Tuesday, April 30, 2013

The Gathering: Chapter 13 - There is nothing more dangerous than an armed woman in a nightdress

previously

Then

So there I was, bent over and using a flashlight to illuminate a sheet of paper covered in strange diagrams and symbols, when a gun was stuck in my back and a woman's voice told me not to make any sudden movements. Now, if I was a character in one of the spicy pulps then you know what I would have done. I would have spun around suddenly and knocked the gun from the dame's hand. Then I would have grabbed her and kissed her hard on the lips. Surprised at herself, she would have liked that, and then… well you can guess the rest. But I wasn't a character in a spicy pulp and I was only too aware that she had the drop on me. Any attempt at pulling a fast one on her and I was a dead man.

"I'm not making any sudden movements," I said in a slow and careful voice.

"Now bring your hands above your head. But slowly!"

She spoke with a voice used to giving orders. And when you have a gun in someone's back they find it easy to obey, so I raised my hands above my head, the torch in one hand and the paper in the other.

"Very good. Now, I am going to turn the light on. The gun will no longer be in your back. But I will still have you covered. If you want to live, do not move."

I stood there, wondering how I was going to get out of this one. The gun came away from my back. I heard the sound of soft steps and then the light came on.

"Excellent," she said. "Now let's have a look at you. Please turn around, but very slowly."

I did what the lady wanted. She got a chance to have a look at me, and me at her. It was Alanis, Ogilvy's sister. She must have been sleeping here in the apartment and heard me come in. She didn't have time to get dressed properly either, as the black nightdress she was wearing was rather revealing of her charms. This did not seem to bother her. Maybe I was in a spicy pulp after all.

"Miss Ogilvy…" I said, but she cut me down.

"Quiet!" she snapped. "Don't speak until I tell you to. You don't want to startle me - I might accidentally pull the trigger of this gun I have pointing at you."

I looked at the gun and I looked at the woman holding it. I said nothing.

"Now I want you to very slowly bend over and place that flashlight on the ground. And don't think you can get away with any funny stuff just because I'm a woman. I know how to use a gun and I would have no hesitation in filling you with lead."

She sounded like she meant it. I was not going to take a chance on this, so I bent down and put the flashlight on the ground, before slowly standing up again with my hands over my head.

"I know who you are," she said. " You and your friend Mr Lomax have been asking a lot of questions about Harrison. And I saw you at my poor brother's funeral. You were talking to that nightclub tramp."

"That's no way to talk about the woman who loved your brother."

"The woman who loved my brother? I'd like to think that I am the woman who loved my brother, not that cheap tramp. Not that cheap tramp who loved my brother so much she turned him into a dope fiend."

"What?" I exclaimed.

"Oh?" said Alanis. "Your snooping did not reveal that my brother was a dope fiend?"

"No, it's just that Lara loved your brother… I can't believe she would have…"

Alanis laughed. "In some ways I have to hand it to that two bit whore. She has what it takes to bend men to her will, and she's obviously done it to you. You idiot, you've let yourself be taken in by her: hook, line and sinker. What do you say to that, snooper?"

Now, I don't like being called a fool, especially not by a woman. But when that woman is pointing a gun at me I have little option but to take it, even if that woman is wearing a semi-transparent nightdress.

"That's quite an accusation to make against another woman," was the best I could manage.

"Isn't it? But my brother was fine before he met that tramp. Alright, he was a bit of an exasperation to father, as he never really showed much aptitude for business. My father is a very traditional man, and he wanted a son to inherit the family concern, even if he was not… the most suitable candidate. But he changed when he fell into the clutches of that money grabbing leech. Her sexual wiles brought him on the first steps to enslavement and she turned him on to dope to make it easier to get him to pay for her own consumption. Poor Harrison, he started neglecting his work, avoiding his friends, filching money from the family whenever he could. And when he realised what he had done, he brought his life to an end. Yes, snooper, I'm no fool. I know that my brother did not just fall into the river. He threw himself in to end his sad and sorry life."

"I'm not so sure of that," I said, as levelly as possible.

"Oh are you not? So my brother just happened to be walking by the river and he tripped and fell in."

"I don't think…" I began, but she cut me off.

"Oh be quiet! I'm wise to your game, snoop. You and your friend are nosing around, trying to find incriminating details about my poor brother, hoping you can extort some money out of my family in this difficult time. I bet you broke in here trying to find something juicy that we would not want revealed. You people are slime. Blackmailers! The lowest form of criminal life. So what am I going to do with you? Shall I ring the cops and have them take you off my hands? Or maybe I shall ring them to say that you tried to jump me and I had no option but to shoot you?"

She said the last sentence in a very slow voice, dripping in threat. I looked at her face and into her eyes, which were staring at mine, and I knew that she would go through with it if she felt it was to her advantage. My situation was not a good one and I had to transform it before things went too far.

"Miss Ogilvy," I blurted out. "I think your brother was murdered and I am trying to find his killer."

Now she was startled.

"What? Murdered?"

"Yes, murdered. Your brother had got mixed up in some funny stuff and some people killed him to stop him talking."

I was aware now that I was stating my suppositions as fact, but I needed to get this woman on my side fast, or next thing I would be either in a police cell or lying in a morgue. And my line seemed to be working. For the first time uncertainty flashed across her face.

"Murdered… murdered? I don't think so… I think you're spinning me a line to get out of the scrape you're in. No one would want to murder my brother."

The mask was slipping from Alanis. I could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. Part of me thought, this might give me a chance to jump her. But I was still scared of that damned gun. And I was beginning to think I could turn Alanis into an ally. My only worry was that she would become so upset by what I had to say that she would lash out - lash out at me, with that gun. So I had to play it as cool as possible.

"Miss Ogilvy, I didn't know your brother, but I've never heard anyone say anything bad about him. Yet I think he was murdered."

"It must have been that night-club slut," said Alanis, tears now beginning to issue from her eyes. She was angry as well as upset. "Or she got him in too deep with some dope dealer and they had him killed when he couldn't pay off his debts. I wish he had never met that bitch!"

"No, Miss Ogilvy, I don't think it was Lara, or a dope peddler, or any ordinary kind of criminal. This is going to sound a bit crazy, but your brother was killed by a black magic cult."

and there the narrative ends, for now

Monday, April 29, 2013

The Gathering: Chapter 12 - Visiting the library

previously

Now

Popular novelist Rachel Maguire is still on a reading tour of the Leitrim area.

Over breakfast the receptionist came over to Rachel and handed her a copy of the Leitrim Observer. "Have a look at that article," she said, nodding in a way that suggested that the article contained a matter of grave import.

The headline immediately caught her interest. "DEVIL DOG SIGHTING OUTSIDE KILLDUFF". The article described how a local farmer, travelling home late one evening, had seen a spectral black dog in the road ahead of him and had only just managed to swerve and avoid the apparition. The tone of the article was faintly mocking, implying without stating explicitly that the farmer had perhaps been over the alcohol limit for drivers, thereby falling into a suggestible frame of mind. The article did however mention that there had been a number of other reported sightings of a mysterious black dog in the vicinity of Ballykillduff.

"So you're not the only one that's seen it," said the receptionist.

"No," answered Rachel.

"So I wouldn't worry about it too much, Miss Maguire. If so many people have seen it then it can't be a bad sign for however sees it."

"Unless," said Rachel in a faux-ominous tone, "something terrible is about to happen that will doom us all."

"Oh don't say that, Miss Maguire!" said the receptionist, rattled. She took back the paper and went away. And now Rachel was a bit concerned too. Her remark was meant to be a joke, but what if there was some terrible tragedy waiting to occur?

After breakfast, Rachel did another reading in a tiny library in some completely out of the way place before returning to Ballykillduff. She had the afternoon off and decided to pay a visit to the town's public library. Approaching the library desk, she said: "Hello. Tell me, do you have any books on local history?"

"Why yes," said the librarian. "Over there on that shelf." She waved at a shelf bearing the words "LOCAL HISTORY" in large letters.

"Thanks," said Rachel. She went over and had a look. Ballykillduff was not a big place so she was not expecting there to be some kind of enormous tome giving the town's complete history, but she was hoping there would be some kind of history of Leitrim that would tell her at least something about the place's past. And indeed there were a couple of books on the county's history. She took them from the shelf and sat down to go through them. As is often the case with such works, they were written by amateur historians and published by small presses, which meant that they lacked anything useful like an index and had a rather eccentric approach to the organisation of information.

Finding the kind of details she was looking for was not easy, but perseverance threw up a few gems. In one book, she found that while people often assume that the town's name derives from the Irish for Town of the Black Church, it actually came from the Irish for Town of the Black Wood, a reference to a dense forest that had once stood in the vicinity. In another she learned that the Cantwells had indeed been in the area since the Norman Conquest. One odd detail was a claim, backed up by reference to monastic annals, that some local Irish clans had actively assisted the Norman Robert Cantwell in his conquest of the Ballykillduff area. The history books also mentioned that what is now the town's Anglican church was originally built by Robert Cantwell, almost as soon as he arrived in the locality and then renovated on a number of occasions over the centuries. The books did not have much information on the Cantwells themselves. Rachel noted, however, that they always seemed to be in place in Ballykillduff, through all the upheavals that had swept through Ireland over the last 800 years. She reckoned that they must have remained astute political players over the generations in order to avoid being on the losing side in any of the country's many conflicts.

"Ah Miss Maguire! Doing some reading?"

Rachel looked up to see the vicar standing over her. He was with a much younger woman whose outfit was rather figure hugging.

"Why yes," said Rachel. "I am reading up on local history."

"How fascinating," said the vicar. "May I introduce my wife, Marjory? Marjory, this is Rachel Maguire, the author of those books you like."

"Oh I know, silly," said Marjory to her husband, reaching out to shake Rachel's hand. "I do like your books, Miss Maguire." She spoke with an English accent.

