The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (34 page)

88

J
ohn Jameson, aka John Charles Byrne, was found early the next morning by a man walking his dog. The “stop press” in the
Irish Times
proclaimed ATROCITY IN GRANGEGORMAN. Collins read the headline from the hand of the Blackpitts Terry O’Neill, known to one and all as “Black Terry” on his paper route, which stretched from the top of Grafton Street all the way to Parnell Square. Terry, stationed in front of Bewley’s Oriental Café in Westmoreland Street at high noon to catch the dinnertime crowds, was one of Collins’s army of urchin newsboys. They served Collins and his intelligence staff as touts, often pointing out and physically detouring Secret Service who patrolled the streets of Dublin. As he passed Black Terry, Collins was delighted that the
Times
had another one of their ATROCITY headlines, which they were so fond of. “Mr. Mick! Mr. Mick!” the twelve-year-old, red-haired, freckled kid yelled as Collins took a paper and gave the lad two bob. “Keep the change, Terry,” said Collins, as he laughed and patted the top of the newsboy’s Paddy-cap. “Me t’inks they’re having conniptions in D’Olier Street,” Terry said, referring to the location of the
Times
’ offices. “Just got out of the ‘Joy!” Terry proudly declared.

Collins stopped and looked concerned. “What for?”

“Wouldn’t pay the license fee,” said Terry, as he held up his wrist to show Collins his leather and tin vendor license. “Fook the hoors!”

Collins reached into his pocket and pulled out a sovereign. “Next time,” said the man who was still out on bail from the Sligo Gaol, “pay the fine! I have enough good men in the ‘Joy.”

“Will do, Mr. Mick,” said Terry, as he hopped on a tram heading up Sackville Street. “But the peelers are still hoors!” Terry ran up the winding back staircase of the tram, happily yelling, “Atrocity in Grangegorman! Read all about it! Atrocity in Grangegorman!”

One of the reasons Collins could walk around Dublin in relative safety was because of the staunchness of everyday Dubliners. Newsboys all over the city knew Collins by sight, as did many ordinary citizens, tram conductors, and even DMPs on the beat. It was the Irish at their best—eyes open and mouths shut. Apparently everyone in Dublin City knew Mick Collins, except the G-men in Dublin Castle.

At Dublin Castle, the mood was somewhat stifled. Gough-Coxe and Bell were huddled in the Sheik’s office, talking intently. Boynton looked up and was surprised to see Ned Broy standing next to his desk. “What are you doing here?” he inquired.

“He sent for me,” Broy explained, cocking his head in the direction of the bossman.

“I wonder what’s up?” Boynton said, beginning to feel uneasy.

Gough-Coxe stepped out of his office and waved at Broy and Boynton. “Men,” he said, “step in.” On his desk he had the same
Irish Times
headline that had so delighted Collins. He picked it up and waved it in the air. “You’ve seen this, I take it? This is a catastrophe!” Gough-Coxe exclaimed. “This is the man who had the track on Collins, gunned down as we were beginning to make our move. It’s as if Collins had inside information.”

“Everyone here hates Collins,” put in Broy, for good measure.

“We are tired of his bullying tactics,” added Boynton.

“He was one of our best Secret Service men,” added Alan Bell, referring to the deceased Jameson. Bell suddenly looked very old, and he seemed down in the dumps.

“Look at this,” said Gough-Coxe. He held Joe Leonard’s piece of paper up for all to see: SPIES BEWARE! “The cheek on them!” He was silent for only a second. “Jameson’s gone now, and we’re going to have to pick up the pace. That’s why I’ve called you two here. You will be working together with Magistrate Bell as we try to one, get Collins, and two, find the National Loan money.” Gough-Coxe went to the corner of his office and picked up a walking stick. He let it drop out of his hand, and it hit the floor, bouncing back up into Gough-Coxe’s hand as if it were a yo-yo on a string. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with Mr. Churchill in London, and he has authorized a £10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the murderer or murderers of Jameson.”

“As you might suspect,” Bell cut in, “it’s really a £10,000 bounty on the head of Michael Collins. We’ll see how protective Dublin City will be of this murderer when they see all those nice round zeros.” Churchill, Bell, and Gough-Coxe were obviously hoping to test the Fenian mettle of the likes of Black Terry O’Neill and his impoverished family. Broy and Boynton looked at each other with surprise and knew that the British were really becoming desperate, trying to patch the leaking Irish roof any way they could.

“Broy,” Gough-Coxe said.

“Yes, sir!”

“I hear you’re the keeper of the Collins file over in Brunswick Street.”

“That job seems to have fallen to me.”

“I want all the material you have on Collins brought over here to the Castle,” commanded Gough-Coxe. “I want it catalogued and copied. We have to have all information at our fingertips. We will meticulously go over the information to glean what we have so far missed.

