Chapter 8: Room with a View to Escape
I was seated in the backseat of one of Regan’s cars. Cúigear sat on the other end of the back seat with a sawed-off shotgun in his lap, pointed at my gut. But that didn’t have me half as worried as Miss D’Arcy in her frightenly thick glasses behind the steering wheel. I tried closing my eyes and relaxing, but every twist and jolt of the car snapped my eyes open.
Regan had stayed behind at the Rossaveal farm where I’d been taken. I’m sure it’s conveniently location close to the docks and and a quick escape by sea if things went bad was the deciding factor.
We finally pulled into town as the Angelus rang. D’Arcy parked along the dock and we walked the rest of the way to the Great Southern Hotel. I thought about legging it, but Cúigear had the Webley tucked in his waist band and the shotgun in a satchel he carried. I was carrying an identical satchel full of cash. Regan didn’t want to buy back whatever was stolen, but it was ‘Plan B’ if needed. A gentleman never asks what’s in a lady’s purse, but it was safe to assume that Miss D’Arcy had a deadly secret or two in her large handbag.
We were let into the Great Southern Hotel through a back door by a bellhop. Cúigear and I waited in a service hallway while D’Arcy confirmed the room number at the front desk and picked up a spare key. The plan was for me to go in first and somehow try to get the information Regan wanted, “serendipitously.” When that happened, or it looked like it wasn’t going to, I was supposed call in Cúigear and things would get messy. What I planned to do was walk in the door, grab my so-called client, climb out a window, find a place to hold up, and figure out a way to survive this mess.
Both plans failed when I found the room empty. I thought about bolting anyway and leaving Miss Schrödinger or whatever her real name was, but I needed more information if I was going to find a way out of this alive. I figured I had some time before Cúigear grew impatient and barged in, so in the meantime I tried my hand at some actual detective work.
Whoever she was, my ‘client’ was obviously very confident in her hide-in-plain-sight strategy. The room she was staying in was a far cry from the well-worn, homey feel of the Daisy Hill Hotel. This was Galway City’s top hotel and little expense was spared in its decoration. The furniture all looked like they were new antiques and the linen was sparkling white. Accents of Irish lace were everywhere.
It was clear ‘my client’ hadn’t checked out yet. There were plenty of clothes and personal items in the room, but nothing to give away her true identity or current whereabouts. The scent of her perfume filled the room and I was brought back to the day she came into my office. I got that feeling again that I might have met her before somewhere, perhaps . . . I was missing something obvious and I feared it going to get me killed.
I tried searching the room more thoroughly for the stolen property, but without knowing what it was my search was fairly pointless. I remembered the fire that had destroyed the accountant’s office earlier in the week. Maybe the ‘it’ might be a second set of books that’d put Regan in jail if the Guards got it. But ‘it’ could’ve been anything. Heck, it could’ve been one of the wigs on the dressing table.
The wigs, three of them on four wig stands: one blonde, one brown, one grey, and one . . . missing. That nagging itch about meeting ‘Miss Schrödinger’ before was suddenly getting scratched, but I’d have to see her again to be sure.
That’s when the impatient Cúigear and D’Arcy entered the room, both with pistols drawn.
“She’s not here,” I said trying to defuse the situation with the gentle tone of my voice.
Cúigear dropped his satchel, with the sawed-off in it, on the chair next to where I had put the other satchel full of money. He and D’Arcy closed the door and started searching the room. I thought I’d jump out of my skin waiting for them to be far enough from the satchels for me to make my move. When I thought D’Arcy and Cúigear were otherwise distracted, I slid silently over to the chair and opened Cúigear’s satchel. That’s when D’Arcy caught me with both my hands in the proverbial cookie jar.
It was those damned glasses; I hadn’t been able to tell where she was looking. She leapt across the room and bounced on the satchel with the sawed-off shotgun. I put my hands up and backed up against the wall. “Can ye blame me for trying?” I said with a shrug and a smile.
D’Arcy didn’t say anything in reply, but pulled out the sawed-off shotgun and threw the empty satchel at Cúigear. They looked at each other and I could tell they were desperate and about to be at each other’s throat, with me in the crossfire.
“We could keep searching the room,” I suggested. “Maybe the stolen . . . yoke is here.”
They shrugged at each other, but didn’t continue the search.
“Or maybe the three of us can just sit here doing nothing,” I said, “order some room service and hope the problem solves itself. Regan’s known for being patient, right?”
They say the best cons are the ones where the ‘marks’ think the plan is their idea.
“She might be at my office,” I suggested.
“But she could come back here at any moment,” D’Arcy said, stress clearly in her voice.
“Either of you saints capable of bilocation?” I asked.
“Maybe we should split up,” D’Arcy suggested. I suppressed the urge to cheer.
“That could work,” I said. “Cúigear can stay here while . . .”
“Ní,” Cúigear spat angrily and snatched the shotgun back from D’Arcy.
“Fine,” I said as I sat on the bed and put my feet up. “I don’t mind staying here and . . .”
“I will stay,” D’Arcy said squaring her shoulders. “Cúigear, you keep an eye on Mr. Browne while I search the hotel room again.”
It wasn’t exactly the match up I was hoping for, but the odds were getting better.