"Why thank you," said Rachel.

"Have you found anything interesting about our little town?" said the vicar.

"Well, not too much. It was the history of the Cantwell family I was particularly looking for, but there isn't much on that."

"Ah, the Cantwells," said the vicar. He managed to make the comment sound like it contained many implied layers of meaning.

"They are a very well regarded family here," said Marjorie. "Though poor Maurice Cantwell has been a bit unlucky in love."

"It would rather irk him if he were to be the last of the Cantwells," said the vicar. "And it would be a great upset to all of us here in Ballykillduff. Well, apart from a certain element who have never had any affection for that family."

"Well I can't really help perpetuate the Cantwell line myself," said Rachel. "But I'll ask some of my girlfriends in Dublin if any of them want to give it a go."

The vicar and his wife laughed awkwardly at Rachel's attempt at humour.

"Well, we must be going now," said the vicar. "But perhaps we might see you at Sunday service?"

"I'm not really much of a church goer," said Rachel. "And I was kind of brought up as Catholic."

"Well everyone is welcome in St. Michael's", the vicar continued. "Even if you do not care to pray with us, the church is well worth having a look at. It is one of the oldest in the country, you know?"

"Really?" said Rachel. She had picked this up from her local history reading.

"Yes indeed," said the vicar. "It was built soon after the Norman conquest and…"

"Oh James," said Marjorie. "I don't think Miss Maguire wants a history lecture."

"Ah yes, of course. Well Miss Maguire, if you do care to look around the church or to join us on Sunday morning you will be most welcome. And that music festival will present another opportunity to see St. Michael's interior. We will be hosting a number of concerts, mostly during the day but one at night on -"

His flow was interrupted by the arrival in their vicinity of a rather irate librarian. "Vicar, please!" she said. "This is a library! I must ask you to be quiet."

"Ah yes, of course, my apologies", the clergyman whispered. "Come along Marjorie, we must away."

His wife smiled at Rachel as they left the library. The librarian returned to her desk.

That evening Rachel dined alone and then rang her boyfriend. He seemed to be managing well enough without her. She mentioned that she had met a local member of the gentry who seemed intent on her helping him to perpetuate the family line. "You've fallen on your feet there," was all Alan had to say in reply to that. She also said: "Oh yeah, I saw a strange dog the other night as I was driving down, and the receptionist in the hotel reckons that it is a sign I am doomed to die in the near future."

"Oh, really? I suppose I could edit your papers and bring out your next novel posthumously."

"Love you, Alan."

"Love you too, Rachel."

* * * *

Rachel was becoming used to disturbing dreams. This time, though, it felt a bit different. It was not like she was feeling that she was being menaced in some way. Instead she felt that she was feeling strange and unnatural sensations and emotions of a kind that is entirely alien to the human experience. She felt herself in water but was conscious only of a strange and terrible hunger. Then she was coming out of the water, creeping furtively through the streets of Ballykillduff. She saw a man on his own and felt herself resolving to sate her need to feed on this human. She stalked him as he moved through the streets, oblivious to her presence. When she was close to him she began to reach out for him, conscious at some level that it was not human hands she was stretching out to take him. At the last moment he became aware of his peril. He tried to run but she caught his legs. He tried to scream but she stopped his mouth. He tried to struggle but she ensnared him. Then she dragged him away to the water. He squirmed and wriggled but there was nothing he could do. He would provide her sustenance.

Nightmares often end with the dreamer about to die at the hands of whatever horror is molesting them. With this one it was the opposite. Just as she was dreaming that she, or the alien entity she was dreaming herself as, was about to feed on the victim, then she awoke. She lay in bed, drenched in her own sweat, and was afraid to to back to sleep in case the dream returned to her.

"Ghostly Black Dog"

Next Chapter

Sunday, April 28, 2013

The Gathering: Chapter 11 - Apparent breakthrough, worrying reverse

previously

Then

We are investigating the death of rich doper Harrison Ogilvy, in which a mysterious man from abroad seems to be implicated.

Bobby Lomax and I decided to stake out Marcy's diner. We didn't know what the foreign guy looked like, but we reckoned that if he was as weird as Lara said he was then we would know him if he came back in. The problem was of course that we had no idea if he would come in. Or how long it would be before he did. We spent much of two days taking turns to hang out in the diner, drinking coffee and reading the paper, but we never saw anyone who looked even remotely like they might be this sinister man of foreign appearance.

I admit it, I began to find the whole business boring. I had to remind myself why we were trying to find this foreign guy - because maybe he had killed some Harrison Ogilvy, some other guy that neither of us knew but who was someone that our friend Hunter Maddocks had been talking to in a dope den. I found myself wondering whether it was really so essential for us to track down the alleged killers of Harrison Ogilvy. Maybe we could just give up our investigations but keep telling Maddocks that we were continuing various non-specific lines of inquiry, until he lost interest in the whole business. That's what I found myself thinking, anyway.

I didn't want to give up on the hunt for Ogilvy's likely killers, but I didn't want it to take up the rest of my life either. I was becoming impatient. Maybe if we waited forever in Marcy's diner then the strange foreign guy would come back in. But maybe he wouldn't. Or maybe he wouldn't come back in for months. I did not want us to be still staking out that café in a couple of months time. There had to be some other way of speeding things up.

I remembered Lara saying that she thought Ogilvy might have had the foreigner staying in his apartment. Now, there was no chance that this guy was still there, unless he was a complete chump, but maybe when he or Ogilvy would have left behind something that could point me to what they were up to and where I might find them. So I thought to myself, what the hell, let's have a go at breaking into the apartment to see what I can find.

I'm guessing you've never had to break into an apartment. Up to this point, neither had I. I had to think about how best to do it. First of all I had a snoop by the building to get a sense of how easy it would be to enter. It was one of those places where you can walk straight in, but there was a superintendent on the door whose job included not letting suspicious characters in to break into the residents' homes. I did not feel that I had to worry about him - such people keep an eye out for low-lifes, but when they ignore a smartly dressed men who clearly come from a respectable family, so I would be able to sail past him. Getting into the apartment itself would be a little bit more tricky, but not impossible. If I wore a long coat I could carry a small jimmy underneath it, without exciting the suspicions of the superintendent. With that I would be able to quickly lever open the door and then I would be in.

Timing was crucial. It struck me that that daytime would be ideal for raiding the apartment. This was the kind of building where young bachelors lived, so during the day they would mostly be out at work without any wives or kids hanging around to notice a man jimmying his way into an apartment. But in this case daytime would not suit. As Ogilvy had died recently, there was every possibility that during the day there would be someone from the family there in the apartment, going through his stuff and working out what they wanted to keep and what to dispose of. That left the night or late evening, which had its own problems. If I came by too early, I ran the risk of someone bumping into me while I was breaking into the apartment. If I left it too late, the superintendent was more likely to have his suspicions aroused by the arrival of someone he did not recognise. And of course, doing the job at night time would mean I had to be extremely quiet, because when people are lying in bed trying to sleep the slightest sound elsewhere in the building can sound very suspicious.

I decided to swing by at 10.30 pm. Most folks would be getting ready for bed around then, but it was not so late that someone entering the building would seem unusual. I sauntered by the superintendent, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. "Good evening," I said. He grunted a reply, barely looking up from the pulp magazine he was reading. I made my way to the elevator and took it up to Ogilvy's floor. Gingerly I walked down the corridor to the door of his apartment. There was no one in the corridor and all around me was silence. I listened at the door of the apartment. No sound could be heard. The lights were out inside. I thought of knocking on the door, just in case anyone was within, but I decided against it. I didn't want anyone in the other apartments hearing the knock, and I didn't think there was any chance at all of there being someone inside. So I got to work. This was a fancy apartment block that I expected to house only people with a lot of money, but Ogilvy's door had a not very impressive lock. It did not take much effort with the jimmy to break the lock and open the door.

There was a tiny bit of noise as the lock broke, so I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, listening for the sound of any noise from the other apartments. Nothing. If anyone had heard me breaking in, no one had put two and two together and worked out what the noise was. I was in. No one was going to disturb me. So what would I find?

I didn't want to turn the lights on, as I reckoned there was too much danger of someone walking by in the corridor and getting suspicious when they saw light coming from under the door of an empty apartment. So I used a small flashlight to illuminate the room I was in. The door brought me straight into the apartment's living area, with a couple of other doors off leading no doubt to a kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. Someone had obviously been here ahead of me, as there were a number of bulging valises neatly placed on the floor. A quick glance at them revealed them to be filled with men's clothes. Pretty good stuff too. Ogilvy's family must be packing up his clothes to take them away. I wondered if Ogilvy might have been about my size, but I didn't like the idea of wearing a dead man's suit. I'm not superstitious, but that would be too much.

Some bookshelves caught my eye. I shone the light over them and checked out the titles. There were some titles of a kind that would not strike anyone as unusual, but some others seemed a bit more esoteric. The Golden Bough. Witch Cults of Europe. Thaumaturgical Prodigies of the New England Canaan. Psychopathia Sexualis. The True Revelations of Abra-Merlin the Mage. Mein Kampf (in an English translation). Secrets of the Kabbalah. Zohar. The Life and Times of Christian Rosenkreutzer. And so on. But what was clear from looking at the shelves was that someone had taken away some of the books, and that whoever did this had done so in a hurry. There were obvious gaps between the titles, with the books on either side hanging out awkwardly as though they had come askew when their tightly packed neighbour was removed, with the remover not bothering to straighten the shelves when he was finished. I imagined Ogilvy's occultist friends grabbing the books they valued and fleeing from the scene as fast as they could.