“As for you, Boynton,” said Gough-Coxe, “you are our missing link.” Gough-Coxe had taken a particular interest in the young detective. Boynton was his connection to the late and much-lamented—to Gough-Coxe, at least—Sebastian Blood. Gough-Coxe, as he stated, liked to “work backwards.” He knew Joseph Kavanagh and his son, Francis, had been in touch with Blood. It was the missing son, Eoin, whom he wanted to meet. According to Blood, the son was the connection that would lead to Collins. “I want to find this boy,” Gough-Coxe. “That will be your assignment, Boynton. Find the missing Kavanagh boy.”

“I’ll do my best,” Boynton promised.

“Do better than that,” snapped Gough-Coxe.

“There are, many ways,” said Magistrate Bell, an old detective himself who had risen to the rank of District Inspector in the RIC.

“There are, indeed,” interrupted Broy. “The public records, newspapers. There are many ways to glean information.”

“Yes!” Gough-Coxe exclaimed. “That’s the spirit, Broy. Detective Sergeant, why don’t you help young Detective Boynton find the missing Kavanagh boy? You are my B&B Boys!” Gough-Coxe took his walking stick and held it out, handle first. He pointed it at Broy and Boynton. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you.” The two detectives looked at the “All-Seeing Eye,” and suddenly realized it was Sebastian Blood’s walking stick. They knew they were in for it.

89

C
ollins called a meeting at 22 Mary Street, the latest National Loan office, and everyone was there: the army was represented by McKee and Mulcahy, the Squad by McDonnell and Daly, G-man Broy, and Crow Street in the personages of Tobin and Eoin. One look told everyone in the room that Collins was in a foul mood.

“I have just discovered,” began Collins, “that the National Loan is short more than £18,000, seized by the British government out of several of our bank accounts in Dublin in the last week. Although it is a minor sum compared to the total sum of the Loan, this has to stop. The financial health of the Republic is at stake.”

“Magistrate First Class Alan Bell is your man,” said Broy. “He’s practically walking around Dublin Castle with a sandwich board that says, ‘I’M LOOKING FOR THE NATIONAL LOAN MONEY!’”

“He’s been a bad lad,” added Tobin, “going back to the 1870s. Fooked with the Land League and even Parnell. I can’t believe he’s lived this long.”

“Neither can I,” shot Collins. “And there’s no reason he should continue to breathe.”

“This sounds like a job for the Squad,” McKee said, gleefully.

“The sooner, the better,” added Mulcahy.

“This man has to disappear by the middle of this month,” Collins insisted.

“Beware the Ides of March,” laughed McKee.

“I don’t think we can plug him that quick,” McDonnell said, slowly. “A week won’t matter.”

“He’s stealing
my
money!” erupted Collins.

“It’s not
your
money, Michael,” corrected Mulcahy, gently.

“Yes, it is!” barked Collins. “Nobody gives a shite about the nation’s money. The
Dáil
authorizes it. Dev leaves for America, collection plate in hand. And I’m here in Dublin doing all the bloody work. I have been entrusted with the coppers of Irish peasants and the dollars of Boston charwomen. I have an obligation to these wonderful people—and no fookin’ bank-examinin’ shite is going to take that money away from
me
—and the Republic.”

“If we don’t do it right,” Daly said, calmly, “he’ll continue to steal the Loan money.” Collins cleared his throat in agitation as Daly continued. “This guy has been fucking Fenians longer than anyone at this table has been alive. He is not an amateur. Let’s take our time and get it right.”

“I agree,” said McKee.

“Alright,” said Collins, irritation still in his voice. “We’ll start tagging him tomorrow. Where does he live?”

“Monkstown,” Broy answered.

“I want Eoin on the tag team,” Collins insisted. “My ministry will be represented!”

“Done,” said Eoin.

“This is priority number one for the Squad,” declared Collins. “Any other business?”

“We have a problem at the Castle,” said Broy. “With Eoin.”

“With Eoin?” said Collins. Eoin looked up, interested, but not shocked.

“The Sheik believes that the secret to finding you,” Broy said to Collins, “is to find Eoin. He’s heard all this stuff from Blood about the National Loan movie and Eoin’s father and brother and, of course, Blood was killed in the family barbershop. He’s a big believer in ‘working backwards,’ as he likes to say. So, he has Boynton and me trying to track down your man here,” he finished, pointing at Eoin.

“Why don’t we just tell him what he wants to know?” Eoin suggested.

“You’d be putting yourself at risk,” Broy cautioned.

“Not at ‘tal,” replied Eoin. “They don’t know who I am or where I live.”

“But they do know your first name.”

“Then I’ll change it to Charlie.”

“Why Charlie?”

“He’s my other brother.”

“Won’t that put him in danger?”

“There is no danger in Glasnevin.”

For the first time that evening, Collins smiled. Then said, “How anxious is the Sheik for this information on Eoin?”

“Very,” said Broy. “He wants Boynton and meself to have some information quickly.”

“Feed him a piece at a time,” said Collins. “Couple of items a week. Work it out with Eoin. When we get rid of Bell, he won’t be thinking about Eoin—or is that Charlie?—anymore.”

“One more thing,” said Broy. “Mr. Churchill has authorized a reward of £10,000 for the apprehension of Jameson’s murderer.” Broy let it sink in and then added, “Bell says it’s really a £10,000 bounty on Mick’s head.”

