Chapter 9: It Was a Dark & Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night when I left the Great Southern Hotel with an agitated and heavily armed Cúigear in tow. Miss D’Arcy stayed behind to lie in wait for my client, should she return to her room. Cúigear and I walked quickly towards my office just a few blocks away, our shoulders hunched against the lashing rain. We each had our matching satchels: mine with the cash to buy back Regan’s stolen property and his with the sawed-off shotgun to take back Regan’s stolen property. I didn’t know what the stolen property was and didn’t care who ended up with it. I’d have preferred to have gotten some answers, but would settle for surviving the night.

As we approached my office’s building from the opposite side of the street I stopped short, nodding toward my office window. The blinds were up.

“I always shut the window and draw the shade when I leave,” I lied to Cúigear. “She must already be there waiting for me.”

Cúigear made to bolt across the street, but I held him back.

“Play it cool,” I told him. “If she sees or hears you running in the front, she’ll head out the back and be gone for good.”

Cúigear sighed heavily and ground his teeth, but nodded his agreement.

“I’ll stroll in the front and act surprised to see her. While I’m trying to get her to spill the beans as to the location of Regan’s stolen property, you sneak up the back stairs and we’ve got her trapped.”

Cúigear’s grin had nothing to do with joy.

As I crossed the street, Cúigear slipped through the alley between the buildings to the back entrance. Once he was out of sight, I started running. I took the stairs two at a time. If I could get to my safe and load Snuppa with even just one bullet, I knew I would get the drop on Cúigear as he came in through the back door.

I sped through the outer office. Even before I had the inner office door fully open I caught a whiff of my client’s perfume.

My momentum carried me through the doorway and face-to-face with the mysterious red-haired woman who’d sauntered into my life just days ago. I tilted my head to the side and tried to adjust to the fact that my lie to Cúigear turned out to be true. There she was, sitting behind my desk, as elegantly attired as always.

“You’re a lousy host, even when you’re not here,” she said, her German accent gone along with her demur manner from our first meeting. “The only bottle of booze I could find was empty.”

“I know,” I said, “I keep it around to remind me.”

She leaned forward, letting the open buttons on her blouse do some talking, “Of what?”

“Not to trust women.”

She sat up straight. The expression on her face turned from sultry to surly, like that was its natural state.

“And here’s me, not trusting men,” she said in reply.

“It’s okay,” I said, “Snuppa and I are here now.”

Her laugh was not flattering to my ego.

“But let’s talk about your betrayal,” I jumped in to keep her off balance. I didn’t want her to sweet talk me. “How’d you talk a nice church-going man like Schrödinger into a plan to not only steal from, but blackmail one of the biggest criminals in Connacht?”

She chuckled softly to herself as she stood up and circled the desk counter-deiseal, never a good omen. I circled backwards, too, keeping the desk between us. “Schrödinger thought he was helping me. I convinced him that Pat Regan was the one blackmailing me into doing the most sinful of things. That sap was all too eager to play my knight in shining armor; my own personal Templar is how he put it. But then he got cold feet. Schrödinger said he looked at the documents and knew Regan would never let us live just for having them. He said he had to protect me from myself. Go figure.”

“So I don’t suppose you’re going to give me Regan’s documents now.”

“That’s the funniest bit about this whole caper,” she said dismissively as she picked up her purse and began rummaging through it. “I never even had them. I just knew that something embarrassing was in Pat Regan’s medical records and where they were kept.”

My mind raced to the arson the previous week. I thought the accountant’s office had been the target, but it was the doctor, working late in his surgery, who had been the intended victim.

“But why risk stealing them myself,” she continued. “I conned that dumb sap of a piano player into stealing them for me. He thought he was saving my soul. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Imagine that: one human being trusting and helping another. It’s a real laugh riot, that one. But what happened to the documents?”

“Schrödinger wasn’t supposed to open the file, but I guess he couldn’t help himself. Once he read the medical files and knew the score, Schrödinger told me it was best if he and the documents just disappeared. That’s why I hired you to find him while I bluffed Regan into paying me for what I didn’t have.”

“So, even after knowing you set him up, used him and betrayed him . . .”

“Schrödinger was still trying to protect me,” she said wistfully. “Another time and place, I just might have fallen for the fool.”

“And Schrödinger’s devotion to you probably got him killed, drowned at the bottom of the Corrib.”

“Maybe not. Schrödinger’s body wasn’t found and he was a strong swimmer,” she said, surprising me with her optimism that Schrödinger might still be alive. “But I’m just as happy not to share the take.” With that, she pulled a nickel-plated Colt Model 1903 Pocket Hammerless out of her bag and pointed in straight at my heart. “Put whatever firearms you have with you and that satchel on the desk, in that order.”

“I’m not sure that’s in my best interest,” I said.

“You’ll find,” she said with a touch of malice, “that it’s best if you just let me have what I want, when I want it.”

I began wondering when Cúigear, who I had just been hoping to shoot a minute ago, would burst in and rescue me.

I placed Snuppa gently on the desk, followed by the satchel at an angle so it’d tip over and that I could gauge her reaction. She flinched, but didn’t jump. With the desk between us, there was no way to rush her without her getting off a couple of shots. Her steady hand told me she wouldn’t need two.

She picked up the satchel and knocked Snuppa into the far corner of the office.

