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Authors: Jonothan Cullinane
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He got a sheet of glass and a piece of marine ply the same size from under the sink — a do-it-yourself printing frame, something he’d learned from an article in Popular Mechanics. Soon he was wiping a proof sheet with a sponge. The telephone rang. Molloy took the sheet into his office.
“Are you there?”
“Hello, Johnny,” said Toomey, the police sergeant. “Pat here.”
“Hello, Pat.”
“I have some information on your friend O’Flynn,” said Toomey. “Also known as O’Phelan.”
“Fire away,” said Molloy, opening his notebook.
“He was arrested for gross public intoxication and common assault on St Patrick’s Day last year, and found to be in the country without permission,” said Toomey. “I’m surprised he wasn’t deported. He wasn’t even charged in the finish.”
“Any clue why he wasn’t?”
“No,” said Toomey. “The file was sealed.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It’s not usual, put it that way,” said Toomey. “Particularly since the person he assaulted was a policeman. We look down on that sort of behaviour.”
“I bet,” said Molloy, taking a magnifying glass from his drawer. He looked closely at the images on the proof sheet. There were some good ones of both the Irishman and the Maori.
“On the matter of the licence plate, J328,” said Toomey. “The motorcar is registered to a Miss C. Cotterill of Marine Parade,Herne Bay. She’s owned it since new. 1947. And before that she had a Whippet, which she had owned since 1927. I’m picturing a mature woman of a conservative bent.”
“Thanks, Sherlock,” said Molloy, hanging up. He wrapped the proof sheet in newspaper, locked his office and walked to Furst’s hotel.
“That’s him,” said Furst. “As a cop you get a feeling. Little hairs on the back of the neck?” O’Phelan’s Merchant Marine ID, the Bulletin story and the proof sheet were lined up on the writing desk in Furst’s room. “You’re sure he didn’t see you?”
“Pretty sure,” said Molloy.
“Any chance he’s skipped the country?” said Furst.
“Only if he walked,” said Molloy. “There are no sailings till Thursday.”
“What about Pan American?”
“Nothing till Thursday.”
“Maybe he swam.”
“Yeah,” said Molloy. “He’s known to the police. Public intoxication. They tried to get him for assault on a policeman too, but the charges were dropped.”
“Know why?”
“Not yet.”
Furst picked up the proof sheet and ran the magnifying glass over it again.
“What do you want me to do?” said Molloy.
“Keep looking.”
“It’s your money.”
“Spend it,” said Furst. “I want this feller found.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Molloy tried the front door of the RSC but it was locked. He stepped back and looked up. The building was in darkness. He lifted the letter slot and could hear the low rumble of conversation. A red wire from an electric buzzer ran up the side of the door frame and through a hole drilled in the wall. Molloy pushed the button. He lit a smoke.
The letter slot opened. “Bugger off,” a voice said. “We’re closed.”
“Bones, it’s me, Johnny.”
Locks turned and the door cracked open. Bones squeezed out and looked up and down Francis Street. “All right, Johnny,” he said, stepping back. “In you come.”
A heavy blackout curtain was hanging across the alcove.
“Bloody hell,” said Molloy. “Expecting the Luftwaffe ?”
“It’s no joke,” said Bones. “The police are threatening to come down hard. Committee’s even talking about restricting this place to legal hours till things blow over. Plus the jokers from the Dublin Club. We might have to clear out the chairs and tables for a bit. Just one step away from the vertical swill. Bloody hell.” He bolted the door.
The room was full of men talking in low tones. Smoke hung above them like cumulus. Tim was back on deck. Molloy ordered an eight.
“Really sorry to hear about Paddy, Tim,” said Molloy, reaching across the bar
“Are you there?”
“Hello, Johnny,” said Toomey, the police sergeant. “Pat here.”
“Hello, Pat.”
“I have some information on your friend O’Flynn,” said Toomey. “Also known as O’Phelan.”
“Fire away,” said Molloy, opening his notebook.
“He was arrested for gross public intoxication and common assault on St Patrick’s Day last year, and found to be in the country without permission,” said Toomey. “I’m surprised he wasn’t deported. He wasn’t even charged in the finish.”
“Any clue why he wasn’t?”
“No,” said Toomey. “The file was sealed.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It’s not usual, put it that way,” said Toomey. “Particularly since the person he assaulted was a policeman. We look down on that sort of behaviour.”
“I bet,” said Molloy, taking a magnifying glass from his drawer. He looked closely at the images on the proof sheet. There were some good ones of both the Irishman and the Maori.
“On the matter of the licence plate, J328,” said Toomey. “The motorcar is registered to a Miss C. Cotterill of Marine Parade,Herne Bay. She’s owned it since new. 1947. And before that she had a Whippet, which she had owned since 1927. I’m picturing a mature woman of a conservative bent.”
“Thanks, Sherlock,” said Molloy, hanging up. He wrapped the proof sheet in newspaper, locked his office and walked to Furst’s hotel.
“That’s him,” said Furst. “As a cop you get a feeling. Little hairs on the back of the neck?” O’Phelan’s Merchant Marine ID, the Bulletin story and the proof sheet were lined up on the writing desk in Furst’s room. “You’re sure he didn’t see you?”
“Pretty sure,” said Molloy.
“Any chance he’s skipped the country?” said Furst.
“Only if he walked,” said Molloy. “There are no sailings till Thursday.”
“What about Pan American?”
“Nothing till Thursday.”
“Maybe he swam.”
“Yeah,” said Molloy. “He’s known to the police. Public intoxication. They tried to get him for assault on a policeman too, but the charges were dropped.”
“Know why?”
“Not yet.”
Furst picked up the proof sheet and ran the magnifying glass over it again.
“What do you want me to do?” said Molloy.
“Keep looking.”
“It’s your money.”
“Spend it,” said Furst. “I want this feller found.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Molloy tried the front door of the RSC but it was locked. He stepped back and looked up. The building was in darkness. He lifted the letter slot and could hear the low rumble of conversation. A red wire from an electric buzzer ran up the side of the door frame and through a hole drilled in the wall. Molloy pushed the button. He lit a smoke.
The letter slot opened. “Bugger off,” a voice said. “We’re closed.”
“Bones, it’s me, Johnny.”
Locks turned and the door cracked open. Bones squeezed out and looked up and down Francis Street. “All right, Johnny,” he said, stepping back. “In you come.”
A heavy blackout curtain was hanging across the alcove.
“Bloody hell,” said Molloy. “Expecting the Luftwaffe ?”
“It’s no joke,” said Bones. “The police are threatening to come down hard. Committee’s even talking about restricting this place to legal hours till things blow over. Plus the jokers from the Dublin Club. We might have to clear out the chairs and tables for a bit. Just one step away from the vertical swill. Bloody hell.” He bolted the door.
The room was full of men talking in low tones. Smoke hung above them like cumulus. Tim was back on deck. Molloy ordered an eight.
“Really sorry to hear about Paddy, Tim,” said Molloy, reaching across the bar
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