps you should be telling me, Mr Cavendish?’

‘I think this has gone far enough, don’t you? You’re not in a pub.’

The captain had had enough.

An older man was suddenly there, tall, grey-haired, bearded. There were three younger men with him, clearly Cork hurlers too, the worse for wear but in nothing like the state of Colm. The older man was very sober.

‘What’s this about, Colm? What do you think you’re doing?’

The dark-haired hurler took a step back, and finally took his eyes from John Cavendish. Applause and cheering marked the end of ‘The Lark in the Morning’ and the boy and girl launched into ‘Out on the Ocean’.

‘I was just talking to Mr Cavendish here! Would you know him?’

‘Get out of here and sober up. I’d say it’s high time we were going.’

Colm didn’t move. He turned back to John Cavendish with a look that was no longer just petulant, angry, aggressive; it was a look of real hatred. Stefan could feel it, even though it wasn’t directed at him. He had no doubt that Cavendish felt it too. Despite the noise of the music and the clapping of hands in time, people were beginning to look round at what was going on.

‘Get him away and give him some coffee,’ snapped the older man.

The other hurlers shuffled uncertainly round their friend. Two of them grabbed his arms. They moved him through the crowd into another room. He went without protest now. The older man was clearly embarrassed, and felt his own responsibility for the scene. He looked from Cavendish to Stefan.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into him. Well, I do know what got into him, and too much of it.’ He attempted a smile, and both Cavendish and Stefan responded in kind, but they were all uneasy with what had happened; all the more so because it had come out of nowhere.

‘It’s my fault,’ continued the grey-haired man. ‘I’m responsible for them. They’re just lads that’s all. They’re not used to all this. I should have put the lid on it earlier.’

‘I should forget it. These things happen.’

The captain’s voice wasn’t as forgiving as he tried to make it sound. He was more unsettled than he appeared. The two men looked at one another. The expression on the bearded man’s face changed. He was no longer thinking about what had just happened, but about the man in front of him. It was recognition. Stefan saw it clearly enough. He was sure the man knew John Cavendish.

For the army officer himself there was something familiar stirring too, but it wasn’t quite recognition; for a moment it was merely a memory. And it had no place here. It was a memory he wasn’t easy with; he hadn’t thought about it in years.

Stefan could almost see that memory in his friend’s face, whatever it was, wherever it came from. In the seconds following he saw that the two men both recognised one another now. They knew each other. But neither of them was going to say a word about it.

The grey-haired man walked off through the crowd, pursuing the young hurlers to another room. John Cavendish watched him for a few seconds and then, whatever memory it was that had disturbed him, he shut it away.

‘Well, you would have thought congratulating the bloody team on a win would go down better than that. Jesus, I could do with another drink.’

He stepped across to a waiter, standing with a tray of drinks. He took one. As he turned back he almost bumped into a woman in her mid-twenties.

Stefan recognised her immediately; the almost shoulder-length hair, and the pale, almost serious almost amused face. She smiled at Cavendish; she was pleased to see him; Stefan thought she was even relieved to see him. But behind the smile she looked like someone who didn’t want to be there. She turned to Stefan; he could feel himself reddening, remembering the last conversation and aware that he was staring at her. But she smiled easily.