I looked a bit closer at one of the gaps in the lower shelves and made a discovery. A piece of paper had fallen behind the shelves. I reached in and took it out. It contained some handwritten notes. The writing mostly meant nothing to me, but it sure looked like funny stuff. Symbols that I think had astrological significance littered the page, as well as strange diagrams and phrases that looked like they were not in English or any other language I'd ever heard of. And there was an address! Bingo, I thought. The address was just a street and house number, and the street was not somewhere that immediately rang a bell with me, but I was sure I would be able to find it in a directory. And then I would find something that would get me closer to whatever had happened to Ogilvy.

Like I said, I had never broken into an apartment before. If I had, I would probably have known that the first job of any credible house-thief is to make sure he is alone in the apartment. I failed to do that. And I was so caught up in my inspection of the bookshelves that I stopped listening out for any sound that might mean my presence had been discovered. So it was a complete and terrible surprise when I felt a hard object jabbed into my back.

"This is a gun," said a woman's voice. "Do not make any sudden movements."


Next Chapter

Saturday, April 27, 2013

The Gathering: Chapter 10 - Reading, dining, dreaming

previously

Now

Popular novelist Rachel Maguire is on a reading tour of the Leitrim area.

Rachel Maguire was having a busy day. The morning saw her giving a reading to the Carrick On Shannon Ladies Literary Society. She read a chapter from her last book, which went down well with the mostly female crowd present, who had mostly come along because they had read and enjoyed that book. She then read a draft chapter from the new novel she was working on. They seemed to like it, but they probably knew no better. Afterwards she fielded some questions which were remarkably similar to the ones she had last heard last time she gave a reading. Then she chatted to the attendees over tea and cakes. When she revealed that she was staying over in Ballykillduff a look of surprise and uneasiness came over the women she was talking to.

"You couldn't find a hotel here in Carrick?" asked one.

"Well, I didn't really look, to be honest," said Rachel. "I got a good deal on the one in Ballykillduff and just went with that one. And it seemed like as good a place to base myself while I'm up here as any."

"Well I'm sure you want have any problems there," said another woman.

"Probably not," said the first.

"Go dtuga Dia a chosaint an bhean bhocht!" muttered a woman who had up to now been silent.

Rachel put the comments down to a certain snobbishness on the part of the Carrick's inhabitants towards the neighbouring town. Or maybe Ballykillduff had a local reputation for roughness? From what she had heard in the hotel and from the couple in the pub, there was maybe a certain edge to the town, but nothing anyone who had ever found themselves on Dublin's O'Connell Street late on a Saturday night could not handle. Yes, that must be it, she said to herself.

Rachel was back in Ballykillduff in the afternoon. There she was giving another reading, but this time in a local bookshop, which rejoiced in the name of The Book Palace. The place was tiny, but it seemed to have an astonishing range of books, both new and second hand. The shop seemed also to have an impressive selection of antiquarian books, though this was not an area in which Rachel was particularly interested. The proprietor, one Andrew Murphy, was a man somewhat passed middle-age, a bit scruffy for all that he came across as someone who never wore anything other than three-piece suits. For all that, he seemed to be a genuinely friendly character who chatted amiably with Rachel before she began her talk.

Bookshop talks were always different to ones in schools, libraries, or to literary clubs. In the others, Rachel was conscious that she was there to promote her own brand in a very general sense, so that maybe people would go off and buy her book or tell their friends about the lovely author they had seen. In the bookshops, though, the purpose of the talk was to sell books there and then. Rachel could give a reading, field questions from attendees, and generally feel that everything had gone well, but if the punters were not queuing up to get their copies of Christmas Heartbreak and Bad Penny signed then she would leave with an empty and deflated feeling. So she was always somewhat on edge before the readings started, worried that no one would come along or worried that she would screw it up some way and people would leave without buying any copies. The bookshop's owner was used to this from other writers, of course, so he was careful not to do anything that would stress her out beforehand.

The Book Palace was not a big place so the dozen or so people who came along to hear her easily filled it, giving her talk a cosy and intimate feeling. Rachel adopted a conversational tone designed to create a sense of familiarity with the audience and hopefully make them feel like they were under some kind of obligation to buy her book. The glasses of cheap wine that Mr Murphy was giving out to the attendees were probably also designed to put them in a more generous frame of mind.

The event seemed to go well. She read chapters from each of her two novels, one picked to be funny and show off her talents in that area, while the chapter from Bad Penny featured a poignant episode in which the heroine, Penny O'Brien, found herself facing the realisation that her bad behaviour was not merely causing her romantic problems but was driving a wedge between her and the people she valued the most in the world, her girl friends. Hoping that the attendees had not already read the book she left them on a cliff hanger - would Penny be able to change her tune and rebuild her friendships? She did not quite say "and if you want to find out what happens there are copies of Bad Penny here for sale", though she did her best to imply it.

Afterwards she answered the usual questions. She got her ideas from watching and listening to what was going on around her. The characters were not directly based on her friends, though obviously aspects of them were. No, the books were not autobiographical though some of her own experiences would have mirrored those of her heroines. And no, she could not put the lady inquirer in touch with the real Andy Ryan, the roguish villain of Good Intentions (her first novel), a character who seemed to be very popular with a certain class of her readers.

The crowd was not big but she sold a surprising number of books. The locals had either never heard of libraries or considered such places somehow beneath them. Several of the attendees bought copies of all her thus far published books, which was gratifying. One of these was a local vicar who said they were for his wife, insisting that she write out dedications on every one of them. Mr Murphy also asked her to sign a few more books for people who had not been able to come along to the reading. Rachel was happy to oblige.

When the small crowd had dispersed, Rachel and the bookshop owner went for dinner. They were joined by a younger man called Seamie who had not been at the reading but seemed to be linked to Mr Murphy, and also by a well-spoken man with chiselled good looks and floppily long hair. He had been at the reading and had bought a copy of Christmas Heartbreak, asking Rachel to make out the dedication to "Maurice". It seemed to Rachel that he had basically invited himself along for dinner, but that Mr Murphy was used to such behaviour and seemed to almost welcome it. His behaviour, and that of Seamie, was deferential towards the other man, and they addressed him respectfully as Mr Cantwell, while he in turn called them by their first names.

They ate in an Italian restaurant which served astonishingly good food for such an out of the way part of the country. Indeed, for any part of the country - Rachel felt that her vegetable pizza was among the very best she had ever eaten. Mr Cantwell took control of the wine menu and ordered what Rachel reckoned was a particularly expensive bottle. Well I'm not paying, she thought (as Mr Murphy had originally agreed to treat her to dinner). Mr Murphy did not look too put out at the choice either, so either he was also someone who was fond of the finest wines or else he knew from experience that Cantwell would be picking up the tab.

The conversation unfolded over dinner. Seamie said very little, mostly nodding in agreement at whatever Mr Murphy had to say. Rachel talked to Andrew about the book trade and books in general. They discussed some other authors popular at that time, before discussing some whose star had distinctly fallen. "I can't give away Tom Wolfe's books now", revealed Mr Murphy. "I mean that literally. I took in some cheap remaindered copies of his new novel, but no matter how cheap I priced them no one would buy them. I started offering them as free gifts with any purchase, and then realised this was depressing sales, because people did not want to have to refuse a copy. So I had to burn them. I don't know what I was thinking - I'd seen the same reviews as everyone else. I did try to read some of it, but it was utterly ghastly."

"Ghastly!" agreed Seamie. Rachel noted how different his natural local accent was to the strangely modulated tones of Mr Murphy. Mr Murphy then continued with a gossipy account of a once popular Irish author now so unpopular that he could not even have her books visible in his shop, as it would put off customers. "I always order in one copy of her books for an old lady who seems to be inexplicably fond of that rubbish. Even she insists on buying it pre-wrapped in a plain brown paper bag."

"Brown paper bag!" noted Seamie.

Rachel commented on how well-stocked the Book Palace was, not just with all the most recent publications but with all kinds of fascinating collectible and antiquarian books. "Not really what I was expecting in this part of the country," she said, perhaps not as tactfully as she might have intended.

Mr Murphy did not appear to take offence. "I know what you mean, you would not have thought that in a part of the country with such a sparse population there would be much demand for books, and serious books too, not just cheap mass market trash."

Seamie perhaps slightly over obviously nudged him under the table. Mr Murphy continued in a less animated vein. "The truth is, I have had to work hard to build a customer base. But I think I have done my bit to promote the art of reading here in Killduff and the surrounding area. Of course, having writers like yourself coming to town to give talks always helps. And we have quite a few writers based locally, which helps to create a bit of interest in the shop. They buy some books too, though not many - writers often hate reading, it's an odd thing about their profession. And none of them have any money - writing books is even less lucrative than selling them."

"But you seem to do alright, Andrew?" said Cantwell.

"Well I suppose I do, Mr Cantwell. It's the antiquarian and collectible material that really keeps my head above water. I will have people coming from all over to buy such things from me. And to sell to me too. I am known in such circle for paying good prices."

Cantwell was more interested in talking about Rachel's books. "I loved Bad Penny and can't wait to get stuck into Christmas Heartbreak," he said. "I know I'm not a typical reader of your books, but I think you've really got something."

"Why thank you, Mr Cantwell."

"Please, call me Maurice."

Rachel noted that Cantwell did not ask Seamie or the bookseller to address him by his first name.

At the end of their meal, Cantwell did indeed pick up the bill, leaving a generous tip that had the waiter saying "thank you very much, Mr Cantwell" in a slightly Italian accent. They left the restaurant and on the street outside, Mr Murphy said: "Well it's been a lovely evening, but I think we should be going now, eh Seamie?"

"Oh yes," replied Seamie.

"So farewell Miss Maguire, and thank you for gracing us with your presence. I hope you return to Ballykillduff when your next book is published, if not sooner".

"Oh I will," said Rachel, shaking hands with first Mr Murphy and then Seamie.

