Fools of the Trade – A Gil Tanner Mystery

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This month’s story features a new character who hails from Ireland.  He uses phrases, idioms, and words common to the language of his native soil but possibly unfamiliar to others.  To assist the reader, I have defined / explained these on the Jargon page, along with the other slang of the time used by the characters.

Fools of the Trade

It was a dark and stormy night.  No, seriously, it really was a dark and stormy night.  Outside, a howling wind hurled heavy raindrops in an almost horizontal flight.  The gloom of evening even seemed to overpower the street lamps’ efforts to light the way.  Fortunately for me, I was out of the darkness and the heavy weather, sitting in the office of my private investigator’s agency, waiting for a phone call. 

Earlier in the day, I’d received a telegram from a Mr. Harvey Langdon of Denver, Colorado.  The man was unknown to me, but I’d since learned he’d started as a mining engineer.  Now the fella was an extremely wealthy executive with a large mining operation out West.  Langdon had wired to say he’d call me on a case that evening at “eight o’clock sharp.”  The tone of his telegram, if I could read between the lines at all, left little doubt he meant eight o’clock sharp.  The Regulator clock on my office wall, which was notoriously slow, showed a couple of minutes until eight.  I was pouring another round of Jack Daniels, retrieved from my secreted private stash, into a Dixie cup from the office water cooler when the telephone rang.  Even though I was expecting a call, it jarred me slightly.  The hooch hadn’t quieted my nerves as it usually did.

I lifted the phone off its cradle.  As anticipated, it was Harvey at the other end.  After a few pleasantries, he moved straight to the facts of his problem, which he laid out in terse detail.  He explained the reason for his call was his daughter, Dorothy, who was the apple of his eye, despite her wild and reckless manner.  My caller haltingly blamed himself for her irresponsible lifestyle, the result of his spoiling her after her mother died.  Dottie, the nickname by which he referred to her, was an only child who’d been seven at the time of her mother’s death from consumption.  By his reckoning, the widower had spent so much time with rough-and-tumble miners and mining engineers, he didn’t know how to deal with the delicacies of rearing a little girl.  “You know how a father can show his child too much love, Mr. Tanner,” he finished. 

Well, I really don’t know, I thought, but told him to continue.

According to my potential client, the rebellious Dottie had fallen for an older “unscrupulous character” from our fair metropolis.  She’d somehow met the “scalawag” during her time away at school in the East.  The mining executive didn’t know his name or exactly where he lived, but knew he resided here in our city.  The young woman had steadfastly refused to reveal the man’s name, fearing the powerful executive’s ability to investigate him or otherwise interfere with her affairs.  When I asked how he knew her suitor to be of disreputable character if he knew nothing of him, he grunted harshly.  His voice was gruff and, at times, impatient when I asked questions.  He made it clear, in his opinion, if the rogue were otherwise, he’d come out from hiding behind Dorothy and make himself known to him.   None of his efforts to make her see the “error of her ways” had been successful.

… Langdon’s daughter, Dorothy, had fallen for an older “unscrupulous character” from our fair metropolis. 

The father informed me he’d previously hired a private detective from our city on recommendation of a friend, the owner of several hotels across the country.  He didn’t name the shamus who hadn’t worked out.  The executive had fired him.  Now, identifying, finding, and keeping the man away from the girl was my job.  The old man only knew his daughter had run away that morning with a large sum of cash and headed this way to meet the “scoundrel.”  When asked, he was quick to clarify she’d not stolen the money, but, nonetheless, he didn’t want it filched from her or squandered during her misadventure.  The executive worried desperately over the potential outcome of the pending rendezvous.  Money was no object, he informed me.  Not that I’m strictly an avaricious kind of mug, but those words were always music to my ears.

Langdon then gave me a description of Dottie.  He advised me his Denver private investigators had told him she was on the Eastbound Limited, scheduled to arrive here at ten-twelve that evening.  The father wanted his daughter returned to Denver and her suitor “seriously discouraged” from ever trying to see or contact her again.  I asked why he hadn’t had one of his operatives just stop her before she left Denver or follow her to her destination here and bring her home.  Harvey let loose an exasperated sigh.  He informed me she had disappeared before he’d realized what was happening.  In addition, he wanted someone local who knew our city.  Someone, my caller added, who thus could more easily obtain the information needed to pursue the task.  He concluded by frankly stating he wanted a private detective with an “in” with our local law enforcement to smooth any difficulties which might arise.  I’d come recommended as that man.

