After a visit with her sister at the hospital on Welfare Island, Jane made her way back to Manhattan for a prearranged meeting with Dan Hennessy. It was late afternoon by the time she reached Reuben’s on Madison Avenue. She found the police detective seated in a relatively quiet booth in the back, working his way through a stacked pastrami on sour rye, washing it down with a bottle of Knickerbocker. There were three other bottles on the table other than the one the cop was drinking. Jane slipped into the booth, snagged a cigarette out of the crumpled pack of Skeets on the table in front of her friend and lit up.
Hennessy chewed, swallowed then took a sip of beer. ‘Visiting your sister?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nice that you do that. Lot of people wouldn’t.’
‘She’s the only family I have.’
‘Still.’ Hennessy waved a hand in front of his plate. ‘You should eat something.’ He lifted his bottle and took a belt. ‘Drink something too.’
Jane shrugged. ‘Maybe later.’ She took a drag on the cigarette and leaned back against the worn leather of the booth. ‘You find out anything about the car?’
‘Sure,’ Hennessy said. ‘I found out the plate was taken off a ’34 Dodge owned by an old bird named Hector Weakes who runs a hardware store in some little burg up the Hudson. A maroon Lincoln turned up on a hot sheet in one of the Brooklyn precincts.’
‘Gabbie Vigorito,’ said Jane.
‘You got it.’
Gabriel Vigorito, otherwise known as Bla-Bla for his talkativeness or the Black Man for his dark Mediterranean colouring, had controlled an interstate auto-theft empire from his Greenpoint headquarters until a conviction in 1934 earned him a ten-year spot up the river in Ossining. He’d done five years at Sing-Sing and had been released for good behaviour two months previously. The word was he’d gone right back to his old ways, now operating as something called Boro Hall Auto Exchange. Rumour also had it that he’d bought himself a hundred copies of J. Edgar Hoover’s Persons in Hiding, which had a whole chapter in it devoted to his exploits.
‘I guess it’s a dead end then.’
‘Maybe not.’ Hennessy finished his sandwich, then pushed the plate away and lit a cigarette of his own. It was early evening and Reuben’s was filling up. The air was filled with aromatic steam, the clatter of dishes and orders being called out for Clark Gables, Carol Lombards and FDRs with ketchup. More than once Hennessy had said he’d die a happy man if they named a sandwich after him at Reuben’s.
‘Spill,’ said Jane.
Hennessy leaned back, relaxing. ‘We picked up the car on a tip from Henry Franzo.’ Once upon a time Franzo had been the Black Man’s brother-in-law and also a master at changing the registration numbers on stolen cars. ‘Henry said some Harvard guy approached him, said he needed a car.’
‘Harvard guy?’
‘Boston accent,’ Hennessy supplied. ‘Educated. Anyway, Franzo tells him no problem, tells him how much it’s going to cost and the guy says fine, he’ll pay half down in cash, the rest on delivery. Then he gives Franzo a card with a telephone number on it, says call when he’s got the car, which he does.’
‘Who has the telephone number?’
‘New York division of a company called Somerset Importers.’
‘What is it?’ Jane asked. ‘One of Costello’s operations?’
‘No. Your friend the singing waiter was right, they weren’t Mob guys. Somerset Importers is a booze distribution operation owned by Joe Kennedy.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Jane whispered. ‘Joe Kennedy as in the Joe Kennedy who’s the U.S. ambassador to England?’
‘The very one,’ said Hennessy. ‘Pal of FDR’s and one-time head of the Securities and Exchange Commission.’ He tipped up his bottle, draining the last inch of beer in it. ‘Which brings me to my other piece of news.’
‘You can do better than tell me that Joe Kennedy is ordering hits on Mobbed-up lawyers?’
‘I’ve been promoted.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, promoted?’
‘Just what I said.’ Hennessy tapped an inch of ash into his empty beer bottle. ‘Yesterday I get called into Valentine’s office and he tells me I’m now a lieutenant and second in command of the Safe, Loft and Truck Squad under Captain Ray McGuire.’
‘You don’t sound too pleased.’