"Goodnight, Mr Cantwell", said Mr Murphy, before saluting and heading off into the night with Seamie.

"So," said Cantwell, "do you care for a night cap? There is a delightful little pub just round the corner."

"Well, perhaps a small digestif," said Rachel. "But I can't stay out too late. I have to ring my boyfriend before I go to bed. In case he thinks I've got lost." This was not entirely true. Alan would have been happy with a quick goodnight text whenever she happened to turn in, but she felt it was worth establishing to Cantwell that going for a drink was not going to be a prelude to something else.

If Cantwell was disappointed to hear that she was not single, he hid it well. "Oh of course," he replied. "I can't stay up late myself - have to be up early in the morning."

He led her down the street. Rachel realised they were headed to Teague's and Meagher's, the two pubs she had been in the night before. On the way they passed Duffy's, from which the same kind of loud gutteral conversation was emanating as it had the night before. A surly faced man was smoking outside the pub. Seeing Rachel and Cantwell he lowered his gaze and muttered "Evening Mr Cantwell". Cantwell said "Evening" back and walked on.

"That's a pretty rough spot, that pub," said Cantwell. "It attracts the worst elements of the town and surrounding area."

"So I've heard," said Rachel.

"I'd stay well clear of it if I were you."

"I feel no great urge to visit it."

"Still, it's nice to have all of that lot in one place, eh?" said Cantwell. "Stops them bothering people elsewhere. Ah, here we are." They were now at the pubs. Cantwell led Rachel into Meagher's. The bar man and several of the customers greeted Cantwell; he in turn greeted many of them by name, before ordering an expensive Scotch for himself and a gin and tonic for Rachel, who was not a whiskey drinker. They sat at a table and then Cantwell in a low voice revealed to Rachel that Mr Murphy and Seamie "batted for the other team."

"Really?" said Rachel, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

Cantwell discoursed for a bit on the history of Mr Murphy's family, who had been in the area for generations, "thought not as long as mine," he added, with a self-deprecating laugh. He ordered a second round of drinks, brushing off Rachel's attempts to pay. He took another sip of whisky and then said: "So you and your boyfriend, you've been together long?"

"Well yes, a couple of years. Three next February."

"And you are happy with your boyfriend?"

Cantwell seemed to have mastered the art of raising one eyebrow while keeping the other lowered, a trick he deployed after asking this question. "Yes, I suppose I am," she answered. "Look, Maurice, I think I can see where you're going with this. You're a nice guy and everything, but let's keep it friendly, shall we?"

"OK, sorry," said Cantwell, looking a bit deflated. "I'm afraid I'm on a bit of a rebound thing at the moment. I was in a relationship with a lovely woman but, well… it didn't work out."

"Oh dear," said Rachel.

"I feel a bit like a character in one of your books," Cantwell continued. "Sometimes I worry I am doomed to live out my days in loneliness. That would be bad enough for anyone, but for me it would be especially upsetting. You see, I am the last of my family. If I were to die without leaving an heir then the Cantwells of Ballykillduff would die with me, ending a line that that has lived here since the Normans came to Ireland. And if the Cantwells die out, then the work we do dies with us."

"The work you do?"

"Oh, you know," replied Cantwell evasively. "Keeping an eye on things. Making sure nothing untoward happens here in Ballykillduff. Dealing with problems."

"Bossing people around and making sure they don't start thinking for themselves?"

"It's not like that," said Cantwell, trying not to get angry. "There are good people in this town. But there are people who are not so good. People who have plans for things they want to happen. Things they know will never happen while a Cantwell is on hand to stand against them."

"Really?" said Rachel, now wondering if Cantwell was exhibiting megalomaniacal tendencies. Perhaps the drinks had lowered his inhibitions and he was giving vent to delusions of grandeur that he had kept hidden up to now. It would not be unusual for these landed gentry types to see themselves as essential to the well-being of their localities, she thought, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Something about Rachel's tone struck deep into Cantwell. "I think I've said too much." He knocked back his drink. "Goodnight, Miss Maguire, I must be going. I trust you will be able to find your way back to your hotel." With that he got up and left, ignoring the chorus of "good night Mr Cantwell" that came from the others in the pub.

Rachel was put out by Cantwell's odd behaviour. She thought of leaving the pub immediately but did not want to look flustered to the locals. So she tried to calm herself and slowly sipped the rest of her gin and tonic. Then she left and made her way back to the hotel without incident. Her sleep that night was relatively undisturbed, but a noise did wake her at one point. She thought she heard the low distant sound of a powerful dog barking slowly, but she could not be sure.


Next Chapter

Friday, April 26, 2013

The Gathering: Chapter 9 - Late lunch with a beautiful woman

previously

Then

We had made a breakthrough in our investigation of how rich dope fiend Harrison Ogilvy had met his end.

Black magic! Harrison Ogilvy had got himself mixed up in black magic! Things were starting to make more sense. Black magic was just the thing to appeal to someone like Ogilvy who had received more education than he could ever put to use. The occult often sucks in people who like to think of themselves as sensitive and of superior intelligence to the average Joe, so small wonder Ogilvy found himself performing the rites of evil. Of course, black magic is all hogwash (or so I thought then), but that doesn’t mean that the people who believe in it can't end up doing some pretty crazy stuff. Nothing is beyond people who get mixed up in that kind of thing. Grave robbing, human sacrifice, even sexual deviance - any of these things might have been what drove Ogilvy to his breakdown, and then the others went and murdered him to stop him blabbing. The foreign guy he mentioned was probably the leader of the cult, some kind of fast talking con artist who could lure in over-sensitive saps and get them working to serve his interests. I found myself thinking that the foreigner was probably leeching money off Ogilvy and the others. Maybe he had partly killed Ogilvy to put the fear of God (or the Devil) into the others, to reinforce his power over them. Well he wasn't going to get away with this! Even if the cops weren't interested, I was going to see that he was brought to justice.

But Lomax was not quite so sure that this is what we were dealing with.

"Oh come on, black magic, in this day and age? This isn't mediaeval Germany, no one takes that kind of stuff seriously anymore."

"You think so, Bobby? Sure, you don't get people talking in the papers about how they're proud worshippers of the Devil, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. And it gets reported too, when those lunatics do something that brings the law down on them. Jeez, Bobby, remember all that stuff in Louisiana last year."

"I remember it, but that was different, that was all that voodoo stuff."

"It's all the same! It's all stupid people thinking they're getting one up on everyone else by doing a deal with dark powers. OK, so it's all hokum, or all just some magician doing conjuring tricks to rip off the gullible, but that doesn't mean the people mixed up in this kind of thing don't find themselves getting up to some crazy stuff."

"OK, maybe you're right." I could tell that Bobby didn't really buy it, but he couldn't argue with my enthusiasm. "So what are we going to do about it? How are we going to track down whatever black magic buddies Ogilvy might have had?"

"That I don't know," I replied. "That I don't know yet. I'm hoping that the woman from the funeral comes back to me. If not we will have to pursue other lines of inquiry. I might see if I can have a word with Miss Ogilvy. She might know something. Or maybe some of those old buddies could be hit for some more information."

So we waited for the dame to come back to me. In the meantime I filled in Maddocks on how our search for his dope buddy's killer was going. Well, filled him in somewhat vague and general terms. I didn't like the idea of Maddocks knowing that we were up against some kind of sinister black magic cult. It was the kind of thing I could easily imagine setting him off again, and next thing his wife would be calling me to go fish him out of another opium den. So I just told him that we were pursuing some definite lines of inquiry and hoping to get to closer to putting away the people who had done in Ogilvy. I did not go into any further detail, telling him that I did not want to compromise the investigation. He seemed happy enough to hear that we were doing a thorough job.

I spent a lot of time in my office. I had, after all, given the woman my office number, so if she was going to ring me anywhere it would be there. I told my secretary that I was expecting a call from a woman, and that if she rang she was to be put straight through to me, no matter what. "What kind of woman?" she asked, to which I could give no very specific reply. As I result I found myself fielding calls from all kinds of idiot women who had somehow landed jobs in sales. But the woman herself did not call.

I was starting to think where else to take this. Maybe I could approach Ogilvy's sister. Everything suggested she was one tough cookie, so if she reckoned I was on the level a lot of doors would open for me. But if she reckoned I wasn't on the level going near her would be a big mistake. And how would I get near her? I suspected somehow that strange men who arrived at Ogilvy Towers looking to see Alanis Ogilvy would be shown off the premises in jig time. And going to the company offices would be a waste of time as well - she would have a lot of gate-keepers whose sole mission in life was to protect her from anyone she had not already decided she wanted to talk to. This could be a bit difficult, but I am a naturally resourceful man. If I had to talk to Alanis, I would. Ideas began to form in my mind.

But then I was able to put them away. Just when I had completely given up on the woman from the funeral, my secretary rang through to me and said there was a woman on the line. I expected it to be another caller trying to sell me the latest useless gadget, but instead a voice on the other end of the line said: "It's me."

"You took your time getting back to me," I said, trying not to sound too accusatory, making it more sound like a statement of fact.

"I wasn't sure I could trust you. I thought you might be working for Harry's stuck up sister. But I made my own inquiries. You don't work for anyone, do you?"

"I'm my own man," I replied. And it was true. I hated having someone else boss me around.

"I hate taking on the phone. When can we meet?"

"How about right now?"

"Sure. Where?"

I told her the name of the diner Lomax and I visited after the funeral. "See you there in fifteen minutes?"

"Sure."

She hung up. I told my secretary that I was taking the afternoon off. She smirked at me as I hot-footed it out of there. There was no doubt about it, the dame's voice had a certain quality to it and I think my secretary reckoned I was going to be doing more than having coffee and cake in my afternoon off. Let her think what she likes, I thought.