“Not a bad figure,” conceded Collins, duly impressed.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit inflated?” asked Eoin, which made the room roar with laughter. The meeting broke up, and, as the men were heading for the door, Broy said, “By the way, he’s got Blood’s Freemason walking stick, the one with the ‘All-Seeing Eye.’ “

Collins burst out in cynical laughter. “Now that’s a stick with luck in it, isn’t it?” And with that, the clock started ticking on the remaining days of Magistrate First Class Alan Bell’s service to the Crown.

90

E
OIN’S
D
IARY

T
he Squad has started tagging Alan Bell
.

He lives out in Monkstown at 19 Belgrave Square North. We have been watching him every morning. He travels alone, taking the Dalkey tram into Nassau Street, and is met by a detective from Dublin Castle. Then he walks over to the Castle for his day’s work. We know this for a fact, because Broy and Boynton have been alternating picking him up in Nassau Street. Some would say it is the act of a courageous man. I say it is the act of either hubris—to use one of Mick’s favorite words—or someone who is a fool. And no one thinks Bell is a fool. He’s been getting away with playing with Fenians for over forty years, and he thinks no one is going to harm him. But this time, he is about to learn that he’s dealing with Michael Collins’s Fenians!

This morning, McDonnell told me and Vinny to go ride the tram and see what the daily routine is. I will be on the backup team, and Vinny will be part of the shooting team. We are leaving nothing to chance.

We went up to the top of the open tram, and Vinny and I began examining the connection to the electrical wire that powers the tram. My assignment is to unhook the connection, which will stop the tram, and then go downstairs and join the backup team. It’s a flimsy connection, and I should have no problem with the unhook.

We were heading back to town when the British army dropped the net on us just outside of Ballsbridge. It was only Vinny and meself and a few other people on top. “Shite,” says I. We were both packing artillery, and I was getting very nervous. I didn’t think we had a chance in a shootout.

The conductor was up top collecting fares when the Tommies pulled us over. “Here,” commanded Vinny, pulling out his Mauser and gesturing at the frightened conductor. When the conductor came over, Vinny opened his change purse, which hung in front of him, and tossed the Mauser in. I looked at Vinny, and he seemed a little downcast as he planted his beloved Mauser C96 pistol—he called it his “Peter the Painter” (“Peter” for short), after the famous London anarchist siege of 1911—in the conductor’s purse. Vinny loved that gun. Vinny bit his lip and said to the conductor, “Mum’s the word!”

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“Give me that yoke,” said Vinny. The conductor’s pouch was full, so Vinny crept down to the front of the tram and dropped me gun discreetly into the destination box. “NELSON’S PILLAR” was the new home of me Webley. “Now be good citizens,” said Vinny to one and all, “and everyone will live to see another day.” With purpose, Vinny added, “Everybody understand?” He sat down and we quietly, but nervously, waited for the Brits to board the tram. “Be respectful, but firm,” he advised me.

Two Tommies came marching up the back circular staircase and surveyed us customers. They told me and Vinny to stand up. I immediately knew we should have split up. As one Tommy kept a close eye on us, the other Tommy frisked Vinny down, then did the same to me. “What’s your name?” the Tommy demanded.

“Vincent Byrne.”

“What’s your business?”

“I’m a cabinetmaker,” says Vince.

“Where do you work?”

“Duffy’s in Leeson Street.”

The soldier pushed Vinny away and said, “Sit down.” Then he turned to me. “What’s your name?” I hesitated for a second, wondering if the Sheik had put the word out on me. “Well?”

“Charlie Kavanagh,” I said meekly. Vinny had a look of shock on his face.

“Where do you work?”

“Irish Assurance, Bachelors Walk.”

“You lyin’ to me, boy?”

I stared him right in his face. “No, sir!” He placed a hand on my shoulder and pushed me down into the seat. The two Tommies looked over the other passengers, saying nothing, and then went down the narrow stairs. Vinny and I sat silently, looking at each other across the aisle. Vinny kept looking at the destination box, and I knew he’d love to get his hand on my Webley and let one of the blackguards have it. Suddenly, the tram came alive and pulled ahead, heading to the city centre. Vinny immediately went to the destination box and retrieved my Webley, handing it back to me. He then flew down the stairs and got his “Peter” back from the conductor.

“What’s all that ‘Charlie’ stuff about?” asked Vinny.

“The Sheik is looking for Eoin Kavanagh,” I said, and Vinny nodded his head.

As we approached the Grand Canal, we decided to get off. “Thank you,” Vinny said gallantly to the customers as we headed down the back stairs. When he came to the conductor, he said, “Thank you. Good job!”

“Heart-stopping,” replied the conductor, who could have ended up in Mountjoy for collaborating with us if the British had found Vinny’s gun.

As we walked down Leeson Street, Vinny turned and said to me, “If he thinks that was heart-stopping, wait until he sees what we’re up to!” Vinny was exhilarated with the morning. As usual, I was terrified. I couldn’t wait to get back to my index cards in the precarious safety of Crow Street.