“You’re not going to count it?” I asked.

“No point, is there? However much it is, it’s all I’m going to get out of Regan.”

“Don’t you even want to check that it’s actually cash? I haven’t had a chance to open the satchel myself. It could be filled with cut up newspapers. I’d kind of like to know if I went through all this for nothing.”

As she quickly opened the satchel, I inched back toward the bookshelf. “I know you won’t share any of that cash with me, but maybe I could have a souvenir for all my troubles.” She looked up at me quizzically as she closed the latch. “Leave the wig, Lucille de Burgh.”

That stopped her cold. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it without saying anything.

“I haven’t seen you in decades and the veil and the wig and fake accent fooled me at first, but I started putting the pieces together when your brother, of all the Guards who could’ve been working this case, tried to warned me off. That jogged my memory. You knew I’d never trust you, not after everything you pulled as a kid. So, rather than simply asking me for help, you remembered my weakness for red-heads. It was a good scheme, but I’m a better detective.”

Lucille snatched the red wig angrily off her head and threw it on the desk. She shook out her black, wavy hair and gave me the evil eye.

“It doesn’t matter now, anyway. I don’t need it anymore,” she said, all trace of the fake German accent gone. She picked up the satchel and backed toward the door. “But I do have one more little souvenir for you to keep.”

She raised the pistol from pointing at my chest to pointing at my head and smirked.  Just then, the back door of my office swung open.

“Please don’t shoot him, Lucille.” That wasn’t Irish or the double blast of a sawed-off shotgun. It was Inspector Lynn S. de Burgh holding his British Bull Dog revolver at his big sister’s back.

Lucille’s gun didn’t waiver, but she risked a glance with her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“And what took you so long?” I asked Lynn.

“I was busy arresting a rather nasty gentleman downstairs who tried to shoot me with an unloaded sawed-off shotgun,” Lynn said. “Does he belong to either of you?”

I reached into my coat pocket and tossed the two shotgun shells I’d managed to take from Cúigear’s gun back in the hotel room before Miss D’Arcy grabbed the satchel away from me. “You’re welcome,” I said.

“I told you to leave this case alone,” Lynn said.

“You also said not to trust anyone,” I reminded him. “Does that include you?”

“Oh, I think you can trust me not to side with my big sister on anything,” Lynn said.

“You were always such a pest,” Lucille snarled at her brother, “I should’ve smothered you in the crib when mum and dad gave you my blanket!” Her gun-hand didn’t move, but her head had turned to look at Lynn.

“Really, the binky,” Lynn said incredulously, “you’re still upset about the binky?” Lynn lowered his revolver.

When Lucille saw this, she swung her pistol around. Lynn raised his revolver, but I was already in motion. I had the rugby ball off the bookshelf behind me and drop-kicked it, hitting Lucille’s gun-hand, and sending Lucille’s little pistol flying from her grasp.

Lynn had the revolver back up and cocked. “Besides,” he said, getting back to his argument, “you know little Roland got the binky after me. And he’s still got it; so be mad at him . . . or mum and dad!”

Lynn and Lucille continued to argue about childhood issues as he handcuffed her. As he not-so gently escorted her through my outer office, Lynn told me to pick up the satchel and follow him to the Garda Station.

Chapter 10: Epilogue

When I stepped into my outer office, Miss D’Arcy was sitting at the receptionist desk. The arguing de Burgh siblings were already in the hallway, heading down the stairs. Letting out a heavy sigh, D’Arcy took the twin Mauser ‘broom-handle’ pistols offer her lap and placed them on the desk with a double clunk.

“Didn’t feel like waiting around the nice, safe hotel room, Miss D’Arcy,” I commented.

“And miss all the fun, Mr. Browne?” she asked.

“Just another day at the office,” I said.

Tilting her head to the side, Miss D’Arcy asked, “Did you get the stolen documents?”

“No,” I said. “Schrödinger must have had them on him when he went into the river.”

“Mr. Regan will not be pleased with this result.”

“Who won’t be pleased?” I asked, “Patrick Regan?”

“Well, yes . . .”

“Don’t you mean Patricia Regan?” I said.

“How . . . You saw the medical files?”

“No,” I smiled, “but I was always a bit suspicious after I heard Regan had beaten a man to death for saying he had ‘child-bearing hips and a high voice.’ And Lucille just now said that she was trying to blackmail Regan with embarrassing medical documents. But thanks for confirming my suspicions.”

“You have no proof. It would just be your word against . . .”

“I’ve no more interested in exposing Regan’s secret than you do. His secret is safe with us, is it not?”

“Regan is not above killing to silence the truth getting out.”

“Not if he’s afraid that our death would trigger the release of the documents that would prove the rumors,” I said as I opened a desk drawer and pulled out an old telephone book. Weighing the satchel of money and the telephone book in my hands, I figured the weights were close enough. I dumped the cash into the empty drawer and dropped the telephone book into the satchel.

Turning to D’Arcy, I said, “There’s still a way out, for both of us. I’ve got to go answer some questions at the Garda Station, so you telephone the farm in Rossaveal and tell Regan that the two of us are keeping the cash as payment for keeping the documents safe.”

“But we do not have the documents.”