On that note, I asked what he meant by “seriously discouraging” the girl’s would-be lover.  A nasty snicker came down the wire to me.  The mining engineer said to do whatever it took to make the separation permanent.  Period.  His harsh sneer and his tone reminded me of the stories I’d heard of the ruthlessness of men in the mining racket.  They did whatever was necessary to make the vast sums of money available by working in the earth or to achieve their intended goals.  Perhaps I was speaking with one such man.  Before ringing off, he told me he’d immediately wire transfer me a retainer, a generous one I might add, to begin handling the case.  I agreed.

Pegging the receiver, I leaned back in my swivel chair and listened to the rain beat hard against the office windows for a moment, reflecting on my conversation with my client.  Or should I say his conversation with me?  Thankfully, clients such as the no-nonsense Mr. Langdon, overbearing and outlandish in their expectations, were a rare commodity.  It was unfortunate the Denver man had been unable to give more information regarding the young woman’s beau to the previous PI, whoever it’d been.  And then fired the poor sap for failing to get results in their search.  The circumstances seemed wholly unfair. I’d have the advantage of meeting Dorothy’s train and seeing who greeted her or following her to the lug.

Then there was my target.  Her father had described her in general terms one might categorize as a fairly attractive twenty-two-year-old, average height and weight, with auburn hair.  Taking into account parents always view their offspring in a more favorable light than the rest of the world, I allowed room for discrepancy in his description.   She shouldn’t be difficult to eyeball, though.  By my estimation, not too many young women of her depiction would arrive alone on the train that late at night.  I assumed she’d be alone.

Finally, glancing at the wall clock, I contemplated my approach to the situation.   The obvious move was to meet the runaway’s train and learn whether anyone was waiting for her.  If not, it was a simple matter of letting her lead me to her beau.  Once achieved, the “how” of splitting them up “permanently” would be something I’d play by ear when the time came.

*  *  *

For an hour, I sat in Union Station, waiting for Dorothy Langdon to show up.  Her train was late.  Then, at ten-fifty-seven, according to the four-sided clock in the center of the terminal, the announcement of the Eastbound Limited’s arrival on track eleven came over the public address system.  I folded the newspaper I’d been wearing out while I waited and dropped it on the bench beside me.  After crushing my gasper onto a nearby sand-filled urn, I strolled to the designated gate and waited for passengers to spill into the main concourse. 

The usual assortment of bleary-eyed traveling salesmen, weary families, and military men in uniform poured in from the platform.  One fetching young woman was among the crowd.  She was leading a slim redcap who carried two large bags clearly marked with the initials D. L.  Harvey’s description of his daughter was well short of spot-on.  She was an auburn-haired looker.  I could see why anyone could go for her in a big way.   

Unfortunately for the woman, a uniformed mug–a swabbie, to be exact–who’d been on the same train was paying her an inordinate amount of attention.  His unwanted devotion obviously annoyed her.  Shaking my head, I looked at the tar and thought, Once a sailor, always a sailor.  As the girl and her uniformed pursuer passed, I grabbed the gob’s arm and stepped between the two.  I excitedly claimed also to have been aboard the USS Nevada, the ship name on his flat hat’s tally.  He reluctantly paused from his quest and looked past my shoulder at his departing prey.  As he did, I offered him a smoke and asked for a light.  Miss Langdon made the best of the opportunity to get away.  After a time long enough to break off his mission, I told the flustered sailor I’d catch up with him later and we’d have a drink.  While I hustled off to my LaSalle, he reluctantly joined a clutch of grinning sailors watching nearby. 

At the station exit, I caught sight of the woman standing at the curb, while the porter flagged the attention of a taxi driver.  The storm had moved on.  As I passed the pair, the skinny baggage handler was trying to muscle the young lady’s belongings into a back door of the cab.  His cumbersome efforts gave me the time I needed to reach my machine, tease the motor alive, and pull to the curb behind the hack.

Eventually, the cab eased into the traffic along Mitchell Avenue and headed downtown.  I followed at a respectable distance.  After several blocks, the hack swung left and traveled toward the river, past garages, pool halls, a cigar store, cheap apartments and on to a block of run-down rooming houses.  As it approached an area of modest row houses, the taxi slowed.  I could see the vehicle’s passenger looking out of the side window, trying to read house numbers in the low light.  The hack stopped suddenly.  Easing the LaSalle to the curb up the block and dousing my headlights, I watched.  Dorothy spoke to the driver for a few seconds, got out, paid her fare, and started walking, still checking the house numbers as she went.  The cab followed her slowly.  After a distance, she stopped, turned, and nodded to the driver. 

While the cabbie placed her bags on the sidewalk, my client’s daughter climbed the front stoop of a two-story row house where a porch light cast a dim halo.  The windows gave no evidence of light from inside.  I knew it wasn’t a place known to her or she wouldn’t have spent so much time looking at numbers.  From under the porch light, she quickly scanned the street and pressed the bell button several times.  There was no answer to her summons.  Then she knocked impatiently.  Still, no one came to the door.  Meanwhile, the taxi pulled away. 

