The Death of an Irish Politician Read Online Free Page A

spray of dark hair on the top of his head made him look like an extinct flightless fowl. “It is?” From staring into phone books half his life, Wilder was myopic. His head turned haltingly as he scanned the switchboards and work area of the busy phone system. He was squinting and blinking. “Where is he?”
    “Here, Francie. I’m McGarr.”
    Wilder’s head snapped toward him, and he minutely examined every aspect of the inspector’s garb. “So it is, and there for a moment I thought you was a painted Willy. With legs like that I’d be ashamed to walk the streets. Sure and if the fireplugs in Dublin was white, you’d get pissed on for sure.”
    Wilder told McGarr the number was listed as that for flat 5A, 17 Percy Place, which was a posh address in Ballsbridge.
     
    Like many in Dublin, the street was a row of eighteenth-century brick houses with long flights of stairs to the second floors. McGarr knew that the porter lived on the ground floor, his door under the stairs, that a garden in back ran to an alley and garages. Begonias in green window boxes lined the porter’s windows. The Grand Canal was across the street.
    “Inspector Peter McGarr and wife, Noreen,” McGarr said to an old woman. But for the flower print of her blue dress and thick black shoes, she was wrapped in a grey shawl. “May I ask you a few questions?”
    “You may, not that I promise I’ll answer. Give that here.” The woman meant his badge, which he handed her. From under the shawl she retrieved a pair of thick bifocals with yellowing frames that hung on a black band around her neck.
    “McGarr,” she said. “Such an odd name.”
    “Flat five A. May I inquire who leases it?”
    “You may until you’re blue in the face, but I don’t know. Won’t you come in.” She stoodaside, and Noreen and McGarr stepped into her sitting room, from which a small paraffin heater was chasing the dampness of the night’s storm. Even its dull blue flame was cheering in the dim interior of the room.
    “The monthlies arrive in the form of cashier’s checks, so they tell me. But you’ll have to get that information from the property owner, whose lawyer manages the finances of the building.”
    “His name?”
    “Greaney on Leeson Street. I don’t believe I’ve seen the occupants more than a dozen times in the past two years. That’s how long they’ve rented the flat out. Traveling people, I assume they are.”
    “They?” Noreen asked.
    “A man and woman. Husband and wife I should think.”
    “Age?”
    “Not young, not old. He’s aging some, balding like your man.”
    “And she?”
    “A pretty woman like yourself.”
    “Ah, thank you, luv,” said Noreen, preening self-consciously.
    “’Tis only the truth. There’s a noticeable difference in your ages. Have you any wee ones?”
    The McGarrs had none by choice, which was a subject more controversial in Irelandthan the political disposition of the Six Counties.
    “May we see the apartment?” McGarr asked.
    “Have you a writ?”
    The old lady’s knowledge of the law surprised McGarr. He examined her closely. Once handsome, her skin had grown dark with age and now hung on her face in creases and folds. Her blue eyes were still clear, however, and her teeth were her own. Braided hair, snow white, had been piled on top of her head. She was taller than he and once possessed a full figure, her ankles narrow nonetheless. “What did you say your name was?” he asked as she reached toward a ledge on which the flat keys of the house lay.
    “I didn’t, Inspector. Megan will do.”
    “Well, certainly the people who lease the apartment must receive mail and an occasional visitor. What’s the name on the postal address?”
    “Five A. That’s all I’ve ever seen. If they have visitors, they answer the door themselves. I’ve got enough to do without playing parlormaid to the tenants.”
    They followed her up dingy back stairs from which a low door opened onto as bright and airy a foyer as