‘After he tells me I’m promoted the commissioner says I’m lucky it’s Safe and Loft, since it could have been Traffic or BCI, but at least this way I’ll live to see my pension.’
‘A threat?’
‘No. I think it’s just a warning. He told me to hand over all my active cases to Joe McNally but he makes a special point of telling me he wants McNally to have everything I’ve got on Howie Raines, our boy in the ditch at the Rustic Cabin, and then he asks me if anyone else has anything on Raines, such as the freelance broad who took the crime scene snaps.’
‘How’d he know it wasn’t one of your guys?’
‘Because he had the pix right there on his desk, the ones you gave me, each one of them rubber-stamped on the back with your name, address and telephone number, just like always.’
‘Another warning?’
‘Or maybe he’s fishing. Wants to know about anything else you might have going.’
‘I thought you told me Valentine was one of the good ones.’
‘He is but he’s also been a New York cop for thirty years. In this town that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re dirty but it doesn’t mean you’re clean either. One way or the other he owes a few favours and now someone is calling a marker.’
‘Why?’
‘Because something isn’t square with the Raines thing. It was sour right from the start. That’s why I brought you in on it. But now it’s gone too far. This Kennedy thing is the last straw, my girl. I’m out of my depth and so are you. It’s time to bow out gracefully. Drop it. This is politics and I don’t mean the old-fashioned Tammany kind. This is Big Politics.’
‘You’re making me nervous.’
‘Good.’
‘Also curious.’
‘Not good.’
‘Howie works for a firm of Mob lawyers. Howie goes to Cuba, which also means the Mob, and when he comes back he gets snuffed. So far nothing really too strange – you work for the Brunos, you expect a little grief from time to time. Maybe he screwed up, maybe he screwed the wrong frail, maybe he’s just a screwball. So what? Who cares?’ Jane paused and stubbed out her cigarette in the little tin ashtray at the far end of the table. Then she lit another one. Hennessy just watched her, waiting, his features slack and a little sleepy from the beer but his eyes awake enough.
‘So why all the interest?’ Jane continued. ‘Howie’s nobody special. Then all of a sudden there’s all this pressure on. From the sound of things the mayor of Jersey City has his finger in it, so does the commissioner of the New York Police Department, and now you tell me Joe Kennedy’s got a string attached as well, and if you really wanted to go out on a limb you could say there’s a string attached all the way to the White House.’
‘Drop it, Jane.’
‘It sounds like something awful big is going on.’
‘Maybe you’re right but it’s the kind of awful big something that could get you seriously hurt.’ He tapped the side of his plate with a fingernail. ‘One less lady photographer in the world is like one less lawyer – no one’s going to miss you too much.’
‘Gee, Dan, I didn’t know you cared.’
‘Try and be serious for a minute, would you?’ Hennessy shook his head. ‘You’re right, girlie. This is something big and the likes of you and me don’t belong so let’s keep our noses out of it, understand?’
‘Then why did you tell me about Somerset Importers and all that?’ Jane asked.
Hennessy let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Because I thought you should know how high up this goes and because I figured that no matter what I said you’d probably keep on digging into this.’ He paused. ‘I’m telling you not to. I’m telling you to stop right now. Forget it ever happened. If you took another set of prints from the Rustic Cabin, get rid of them right now, along with the negatives.’
‘Like a blackboard slate,’ said Jane. ‘Howard Raines gets wiped off and doesn’t leave so much as a smudge.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ said Hennessy. He slid out of the booth and rose a little unsteadily to his feet. He reached into his pocket, drew out several crumpled bills and tossed them down onto the table. ‘Have a beer and a sandwich on me and Commissioner Lewis J. Valentine of the NYPD. Think about what I said.’
Hennessy leaned down, both of his big hands spread across the table to support himself, his beer-and-mustard breath in Jane’s face. ‘Better still, sweetheart, don’t think about it. Just do it, okay? You’ve got a reputation in this town as a tough-talking broad, one of the guys – try and make sure you don’t get a reputation for being a dead tough-talking broad, okay?’
He pushed himself upright, gave his friend a little salute with one hand, then turned on his heel and tottered out of the restaurant. Jane watched him go and decided to do what Dan had suggested, at least as far as the beer and sandwich was concerned.