I got to the diner first. I ordered myself a coffee and took a booth. I half-read my paper and scanned the place. I suppose if I was becoming an investigator I would have to start acting like one, which meant developing some proficiency in the art of watching and noticing. The diner was quiet. It was that part of the afternoon where the lunch crowd have gone back to work but it's too early for people to be eating dinner after work. So who were the other people in here? That man with the moustache and the nasty suit, why was he stuffing apple pie into his face here instead of sitting behind a desk in an office? The other guy in the blue overalls, what was he writing at as he sipped his coke? I had no idea. If I was a real detective I would probably have been able to tell their whole life stories from a few details of their appearance. Instead I knew nothing at all.

Still, one thing I do know is what a beautiful woman looks like, and that's what came into the diner when the dame from the funeral arrived. From the way the clerk at the counter's mouth dropped open and the eyes of the other two as they followed her to my table I could tell they weren't used to seeing a knock-out like her in a place like this. And nor was I. I had seen other woman here before, of course, in having lunch or dinner with each other or their sweethearts. Often good-looking woman too. But they weren't like the lady who was now sitting in front of me. But she wasn't like them either. The other women who came here were good and ordinary. She was extraordinary. And she wasn't good, anyone could tell that from looking at her.

"Do you have a cigarette?" she said.

"Of course," I replied. "So you smoke?"

"No, I collect cigarettes," she said, in a sarcastic tone. "Of course I smoke. Can I have one, please?"

"Sure," I said, letting her take one from my packet and then lighting her, just as the waiter came over.

"Coffee," she said, before adding quickly: "And an egg and ham sandwich. With fries on the side."

The waiter scurried away. The lady looked at me and smiled a sad smile. "You're paying for this?" she asked.

"I suppose I am. So, tell me, what's your name?"

"I've got many names. But you can call me Lara. That's what Harry used to call me." She smiled again, the smile giving her face a heart-breaking quality.

"I'm -" I began, but she interrupted me.

"I know who you are. I have your card, remember?"

"Sure, I forgot."

The waiter arrived with her coffee. "Sandwich comin' right up!"

"OK, Lara," I said. "Beautiful as you are, I did not come here to buy you sandwiches. Like I said at the funeral, I think your Harrison Ogilvy may have murdered. And I think you might be able to tell me something that will put me onto the creeps who did it."

At that point her sandwich arrived. She tucked in hungrily.

"So," I continued, "Can you tell me when you first met Ogilvy?"

After gulping down some more mouthfuls and then swallowing, she said "Can I finish my sandwich first? I am kind of hungry."

I resigned to having to watch her eat. She did not eat her food in a diffident and lady-like manner, but like a ravenous beast. It did not show her at her best. It is hard to look beautiful and mysterious when you are stuffing your face. I drank some more of my coffee.

Eventually she finished. "God, I needed that," she said.

"Glad you liked it. Now, about Ogilvy?"

"Sure. I met Harry where I work. The Silver Bannister Club. You know it?"

I nodded. I had heard of the Silver Bannister. It was not a place with a good reputation. Something of my facial reputation must have betrayed what I was thinking.

"Hey! It’s not like that. I only waited tables."

"Sure. And what was Ogilvy doing in a place like that? Seems like a strange hang-out for a sensitive guy like that."

"Well believe it or not, he was there because he liked the music. Harry loved jazz."

I should have known. Jazz was just the thing that someone like him would have gone for. And not the kind of jazz they play in normal places, the jazz you can ask a lady to dance to, but the kind of strange jazz they played in the Silver Bannister.

"Did he come there alone, or with other people?"

"With other people, at first. Some of his friends. I saw some of them at the funeral. They didn't see me. Or they pretended not to. But they weren't so fond of the music. Harry kept coming in, but they didn't. And as we got to know each other better, he was happy to come in on his own."

"So you became… close?" I said, trying be as tactful as I could.

"Sure. We became lovers." There was no beating around the bush with this one, I thought. "I know what you think, that this a good time girl turned gold digger latching onto an innocent rich kid. Well mister, it wasn't like that. We were really in love. We both felt like we had met our true love. Have you ever felt like that?"

"No," I said sadly, "I can't say that I have."

"I thought so. But I can tell you, I've met a lot of guys in my time, but no one made me feel like when I was with Harry."

This dime novel romance was all very well but it was not why I was here.

"That's very sweet," I said. "So you were very happy together. But then what?"

"We were happy together. Very happy. But we had our troubles. Harry's family found out about us. They didn't like that. They didn't like a woman like me being with their boy. And that stuck up bitch of a sister, well she certainly was not my biggest fan."

"I see," I said. This was not really going anywhere.

"And then Harry told me he couldn't see me anymore. I was upset, I was very upset. He didn't give a reason and I thought at first it was his family, that they had got to him. But I don't think it was that. His whole manner was different, like he was hiding something from me, like he had found someone else. I don't think he had, though. Not another woman, anyway. I think it was those new friends of his."

"His new friends?"

"Yeah. He mentioned them at first, said he had some new friends he was working with on some stuff, not his work, but other stuff. But then he clammed up about them and wouldn't talk about them. He'd get uncomfortable if I mentioned them and change the subject."

"What do you know about these people?"

"Not much. I never met them. I think they were from here, mostly, but there was one guy from abroad somewhere. Harry seemed… well he seemed in awe of that guy, but he was afraid of him too."

"And do you know where he met these people?"

"Different places. When the foreigner showed up, I think he stayed with Harry at his apartment in town. Once that creep was on the scene, Harry never brought me back there and he wouldn't let me in if I called."

"Did you ever meet this foreign guy? Where was he from?"

"I met him once. Well, I saw him once. I was out in town and I saw Harry in a diner, with some guys. I hadn't seen Harry in a while. I think this must have been when he was getting in real deep with those other guys. I know that now, but then I was wondering what the story was, so I saw Harry in the diner and I decided to go in and say hello and ask why he hadn't called me. But Harry saw me before I got to their table. He was startled and he jumped up and ran over to me, almost hustled me out of the diner, giving me all this "darling we can't talk now, I'll ring you later". But I could tell. He didn't want his new friends to see me."

Lara now seemed like she was on the brink of crying. I instinctively took her hand.

"That must have been terrible." It wasn't the best thing in the world to say, but it was all I could think of.

"It was."

I took back my hand and continued with the questions. "And these friends of his, what were they like? Would you know them again?"

"Two of them were just regular guys. The kind of guys you see everywhere, the kind of guys that come to the Silver Bannister, the kind of guys you see in any downtown bar or diner. I've seen a lot of guys, mister, and there wasn't anything about those two that would make them stick in my memory."

"But the foreigner?"

"He was different. He looked at me while Harry was talking to me. And there was something about that look. A kind of pure hate, like he wanted me to curl up and die for having the nerve to come in and bust up his party. I'd know him if I saw him again. I only saw him for a few seconds, but I'll carry that face with me to the grave."

Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper, like she was afraid that this man would be lurking in the next booth listening to what she had to say about him.

"What did he look like?"

"Foreign. He looked foreign. And old. But not all wrinkled up and decrepit, like a normal old man. Just there was something about him that made him seem like he had been around a long time, longer than anyone has a right to be."

"When you say foreign, what do you mean?"

"Well it's hard to tell. He wasn't a negro or a Chinaman or anything like that, but he was darker than the average joe. There was something a bit weird about his features, something that made him look like his folks hadn't come over on the Mayflower."

"So this diner, where you saw them, where was it?"

"Downtown. Near the station. Marcy's. You know it?"

I nodded. I knew it. It was somewhere I had walked by any number of times.

"And anything else? Did Harry ever let slip anything else about what he was up to with these guys?"

"Nothing much. He said it was something big, something that would make everyone look up, but he never went into details. And if I started asking, he would clam."

"OK Lara, you've been a big help. If you think of anything else, call me."

"Sure mister, I will. But listen… I don't know how to say this, but you seem like a swell guy, so maybe you can help me out? My rent's due and I'm a bit short of dough. Things ain't been so good down the club lately, you know how it is."

I was wondering if she might pull something like this on me.

"Sure, I know how it is," I said. I took out my wallet and handed over a couple of bills. You might think me a sap, but you didn't have her sitting across from you, looking at me with those eyes. Lara was no angel, but she had something no man would find it easy to resist. I knew I would be lying awake that night thinking about her and I wanted to leave her on the best possible terms. I said to myself that this was just in case I needed to talk to her again about Ogilvy, but I knew that was a lie.

She seemed pleased with what I had given her.

"Gee mister, you are one swell guy. You should come by the club sometime. Listen, I gotta split." She got up to go and then in one swift movement bent over and kissed me on the cheek before exiting. The touch of her lips had me almost in shock, but my eyes followed her out the door, as I think did those of every other man in the diner.


Next Chapter




Thursday, April 25, 2013

The Gathering: Chapter 8 - The popular novelist and the devil dog of doom

previously

Now

Rachel Maguire stepped out of her car, opened the boot and took out her bag before walking round to the hotel entrance.

"Hello," she said to receptionist. "I've got a reservation, my name is Rachel Maguire".

"Oh I know who you are, Miss Maguire," said the receptionist. "I've read all your books and I must say I love them all. We're all very excited to have you staying with us. I hope your readings go well - and I'm sure they will, everyone loves your books round here."

"Thanks," said Rachel, actually meaning it. She was at the stage of her writing career where she still liked meeting strangers who told her how much they liked her books. Meeting people who liked her books made her happy, so much so in this case that she did not correct the use of "Miss".

"You're down a bit later than we were expecting, did you run into any trouble on the way?"

"Well," said Rachel, "there were some road works that held me back so much it was after dark when I reached Carrick On Shannon. Then I got bit lost on the roads between there and here."

"That's always happening. They really should do something about the signposts. It's fine for us locals, but visitors are always getting lost."