As Miss Langdon dug through her handbag, I climbed out of my heap and moved silently to the shadows across the street.  The only sound was the remaining raindrops falling softly from the trees.  Then, a car door closed gently farther up the block.  I glanced in the direction of the sound but saw nothing.  The gloomy street was as quiet as a drift of smoke.  I shrugged it off to a husband trying to sneak home after a late night out with whoever.  As I looked back to the house, the young woman removed something from her purse and held it up to the porch light.  It was a key.  She unlocked the door and went inside.

I set fire to a Chesterfield and waited.  My thought was to give the happy couple a short time to get comfortable before I broke up their little party.  Room by room, lights started showing through the tan window shades around the house’s first floor.  The faint sound of the girl calling the name “Lloyd” or “Floyd” floated over the avenue to me.  Her bags still sat at the curb.  For the first few minutes, I was restless.  As lights started being turned on upstairs, I became uneasy.  Then, I heard a noise of uncertain origin followed by a female’s bloodcurdling scream piercing the still night air.  I snapped into sudden alertness and ran across the street to the house and a locked front door.  The sound of hurried footfalls on stair steps and mournful sobs came through it from inside.  I pulled my .45, turned a shoulder to the door and lunged forward.  The door cracked.  I charged again.  Wood snapped this time, and I pitched into the front end of a hallway.

I heard a noise of uncertain origin followed by a female’s bloodcurdling scream piercing the still night air.

The passageway was a straight shot to a door at the back of the house.  The door stood open but was slowly closing.  Loping to the back door, I found it emptied into an alleyway running between the backs of the houses on adjacent blocks.  Panicked footsteps echoed through the darkness to my right.  I ran down the stoop and to the road at that end of the alley.  I searched the street in both directions.  Under the dim glow of a streetlamp, I saw the girl scrambling into a taxi in front of a neighborhood candy and tobacco shop at the far end of the block.  The cab sped off away from my position and in the opposite direction my crate faced.  The LaSalle was over a block from where I stood.  That and the head start the taxicab had made catching the hack an unlikely proposition.  Locating my objective had to wait until later and, if needed, involve help from Mel, a hack-driving pal.  I returned to the house, climbed the stoop, and eased through the back door to learn what all the noise was about.  Possibly I might get a clue as to Langdon’s destination. 

Upon re-entering the house, I heard an automobile door slam and a vehicle hurriedly pull away from the curb out front.  By the time I got to the door, the cab was a block down the street.  The way the machine moved, I figured Barney Oldfield was at the wheel.  In the rectangular shaft of light laying across the sidewalk from the doorway, I saw someone had retrieved the travel bags.  Again, the taxicab fled in the opposite direction my heap pointed and pursuit was futile.

As I stood at the front door, the house was eerily still.  Searching from room to room, I found only meager furnishings in the joint with nothing notable on the first floor.  But Dorothy hadn’t screamed until she reached the second story of the place.  I stood at the foot of the stairs, gun at the ready, and braced myself. 

It was in a back bedroom, the last room I searched, I found the reason for Miss Langdon’s panic.  A man lay sprawled prone on the floor by the bed.  He wasn’t moving.  I crossed to the room’s wardrobe and checked for anyone hiding there.  Nothing but a few empty hangers and a pair of slacks.  My eyes prowled the space.  A man’s necktie hung over the back of a chair.  Three drawers in a bureau were open, with clothes draped from their fronts and sides, as if anxiously rummaged through.  Either someone had been trying to make a quick getaway or somebody had been looking for something. 

A man lay sprawled prone on the floor by the bed.  He wasn’t moving.

When I turned the mug over, I saw a soggy discoloration on the front of his shirt.  I didn’t need to look twice to know he was dead.  There was so much blood, it wasn’t obvious whether his death had resulted from a shooting or a vicious stabbing.  A shot might account for the unidentifiable noise I’d heard while Dorothy was in the house.  But it wasn’t clear.  Either way, the blood on the man’s shirt and around the body was fresh.

Crouching beside the body, I laid my rod on the bed.  I spent the next few minutes checking his pockets.  I was looking for anything which might explain what caused the pair to have such a quick, deadly lovers spat, leading to his untimely demise.  Something along the lines of a single train ticket, a letter, a snapshot of another dame, or so forth could prove helpful.  I came up empty and sat on the edge of the bed.  Ideas crossed my mind over what could have caused this unexpected mess.  Maybe her would-be lover had intended to rob his girlfriend, and she’d resisted with fatal results.  Perhaps he’d had a change of heart concerning the young woman, with the same outcome.  Nothing else came to me.  What had gone on in the room would remain a mystery until I caught up with Langdon.  But it didn’t look good for the girl.  And I’d play that hand if fate dealt those cards to me.  Looking at the stiff again, the thought occurred to me maybe Dorothy had inherited her old man’s underlying viciousness.  One thing seemed certain.  Coming up with a gambit to persuade her lover from ever seeing her again wasn’t necessary now.

