Women of Courage (123 page)

But where on earth was Catherine now?

He had covered up quickly to David, but in fact Sir Jonathan had been in Merrion Square last night. He had come home late, true, but he had seen his butler last night and this morning. It was inconceivable that the man would not have said something about Catherine’s surprise arrival, if she had been there. So she had come back to Dublin with Andrew, but she hadn’t come home.

Sir Jonathan thought he ought to be appalled by this, but in fact he was not. By God, I ought to be grateful, Sir Jonathan thought. He’s probably taken her to a hotel, or to that house of his, wherever it is. Good luck to you, young man. Maybe you can tame her when I could not.

The only thing that puzzled him was that Andrew should do this at the very moment when he was planning his attack on Collins. It was a hell of a risk, surely, to involve oneself in a love affair right in the middle of an operation like that. Andrew must have realized by now that the girl had sympathies with Sinn Fein. Or had he managed to cure her of that, too? he wondered.

If he has, he’s a son-in-law after my own heart, he thought. He picked up the pile of intelligence reports from last night, and began to work his way through them, whistling tunelessly through his teeth. He felt more optimistic than he had done for months.

Sean woke again because there was water trickling down his face. At first it came into his dreams - he was walking in the country when it began to rain, and then a waterfall poured over his head. But a moment later he woke up, and saw Michael Collins standing above him, squeezing drops of water out of a flannel.

‘Ah, it’s alive you are, is it? I was beginning to wonder, after all that high living at the King’s expense. As was the good widow Casey downstairs. Will you take a look at that clock, now?’

Sean glanced at the clock on his bedside, and saw it was half past nine. ‘Oh,’ he grunted. It didn’t seem to matter to him.

‘Oh, is it?’ Collins flung the wet flannel in his face and laughed. ‘The wicked among us have had our breakfast and put in an hour’s work already. Not that I want you to do that, Sean, but you could at least eat what the good widow’s prepared before it rots.’

‘Yes, right.’ Sean had never been overfond of the big man’s practical jokes. But he was hardly in a position to complain. He swung his legs out of bed. ‘What are the orders for today?’

‘For you, just keep your face out of sight. The army have been waking up half the city looking for you in the night. Don’t go out at all if you don’t need to. Paddy says his nerves won’t stand two rescues in the same week.’

‘I’ll do that.’ Sean pulled off his shirt, poured some water from a ewer into a bowl, and began to wash. Then he turned round and said: ‘And thanks, Mr Collins. I should have said that last night. I didn’t think I’d ever see daylight again.’

Collins ruffled his hair and punched him playfully on the chin. ‘Did you think we’d forget you? This country won’t have any more lonely martyrs, if I can help it.’

Then he was gone. Sean dressed, went down to breakfast, and began to think of Catherine.

Stay out of sight, Collins had said. The whole city is looking for you. If Sean went out and got himself captured again it would be an insult to the others who had risked their lives to set him free. And anyway Catherine didn’t want him, she had taken up with another man. To go looking for her would be a waste of time. Pure emotional self-indulgence.

Seamus Kelly was in the same house. After breakfast they sat by the fire in the living room, reading the newspaper accounts of Sean’s escape. After a while Sean asked: ‘What else has been happening while I’ve been inside? Any new operations planned?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Kelly said. ‘The British are still cut up about the death of the police commissioner. They’ll be hopping mad now you’ve escaped. Paddy was hoping to have another crack at Lord French, but the old fool’s more or less imprisoned himself in the Viceregal Lodge since Ashtown. And I heard him talking to Collins about that German officer again over breakfast. They’re going to meet him in Clancy’s later today, they said.’

Sean nodded. Somehow it all seemed a little distant to him. He would get back into it, of course, but just now, sitting here by the fire, he found his mind wandering. The flames reminded him of the fires in the room in the tenement. Catherine’s skin had been a warm, rose colour then, as she knelt before the blaze. Did she look the same for the man in Nelson Street, he wondered; did she turn and smile at him too, and lay her head along his thigh?