The interrogation of Sheila Connelly, travelling as Mary Coogan and using a forged passport in that name, took place on the fourth floor of the U.S. Court House in Foley Square. The entire floor and the one above it were occupied by the New York office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The interrogation room itself was usually used for meetings and conferences relating to specific cases and one of the short walls in the room was fitted with a half dozen spring-loaded roller maps of New York State and New York City. The other short wall held a large blackboard and the space in between was taken up by a plain rectangular conference table set with eight equally plain chairs.
On the table in front of each chair was an ashtray. To the right of the ashtray at one position partway down the table there was also a telephone and a message pad. A small table by the door held a large Bakelite water carafe and a stack of paper cups.
In the interrogation room were Percival ‘Sam’ Foxworth, assistant director and head of the New York FBI office, an unnamed male clerk-stenographer, FBI Special Agent William G. Friedemann, FBI Special Agent James C. Ellesworth, Sir James Paget from MI6 and, seated closest to the door, Holland and Barry. Sheila Connelly was being held in a small cell-like room next door.
Paget went through an attention-getting bout of throat clearing before speaking up from the far end of the table. ‘I think there are some questions of protocol that should be made clear before we proceed.’
‘What questions would those be?’ asked Foxworth quietly, his speech tinged with a well-educated Mississippi accent.
‘Which of us is in charge of the interrogation, for instance.’
‘Well, I don’t really see how that makes much of a difference, all things considered. According to you this woman is a courier for the Irish Republican Army who is also connected to our man Ridder, who we’re pretty sure is a Nazi. You say she’s travelling on a forged British passport, which she used to gain illegal entry into the United States. It would appear, Sir James, that both of us can pick the meat off her bones equally, unless you just want us to deport her, which means she’d have to be out of the country within the next twenty-four hours.’
‘She’s bringing information to Sean Russell.’
‘About this so-called assassination attempt you told me about.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which you now say isn’t much of a threat at all, at least according to your people in London.’
‘According to our information it would appear to be unlikely, yes.’
‘But you still want to interrogate this woman about it.’
‘Not so much the assassination plot as Russell’s whereabouts.’ Paget cleared his throat again. ‘As we discussed earlier, Mr Russell is also travelling with a false passport.’
‘So you say.’ Foxworth smiled. The thin, pale man had a faintly aristocratic air about him and Barry could easily imagine him well seated on a horse and wearing a Confederate army uniform. ‘According to you the passport is genuine enough but refers to him as John Russell, not Sean.’
‘Quite so. False information.’
‘I always thought John and Sean were one and the same,’ said Foxworth. ‘But it’s hardly the same as going around with a totally forged document like this Sheila Connelly of yours.’
‘Nevertheless…’
Foxworth smiled. ‘Nevertheless you’d like to talk to her.’
‘Yes.’ Paget cleared his throat again. ‘We’d also appreciate it if your people could have a look at that book she was carrying.’
‘Already in the works,’ said Foxworth. ‘Which brings me to a protocol question of my own.’
‘By all means,’ said Paget.
‘Director Hoover has made it abundantly clear that under no circumstances will he countenance any espionage activities by a foreign nation to take place within the United States. There are no exceptions to this. Is that understood?’
Paget did not look pleased but he finally nodded his assent. ‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Foxworth took a breath. ‘Therefore any actions taken as a result of the interrogation of the Connelly woman will fall under the aegis of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and no other agency, including yours. Is that also understood?’
Again Paget’s agreement was grudging. ‘Yes. Although presumably there will be some kind of liaison between my office and yours.’
‘As I understand it Colonel Holland here is on his way back to England.’
‘That would appear to be the case, yes.’
‘Which leaves us with Detective Inspector Barry here.’ Foxworth flashed his small, bright smile at Paget again. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong but he is the only real policeman in your group. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Hoover has a great deal of respect for Scotland Yard. I don’t think he’ll mind Inspector Barry sticking around for a while to see how things shape up.’ Foxworth smiled down the table at Paget. ‘That okay with you, Sir James?’
‘I suppose it will have to do.’