“If you don’t want to get rubbed out, you’re going to have to convince Regan that we do,” I said. “I’ve got to get down stairs before Lynn gets suspicious. Meet me back here tomorrow morning. I should be done being interrogated by then.”

“But why are you helping me? I was prepared to kill you,” Miss D’Arcy said hesitantly as she looked down at her brace of pistols.

“And yet you didn’t,” I replied glancing at the pistols on the desk. “You could’ve gunned us all down when we came out of the office just now, but you didn’t. You spared my life and I’m doing the same for you.”

“And what about Cúigear?”

“Along with all his other crimes and faults, he just tried to kill a Guard and is currently in custody. There’s no helping him now and he’s not in a position to hurt either of us. You can take your chances with Regan or you can accept my offer. What’ll it be, Miss D’Arcy?”

D’Arcy was quiet for several moments. I was beginning to wonder if she’d shoot me after all when she looked up and said, “I think this is could be the beginning of a beautiful partnership, Sir.”

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.

Working for Peanuts

Chapter 7: Reading between Blurred Lines

A bare light bulb shone harshly into my eyes as I came to with a start.

“Welcome back, Mr. Browne,” a woman’s voice said. She was either far away or whispering in my ear.

I couldn’t make out whose voice it was, but it sounded angelic. I was reminded of Sunday school images of heaven, clouds and harps. That’s how I knew I wasn’t dead, as I’m likely headed south when I go.

When I managed to focus my eyes it wasn’t a woman’s face I saw, but Cúigear’s. He was looming over me. At first I thought I was still at the Daisy Hill Hotel and that I’d only been out for a few moments. The stones digging into my back and the strong smell of livestock told me otherwise.

Cúigear looked ready to speak. I held up a hand in pre-emptive protest.

“Jaysus, Cúigear, don’t start speaking Irish at me while my head’s still banging from the wallop you gave me,” I said.

To my surprise he spoke the only two words of English I’ve ever heard him utter. The first was a short guttural verb; the second was “you.” For his kindness I decided that I might let him live, if circumstances permitted.

Cúigear turned and limped away. I had stomped his foot pretty good, but it didn’t appear that I had broken any major bones. ‘Next time,’ I thought to myself.

I sat up gingerly and noticed two things: I was lying on the floor of an old barn being used as a warehouse with large crates stacked in the animal stalls; and I was wearing only my boxers and socks. The latter was by far the odder circumstance of the two.

Pieces of the dream I’d been having floated past my memory. I felt there was something important about my client that I needed to remember, but . . . it was gone. I found myself looking around for where the dream’s images had gone. That’s when I saw the woman who had spoken my name just moments ago.

The voice belonged to a woman seated at a work bench in the far corner.

“Actually, Mr. Browne, I was the one who ‘walloped’ you.” That was Miss D’Arcy, Pat ‘The Peppermint’ Regan’s moll and personal secretary, a petite woman with mousy, shoulder-length brown hair with a fringe. Her large, thick glasses made it impossible to follow her gaze.

“I do apologize for any harm done,” Miss D’Arcy said, “but we had our instructions.”

“And what instructions were those; to just mostly kill me?”

“Sir insisted on speaking to you,” she said, “and we could not take the chance you would refuse.”

“Easier to ask forgiveness,” I muttered.

“If it makes you feel any better, your head did crack my favourite hurley.”

It actually did help a bit, but I kept it to myself. At least it wasn’t my brother-in-law, the Guard, who struck me. Although that didn’t mean Lynn wasn’t in on it. I hoped he hadn’t been the one giving orders from behind the scenes. But that’s when I remembered who else had been beaten.

“What about Róisín? Is she going to be alright?”

“Mrs. Grey is just grand,” Miss D’Arcy said. “I called for an ambulance and she was already regaining consciousness as we left.”

I heard Miss D’Arcy tinkering with something metallic on the bench in front of her. When I started to stand up for a better look she picked up a Mauser C96, one of the new select-fire models with the extended magazine, and pointed it at my head.

“Please remain seated, Mr. Browne.” The devilish menace of the pistol was counterpoint to the politeness of her tone. I believed she really was concerned for my health, even if she was the one threatening it.

“In that case,” I said, “I’ll continue to sit here in the dirt while you get back to whatever it is you were doing before I was so rude as to regain consciousness.”

“I am just about finished reassembling your pistol, Mr. Browne.”

“Tis not proper for a young lady to handle a strange man’s gun,” I quipped.

“Tis less proper still for a man to have a gun he cannot fire,” she retorted without hesitation.

“To be fair,” I said defensively, “I was ambushed and . . .”

“Yes, Mr. Browne, I was there. And you are correct: it was not a fair fight.”

It’s hard to argue with someone who keeps agreeing with you and so I had no reply.

“No,” Miss D’Arcy continued, “what I meant was that while I was just after unloading your weapon. I noticed it was in need of a thorough cleaning.”

I resisted the urge to ask how she could see all of that. Maybe they weren’t so much a pair of glasses as twin magnifying glasses.

“When I field-stripped your weapon,” she continued, “I was surprised how fouled your gun was. It is possible you would not have gotten a shot off, even if you had been slightly quicker on the draw.”

“And you think you’re up to the task of cleaning my gun?” I quipped with a wink and immediately regretted it.

“In my position working for Sir, I have had plenty of practice in just this sort of task.”