"There was one odd thing," said Rachel, not sure if it was worth mentioning to the friendly receptionist but doing so anyway. "I was driving down a quiet road when I rounded a corner and saw, ahead of me, this big black dog. He was right ahead of me, blocking the road. A huge black dog, right in the headlights, just standing there on the road. And he didn't move, he just stood there."

"A big black dog," said the receptionist, an odd note creeping into her voice. "What did you do?"

"Well I swerved - I didn't want to hit him. I swerved past him and went on up the road, but when I looked back in the rear view mirror, I could see him there on the road, only he had turned around and was looking on after me. And there must have been some kind of trick of the light, but it seemed like his eyes were glowing bright red."

"Glowing red eyes!" said the receptionist. She sounded worried now. "That was no dog!"

"Well it looked like a dog," said Rachel.

"Oh Miss Maguire, it may have looked like a dog, but it was no dog. Round here there are things people have heard about from their parents and grandparents before them, and one of them is the Black Dog, or something that looks like a black dog, that people see on the road barring their way. Some say it is the Devil himself in the form of a dog, others that it is a sign that something terrible is going to happen. I don't know what it is myself, but I know nothing good happens whenever it is seen. Oh heavens, I hope nothing bad happens to you!"

"So do I!" said Rachel, trying to put a brave face on things but genuinely rattled by the receptionist's concern. In the safety of your suburban Dublin home it is easy to scoff at the folk beliefs of country bumpkins, but when someone tells you that what you have seen is a harbinger of doom… well, one can forgive her for being a bit alarmed.

"Anyway," she continued, "I'd better get up to my room."

"Oh of course, Miss Maguire," said the receptionist, the switch back to the normal work routine calming her somewhat. She fumbled for a key, told Rachel where her room was, gave her the times for breakfast, and then finished up by telling her to ring down to reception if she needed anything. Rachel went on up to her room and settled in. The place was clean and tidy, perhaps a bit old fashioned in the décor, but rather quaint and charming. Then she decided to go out for a stroll and perhaps see if there were any nice pubs in the town. It was a weekday night so they would not be too crowded, surely?

Back in the reception area she decided to ask about the lay of the land. "I'm going out to have a look around. Tell me, are there any nice pubs or bars here in Ballykillduff?"

"Well now," said the receptionist, "we have our own little bar here in the hotel which obviously we consider quite appealing. But there are some nice pubs out in the town too. But there are some not so nice ones, so you'd want to be careful, Miss Maguire."

"I see."

"We get a lot of those stag and hen parties here in Killduff, and the kind of pubs they go to probably would not be the kind of thing you are looking for."

"Probably not," said Rachel. "But would there be stag and hen parties here on a weekday night, at this time of year?"

"There's always some, but it's easy enough to spot their kind of place, so you'll be able to stay away from them. If I were you I'd stick to the local pubs".

"That does sound a bit better," said Rachel, who was imagining herself reading a book (or taking notes for her own next one) in a cosy local pub with an open fire and old men with dogs warming themselves while a trad session went on in a corner.

"The thing is though," said the receptionist, "the local pubs are not all the same, and there are some of them that someone like you wouldn't want to go into. You wouldn't think it to look at it, but this town can get a bit rough, and some of the towns attract a rather rough element. But there are some nice ones. The more respectable visitors here tend to like Meagher's and Teague's. Meagher's is good for food, and Teague's has traditional music most nights. And they're both beside each other, just round the corner on Main Street. But I would stay out of Duffy's, if I were you. They're a rough lot who drink in there and they don't like people they don't know."

"Thanks very much," said Rachel. "I will go and have a look at Meagher's and Teague's." Bidding farewell to the receptionist she went forth into the night.

Rachel nursed a pint while eating a pleasant meal in Meagher's and then went next door to catch some music in Teague's. The pub had a pleasant atmosphere and was surprisingly crowded for a Wednesday evening. Rachel found a small table but was very close to a couple seated nearby, a man with an odd combination of a carefully-trimmed and pointed beard with long hair that was distinctly unkempt, and a woman whose long red hair looked very much like its striking colouration came from a bottle. There was indeed music playing. Rachel nursed another pint and slipped into a relaxed frame of mind, not bothering to take her book or notebook out of her bag.

Then a sudden question from the bearded man jerked her out of her reverie.

"You're not from round here, are you?"

The man was looking at her with an intense expression. The thought flashed quickly through Rachel's mind that she had mixed up the pubs and gone to one where they did not like outsiders. Then the red-haired woman laughed and slapped the man playfully on the arm.

"Oh Tom!" she said. Her accent was North American.

"Sorry," said the man, whose name must be Tom. His accent sounded mor Irish. "Just my joke. We're not from round here either. My name's Tom."

"And I'm Cassandra."

"Oh hi," said Rachel. "I'm Rachel".

"Are you visiting Killduff?" asked Cassandra.

"Yes," said Rachel. "For about a week or so."

"We live down here", said Tom. "Well, we live outside the town. Accommodation's much cheaper than in Dublin, you know how it is. Our artistic endeavours did not really cover the cost of a pre-crash Dublin mortgage."

"Oh, you're artists?" said Rachel.

"Yeah," said Cassandra. "I do visual stuff, mainly conceptual things."

"I do experimental films," said Tom. "The kind of thing that never gets shown in cinemas". He laughed.

"And we make music together", said Cassandra.

"Sweet music," said Tom, chortling.

"Well, avant garde electronic music that most people would not consider music at all," said Cassandra.

"My favourite kind!" said Rachel.

"Really?" said Tom.

"Well, no," answered Rachel. "I couldn't really say it's my thing though it's not like I hate it or anything."

After that they chatted on a bit more. It turned out they had mutual acquaintances. Ireland is a small country. After comparing notes on different people Tom suddenly said: "Ah wait, I do know you from somewhere. I don't think we've met before, but I have seen your photo."

"On Facebook?" said Cassandra.

"No, stupid. In the paper. You're a writer, aren't you? You write those books".

"Yes," said Rachel, somewhat apologetically, as she reckoned that these avant garde artist types would probably not be too impressed by the kind of books she wrote.

"Oh yeah," said Cassandra. "Christmas Heartbreak, that was one of yours, wasn't it?"

"I'm afraid it was."

"I gave that to my mam for her birthday," said Tom. "She loved it."

"She did," said Cassandra. "He's not just saying that."

"That's nice to hear," said Rachel. Then the conversation moved onto other things. Eventually Rachel mentioned the strange black dog she had seen on the road outside the town.

"Might just have been someone's dog," said Tom.

"It was a bit on the big side," said Rachel. "The woman in the hotel seemed a bit spooked by it. She seemed to think it might be the Devil or something. Jesus, I can't believe I'm sitting in a pub saying that I might have seen the Devil!" She laughed. In this cosy pub it was hard to imagine the demonic impinging into the material world.

"That whole Devil Dog thing is a bit tradition all over England in Ireland," said Cassandra.

"Cass is into all that witchy stuff," said Tom.

"Yeah?" said Rachel.

"Just reading!" said Cassandra. "I like reading about it, but I'm not into all that stripping naked and worshipping the Earth business".

"More's the pity," said Tom.

"Anyway, there are a lot of local traditions that see that uncanny black dog thing as being an apparition of the Devil or a harbinger of imminent death," said Cassandra.

"Not to worry you or anything," added Tom.

"Oh dear," said Rachel.

"But even for people who believe all that kind of stuff, it's not necessarily that bad," continued Cassandra. "Some see the Black Dog more as a warning - it's like the dog is telling you, watch out, trouble ahead."

"Not so much a Devil Dog as a spectral watch dog?" suggested Rachel.

"Perhaps so," said Cassandra. "Either way, the dog is a sign of trouble. If you believe in that kind of thing. Do you have any reason to believe you might be cursed by dark forces?"

"Well, John Banville wrote a mean review of my last book."

"Oh dear," said Tom. "Have you made a will?"

The conversation move on again. Eventually Rachel found herself saying: "This really is a lovely pub."

"Yeah, it is", said Tom. "There's some nice pubs in this town."

"And some not so nice ones," said Cassandra.

"Oh yeah, Christ," said Tom. "Do you remember that one we went into when we came down here first? Real duelling banjos stuff. Everyone went quiet when we came in and stared at us until we left. I think if I have been with another guy rather than Cass here they might have started laying into me."

"It had a definite atmosphere," said Cassandra.

"Not somewhere I'll be going back to," said Tom.

"I must make sure not to go near it," said Rachel. "What's it called?"

"Mmm, can't remember," said Tom. "Duffy's, maybe?"

"It's the run-down looking place on Main Street," said Cassandra. "The one that looks no one in their right mind would ever want to go into it. I think we only tried it because Tom fancied getting down with the less sophisticated locals."

"I'll keep an eye out for it," said Rachel.

Rachel stayed a bit later in the pub then she had intended and only remembered as they were calling for last orders that she had to give a reading to a ladies' club somewhere in the local backwoods, so when Cassandra asked if she wanted one more she had to decline and say that she really had to be going.

"It was lovely meeting you," she said, as she got up to go. "I hope we run into each other again".

"Cheers," said Tom.

"Hey," said Cassandra, "if you're in town over the weekend, there's going to be a small festival on in the Courthouse Arts Centre. It'll be loads of weirdo music like we make, only done by people who are much better at it."

"We're organising it," said Tom, "so we have to try and drum up business. Ticket sales have not exactly been brisk. But it will be a lot of fun, if weirdo music made by men with beards is your idea of fun."

"I'll give it a go," said Rachel. "I don't really have anything else planned for the weekend, apart from book readings during the day."

They made their farewells and Rachel left them to return to her hotel. Her walk back took her past the rough pub that both the receptionist and the two artists had warned her against. Low, guttural noises came from inside it. She thought of sticking her head in the door to see what all the fuss was about, but even after a couple of pints she was not feeling quite so daring. She continued on the street to her hotel and turned in for the night.