‘Good,’ Foxworth said. He turned to Special Agent Ellesworth, seated on his left. ‘Bring in the woman.’ She’d been picked up at the Embassy Theater shortly after noon and it was now almost dinner time but even after six and a half hours in custody Sheila Connelly still looked calm and self-possessed. Ellesworth seated her at the head of the table and then went and stood by the door, almost as though he expected her to make some desperate attempt at escape. Barry looked for any signs of distress or fear and saw none. She gave the appearance of a beautiful woman irritated with a delay in her plans.
‘You’ve been treated well?’ Foxworth asked kindly.
She shrugged. ‘Well enough.’
‘Anything we can get you?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘I’d like a cigarette and some coffee.’
‘How do you take your coffee?’
‘Milk and sugar. Plenty of both, if you don’t mind.’
Foxworth nodded at Ellesworth and the agent left the room, presumably to fetch the coffee. The assistant director reached into the pocket of his own suit coat and pulled out a green and red package of Lucky Strikes and a slim, almost ladylike Ronson lighter with its electroplating worn at the corners. He slid the cigarettes and lighter across the table and Barry passed them along, the tips of his fingers touching hers as she took them from him. She lit a cigarette and then put the lighter down on the package of Luckies, lining up the corners neatly.
Paget began the questioning, opening up a thin file that lay in front of him.
‘Your full name is Sheila Grace Connelly?’
‘My name is Mary Coogan, just as it says on my passport.’
‘From Craigavon in County Armagh.’
‘That’s right.’
‘No, that’s wrong,’ said Barry quietly. ‘You’re from County Cork without a doubt. No farther north than Mallow, no more than a stone’s throw from Cork City itself.’
‘And how would you be knowing something like that?’
Barry noticed that the cigarette was shaking a little between her fingers. ‘I recognise the voice,’ he answered, trying to keep some caring in his voice, not wanting to come on all hard policeman, not wanting to frighten her.
Or lose her. He watched as she put the cigarette between her lips and drew on it. ‘You’ve spent a little time in Belfast perhaps, but more in Dublin.’
‘You’re an expert in such things, I suppose?’
‘I grew up in the Capuchin orphanage by Parliament Bridge. The brothers would take us to sing the mass at Saint Anne’s every Sunday.’ He smiled at the woman, staring into her eyes. ‘You grew up within hearing of Shandon Bells, Miss Connelly. I’m afraid there’s no getting past it.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She smiled brightly, looking him right in the eye. ‘And the name is Coogan. Mary Coogan.’
A message had passed between them, a recognition signal of some kind, but he wasn’t quite sure what it meant. ‘Sheila is a much nicer name.’
‘Unfortunately not my own. And I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘We’re talking about Stephen Hayes,’ said Holland. ‘He told us all about your little errand on behalf of Sean Russell and the Cause.’
‘I don’t know any Sean Russell.’ Still no fear in her tone and Barry was probably the only one to catch it but her accent thickened slightly, taking her home in her heart if not in reality.
‘Sean Russell. Tall, red-haired chap,’ said Holland. ‘Drives a sports car at high speed all around Dublin. Drinks too much and spends too much time with the whores in Irishtown.’
‘I told you, I don’t know any Sean Russell.’
‘We know he’s already in America. He arrived in New York two weeks ago on a Norwegian ship named the Stavangerfjord. Sir James and Assistant Director Foxworth were advised that he was coming but Russell managed to give them the slip. We think you know how to find him. We think you’re supposed to give him some information supplied to you by Herr Ridder, your friend on the Empress of Britain.’
‘I don’t know anyone named Stephen Hayes, I don’t know anyone named Sean Russell, and I certainly don’t have a friend named Ridder.’ She stubbed out her cigarette.
‘That’s a lot of people not to know,’ said Holland. He took off his glasses, wiping them with a handkerchief, and leaned his head back, eyes closed. ‘You’re stubborn, Miss Connelly, but you aren’t stupid. You know when the jig is up.’
‘This is all some kind of mistake.’