“I guess I’ve been remiss in my gun maintenance and should thank you,” I said. “I haven’t had much call to shoot my gun lately.”

Having completed the reassembly, she looked up and said, “I also have not been doing a lot of  . . . shooting . . . lately myself, Mr. Browne.”

With that, Miss D’Arcy stood up and cradled the Colt in her left hand. With her right hand, she picked up the Mauser and let it hang by her side. She walked around the work bench and half the distance to me.

Holding up my pistol and reading the name engraved on the slide she said, “Here you go, Mr. Browne. ‘Snuppa’ returned in clean and working order to its proper owner.”

She tossed me my piece and I caught Snuppa in my lap. I felt the weight of him in my hands and gave her a look.

“He feels a wee bit light,” I said as I checked the magazine and saw that it was empty.

“The return of your property is a courtesy, Mr. Browne. You will not be the one doing any shooting in the task at ahead.”

“When this is all done, and if we’re still both alive, maybe we could take in some . . . target practice,” I said, “just the two of us.”

“Are ya chatting up my woman, Chuck?”

Pat Regan burst into the barn, as loud as ever and with Cúigear in tow. Regan was dressed in a wide striped, double breasted suit with a large pocket square to match the brightly coloured tie. A roguishly tilted fedora obscured one eye and gave a menacing shadow to Regan’s face. Some say Regan’s flamboyant style is a tad feminine, but only to themselves as everyone knows the rumour that Regan beat a man to death for saying less.

“Sir,” Miss D’Arcy said as she stepped back immediately and raised the Mauser so it was pointed unwaveringly at my head. I was encouraged to see her finger was not on the trigger.

Cúigear, holding what looked like a pile of my clothes, smirked over Regan’s shoulder at me.

“Why am I not dead, yet? And why is he holding my clothes?”

“Because,” Regan said, “you have the good fortune to be back in my employ.”

“I work for myself,” I said getting to my feet and mentally noting that Regan had only answered the first of my questions. “And I’ve already got a client.”

“Ya ain’t working for that thieving musician and his blackmailing dame no more!”

Who was I to interrupt someone filling in the blanks for me?

“Schrödinger’s out of the picture,” Regan continued in a roar, “but we’ve got a lead on that . . . that Jezebel.” Cúigear spat on the ground in disgust. “Either ya help me or I let Cúigear here kill ya, slow. What do ya say, Chuck? One last caper, for ole time sake? Ya help me get back what was stole from me before it goes public and we’re square over that shipment you dumped. Are ya in, Chuck, or are ya dead?”

What else could I say at the moment except, “I’ll need my clothes back first.”

Regan smiled and D’Arcy lowered her pistol.

“Fair play to ya,” Regan said to me and to Cúigear, “Now that we don’t have to worry about him running away, you can give the man his clothes back. Ye got a job to finish.”

“Why don’t you begin by catching me up on what your Guard source is telling ya,” I said fishing for information as I began to dress.

“What ‘Guard source’ are ya banging on about?” Regan asked. “I don’t work with them traitors. I’ve got more reliable sources, usually.”

Regan gave an accusative glare at Miss D’Arcy and Cúigear before turning back to face me.

“So where do we start?” I asked.

“Like I said, Schrödinger’s no longer in play . . .”

“Rubbed out?” I asked, turning to Cúigear.

Regan pressed on, ignoring my accusation. “We got a tip that ‘your client’ is staying at the Great Southern Hotel under the name ‘Miss Regan,’ of all things.”

“Too clever by half,” D’Arcy said as I dressed.

“So why involve me?”

“I don’t want to spook her,” Regan said. “The most important thing is to get back what belongs to me. Your job is to find out if Schrödinger gave her what he took and if anyone else is in on it. I need to know who knows what before I make my next move.”

“But I’m not allowed to know what’s going on?”

“I’d’ve thought ya’d be used to living with disappointment by now, ole friend.”

It was a lousy plan born of desperation. However, I had little choice but to go along with it and wait for a chance to turn the tables back in my favour. I didn’t like my odds.

Chapter 6: The Graveyard of Dreams

I reached under the table and retrieved Snuppa. The blow to the back on my head came just as I straightened up. Before I could reproach myself too harshly for being outflanked by a second sneak-attack my vision tunneled as the lights flickered and dimmed . . .

The already dim rugby stadium lights seem to flicker, causing a dizzying effect. The clock is stopped with seven seconds left and our team is down by two points, thanks to my previously missed conversion. We are just inside the twenty meter line, between the uprights. One easy penalty goal and I could still be the hero of the match. The referee blows his whistle and the clock starts again. The scrum-half kneels down and places a finger on the ball to keep it upright against the strong, increasing head wind. Only, I am focused on the red curls poking out the scrum-half’s helmet; it doesn’t seem right. Distracted, but pressed for time I take my three steps. I plant my left leg and swing my right foot with all my might and . . .

I am soaring through empty space, suspended in mid-air . . .

Flying amongst clouds, in the cockpit of my Sopwith Camel. My squadron is on a standard scouting mission. A ‘milk-run’ they said; ‘Just stay in formation and don’t get lost in the clouds,’ they said. The clouds all look like giant albino pumpkins, with laughing faces . . .