There was something about that man. In his dream Sean had seen him as the hangman, but of course he was not that. He tried to remember what the man had looked like in that brief glimpse in Nelson Street. Sean had been looking at Catherine, but he had a vague impression of a tall figure in a long trenchcoat, with an upright, confident, military bearing. A man of her own class. The sort of man her father might choose.

But there was something more to it than that. Sean imagined the man laughing at him, knowing he was there. Why? He had never seen Sean before. Yet there was something familiar about him, something he ought to remember. Sean had the feeling that if only the man had turned round he would have recognized the face. But in his own mind he could not picture what the face should be.

Anyway, what did it matter? He sighed, got up and began to pace the room. It was bigger than his cell, much, but the table and chairs cluttered it. Kelly looked up. ‘Still feeling trapped?’

Sean nodded. ‘I am that. You get to wondering what it’s like to walk the streets, when you’re shut up in there.’

‘I can believe it. But the streets are full of soldiers with your photo, Mick says.’

‘If they were up all night, they’ll be back in barracks sleeping, won’t they?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. You’re not to risk it. Orders.’

Sean sat down again, and picked up a paper. He had read most of it already. He wondered what the house in Nelson Street was like. There were back alleys around there, he might be able to break in. Or he could just knock on the front door, and she would open it, and he would say: ‘Hello, Catherine.’

He got up and went to his room. Paddy Daly had given him a Webley revolver last night. It was not a gun he was used to. He practised loading it, spinning the rounds in the chamber, cocking it, easing the hammer gently down again. Then he put it in his pocket, walked downstairs, and went down the garden to the privy.

When he had used the privy he unlatched the door at the end of the garden and walked through into the alley. Pulling his cap down low over his eyes, he set off briskly for Nelson Street.

Just as Catherine was a fidget, she was also impatient. Normally if she could not master a task quickly, she would leave it and go on to something else. She might come back and try again and again, but she would not sit doggedly for hours. That was not her way. She needed new interests all the time.

In the cellar, there was nothing new or interesting at all. Once the rat came back, and she crept towards it slowly and stabbed at it with the table knife. But the creature was too quick for her, and scurried away down its hole again. She spent a few minutes thinking how she might trap it next time, but could work out nothing practical. She used the bucket once, hating the squalor of it. She listened for the street noises, but there was no change there. Then she returned to the padlock.

Once or twice, she had felt something move inside it. But if the hasp was a little bit looser, it was so little as to be almost imperceptible. The second time something moved, she was terrified that she might have moved the first thing back again. If Houdini can do this sort of thing in a few seconds, he must be a genius, she thought. But then he probably understands what’s inside the damn locks. Catherine hadn’t got a clue.

Her leg had pins and needles from being stuck for so long in the same position, and her head throbbed unmercifully from the fumes of the oil lamp. A little longer, she told herself. Just a little longer, then I’ll give up for a while and have a rest.

A third thing moved. There was a definite click, and she could feel, now, a smooth line inside the lock where there had been resistance before. She tugged eagerly at the hasp. It jiggled. It was definitely looser. But it did not come out.

She took a deep breath. Patience, she told herself. Keep plugging on. She poured herself half a cup of water from the bottle Andrew had left her, and sipped it appreciatively, in quiet celebration. Then she stretched her legs, to get rid of the pins and needles, and knocked the oil lamp over.

She had stood it just beside her on the floor in front of the sofa, where it would give her the best light. The sofa had a ragged, tattered cover, which hung down to the floor in places, and when she knocked the light over the top came off, and oil spilt all over the sofa cover. Catherine didn’t see this, because the lamp had gone out, and it was immediately dark. She cursed, and struck a match to relight it.

The fumes from the hot oil caught fire.

Catherine screamed and leapt back, shielding her face with her hands. There was a sizzling, crackling sound from above her forehead, and she beat at her hair frantically with her hands to put out the flames. The sound stopped, but the sofa was blazing furiously. She hobbled away from it, as far along the cellar wall as the chain would allow her to go, but the sudden heat was nearly roasting her. The flames had not reached the end of the sofa yet, and she pushed at it, screaming and heaving to get it as far away from her as possible, out into the middle of the cellar.

She retreated to the end of the chain and thought: If I’m not burnt alive I’ll be suffocated.