Holland tapped an earpiece of his spectacles against his nose. ‘No mistake. Sheila Connelly, daughter of Michael and Mary Connelly, both killed by the Blueshirts in ’33, lover of Sean Glynn, who hanged himself in his cell at Arbour Hill three years later. Sheila Connelly, who doesn’t really give a damn about the Cause and only knows it seems to kill the people she loves. You do as you’re told by these people because that’s what you’ve always done. You don’t know any other way to live.’
Barry watched as the woman’s features hardened. The dark eyes burned. ‘You’re one of the Specials, aren’t you? One of the Specials who killed my Sean!’
‘Your Sean killed himself with a twist of blanket after getting himself drunk with his mates on some kind of spirits they made in the prison kitchen. The last anyone heard he was crying to himself and declaiming Jimmy Steele’s poetry from the Wolfe Tone Weekly in a loud voice up and down the cell row. There’s even some who say those same mates strung him up because he knew too much and was about to break down and tell it all like a blubbering baby.’
‘That’s a bloody lie! Sean was no grass! He was a patriot! A hero!’
‘He was neither,’ said Holland, sitting forward again, hooking his spectacles over his ears. ‘He was a young boy. Someone who got in too deep and saw no way out. Like you.’
The telephone in front of Foxworth rang loudly, shocking everyone into immobility. It rang a second time. The FBI man leaned out and picked up the receiver. ‘Foxworth.’ He listened for several moments, making small notations on the file folder in front of him, then replaced the receiver back on its hooks. ‘That was our Identification Division. They found the message Miss Connelly received from Herr Ridder.’
‘In the book?’ said Holland.
Foxworth nodded. ‘On the inside of the dust jacket. They used protoxide of mercury. Turns black under ammonia vapor.’
‘What was the message?’ asked Holland.
‘I’m not at all sure that it would be a good idea for Miss Connelly to hear it,’ said Paget.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Sir James,’ Foxworth said and smiled, loosening the reins on his Mississippi accent a little. ‘Maybe it’s time Miss Connelly here knew the kind of folks she’s running with.’
‘What would you know about it?’ the woman answered hotly, her own accent broadening. ‘I live in a country that’s been torn in two and lies bleeding for no good reason except for the fact that men like your Sir James want it to be that way.’
Foxworth smiled. ‘We fought our own civil war a while back, Miss Connelly, and by and large we’ve come to terms with the results of it.’ He paused. ‘You have the slightest idea what your friend Russell is up to in this country?’
‘Fundraising, the same as it was when he came before.’
‘Not this time, I’m afraid.’
‘Mr Foxworth…’. Paget cautioned.
Foxworth ignored him. ‘The information passed along by Ridder is a complete schedule of the movements of the King and Queen of England while they’re in the United States from the time they cross at Niagara Falls until they leave again, as well as several contact telephone numbers for people who can help him get hold of what he needs in the way of making bombs.’ He nodded across the table to Holland and Barry. ‘These people also have information that leads us to believe that Russell intends to assassinate the king and queen and if our president happens to be standing next to them well so much the better.’ Foxworth paused. ‘As you well know, Mr Roosevelt is no friend to your precious Cause.’
The woman sat there, a stunned expression on her face, already ashen. ‘You’re lying,’ she whispered after a long moment.
‘Why would I do that?’ Foxworth asked gently. ‘What would I have to gain?’
‘And what do we gain by giving her this information?’ Paget snapped.
‘Perhaps her cooperation,’ Foxworth suggested.
‘Not from the likes of her.’
She picked up the Ronson and lit another cigarette. Holland leaned towards her. ‘He’s going to kill them, Sheila, and probably some others as well. Russell and his lot are working with Hitler’s people to keep the Yanks out of the war. They think somewhere along the line there’s going to be a quid pro quo. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘That’s what you all say. Even them,’ Connelly answered, drawing hard on the cigarette. ‘“You’ve got to believe us, Sheila, for the Cause.” “Sean died for the Cause.” My poor bloody parents died for the Cause.’ She stabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. ‘Well may the good Lord Himself curse the fecking Cause. I’ve had enough. I’m done. Put me in one of your jails and let me rot because it’d be better than a life fighting for the Cause.’ She looked around the table. ‘I’m just so bloody tired of it all.’ Tears were streaming down her cheeks and the fire in her eyes had fallen to dull embers.