Suddenly, the thin sound of a creaking floorboard came to me through the wall over my shoulder.  I grabbed my rod and moved to behind the partially opened bedroom door.  A second or so later, I saw a tall man through the opening between the jamb and the door.  He stepped quietly and held a gat in his left hand.  He muttered something I didn’t catch as he came into view of the body.  After he was fully in the room and gaping at the crumpled figure, I placed the working end of my .45 snugly behind his left ear.  He flinched slightly at the touch of the cold steel.  “Crikey,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Toss the heater onto the bed, mister.  Easy like.”  He did what he’d been told, and the rod landed heavily.  I stepped back a pace.  “Now grab a little air and turn around slow.”  As he turned and raised his hands, he pushed his trilby far back on his hairline and tossed me a toothy grin.  I recognized him.

Rupert Keegan was a big shabby Irishman with a faintly freckled boyish puss, an affable smile, a timeworn suit, and nicotine-stained fingers.  A shock of red hair topped his lanky frame.  The Mick was in the same racket as me.  Nah, we didn’t have a PI union or a guild or anything, but we pretty much knew who was in the business around the city.  And, try as we might, there weren’t many secrets among us.  Although around a decade older, the man hadn’t been a shamus as long as me.  The rumors and stories making the rounds at the watering holes claimed he fell well short of being an ace as a gumshoe.  The banter held that his idea of an undercover disguise was a clean shirt.  Keegan had started as a hotel dick before deciding to go into the private investigation game.  His previous line of work had inflicted on him the moniker “Keyhole.”  Those who used it didn’t intend it as a compliment.  I knew nothing of the man from firsthand experience, and I take people as they come to me.  So I had no opinion of him. 

“What’re you doing here, Keegan?”

“Steady on, boyo.”  He nodded toward my hardware.  “You’ll not be needin’ that thing.”  When I motioned with the .45 for him to drop his hands, he chuckled.  “I’m here for the same reason you are, laddie.”

Holstering my roscoe, I asked, “Whaddya mean?”

“Well, Dorothy Langdon, of course.”

Something clicked in my head.  “I thought the old man gave you the ax.”

“Well, that may be true, my son, but I’ll not hold the man at fault for his shortsightedness.”  He glanced at the corpse and continued.  “And I’ll not be makin’ excuses, but Langdon hired me to find this bloke with no name, no description, and no whereabouts to go on.  Then he had the bollocks to show me the bricks when I failed to ferret the rascal out.  He gave me a right earful in the process, as well,” he groaned with exasperation.

“But how–?”

“My former employer told me he intended to hire you in me stead,” he smiled.  He pointed his chin at the dead man and went on, “And he said the lass was makin’ plans to come here to meet him.”  My client’s freedom with information I’d thought he might keep to himself came as a surprise.  “‘Twas a simple matter of followin’ you to find her.  Of course, I wasn’t thinkin’ she’d be havin’ an argy-bargy and killin’ the man–”

“Well, where the hell were you while she was making the big flit?”

“Initially, I was watchin’ from the shadows up the way.  I could hear the girl calling a name as she moved through the gaff, but couldn’t quite make it out.  When she screamed, I started to charge toward the house.  But you made a mad dash, so I waited.  Then, when you ran out the back door, I eased meself into the place to find what the ruckus was about.  I heard you come back, so I hid in the void under the front stoop and waited again.  The cab appeared, grabbed the girl’s bags, and disappeared so quick, I couldn’t see the bugger at first from my place of concealment and didn’t have time to react.  Wasn’t even sure whether I should.  When you finally climbed the stairs and didn’t return, my curiosity got on top of me what with the house bein’ as quiet as a popcorn fart.  So up I came.”  As I made a disapproving face, he finished, “Well, I fancied seeing what your play might be before I stepped in.”

“Yeah, thanks for the help!  And I coulda killed you, you know!  Sneaking up on a lug like that!”  The man only shrugged.  “But why, if you’re not getting paid–?”

The other stopped my question with a raised hand.  “Pride, Gil.  Just me personal pride.”  He leaned back against the edge of the bureau and folded his arms across his chest.  “I know there are those who don’t think much of the job I do for me patrons.  But that’s rubbish!  I never do anythin’ by halves.  I work hard and get results, for the most part, if given enough to work with.”  Keegan looked wearily around the room and exhaled audibly.  “So this is her handiwork then?”