I look to the nearest airplane. Peg is in the cockpit . . . holding up little Jeannie. That doesn’t seem safe. Suddenly a line of holes appears in her airplane from tail to nose. First oil and then flames spill from the engine. Peg looks at me pleading. I motion for her to throw Jeannie to me. Peg stands up, cradling Jeannie in her arms and jumps and . . .

They land softly on a cloud, Jeannie giggling with delight. Their airplane, a fiery meteorite, plummeting towards the ground . . .

I try to keep a visual on their cloud as it drifts behind me and to my right. Suddenly a repetitive pinging to my left brings my attention back to my own cockpit. My lower left wing is in tatters and threatening to tear off. More bullets zip past my airplane. Yet another airplane in front and to my right bursts into flames and spirals down, down, down . . .

Looking back over my left shoulder I find him: the Baron von Richthofen, silk scarf flowing behind him in his red Fokker Driedecker. I dive right; more pings. I swoop left; more pings. I try to climb, but stall. Suddenly, the Red Baron is beside me. He throws a stack of money at me and shouts, “Für das Flugzeug!”

Corkscrewing ever closer and closer to the ground, I fight in vain for control of the lifeless airplane. I aim, desperately towards an open field. A hay bale looms ahead and I leap from the cockpit. I bounce once and land . . .

On my feet, I straddle the goal line. The score isn’t even close, again. But I was sure, surely this time, I would stop this penalty shot. They can’t all get past me, can they?

 The forward’s approach is fast and the lift good. The hurley strikes the sliotar with a crack. The ball comes rocketing towards me: fast, faster! I try to raise my hurl to block, but cannot move. It strikes my temple and sends me tumbling, end over end over end over end . . .

I sit up amongst my strewn clothes, with only my boxers and socks still on me . . .

Everyone’s eyes are on me, silent, shocked . . . a girl, Lynn’s older sister, stands up in the bleachers. She removes her red-knit cap to reveal dark, curly locks. She points and laughs . . . The spark that ignites the powder keg . . . Everyone bursts into howls of laughter . . .

Humiliation. I run for the dressing room. My team mates laughing and pointing. I run faster, but it is too far. I turn to the fence and run faster. My feet finally make contact with the ground and propel me forward. I reach the fence and fling myself over the top and . . .

I land in the tall grass. Panic! I hop on top of the grass. Running along the blades of grass. Cutting into my feet. In the far distance is a red barn. More running, but no progress . . . The barn remains ever distant, beyond my reach . . . The barn, red and inviting: Safety . . . if only I can reach the little red barn with the pointing dog weather vane . . .

And then as if by magic, I am at the double doors and stumble through them. Inside is vast and elaborate. Past the swimming pool is a concert hall. I am greatly under dressed and my ticket reads that I am late . . . very, very late. The hall is enormous, with a giant chandelier. There are no other audience members, but the concert had already begun . . . The sound of a complete orchestra fills and echoes in the massive hall. On stage . . . a lone musician huddles over a tiny, child’s toy piano . . . beautiful Jazz tickles my ears and I feel . . .

Safe. Finally safe . . . Relaxing into the moment . . . letting the music sweep over me. I sink into my seat and lean back . . . staring up at the chandelier . . . the myriad of crystal lights spin and consolidate into . . .

A bare light bulb shone harshly into my eyes.

“Welcome back, Mr. Browne.”

Chapter 5: Old Friends

The next morning I had a bit of a lie-in. As the Guards were likely still at the Daisy Hill Hotel, I figured there was no rush getting back there. I went out for a full Irish and to peruse the papers to plan my next move, if I had one.

My tea went cold as I scanned, read, and then thoroughly re-read every page of the papers looking for any mention of what had happened at the Daisy Hill Hotel last night to warrant such a large number of Guards.

But there was nothing in any of the papers. Not a word! Not even a story about the Guards refusing to make any statements about what may or may not have happened. In fact the only crime related story was about the previous week’s fatal fire at a local office building that destroyed a surgery and an accountant agency, which was now officially being called ‘arson.’ There wasn’t even anything about someone going into the river last night. The size of the cover-up made me worried about what else was going on in the Irish Free State that the public wasn’t being told.

I forked half a rasher in my mouth and left a large bill on the table.

I arrived back at the Daisy Hill just as the last of the Guards were driving away. With the coast suddenly clear, I walked up the front steps and through the main doors.

Sitting at the front desk was a haggard looking former classmate. Róisín Grey’s blood-shot eyes said she’d been up all night, but her make-up looked freshly applied. The high, tight bun of raven black hair she’d worn since school was as secure as ever.

Róisín had married young and well to an hotelier named Sherman Grey. But the War for Independence had taken its toll on her husband’s hotel empire. By the time the Civil War had concluded there were only two hotels left: one in Derry where her husband worked and the Daisy Hill here in Galway. By all accounts, the new border was the best thing that ever happened to their marriage.

I paid for a room, claiming I needed a nap followed by a good night’s sleep due to all the racket my neighbors had been making lately. I even joked about praying there weren’t any musicians staying at the hotel.

“Not anymore,” Róisín said out the side of her mouth. “A number of guests have recently checked out early and you’ll be our only guest, for the time being.”

I’m sure she spotted my lie, but she likely assumed it was due to the impending eviction from my house. It was common knowledge and Róisín had never been one to miss out on a good piece of gossip. However, she politely let it slide without comment.