The sofa was burning steadily now, and the room was filling with smoke. She tugged frantically at the hasp of the padlock, but although it was loose it did not move. Then she saw the brooch lying on the floor in front of her. She snatched it up.

I’ve got to do it, she thought. There’s only a few minutes now and I’ve
got
to do it. Keep cool. Think like Houdini. Remember what the lock feels like inside.

She sat down cross-legged on the floor, choking in the smoke, and slipped the pin of the brooch carefully inside the lock.

Andrew, Daly and O’Reardan walked briskly through the busy streets. Daly walked by his side, O’Reardan a little behind and to the other side, Andrew noted. Clearly O’Reardan, the big man, was a bodyguard, there to make sure Andrew gave no trouble. A quick step to the rear, Andrew thought, a jab in his throat, a knife in his gut, and he’ll have failed in that task.

But there was no call for anything like that yet. They walked down Henry Street, by the side of the General Post Office, and on to Mary Street. There were no soldiers but twice they passed tall, magnificently uniformed constables of the DMP without trouble; indeed, on the second occasion Andrew thought he saw the constable give Daly a brief nod, almost of recognition. And they say this is a civil matter that can be dealt with by the police, he thought.

They stopped outside an unremarkable shop door in Mary Street. A sign in the window said Clancy’s Joiners and Decorators. Daly opened the door, a bell rang, and they stepped inside.

The room was largely bare, with a counter opposite the door. Behind the counter sat a young woman, typing. There were certificates on the walls, testifying to the competence of various craftsmen, and a couple of upright chairs for customers to sit on.

The young woman glanced at Daly, unsurprised.

‘Is Mick here yet?’ Daly asked.

She nodded. ‘Upstairs.’

‘Good.’ Daly turned to Andrew. ‘That’s all in order, then, Mr Hessel. But first it’s my duty to make sure that visitors don’t go armed into the office of the Finance Minister. So would you just raise your hands while I go through your pockets, please?’

Andrew glanced behind him at O’Reardan. To his dismay, he saw that the big man had already taken an automatic out of his pocket, and was pointing it calmly straight at him.

‘Clancy’s Joiners and Decorators,’ Kee said. He sat at the table, notebook in hand, looking at Davis who stood opposite him. Davis looked pale, slumped, broken. He was still sweating but there was no resistance left. He answered questions freely in a low, hoarse whisper. The telephone number of Clancy’s was the last one on the list in his notebook.

Kee asked: ‘What sort of a place is that?’

‘It’s an office. They have planning meetings there, keep intelligence records, that sort of thing.’

‘Are there people there every day?’

‘During office hours, yes. It’s a place you can phone.’

‘Did you phone it, Dick ?’

‘Sometimes. Once or twice perhaps.’

‘What for?’

‘To tell them. Details of a raid, perhaps. Before we came.’

Kee controlled his disgust. This information was the best he had had since he came to Dublin. ‘Does Collins go there?’

A slight hesitation, quickly overcome. ‘Sometimes.’

‘And Daly? Brennan?’

‘They might do. I don’t know.’

Davis was not looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the tabletop in front of him. Kee had seldom seen a man collapse so fast. He said: ‘Have you been there yourself?’

Davis sighed, and nodded dully. ‘Once.’

‘One last question, Dick. Then you can go to your cell and sleep. Tell me about Clancy’s. What’s the place like inside?’

Sean took a tram to Dorset Street. It was true, the streets were unusually full of soldiers. Twice he saw a section of Tommies standing some young men up against a wall, while an officer went through their pockets and examined their papers. Women and boys stood at a safe distance, catcalling or muttering amongst themselves. It was possible the soldiers might stop a tram and search everyone on that, Sean knew, but less likely. If they did, he would just have to shoot and make a break for it. If he was caught after slipping out like this he wouldn’t deserve to be rescued again. Better to die in a blaze of glory.

There were no soldiers in Dorset Street where he got out. He crossed the road and walked quickly down Eccles Street to Nelson Street. It was quite busy - there were women pushing prams, others scrubbing their doorsteps or gossiping, and a number of carts, cars and bicycles. Not rich dwellings, but the sort of place a moderately prosperous doctor or lawyer might live in.