“Looks that way, but I didn’t see it happen,” I offered, with a meaningless wave of a hand.

“Well, shouldn’t we be about callin’ the coppers before we go off in search of the elusive Miss Langdon?”

“We?  What makes you think there’s a ‘we’?”

“Surely you’ll not be deprivin’ a bloke such as meself from savin’ face considering the way her old man’s messed me about.  And, before you go gettin’ all buggered up over money, recall I’m not here for the pay.  If I might add, by the looks of it,” he chuckled, “you could use me help.  The girl’s a clever one, she is.  Besides me mum always said, ‘A problem shared is a problem halved.’”

I studied the private detective’s face as I rubbed my stubbled chin and thought over the notion of us working together.  Having a second man along certainly might help my play in this case.  My client had already wired me a handsome retainer.  If I wanted to share the dough with the Mick, it was my choice.  There didn’t appear to be a drawback to the arrangement.  And I could always ditch the man if necessary.  Plus, in my opinion, he’d gotten a raw deal from the overbearing Colorado executive.

I hitched my thumb in my direction.  “Okay, but we do things my way, no questions asked!”   Then I pointed a hard finger at the man to make a point as I spoke.  “You’ll do what I say when I say it or you and your pride can go climb up your thumb!  Get me?”  Keyhole merely shrugged again, nodded his ascent, and flashed his big grin.  “All right.  Let’s go.”  He grabbed and holstered his .38.  As we moved into the hall, I stepped aside and gestured, offering him the lead to the stairs.

“Okay, but we do things my way, no questions asked!”

“What of callin’ the coppers?” he shot over his shoulder as we walked.

“Uh-uh.  I don’t want them involved in this until I … we find Dorothy Langdon and get some answers.  I owe that much to her father.” 

Following the man along the hall, I watched his slight limp.  It reminded me of another of the “Keegan legends.”   The story was Rupert Keegan had been with the Irish Volunteers during the Easter Rising back in 1916.  Further, he’d fought alongside Dick Mulcahy in the defeat of the Royal Irish Constabulary at Ashbourne.  Supposedly, his unsteady gait resulted from the engagement.  There was an impressive amount of fervor among our fellow gumshoes over whether the tale was true.  This was mostly because, to my knowledge, the guy had never denied or admitted the veracity of the gossip.   The irony of a man, dismissed so quickly by his colleagues for alleged professional incompetence, being the center of so much heroic conjecture was comical.

He stopped and turned slightly.  “So how do we go about findin’ the filly, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

The question raised the issue of just how on target the rumors regarding his incompetence were.  I didn’t want to show all my cards to the Irishman if he was really so uncertain how to proceed.  “There’s a plan rolling around in my noggin,” was the only thing he needed to know just then.  I figured to trace her through the cab she took from the taxi stand.  If my luck held and it wasn’t a jitney, I should be able to learn something.

By this time, the clock had moved past midnight.  We agreed to call it a day and meet at The Wayside Café later that morning for an early breakfast and to plan our next step.  I knew for a fact there were no trains leaving town until midmorning.  As a precaution, I made a sweep of the bus station and the airport on my way back to my apartment.  Dorothy was nowhere in sight at either terminal.  While at the former, I learned the next bus didn’t leave town until ten fifteen a.m.  The next passenger plane departure wasn’t until after noon.

*  *  *

Keegan was right on time for breakfast.  On my nickel, of course.  Leaving the big Mick to finish his coffee, I ambled to the diner’s pay station.  I called a buddy of mine, Mel, who drove a hack for one of the city’s cab companies.   The man worked nights, but it was still early and he hadn’t crawled into bed yet when he answered.  The cabbie yawned his way through our conversation, agreeing to see whether he could learn something of the taxi which had been outside the neighborhood store the night before.  If he got any dope, my pal said he’d try to reach me at my office or, he added with a chortle, at my “office annex,” Harry’s Paradise Tavern.  I laughingly called him a name before thanking him and ringing off.  Mel was a righteous guy to whom a few bad things had happened.  Fortunately, I’d been able to help him when they’d overtaken him.  But it’s another story for another time.

Before we left the Wayside, I asked Keyhole whether he might check into something while I attack our problem from a different direction.  He chimed his agreement.  While I was a touch wary of his motives for inserting himself into my case, I figured he could help with a detail or two and save me a little time.  When I asked him to see if he could determine who owned the house where we’d found the body, his face was as blank as a pie pan.  The big guy was ready to oblige but had no idea where or how to start.  I directed him to the clerk’s office in the county courthouse.  Still, no hint of understanding showed in his twinkling brown eyes.  I explained there he could look through the registration of deeds to determine in whose name the property was titled.  He grinned his understanding and made a few notes in a notebook he carried.   Finally, I gave him a list of the hotels in the order I planned on visiting, hoping to find our prey.  With a bit of luck, he could find me somewhere along the line.  He scurried away, muttering to himself.  Those rumors of his lack of competence and confidence swirled in my head briefly.