But her sleep was troubled. Strange dreams and thoughts prevented her from resting properly. She imagined herself out on the streets of Ballykillduff again, only there was something strange about the place. The streets and the buildings around them seemed to be writhing. They were assuming a living character that was both animal and vegetable at the same time, with branches and leaves sprouting from the buildings while everything moved in a manner that called to mind the sinuous movements of a snake or reptile. In her dream she found herself once more outside the pub she had been warned against. The low noises of conversation she had heard earlier were louder now. Now, though, they did not sound like the idle chatter of a pub's customers engaging in their separate conversations, but as something more uniform, like the people in there were engaging in some kind of call and response with one solitary voice being followed by the whole pub saying the same thing - something that Rachel was unable to hear. Then the people inside the pub stopped their call and response… now Rachel could hear what seemed like laughter coming from them, but laughter of a kind that made her not want to know what the subject of the joke was. And then the door of the pub seemed to be opening outwards, and she felt a terrible compulsion to go in and join the customers, even though she knew that something terrible would happen if she did so. She could feel herself taking a step forward, even as the ground beneath her feet pulsed and the pub building stretched up and around her as though it was going to swallow her before she even stepped through the door.

But then she heard the bark of a dog - not the high pitched bark of a terrier but the low, powerful bark of a large hound. And she turned around and saw behind her, close but not too close, the same terrible black hound she had seen on the road earlier. This time there was no mistaking its supernatural qualities. The dog's eyes glowed bright red and it was hovering about the undulating roadway. It started to approach Rachel, walking even though it was not touching the ground.

And then she woke up. She was back in the hotel room. It was dark and quiet outside. Or was it? Maybe she had really heard the bark of a dog outside?


Next Chapter

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

The Gathering: Chapter 7 - Uninvited guests at a funeral

previously

Then

Bobby Lomax and I are continuing to investigate the death of one Harrison Ogilvy, a doper pal of our troubled friend Hunter Maddocks.

Lomax and I had found out some things about Ogilvy, but it wasn't enough. We would have to get closer to him to find out anything more. So that's how we found ourselves heading along to his funeral. Funerals are great places for snoopers. No one is going to ask why you are there and the occasions are tailor-made for people to strike up conversations about the deceased.

Ogilvy's funeral was a big religious affair. Lomax and I sat near the back, so we could more easily cast our eyes over the attendees. We could see his parents at the front, a frail looking older couple obviously none too pleased at the untimely death of their son. With them sat a woman I guessed would have to be the sister mentioned in the newspaper death notice. I caught a look at her face. It was one that would be considered beautiful if not for the hardness of her facial expression. I wondered whether this was her usual look or whether it was a response to the sudden death of her brother. Mourning becomes few people. The other mourners looked like a mixture of various members of the deceased's extended family, favoured employees of the family company, and some younger men who might have been those old friends of Ogilvy's that had apparently been cut off by him last year.

As the reverend droned on with this religious pieties (the usual stuff about God working in mysterious ways, about the divine plan being sometimes hard to fathom, about the deceased being with God now and beyond human suffering, and so on - the kind of thing I'd heard a thousand times before) I found myself thinking that so far there was nothing out of the ordinary. But of course, there would hardly be. It's not like the shifty characters who dragged Ogilvy out of that opium den would be here to pay their respects. And I certainly did not expect this sinister foreigner of whom he was so afraid to be sitting at the front of the church in a place of honour. But if we were to find out anything that would get us closer to finding the killers (if Ogilvy had indeed been killed), then we would have to talk to these people in the hope that something they would say - something that might not even be significant to them - would set us on the right track.

I looked around the church once more, this time discreetly checking out the people behind us in case any of them looked like they might be worth talking to. There were the usual kind of people skulking at the back of the church, the kind of people who were clearly at most distant acquaintances of the deceased or perhaps people who knew other family members and felt it was worth their while being seen to attend the service. But that's not all there was. My eyes were drawn to a woman sitting on her own near the back of the church. My eyes were drawn to her for two reasons - first of all, she was a knock out, although perhaps not the kind of woman who normally frequents the inside of churches. But I noticed something else about her too - her eyes. Under her heavily made-up face I could see she had been crying. She was not someone here out of a vague sense of obligation or a wish to pay last respects to a casual acquaintance. This was someone to whom the deceased meant a lot. And yet she was sitting there at the back of the church, on her own, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

"There's a dame at the back of the church," I whispered to Lomax, "and I think she may have been close to Ogilvy. I'm going to see what I can find out from her when the service ends. You try his old buddies. Spin them some kind of line and see what you can get out of them about his cutting them off last year."

He nodded.

The service ended and the coffin was hoisted up and carried outside. People began to file out of the church. Lomax and I moved as quickly as we could, but without drawing attention to ourselves, to get outside to where we could more easily latch onto whoever we fancied talking to. Once outside, I could see the coffin being loaded into the hearse while the first leavers milled around. The woman had left her seat as soon as people had started to move and was not waiting around outside. Where the hell was she? Then I saw her moving away from the church, a lonely figure escaping the throng. I hot-footed it after her.

"Excuse me ma'am!" I said, as I got closer to her. She turned around and eyed me suspiciously, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. Her beautiful cheeks. Maybe I was wrong about mourning not becoming people.

"What do you want?" she said.

"I saw you walking away and I could see you were upset. Harrison Ogilvy obviously meant a lot to you. Do you have time for a few words? I'm trying to get to the bottom of how he died."

"Get lost! I don't want to talk to some snooper." She turned to go.

"Wait!" I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. "I think his death might not have been an accident. You might be able to help me catch his killers."

She hesitated and turned around.

"I can't talk to you here. I don't want those snobs in his family to see me. I have to go."

"Let's talk somewhere else, then?"

"Not now. I have to be somewhere."

"OK," I said, and handed her my card. "That's my office number. Yeah, that's me, I'm not a cop and I'm not a private detective. Call me when you are free to talk."

"Maybe I will," she answered, almost smiling, and then hurried away.

I turned back to the crowd. Lomax was working a group of men who looked like they might be these old college buddies of Ogilvy. He didn't need my help so I had to decide who I wanted to talk to. I wasn't going to talk to the immediate family - I wouldn't be able to talk to them for long enough and did not want to make a direct approach to them at this stage. So I went up to a somewhat portly gentleman who was on the wrong side of middle age and said "Terrible sad business" as my opening conversational gambit. But our conversation was not particularly informative. The man I was talking to seemed to know Ogilvy through business. He repeated what we had already heard about his not being temperamentally suited to work in that world. He hinted that Ogilvy's death may indeed have been suicide brought on by his failure to thrive in the company his father had created. Beyond that, nothing of obvious consequence, bar the suggestion that Ogilvy's sister, Alanis, would now most likely take his place as heir presumptive of the family business. The idea of a company headed by a woman was obviously something of a novelty, but my companion believed that Alanis Ogilvy had what was needed to succeed in world dominated by men.

"She's got the balls you need to succeed in business," he said, crudely. "Unlike that poor dead brother of hers".

As the crowd began to move off after the hearse towards the cemetery, Lomax and I were able to slip away and compare notes in a downtown diner. I described my brief encounter with the crying woman and then the conversation with the chubby man.

"That dame might be able to tell us something," said Lomax, somewhat stating the obvious. He then went on to talk about his discussions with Ogilvy's old college friends. He had posed to them as someone who had become acquainted with Ogilvy through business and found they had similar tastes on many matters. Thereafter they had met occasionally for lunch, though Lomax noted to them that about a year ago their contact had ceased - Ogilvy stopped returning his calls and they met no more. This gambit worked - Lomax's story so chimed with the old buddies' experience that they opened up about how they too (his oldest and dearest friends!) had been similarly cut off by Ogilvy at roughly the same point of time. Lomax tried to gauge whether they knew what might have precipitated the change. They knew of nothing and were baffled by Ogilvy's shunning of them. But a chance question to them about Ogilvy's behaviour before he cut them revealed something that I instantly realised must be of significance.

"They said he had been continuing with his private researches, but that he had a new subject of interest. Apparently the various mediaeval Christian heresies had been a subject of fascination to him, but then he had turned away from that study and taken up an interest in the history of ritual magic and the occult".

"The occult?" I asked.

"Yes, all aspects of it," said Lomax. "Apparently he was always talking to the others about his studies in that area but they were not particularly interested. He apparently mentioned that he had entered into correspondence with some other scholars on all this."

"Great Scott, Lomax, do you see what we have here? Ogilvy develops an academic interest in the occult, and then cuts off his friends. I think I know what happened here. He went from having a theoretical interest in the subject to a practical one. And he found himself some new friends who shared this interest. The terrible business he was engaged in, about which he told Maddocks he was so concerned, was some kind of obscene black magic ritual. And his associates have murdered him to prevent their foul secret from being revealed to the world!"


Next Chapter

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

The Gathering: Chapter 6 - The Vicar, his wife and their friend

previously

Now

It was Sunday morning in Ballykillduff. The town's sizeable Anglican congregation were gathered in the Church of St. Michael, with the magnificent stained glass image of St. Michael slaying a dragon towering over the worshippers. A graphic statue of a similar scene was prominently displayed to the left of the altar.

The vicar offered up prayers for the soul of Joseph McMahon, who had drowned in the river only the previous week. As always, the left-hand side of the church was the more crowded, but the more sparsely occupied right-hand was where the most enthusiastic singing of the hymns came from. The vicar finished up proceedings with a reminder of a non-religious event that would be soon coming to the town.

