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

I want you to go out to the R. D. S. offices. You know where they are—just to the left of the main entrance off the Merrion Road.
    “You’re a—” McGarr pushed himself back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head, “—donkey hobbyist. Or, you’d like to be.”
    McKeon smiled and sat on the edge of the desk.
    “I’m serious, now. Anything and everything about the beasts gives you a rise.”
    “Jack ass me how I knew,” McKeon mumbled in a rush, “I’d get to play ‘Don Key O. D.’ for my debut.”
    McGarr only closed his eyes. “You’ve come into a bit of money and you’re now wanting another animal. You’re wondering if you can purchase a catalogue. They’ll have them there, that’s certain, but I want you to see if they’ve got old issues for, say, five years back. If not, they’ll have them in their library, which is just across the hall. See if you can get in there. Copy the lists of donkey exhibitors for those years. If you have to become a member, do it—we’ll reimburse you out of petty cash.
    “And you want to know where the donkeys are stabled and can you amble over there and chat up the owners? Would they mind that? Repeat that you’re a buyer. They won’t mind a bit. And who’s a good man to talk to? The resident expert, ass it were.” McGarr opened one eye to see if McKeon had caught it.
    He had.
    “Now—who we’re looking for is a certain older fellow, name J. J. Keegan. He’s the one on the video tape you’ll be seeing. Pounds to pence he won’t be using his real name. Small, dark, sallow skin. Cloth cap, dark suit, about sixty-five, maybe seventy. Galway. Leenane. Could be—” it occurred to McGarr, “—a native Irish speaker. Got the picture?”
    “Well—it’s not very sharp.”
    McGarr knew what McKeon meant: Keegan fit the description of thousands of older Irishmen and he wondered just how much the grainy picture on the R. T. E. transmission could help them. “Let’s see what McAnulty can come up with.
    “Anyhow, today just let whatever donkey exhibitors that have arrived get used to seeing you around and bring back the catalogues.
    “If you do run onto him, make conversation but don’t force things. I imagine we’ve got some time, but keep an eye on him.”
    “That’s all?” McKeon stood.
    “I guess so.”
    “Can I ask—?”
    “The Bechel-Gore thing, and maybe something else too.”
    McKeon only lowered his eyes and turned to the door.
    Once again McGarr was reminded of the Anglo-Irishman’s reputation.
    After studying the contents of the manila folder for a while, McGarr wrote out a list of questions that he asked Greaves to take to O’Shaughnessy. They were for M. E. Murray and probably pointless, but McGarr wanted every avenue covered.
    He checked his watch. Just 10:15.
    He left for Ballsbridge.

THREE
Artistry, Caution, a Falsehood Hung, Mother and Daughter—Anonymity Undone
    WARD HAD DIRECTED Mairead Kehlen Caughey into the dayroom, where the furniture was somewhat more comfortable than in the other rooms of the Detective Bureau. He had positioned two chairs fairly close to the windows, which he had opened.
    “Bit of a breeze here,” he said, noting how she eased herself into the chair, the wide skirt of her black dress rustling, the straight line of her back just meeting the old oak.
    No wasted movement there. Feminine, to be sure, but the slightly distracted manner—which probably had more to do with her recent loss—made her seem as though only by a conscious act of will was she maintaining contact with the persons and things around her. And she seemed to be listening or watching for or trying to feel any change so she might correct the imbalance.
    Ward tried not to bend too close to her when he said, “I’ll see about some tea.”
    “Oh, please don’t put yourself to any bother.” Her head—the soft flow of her black hair—quivered slightly, but it was plain she could feel him there near her ear and she moved back,