Meanwhile, I started making the rounds of the hotels to learn if my quarry had checked in to one of them.  I began with the higher-class joints, assuming the spoiled Miss Langdon kept to her privileged lifestyle.  Along the way, I made quick stops at Union Station and the bus terminal.  There was no trace of Dorothy at either location.  Slipping fins to the right people assured me she hadn’t yet purchased any tickets for any of the day’s departures from either location using her correct name.  Just for good measure, I described her to my contacts at the ticket counters.  Her description didn’t ring any bells with anybody.

From the depots, I returned to my circuit of the hotels.  Just after lunchtime, a shrill whistle followed by my name grabbed my attention as I was coming out of the Claremont Hotel.  Mel stood across the bustling street beside his cab, waving his arms as if a shipwrecked man on a desert island trying to flag down a passing steamer.  Dodging the traffic on Middleton Boulevard, I made my way to him.  Apparently not having gone to sleep after my telephone call, he looked like hell but was in good spirits.  The cabbie told me the Langdon girl had grabbed a Diamond Cab Company heap from in front of the mom-and-pop store the night before.  Mel had located and spoken to the driver. 

Initially, the woman wanted to go to the train station.  But, when the driver told her no trains would be leaving town that night, she chose to go to a hotel.  He drove her to the Sumner Arms Hotel.  Just my luck.  She’d ended up at a lesser establishment further down my list.  The driver had also told Mel his passenger seemed panicky during the trip.  I thanked my pal and handed him a sawbuck for his trouble with a fin for the other hack driver.  Initially, Mel refused to take the money.  He relented when I explained I might need his help again before I finished this search.  The chunk of money old man Langdon had wired me was enough for me to be generous and still pay my rents for several months.

*  *  *

I bolted to the Sumner Arms.  As I climbed out of the LaSalle, Keegan appeared and joined in the pursuit.  At the front desk, we were told Dorothy had checked out around an hour earlier.  She left no forwarding address.  We grabbed two overstuffed chairs in the hotel’s lobby.  I wanted to learn what, if anything, Rupert had gleaned at the county clerk’s office, have a smoke, and consider our next move. 

My fellow gumshoe leaned in close and spoke in a low, hoarse voice.  “The gaff belongs to one Hubert Cavanaugh.”  I knew the name, but Keyhole explained further.  “I thought it might be an alias the lassie’s beau was using, but no.   Cavanaugh’s a banker who’s invested in a number of houses he got on the cheap after the recent Wall Street misfortune.  Rents them out now.”  My friend sat back in his chair.  “I paid Mr. Cavanaugh a visit to learn who his tenant was.” 

His initiative was a welcomed relief.  “Did he see you?  Did you get anything?”

“I met with the man, who, by the by, hasn’t missed a meal in many a day.  The bloke has more chins than a Hong Kong telephone directory.  He–”

My patience dwindled.  “And?” I asked harshly.

“Steady on, mate.  Don’t be a sorehead!”  he paused and shot his cuffs, asserting his dignity.  “At first, the man was reluctant to speak with the likes of me.  But soon enough, we were gassin’ like two old maids.  He checked his records and told me he’d rented that particular gaff to a fella named Marvin Hiltzik.  Cavanaugh had the property handled by an agency, so he never saw the man.  I then motored to the agency.  The person at the agency who handled the rental to Hiltzik is no longer there.  And since Hiltzik paid the rent by mail, no one else ever saw the man.  I reckon Hiltzik’s an alias this Lloyd or Floyd mug used.”

“Dorothy’s boyfriend using an alias to rent the place figures.”  Especially if, I thought, he intended to rob her or worse.  “Hell, for all we know, Lloyd or Floyd could be an alias!”

We sat quietly for a short time.  Over my cigarette, I watched my companion.  A heavy weariness seemed to overtake him steadily as the day wore on.  He didn’t appear healthy.  Keegan caught my stare and snapped to.  With a renewed, but strained vigor, he excitedly catapulted himself into a standing position and exclaimed, “Tis dyin’ for the jacks, I am.  Won’t be two ticks for a wizzel dizzel!” 

A heavy weariness seemed to overtake him steadily as the day wore on.  He didn’t appear healthy.

While my “partner” went off in search of a bathroom, I decided to telephone my client to see if he’d heard from his daughter.  “Well, I’m gonna make a quick telephone call,” I told Keyhole before he meandered away.  “Meet you back here.”  He nodded as he shuffled toward the front desk.

