The Death of an Irish Lass by Bartholomew Gill Read Free Book Online Page A

ugly limousines. It seemed to be summer and she was wearing a tight lilac-colored pullover and short black skirt. Most tall women had legs that were in some way flawed, McGarr had noticed in the past, but in this picture May Quirk’s seemed perfectly shaped. They were wrapped in dark hose, and she wore pumps with low heels. And she was in every other way a handsome woman.
    The man, on the other hand, looked remarkably likeMcGarr but younger. He still had a full head of curly copper hair, and his smile seemed contagious and friendly, like that of somebody you’d enjoy knowing. He was small and thick and had placed his hand around May Quirk’s waist in the casual way that people who have been intimate with each other adopt. He was wearing what McGarr speculated was an expensive light gray suit cut in the fashion of the moment, and shiny black shoes. He wore a green carnation in his buttonhole. A black silk tie on a gray shirt made him look like a successful entertainer or businessman.
    “And just read the letter.”
    “Aggie,” said Quirk. “You didn’t.”
    She turned on him. “Of course I did, you poor old fool. I only wish I had earlier and showed it to Dan here, too. He might’ve placed her in his protection and she’d be alive this minute.” The patent absurdity of her statement seemed to make her all the more aware of the situation. Her arm jerked toward the picture, which she grasped off the mantel and hugged. She then shuffled from the room, saying, “Ah, May. May.”
    McGarr read:
    Suite 70007
World Trade Center
N.Y., N.Y. 10048
    May,
    In the past I might have told you I loved you. Forget all of that. ’Twas only said in the heat of the moment. Now that you’ve been gone for six weeks, I’ve had a chance—free from your constant caresses and many charms—to think about us, you and me. And I have come to this conclusion.
    We can’t go on as before, meeting here and there—your place, my place, some rundown hotel up in Saratoga Springs. That’s cheap. What’s worse, my wife wouldn’t like it. And with all the running around, I’m wasting away.
    What? You didn’t know about the wife? How about the thirteen kids? Do you think a handsome sporting gent like meself could long remain solitary and sexless? Give me credit for at least having had a little fun before I met you. (And I rue the day.)
    Since, the certain matter about which you are aware has arisen, and I’m off to the Vatican for a special dispensation from my prior marriage vows, whence to the Holy Isle I’ll fly, arriving at Shannon (14th August, 2:00 P.M ., flight 509 Aer Lingus from London) and we shall tie the knot. Why knot? You know knot not, say not.
    We’ve talked about it. You’ve never said no. You’re home now among your people, and what better time and place for us to marry? What say? You can give me the answer at Shannon. If not (knot?), I’ll just continue on back here and see if I can prise one of these thermopanes off the concrete blocks. I’ll say a pray for you as I descend.
    I love you and hope you’ll meet the plane,
    Paddy
    It was the thirteenth of August.
    “‘A certain matter’ indeed!” said the old woman, from the doorway. She still had the picture in her hands.
    “Aren’t you assuming an awful lot, Mrs. Quirk?” said McGarr.
    “What? With that money and the gun? And him a ‘fund raiser’ as well as being a mouse and a gobshite? I know what ‘a certain matter’ means, if you don’t, Mr. Policeman. Just like I know what he’d been up to with May. He was her lover. No two ways about it.”
    “But his intentions—” McGarr began to say.
    “I couldn’t give a tinker’s damn for his intentions. It’s the facts what matter. What sort of a constable are you, anyhow?” Her eyes cleared and she gave McGarr a close look. “You’re nothing but half a man yourself.”
    Quirk got out of his chair and put his arm around his wife. He then led her back into the bedroom.
    Superintendent O’Malley went