Once upstairs I walked straight past my room and paused beside the one door with a busted door frame.

I scanned the corridor. Satisfied that I was alone, I slipped Snuppa out of his holster, and thumbed off the safety. I pushed open the broken door and stepped inside.

The room was wrecked. The only piece of furniture still upright was an armchair, in which sat an armed man.

“Charles,” said the seated man, “I have been waiting.”

“All alone, with a gun in your hand,” I said pointing back with my own pistol.

Inspector Lynn S. de Burgh glanced down at the British Bull Dog revolver in his hand as if just noticing it. He stood up, tall and straight as a light post. He put his hands at his side, but still held the revolver.

Something about seeing Lynn, of all the Guards, got me thinking about my client, Miss Schrödinger. That nagging feeling I’d been having about her since she walked into my office was back. Only it was hard to concentrate with all the guns in the room.

“Please holster your weapon,” Lynn said. “Síle would never forgive us if we shot each other.”

With that, we both put the heaters away and shook hands.

“Speaking of,” I said, “how is my little sister?”

“Herself is doing well,” Lynn replied. “You should come by and say hello. She has been very concerned about you since Peg packed up Jeannie and left. How are things?”

“The same,” I said, “horrible. And yourself? What’s strange?”

“Oh, I am keeping busy. Solving crimes and what not,” Lynn said.

“Yeah, speaking of which . . .”

“Lay off the Schrödinger case,” Lynn said turning from bantering brother-in-law to hard-nosed Guard in a heartbeat.

“Whose room did you say this was? Should we leave, lest he return at any moment and . . .”

“Cut the crap, Charles. I just caught you breaking into Mr. Schrödinger’s room looking for him.”

“Assuming for the moment that you’re correct, could you tell me where . . .”

“A man matching Mr. Schrödinger’s description was seen going into the River Corrib at the Salmon Weir Bridge last night. There is no one for you to find. The case is closed.”

I made note of the fact that Lynn had cleverly avoided using the terms ‘jumped,’ ‘fell,’ or ‘pushed’ to describe how Schrödinger ended up in the river. He was trying to give me just enough information to get me to drop the case without telling me anything important.

“Is that why you shut down any news coverage about what went down here last night? Did you recover Schrödinger’s body? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Take it easy, Charles. I know how you can get, so I am not going to order you to do or not do anything. But as a personal favor to me, not as a Guard, but as your sister’s husband, the father of your nieces, and possibly your last friend . . . do not pick this scab.”

“Is that why you’ve been sitting in the dark, with a gun in your hand? To ask me favours?”

“Let us just say I was waiting for a ‘Prodigal Son’ to return home, but you’ll do.” Lynn headed to the door. “I am done waiting. Come with me. I will drive you back to the house. You can see Síle and the girls. They have not seen Uncle Chuck in a while.”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m sure you picked over this place pretty good, but the least I can do for a paying client is to go through the motions.”

“There is nothing here but grief, Charles. Leave it be.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Don’t they say grief is good for the soul?”

“They are full of shite.”

“So you aren’t going to help me here?”

“Damn it, Charles! I’m an inspector with the Garda Síochána, not your personal security blanket.”

With that, Lynn walked to the door. He stopped with a hand on the handle and said over his shoulder, “Please be careful who you trust.” He left the door open as an invitation to follow, but he wasn’t going to force me.

Lynn was right. There was nothing left to discover in the room.

Knowing that the only business Róisín refused to gossip about was her own, I headed down the back stairs in the hope of finding a bribable chamber maid. What I found was Róisín in the kitchen, on the floor, unconscious.

A swollen gash at her temple told me this wasn’t a much needed nap.

I was entranced by a lock of her hair that had escaped her ever present bun. I couldn’t help but think that although I’d known her since my first day at school (playground games, physical education classes, ferry rides out to Inishmor for school trips, parish dances) that this was the first time I could ever recall Róisín’s hair being out of place. I was stuck with my head tilted like a befuddled puppy when I felt, more than heard or saw, the pantry door open behind me.

Cúigear rushed at me, shillelagh raised to strike.

I reached under my jacket for Snuppa and had just barely cleared leather when Cúigear knocked the pistol out of my hand. I watched it bounce once on the kitchen floor and skip under the table.

With Cúigear winding up for another swing, Bracing my hands, one each on the table and the counter, I kicked Cúigear in the gut with both legs. He doubled over and took several steps back, but he rushed at me again using his head as a battering ram.

His head slammed into my gut, forcing the wind from my lungs, and driving me back into a cabinet. Plates and dishes crashed down around us.

Both his arms wrapped around my waist, Cúigear still managed to block the knee I tried to ram into his chest. But the elbow I smashed between his shoulder blades landed with effect.

As he staggered back, I placed my hands on his shoulders to keep him from straightening up and tried again with my knee.

It fell short as Cúigear stood up and struck my chin with the back of his head. The blow threw me back into the cabinet again.

With all this noise I wondered if Lynn would be here in jig-time to help . . . not that I couldn’t be completely sure he wasn’t the one who let Cúigear off his leash.

Cúigear now held the shillelagh at either end and pressed it hard against my throat. I knew I only had moments to react before I was choked out.