I grabbed the closest telephone booth and got the long-distance operator.  Finally, an anxious Langdon came on the wire.  He said he hadn’t heard from his daughter.  My report she’d arrived on the train but had slipped away before I could detain her put her father off.  I didn’t mention the murdered man.  There’d be time enough for the gory details later, when Dorothy was safely in hand.  When asked, Langdon said he’d never heard his daughter mention the names Lloyd or Floyd.  He was adamant in asking whether it was the name of the man she intended to see.  I told him I believed so, but was still working on that angle of the circumstances.  After I assured him I’d resolve the job soon and I’d stay in touch, he reluctantly hung up.

When I got back to our chairs, Keegan hadn’t returned yet.  I grabbed a stray newspaper and perused the sports pages while I waited.  My Cincinnati Reds were continuing another dismal season.  There was a follow-up article on the recent Primo Carnera-Jack Sharkey heavyweight title fight.  Another sportswriter questioned whether Sharkey had taken a dive in the sixth round KO.  The outcome still aggravated me, because I’d lost a fair amount of cash on the bout. Suddenly I realized the Irishman had returned and was reading over my shoulder.

“A fan of the pugilists, are you?” he asked when I glanced his way.

“Yeah, I follow the fight game,” I laughed.  “And you?”

“I should say!  Watching the lads work out at O’Malley’s gym is how I spend much of me free time.”  I knew O’Malley’s well.  Since my early days in this racket, I’d had a tamper-proof locker there to store things no one needed to know of.  Only Pop O’Malley knew who held the key.  Keegan continued, excitedly, “Then surely you’ve heard of the great Mike McTigue!”

“World’s light heavyweight champ back around ten years ago?  Sure.”

Keegan stood erect and stuck out his chest.  “Aye and a grand boxer he was!  From County Clare, same as meself.”  He became more animated, assuming a boxer’s stance and shadowboxing the air.  His actions caught the momentary attention of the desk clerk and a few guests.  “I saw the lad knock out the great Berlenbach back in ’27.  A fittin’ example of Irish manhood, if ever there was one!  They don’t make ‘em like that anymore, they don’t.”  Abruptly, Rupert stifled a yawn and looked exhausted.  He took a seat as he continued, “And then there’s James Braddock.  A tough mug, that one!”

“Yeah, Braddock started out like a house afire but busted his hand up pretty bad in the loss to Tommy Loughran back in ’28.”  I shook my head, “Nah, he’s washed up as a fighter.”

With a twinkle in his eye, the man opposite me countered, “The lad still has a lot of fight left in him, my son.  He’ll be back.  Just hide and watch.”

Laughing and waggling my head at the unlikely return of the heavyweight fighter to his former glory, I could only say, “Time will tell.”  I tossed aside the broadsheet.  “This is very captivating, Keegan, but it’s not getting us any closer to finding Dorothy.”

 “Tis right, you are!”  My companion’s eyes got small and tight as leaned toward me and lowered his voice.  “So you’ve a plan, yeah?”   He smoothed the frayed collar of his shirt and listened intently.

“Well, I have a hunch, if she used a taxi to get here, she took one to leave, too.  But to where is the question.  I’ll go back to my source in the taxicab racket and see what he can learn for us.”

“We should check the depots and airports again first thing,” the shamus suggested.  I nodded my agreement.  “Any notions on why the girl might have killed her beau?”

“I’ve been hashing that around since I found the body.  A mere breakup doesn’t seem to warrant her murdering the man.  No, the only thing I can figure is Floyd or Lloyd, or whatever the hell his name was, was the despicable character her old man thought he was.  The scoundrel knew of or found out about the money Dorothy was bringing with her.”  Keyhole started to speak, but I cut off the question I thought was coming, “Yeah, Langdon told me his daughter had left Denver with a wad of cash.  Anyway, her boyfriend apparently decided to ambush her, rob her with a knife or at gunpoint in the row house, and then leave her in the lurch.  Somehow, his plan went awry.  Either he didn’t catch her off guard as much as he’d hoped, or she somehow managed to take his weapon and turn it on him.”

“No matter.  He’s brown bread, and she’s done a runner.”  He shook his head.  “Sometimes life is just chock full of surprises.  And the world’s not a simple place.  Such things tend to knock the choirboy outta ya.”