Watching her closely Barry realised that this was no sudden, miraculous conversion. It wasn’t the first time she’d questioned her life in the IRA and her reasons for living it, nor the hundredth. It was something that had haunted her half her life, a wound that never had a chance to heal. At that moment his only thought was that he was that chance for her and would be willing to do almost anything for it. Madness!
Foxworth gave Agent Ellesworth the nod. The FBI agent stood up, gently eased Connelly out of her seat and led her out of the room. Foxworth tapped a pencil on the table in front of him.
‘I’m not sure I see the purpose of the little drama we just witnessed,’ said Paget.
‘Intelligence gathering,’ Foxworth answered.
‘And just what is it that you think we’ve all learned?’
‘That she’s human,’ Barry said tightly, ignoring Paget’s sour look. ‘That she’s vulnerable.’
‘And what possible difference does that make to the situation at hand?’
Foxworth smiled. ‘It means that she can be used.’
It was getting dark by the time Jane climbed up out of the subway. Most of the shops were closed and the street lights were already flickering on. It was the weekend so the Flatiron Building was dark but the Walgreens was still open and lit up. She crossed Fifth, ducked under the striped canopy and went into the drugstore.
She ignored the leers from a couple of cab hacks having dinner at the lunch counter, picked up a tin of Golden Bear cookies in case she got hungry later on and then asked Ricky the soda jerk to make her up a Dixie of coffee. Ricky had a heart-rending crush on her and she always tipped him double and gave him her best smile, even though he had a farmer’s field of pimples on his forehead and God knew where else. Let the kid have a few furious dreams – if she could boost his confidence a little, why not? She carried her purchases back across Fifth and let herself into her own, dark building, juggling her keys, the coffee container and the bag with her fattening can of bridge assortment inside.
Riding up in the cranky, clanking elevator she tried to put the puzzle pieces together once again, trying to keep the sadness down and concentrate on the facts. Howie the low-end Mob lawyer led to Shalleck the high-end Mob lawyer, who in turn led to one of Joe Kennedy’s companies and that in turn fit in with Bushy’s proposition that the Democrats were involved in whatever was going on, which also fit in with a Democrat police commissioner warning off one of his homicide detectives from anything to do with Howie. Full circle but what a far-reaching circle it was and even with the pieces all put together what the hell was the picture she was looking at?
The elevator came to a thumping halt and Jane made her way down the gloomy corridor as much by habit as by sight. Reaching her office door she put the paper bag and the coffee cup down on the floor, took her keys out of her shoulder bag and unlocked the door. She bent down, retrieved the paper bag and the Dixie full of coffee, turning sideways to push open the door with her shoulder.
As the door opened the string wrapped around the inside knob took up the slack, tightening through the small eyebolt that had been screwed into the jamb, the taut string in turn jerking the pull ring out of the homemade spring-loaded striker that had been pushed into a half-pound charge of safecracker’s explosive left on Jane’s desk. The striker, jury-rigged from a piece of copper tubing and the firing pin of an old Remington automatic pistol, smacked down onto a .38-caliber percussion cap, which in turn set off the main charge.
Jane’s brain barely had time to register what was going on before she was mercifully knocked unconscious. The massive concussion from the explosion blew the door back into her face, throwing her forcibly across the corridor and slamming her into the far wall, the Dixie of coffee and the contents of the ruptured can of Golden Bear cookies spattering Jane, the ceiling and the corridor wall with a sugary yellow-brown paste that acted like glue on the cloud of bloody, iridescent blue and green feathers that filled the air like a whirling blizzard of multi-coloured snow. Her skirt was torn to shreds, her Real-Silks actually vaporised off her legs and her eyebrows were singed off along with half an inch of her hair.
A few seconds later the remains of Ponce de Leon the parrot began to settle to the floor and the ear-splitting thunder of the exploding bomb was replaced by the rising crackle of small flames. Beyond the demolished office there was the distant, tinkling echo of shattered window glass striking the Belgian-block pavement on the street half a dozen floors below.