I lifted my knee again. Cúigear must have thought I was trying a third time to knee him and he smirked at me. I smirked back and smashed my heel onto the top of his foot.

Cúigear’s smirk twisted into a grimace and he pulled back, hopping on one foot.

A quick left jab and solid right hook put Cúigear on his back. His eyes rolled in their sockets. My first thought was wanting to tell dad that his boxing lessons to me as a kid had paid off.

I reached under the table and retrieved Snuppa. The blow to the back on my head came just as I straightened up. Before I could reproach myself too harshly for being outflanked by a second sneak-attack my vision tunneled as the lights flickered and dimmed.

Chapter 4: Name That Tune

I don’t normally talk in these terms, but my visit to St. Nicholas had been a real blessing. Reverend Stockwood wasn’t very forthcoming with information, but his reluctance about Mr. Schrödinger confirmed my suspicions about my client. There was more to the missing piano player than people were willing to tell me. At least ‘Pig-Sty,’ the parish custodian, was able to point my feet in a promising direction.

The Peppermint Club was a new American-styled jazz joint out in Salthill run by a former ‘business’ associate named Pat Regan. Regan was a gun-runner during the War of Independence and then played both sides for profit during the Civil War. Sick of spying for the Brits and desperate for seed money to start my business, I used my Norwegian contacts to help set up a smuggling run for Regan. (Let’s say mistakes were made and move on.) Since my first and only foray into illegal activities, I’d done my best to give Regan a wide berth after our business venture went under, literally. However, if Regan had hired Schrödinger to play piano at the Peppermint Club, then I could hardly avoid a visit.

I walked the Prom and found the club. It wasn’t hard to miss despite its speakeasy theme. Some workmen were making a beer delivery around back so I let myself in. I was hoping to run into the band, or even Schrödinger himself, but I should’ve known I wasn’t that lucky. No one was around except a bartender signing for the shipment. When I mentioned that I knew the band leader, the bartender was kind enough to tell me that most nights the band ate dinner before the show at a restaurant around the corner.

The mention of dinner reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything that day and so I decided to have a decent meal for a change. I can’t remember the last time I’d had a steak. No, that’s not true. It’s just what people say. The sad truth was that I knew exactly when I last ate steak; I’d been counting the days.

As I finished my meal, Frankie Armstrong and another black man entered the restaurant. With the responses I’d been getting to my inquiries, I decided to play this one less directly. So despite the stares the two dark-skinned Americans got from the other patrons, I let Frankie notice me first.

“Charles Browne, is that you?” Frankie’s deep voice resonated across the room. It’s a voice that you can feel as much as hear.

“Hey,” I said in mock surprise, “what’s the craic, old man?”

I got to my feet just as Frankie reached my table, enveloping me in that annoying American pastime called ‘a hug.’

I first met Frankie in an army hospital while my broken leg mended after my plane crash and he was recovering from a gunshot wound to the forearm. We had the same crazy doctor who insisted on nontraditional physical activities for recovery. I listened to Frankie learn the clarinet and he held the rugby ball in place while I tried to kick it. We bonded over the humiliation and humor of it all.

Now I was a gumshoe in Galway and Frankie was a journeyman saxophonist and band leader headlining at The Peppermint Club. He might also be my best chance at finding a certain missing piano player.

After far too long of a bear hug, Frankie let go and sized me up.

“Charles,” Frankie said pointing to the man who came in with him, “this is my cousin, Louie. Louie, this is Charles Browne . . . or as I liked to call him: Sparkplug.”

I cringed at the nickname and the retelling of the embarrassing story. Not wanting to admit to being shot down on my first mission, I initially told Frankie that I had broken my leg when my plane crashed on take-off due to a faulty sparkplug. The lie didn’t last very long, but our friendship has.

Louie politely listened and laughed as Frankie and I took turns taking the piss out of each other. Louie even chimed in with a funny story from their childhood together. But I eventually had to subtly steer the conversation around to business and the missing piano player.

“I hear the great American jazz band has an Austrian tickling the ivories for them,” I joked. “What’s next, Frankie . . . an actual French horn player?”

Louie leaned in, mouth open to speak when Frankie gave him a playful nudge and Louie was cut off like a skipped record.

“Oh, don’t you let ole Sparkplug change the subject now,” Frankie interjected hypocritically. “I was just about to tell you about the time I met ‘Pretty Boy’ Floyd.”

I allowed Frankie hijack the conversation without letting on that I was wise to him. After a few shots and a reasonable amount of time I made my exit with promises to catch a show sometime soon, but in such a way that would leave Frankie to think I’d never be seen again.

I bided my time by ‘kicking the wall’ and watching waves crash against Blackrock. When the time was right I headed back to The Peppermint Club.

A bouncer gave me the once-over through a speakeasy style door that was purely for show and let me in straight away. Apparently the ‘secret password’ is the sound of one hand knocking. Once inside the bouncer failed to notice the bulge under my jacket or the small of my back. Fine by me; one less hassle in a day full of them.

I found a seat at a small, round table in a poorly lit corner on the opposite side of the room from the band stand. When the dance floor cleared a bit between numbers I saw (or rather didn’t see) what I suspected.

Just then a man small of stature, but big on notions approached my table. He was wearing a much more expensive suit than the last time I saw him. He stopped at my table and glared down at me, preferring to stand and intimidate than sit and be sociable.

