same time being stone dead.'
MacGillikudie thought towards the floor, and tapped the pince-nez on his
thumb.' Fancy! Him wearing a wig ?
I've known Doonan, man, woman and
boy, for thirty years and never did I know he had the baldness. He must have
been a master of disguise.' He closed the dossier and stamped it
'Unsolved'. Constable Oaf coughed, blinked and spoke.
'Technically speaking, Sarge, coming
back to life is no crime.'
' Oh yes it
is! If you come back, for a start you need a birth certificate. Meantime
supposin' yer wife married again ? What then ? Eh ? What then
?'
'You can have her for bigamy,' smiled
the Constable.
MacGillikudie waved him away. 'No,
no, no, it's all wrong, bugger off!'
That night, wearing a cheap smoking
jacket cut from blankets that his wife had made and laughed at, he lay in bed
fuming and meditating.
Crime! It obsessed him. When he
joined the police he had destined himself for the high office of Chief
Detective Inspector.
After nearly twenty-seven years he
was still eighteen promotions short. How could the Inspector have overlooked
him for so long ?
Of course, he had made mistakes. Like
Dr Crippen. ' It looks like he did it,' MacGillikudie
said, three days after the man had been hung.
Nevertheless, there was no one alive
who could match him for scientific criminological deduction. Fu Manchu, Sexton
Blake, Charlie Chan, he'd read them all, he'd learned the hard way -
paperbacks. The lights went out, his wife settled beside him.
'Good night, Sherlock Holmes,' she
said, laughing hysterically.
One day, he thought, one day. He
clenched and unclenched his fists under the bedclothes.
Chapter Seven
The funeral of Dan Doonan came
treacle-slow from the church.
'Benedictus Deus, et pater Domini nostri Jesus Christi, Pater misericordium et deus' . . . chanted
Father Rudden, walking on ahead. As long as he said something in the Latin they
all thought they were getting value for money. As a young priest it bothered him
that the faithful never took the trouble to learn the meaning of Latin prayers.
As a test, and under the influence of an overdose of
whisky he had intoned the whole of a dirty story in Latin, which concluded with
a solemn 'Amen' from the congregation.
They approached the new Border
Customs Post. From a hut, a-buttoning his coat came
Barrington
.
'Good morning,' he said in those
uneasy Civil Servants tones; not so much a greeting to the day as a farewell to
personal liberty.
'A few formalities sir,' he
continued, thrusting the Customs card at the priest. ' Read that, will you ?' ' We have nothing to declare, sir,
this is a funeral.' ' What have you got in the coffin
?' 'You must be joking,' said the priest, his face going purple with anger, and
his anger going white with rage!
'I'm not joking sir, I am merely doing my duty.' 'Very well. Inside the
coffin is the body of 98-year-old Dan Doonan. Now let us pass!'
Ireland had been hard hit since the
migration to America. Only the mad Mrs Bridie Chandler from the great ruined
farm on the moor ever sat for him. Once a week she came galloping up, a great
mountain of fat astride a black stallion; sweeping into the studio she'd strip
off her clothes and shout 'Take me!' The first time had been shock enough.
Faddigan had run all the way to church.
'Father,' he gasped, 'is it wrong to
look at naked women ?'
'Of course it is,' said Rudden,
'otherwise we'd all be doing it.' He had finally given Faddigan a dispensation
to photograph her, providing he kept at a respectable distance.
Faddigan never did work out how much
that was in feet and inches, and he never did comprehend '
How a woman could spread out in so
many directions at once and still stay in the same place.'
His wife arrived one day when he was
printing the negatives and beat him silly with a bottle of best developing
fluid at 23 shillings a pint. 'You dirty pornographer,' she said, and left him
for good.
The small green shop bell tinkled
briefly, and in came
MacGillikudie thought towards the floor, and tapped the pince-nez on his
thumb.' Fancy! Him wearing a wig ?
I've known Doonan, man, woman and
boy, for thirty years and never did I know he had the baldness. He must have
been a master of disguise.' He closed the dossier and stamped it
'Unsolved'. Constable Oaf coughed, blinked and spoke.
'Technically speaking, Sarge, coming
back to life is no crime.'
' Oh yes it
is! If you come back, for a start you need a birth certificate. Meantime
supposin' yer wife married again ? What then ? Eh ? What then
?'
'You can have her for bigamy,' smiled
the Constable.
MacGillikudie waved him away. 'No,
no, no, it's all wrong, bugger off!'
That night, wearing a cheap smoking
jacket cut from blankets that his wife had made and laughed at, he lay in bed
fuming and meditating.
Crime! It obsessed him. When he
joined the police he had destined himself for the high office of Chief
Detective Inspector.
After nearly twenty-seven years he
was still eighteen promotions short. How could the Inspector have overlooked
him for so long ?
Of course, he had made mistakes. Like
Dr Crippen. ' It looks like he did it,' MacGillikudie
said, three days after the man had been hung.
Nevertheless, there was no one alive
who could match him for scientific criminological deduction. Fu Manchu, Sexton
Blake, Charlie Chan, he'd read them all, he'd learned the hard way -
paperbacks. The lights went out, his wife settled beside him.
'Good night, Sherlock Holmes,' she
said, laughing hysterically.
One day, he thought, one day. He
clenched and unclenched his fists under the bedclothes.
Chapter Seven
The funeral of Dan Doonan came
treacle-slow from the church.
'Benedictus Deus, et pater Domini nostri Jesus Christi, Pater misericordium et deus' . . . chanted
Father Rudden, walking on ahead. As long as he said something in the Latin they
all thought they were getting value for money. As a young priest it bothered him
that the faithful never took the trouble to learn the meaning of Latin prayers.
As a test, and under the influence of an overdose of
whisky he had intoned the whole of a dirty story in Latin, which concluded with
a solemn 'Amen' from the congregation.
They approached the new Border
Customs Post. From a hut, a-buttoning his coat came
Barrington
.
'Good morning,' he said in those
uneasy Civil Servants tones; not so much a greeting to the day as a farewell to
personal liberty.
'A few formalities sir,' he
continued, thrusting the Customs card at the priest. ' Read that, will you ?' ' We have nothing to declare, sir,
this is a funeral.' ' What have you got in the coffin
?' 'You must be joking,' said the priest, his face going purple with anger, and
his anger going white with rage!
'I'm not joking sir, I am merely doing my duty.' 'Very well. Inside the
coffin is the body of 98-year-old Dan Doonan. Now let us pass!'
Ireland had been hard hit since the
migration to America. Only the mad Mrs Bridie Chandler from the great ruined
farm on the moor ever sat for him. Once a week she came galloping up, a great
mountain of fat astride a black stallion; sweeping into the studio she'd strip
off her clothes and shout 'Take me!' The first time had been shock enough.
Faddigan had run all the way to church.
'Father,' he gasped, 'is it wrong to
look at naked women ?'
'Of course it is,' said Rudden,
'otherwise we'd all be doing it.' He had finally given Faddigan a dispensation
to photograph her, providing he kept at a respectable distance.
Faddigan never did work out how much
that was in feet and inches, and he never did comprehend '
How a woman could spread out in so
many directions at once and still stay in the same place.'
His wife arrived one day when he was
printing the negatives and beat him silly with a bottle of best developing
fluid at 23 shillings a pint. 'You dirty pornographer,' she said, and left him
for good.
The small green shop bell tinkled
briefly, and in came
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