The Death of an Irish Lass

The Death of an Irish Lass Read Free

Book: The Death of an Irish Lass Read Free
Author: Bartholomew Gill
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detail of Barry Hanly’s life from birth through the concatenation of misadventures that have led him to this sad pass. Specifically, since I’m sure it’s a question of near-criminal interest, what windfall has put him in the way of that Jaguar, these clothes, and this wallet.” McGarr had another wallet in his pocket. Hanly’s contained items of personal interest along with a roll of currency from various countries that totaled over twenty thousand pounds. It was as thick as the Dublin phone directory.
    “That’s just the receipts from the dance I put on.”
    “In Dublin?” McGarr asked.
    “No. The one last night was in Ennis. It’s the only way to make money in this business anymore. You’ve got to bring the talent to the people now. I’m even thinking of closing down the dance hall in Dublin. There’s nothing but headaches in it.” Just the mention of the word seemed to bring one on for Hanly. His hand went up to his brow.
    McGarr turned to Ward, who nodded. Hanly had staged a dance that night. “But how big can your dances be? What do you charge for admission? And why so much foreign money?” At least a thousand pounds of it was South African. There were Australian and Canadian dollars, some gilder notes from Holland, greenbacks from the States, and New Zealand currency as well.
    “It’s the tourist season. I don’t like to exchange me money out here in these country banks. I’ve got a little deal with the manager of the Provincial Bank on Pearse Street in town.” He meant Dublin. “He gives me commercial rates.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Scannell.”
    “Check that,” McGarr said to Ward. Then he asked Hanly, “What were your immediate plans, say, for today, tomorrow, and the coming week?”
    Hanly began scratching the balding crown of his head. Not once during the interview had he looked directly at McGarr, who had put it down to Hanly’s former brushes with the law and his background in the Dublin slums where anybody interested in an easy living learned early to avoid the police. But now McGarr detected a new attitude. Hanly was gloating—his ears pulled back just slightly, and McGarr could have sworn he flashed a drunken smile—as though he had pulled off a slick caper, and right under the nose of Ireland’s top cop. “Don’t know, Super. I suppose—” He straightened up. “I’ll try to pull meself together and go on with affairs. Got another dance tonight.”
    “Where?”
    “Salthill. And then there’s the car. Haven’t had it but a week.”
    McGarr handed him back his wallet. “I wonder how many Irish South Africans return every summer. I’m sure we can find that out.”
    “’T weren’t Irish at all,” said Hanly, staggering toward the stile in the wall. “South Africans pure and simple. Ruggers on tour.”
    “But they paid over a thousand pounds to dance?”
    “And drink. I run that concession too, of course. And all legally.” He nearly fell on the top of the stile. “I followed them through three towns—Wexford, Waterford, and Youghal. They made crowds, which love to dance. Which is my business.”
    “And mine is to ask you to accompany us to the barracks in Lahinch. You want to help the police in the investigation of this murder, don’t you?” said O’Shaughnessy. Under Irish law the police could hold for two days a man who was “helping” them. After that he must be cautioned and arrested or released. Under the Offenses Against the State Act, which deals with terrorist groups like the I.R.A. and lists aschedule of offenses such as the possession of firearms, explosives, and gathering in groups for the purpose of overthrowing the state, the suspect might be held indefinitely.
    “But how long am I going to be held?”
    “Depends on how much and how quickly you help us.”
    “But my dance. It’s my livelihood, my life’s blood! I thought the super…”
    “My title is Chief Inspector of Detectives,” said McGarr. It was a classification that had

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