Cúigear was Regan’s top henchman. Rumor had it that he earned his nickname from the number of Black and Tans he killed as a youth during the War of Independence. Nobody was dumb enough to ask for verification, lest he change his name again.

“Nach tusa atá ceanndána ag teacht anseo,” Cúigear spat out each word of Irish like he was swearing at me.

“Is Pat still holding a grudge?” I asked.

“Tá an ceannasaí críochnaithe leatsa. Níl aon úsáid ag Regan le haghaidh smuigléirí a fhaigheann réidh lena lastais ón gcéad uair a fheiceann siad frigéad Briotanach.”

“Everybody gets boarded sometimes. Do you think I had a choice?” I asked.

“Tig leat é sin a rá le Regan. B’fhéidir nach dtógfaidh an ceannasaí ach do theach.”

I laughed. “Pat will have to work that one out with the bank.”

“Bhí mé ag tnúth le seo le fada an lá,” Cúigear said as he unbuttoned his jacket and pulled it back to reveal a Webley revolver, with a ‘bird head’ grip, tucked in his waist band.

I leaned back and put my left arm over the back of the booth so that my jacket fell open in a way that Cúigear could see Snuppa resting snug in the holster. His bug-eyes widened even further.

“Yeah, I bet a lot of people are interested in who’d shoot first,” I replied, “but a gun fight in the club isn’t exactly good for business, now is it? And as much as you want me dead, you don’t want to anger your boss.”

Cúigear re-buttoned his jacket, kicked over my table, and stormed off. I don’t think you can actually curse with your feet, but Cúigear’s stomp sure came close.

I stood up and walked past the bar, flipping the bartender a coin. “Sorry about the mess.”

I made my way through the crowded dance floor and waited for the song to end. When the band finished playing, I hopped up on the bandstand, and sat down on the empty piano bench. Frankie and I locked eyes. I raised an accusative eyebrow at him, asking without actually saying, “Where’s your piano player?”

Behind Frankie’s angry and embarrassed eyes I sensed fear. He grabbed me by the elbow and pointed towards the door with his other hand. I let Frankie drag me along without saying a word. In cases like these, with good men, I like to let silence and guilt ask the questions.

At the door, Frankie handed me off to the befuddled bouncer. I felt Frankie drop something into my pocket just before he retreated back to the safety of the bandstand. Cúigear was intensely watching the whole scene from the bar. I expected him to see me out personally, but as the bouncer showed me the front door Cúigear headed behind the bar and out a service door.

The night air outside the Peppermint Club felt cool. After all that cigarette smoke, it was good to breathe in the sea salt. It smelled good, even if it also held the promise of an impending storm.

I began to stroll, weaving just enough to let people think I’d had a few too many. My deliberately slow pace allowed me to notice that I was being followed. I never saw his face, but that suit was hard to mistake . . . even in the dark.

I doubled back and lost Cúigear quickly enough.

Once I was sure no one was watching I pulled out the matchbox Frankie had slipped into my jacket. I was surprised the once-glorious Daisy Hill Hotel still had enough money to advertise, but God bless old friends with consciences.

Like most things in Galway, the oversized B&B wasn’t far away. I took my time and made sure I’d lost my tail. When I finally arrived at my destination, I found the Daisy Hill Hotel swarming with Guards. There were two cars out front and at least one Gardi standing at each entrance.

My first thought was that Frankie had tried to set me up. Maybe he guessed that I’d show up at the club and see that his band was missing the piano player I was looking for. My delay in going to The Peppermint Club would have given Frankie time to arrange for a false clue that would put me at the scene of a crime and have me framed for it.

I didn’t dare approach the hotel, least the Guards were alerted to be on the lookout for me. But then it occurred to me that as incompetent as the Guards are, they’d never have arrived so early and so visibly if they intended to ambush me. God save us all from our own protection, if that were the case.

I saw a couple of women talking over a low wall, pointing towards the hotel and speaking in conspiratorial whispers. I approached and asked what had happened. Earlier in the evening there had been a major disturbance of some sort at the hotel that rousted them from their dinner tables (too early for Frankie to have set me up). Two men were seen running from the hotel, together or one chasing the other was of much debate. Another woman approached and said she had been out walking her dog when two men ran past her, heading towards the Salmon Weir Bridge. She trailed behind them at a distance for a bit of excitement. When she arrived at the bridge others told her that one of the two men had gone into the Corrib while the other ran off through the college. The three women began to debate whether the first man had jumped, fell, or been pushed into the river. As none of them had been near the bridge when it happened, I ignored the idle speculation and slipped away.

I strolled up to a Guard and only got half way through a question before being shoved along. A few men I recognized as local reporters could be seen through the front window, standing around in the sitting room.

I walked to the bridge, but there was nothing to be seen there either. It all seemed like too much of a coincidence that Schrödinger’s possible last known address was the scene of so much police activity. And yet, I had no proof that anything significant had happened here and no way of knowing if Schrödinger was even involved in any of it. What did the Yanks say, ‘a day late and a dollar short?’

It was so late that it was almost early and I was knackered. As I walked home, I resigned myself to likely solving the case of the mysterious missing Mr. Schrödinger by reading the morning papers. I prayed my client, the mysterious red-haired woman, wouldn’t demand a refund.