"Do not forget that the Samhain festival will be taking place next weekend", he said, stumbling over the pronunciation of the Irish-language word. Gaelic had never been a strong-point of his and was not something that his schooling had emphasised. "There will be an art trail across the town and concerts in the Courthouse and here in the church." He stopped to look at a flyer the festival organisers had given him. "The musical events will feature artists from Ireland and abroad, playing all kinds of electronic and freaky folk music, whatever that is, and something called drone and psyche too. A bit different to what we listen to at home, let me tell you, but I'm sure there'll be something there with a nice tune or a beat you can tap your toe to. I'll be showing my own face at the concerts here - just to make sure they don't make a mess of the place!" He laughed, though it was not clear he was actually joking. "Perhaps I will see some of you here. God bless you all."

That was his traditional signal that the service was at an end. The choir struck up the last hymn, the right-hand side of the church joined in, and the vicar made his way outside the church so that he could greet his parishioners as they left.

As the vicar stood outside the church, greeting his parishioners as they went on their way, one young-ish man stopped to chat with him.

"Ah, Mr Cantwell. And how are you this morning?"

"I'm fine, vicar. And you?"

"I can't complain. God's work keeps me healthy. And how are things at the Manor?"

"A constant struggle to make ends meet. But you know how it is, vicar?"

"I can only imagine, Mr Cantwell".

If you knew nothing of Cantwell and were meeting him for the first time, his voice would suggest to you that he was not one of the plain people of Ireland. His accent was that minority one enjoyed by those people sometimes classed as Anglo-Irish - a kind of upper-class English accent but with the occasional strange twang that would never allow him to pass as a squire from southern England. Cantwell's immaculate Barbour jacket, shirt and elegant cravat, combined with his perfectly pressed trousers, reinforced the impression, as did the slight eccentricity of his hair, which was somewhat longer than was considered normal for the time. Cantwell was indeed the scion of an old Anglo-Irish family who could trace back his ancestry to the Norman Conquest. His family had been the major landowners in Ballykillduff as far back as records could tell.

It was customary for him to chat with the vicar after the Sunday service. As he did so, the parishioners leaving the church acknowledged them both. Some of them tugged their forelocks and muttered a "good morning Mr Cantwell" in a manner that was obsequious but with a faint undercurrent of surly resentment, while others seemed to greet him with what seemed like a genuine respect and even affection. The people who had been sitting on the right-hand side of the church were generally more likely to fall into the latter category.

"Awful business with that young lad drowning last week, vicar," said Cantwell.

"Indeed it is, what terrible burden on the poor boy's family. I only hope that the Lord will send them some consolation."

"There seem to have been a fair few of these drowning tragedies this year."

"That is a terrible indictment of our alcohol obsessed society, Mr Cantwell. The heavy drinking of these young lads and the nearby presence of the river makes for a dangerous combination".

"Indeed it does. But to brighter things - this festival next week sounds like a rather unusual business. Not the kind of thing the church would normally play host to."

"It is not, but the steeple restoration fund cannot be too particular. And the two organisers seem like nice people, though I suspect they are not exactly devout Christians. They're artists, you know."

"Yes," replied Cantwell. "I've seen some of their things in the Courthouse. A load of rubbish, if you ask me. I like to keep an open mind, but I do feel that art went to the dogs when pictures stopped looking like things. Still, I'm sure their heart is in the right place. And the church will be hosting quite a few of their concerts?"

"Oh yes," the vicar. "Mostly during the day. They'll have their evening concerts down at the Courthouse. But they are going to have one night-time concert, next Sunday. At midnight, in fact."

"At midnight?"

"Yes indeed, Mr Cantwell. They say it will be very atmospheric. I had my doubts about that one, but the organisers insist that nothing untoward will happen, though I will of course be along to keep an eye on things."

"I might show my face there myself. Ah, Mrs Deane, how delightful."

The vicar's young wife had been separately bidding farewell to the parishioners. Now she joined her husband and Cantwell.

"Mr Cantwell, always a pleasure. Will you be joining us for Bridge on Tuesday evening?"

"I would love to but… well I don't have a partner. Lucinda has gone back to Dublin. It didn't work out. I'm afraid we won't be seeing her down here again."

"Oh dear, how unfortunate," said the vicar. "But plenty more fish in the sea, eh?" He chuckled in a manner that was meant to sound reassuring but which came out sounding oddly salacious for a man of the cloth.

"Do come along, Mr Cantwell," continued Mrs Deane. "I'm sure we'll find a partner for you. "Gerard Murphy is always looking for an excuse to get away from that wife of his".

"I'm sure he is," replied Cantwell. "Very good, I'll see you then. Well, I must be off now, things to attend to. You know how it is."

He bade them farewell and climbed into his battered Range Rover and drove off to the Manor.


Next Chapter

Monday, April 22, 2013

The Gathering: Chapter 5 - The Police prove uncooperative

previously

Then

My dope fiend friend Hunter Maddocks has suckered me into investigating the clearly accidental death of one of his doper pals.

After leaving Maddocks, I went across town to the police headquarters. At the desk I said I wanted to talk to someone about the death of Harrison Ogilvy, because I had information that might mean that it was something other than an accidental death. I was told to wait. Eventually I was shown into an office to meet one Sergeant O'Bannion of the Homicide Division. He asked me what I had to say and I told him Maddocks' story.

"So let me get this straight," he said, when I had finished. "Your friend was in a dope den. There he meets this other doper, who turns out to be Harrison Ogilvy, who tells him that he has done some bad thing and that has put the fear of God into him. And Ogilvy is also afraid of the other guys he did the bad thing with, especially some foreign guy. Then a bunch of guys show up in the dope den and take Ogilvy away. And then this morning, your friend read in the paper that Ogilvy has died, so he jumps to the conclusion that he must have been murdered. Is that it?"

"That's about the size of it".

"Well look, I've checked up the files. Mr Ogilvy was found in the river. There were no signs of a struggle. Everything indicates to us that he was just walking along there one evening and he fell in and drowned. Sad business, but it happens all the time".

"Sure", I said, "but don't you think it's a bit suspicious that my friend saw him being roughly taken away from the dope den and then later that night he ends up in the river? Isn't it worth looking into? My friend is willing to give a statement on this".

"Look mister, if you know this friend of yours, then you know what dopers are like. That stuff messes with their brain, makes them imagine all kinds of bullshit. I can't be wasting police resources on every random piece of crap that dribbles out of some doper's mind."

"My friend is pretty clear that he saw what he saw."

"I'm sure he is. I'm sure he is. But look, there's another side to this. Harrison Ogilvy was a respectable man from a good family. He did in a tragic accident. His family are very sad. But now you want to say that he wasn't quite such a respectable guy after all? You want me to start asking all kinds of questions, insinuating that he was a doper and that he was mixed up in some kind of criminal activity? You think anyone's going to thank me for that? Jeez, mister, have some humanity. Leave these poor folks with their nice, good Harrison Ogilvy. I'm not going to take him away from them just because of what your doper friend has to say. It's bad enough that we all pretty much know he didn't fall into the river, he jumped in there all by himself, but we're not going to say that, and we're not going to start upsetting a respectable family by raking through the dirty laundry of his life. So that's it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Very clear."

"Well that's that then. OK, mister, I've got real crimes to look into now, so I'll have to ask you to leave."

I thanked Sergeant O'Bannion for his time and left the precinct house with as much good grace as I could muster. I was now angry. When Maddocks told me his story about his doper friend I had no interest in pursuing it - like I said, I'm not a detective. But I am a law-abiding citizen who pays his taxes. As such I like to think that when the police are given evidence of a possible crime they will at least look into the matter rather than dismiss it out of hand. But that's just what the sergeant had done. Well, if he wasn't going to do his job, I would just have to do it for him. Someone had to get to the bottom of the Ogilvy business. Looks like it would have to be me.

But I wouldn't be doing this on my own. I knew I could rely on Bobby Lomax. I called over to him that evening and filled him in. He wasn't so sure.

"Gee, I don't know, we don't really have much to go on, and what do we know about this kind of thing? Maybe the cops have good reason to leave this one alone."

"The good reason is they're too goddamn lazy to bother. They think he killed himself and they don't see why they should make work for themselves looking into it further. Come on Bobby! When you read books about people having adventures, haven't you ever wanted to be in one yourself?"

"Sure, but is this really the thing for us? We're not detectives. Maybe we should hire a private investigator to look into it. I'd say between us we could afford it, especially if Hunter's willing to cough up".

"I'm not hiring a private dick. I was brought up to believe that if you have a problem then you sort it out yourself. So that's what I'm gonna do. Are you with me, Bobby?"

"Aw, heck, I suppose I am. But I hope we're not making a big mistake".

"Don't worry pal," I said. "This is no mistake. Come on, let's see what we can find out about this Harrison Ogilvy."

We began to make inquiries. We mentioned the death notice to people and suggested that we had heard the name Harrison Ogilvy before but could not place him. Some of our acquaintances could, though no one we knew was well acquainted with him. It appeared that Ogilvy was a man at that indeterminate point between youth and middle age. He was unmarried, which we had already gathered, as the death notice made no mention of a wife. Some suggested that he been a confirmed bachelor, with all that implies. He had had some involvement with the Rotary Club, but that had not become the kind of passion for him that it does with some people. He worked in the company his father had created. He lived in a large house in the suburbs, with his now aged parents and a younger sister, though he also kept an apartment in the city.

In character he appeared to be a quiet and bookish individual, with many suggesting that he was not blessed with the kind of temperament that would mark him out for a successful leadership of the family business. The opinion was expressed that if it had not been for the wishes of his father, he would have continued further with his studies and sought out an academic career. But he had kept in touch with his friends from university, who were now mostly employed by the city's various institutes of higher education, and had taken a keen interest in their research.

One titbit struck Lomax and I as being particularly interesting. He had kept in touch with his old college friends - until about a year ago, when he had apparently cut them all off. Could this be when he had taken up with his accomplices in whatever criminal endeavour he had become embroiled?


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