“True enough.”  Not holding much optimism regarding the Mick’s abilities but feeling better about him playing legit with me on the case, I divvied up the transportation hubs between us.  I’d also decided to put the word on the street to try to locate my target through a lowlife associate of mine.  The crumb, who answered to the dubious nickname of “The Crawler,” would do anything for a buck.  The malefactor, as a prosecutor once called him, made his first foray into the world of crime with the gooseberry lay.  He’d added to his criminal repertoire from there.  The Crawler was guilty of nothing serious, mind you, but he was a reprobate of the first order.  As Lincoln supposedly once said of one of his cabinet members he fired, “The only thing he wouldn’t steal was a red-hot stove.”  Regardless, the rascal had a good ear for the rumor mill that ran rampant across the underbelly of the city’s criminal element.  A new, attractive, high-class young lady in town was just the sort of thing which caught the attention of the potential mashers and con artists The Crawler ran with.  That was especially true if anyone suspected she had money with her.   Their network for gathering such information would make old man Hearst envious.

Keegan and I agreed to meet at Cappacino’s Restaurant for a quick supper and to compare notes on any progress after our sorties.  He left for the bus and train terminals, while I hustled off to the airport and to locate my underworld contact.  The airport produced a big zero.  I found The Crawler where I’d expected, at a south side dive frequented by juju merchants and their customers.  I explained what I needed, leaving out any reference to the young girl’s well-to-do background or any cash she might have brought with her.  There was no sense in waving red meat in front of a pack of wolves.  My informant was more than willing to help but, as usual, wanted some dough in advance.  I grudgingly gave the man a little money with a promise of more if he learned something definite concerning Dorothy.  It bothered me to know he’d smoke up the cash advance before the sun set on our city.  But a deal’s a deal.

*  *  *

After the obligatory hug from Mama at the front door of Cappacino’s, I joined my fellow investigator, who was already sitting in a booth.  The man looked beat, haggard.  He smiled feebly and shook his head wearily as I took my seat.  “You look like hell, Rupert,” I whispered with genuine concern.  “Are you all right?”

A sneer pulled at the corners of his mouth.  “Pull your punches, mate, why don’t you?”  He wobbled his head, made a small, meaningless hand gesture, and gathered himself.  “I’ve gone off the boil in me trips to the bus and train stations.  How d’you get on?”

“There was nothing at my end either.”  I paused long enough to set fire to a gasper and offered one to the man across the table from me.  Instead of accepting my offer, he produced a cigar from his beast pocket and lit it. The thing appeared near in size to Gehrig’s bat.  With what appeared to me to be a draining effort, he explained it was his preferred smoke.  He’d taken the opportunity, while at the railway station, to pick up a few.

The man’s pallor and fatigued demeanor concerned me.  “Seriously,” I asked, “are you okay, Keegan?”

“Aye, boyo.  I’m grand.”  His eyes betrayed his words.  “Just a minor knock to me system.”  He tried a smile.  “The doctors tell me my ailment will soon pass.”  He took a long drag on his stogie, puffed a swirl of smoke, and watched it float away.  It was obvious he’d say no more on the subject.

Now, I’m a private kind of mug.  My business is my business.  And I respect that sentiment in other folks.  So, if Keegan didn’t want to say anymore, it was jake with me, despite my concerns.  I moved back to the case at hand.  “I assume the woman is too sophisticated to hitchhike.  So, based on what we’ve learned from the different means of getting out of town, it appears Langdon is still somewhere in the city.  But it doesn’t figure.”

Our waiter, arriving to take our meal orders, interrupted the thought.  When the man moved to another table, Rupert was quick to return to the topic of the girl’s whereabouts.  “She’d have to be mental to kill a man she supposedly loved, then hang about, yeah?  I mean to wait around for someone to find the body and make inquiries is crazy!  But she’ll need a kip.  So she’s holed up somewhere.  We need to find Dorothy and sort it out,” he ended, stating the obvious.

“She’d have to be mental to kill a man she supposedly loved, then hang about, yeah?”

We were silent for several minutes, both of us seemingly lost in his thoughts concerning the circumstances.  I know I was.  Suddenly, someone he saw at the restaurant’s door grabbed Keegan’s attention.  “Give us a minute.”  I watched him limp toward the man.  Their conversation was brief, but lively.  When the big Mick returned, he sat down heavily.

“What was that?”

A weak grin flashed briefly across his weary face.  “Gil, I’ve just gathered a little information on our missin’ lassie.”  He had my attention.  I leaned over the table in anticipation.  “A Lucky cab took her from the hotel to a bedsitter on Hawthorne Street on the west side of town.”

The waiter was delivering our meals when, somewhat stunned, I asked, “How did you find out?”

“I’m not without me own contacts, Tanner,” he offered, with a measure of defiant pride.  I sat back in wonder.  He took a small bit of food.  “I asked around amongst a few cabbies I’ve known since me days as a hotel detective.  At first, not a dicky bird.  I got sod all.  Nothin’.  But I knew, in time, the word would get to the proper man.  That was him just now.  He put me onto her,” he proclaimed, waving a small slip of paper.  When I smiled my appreciation for his effort, he grunted, “Look, old chum, I’m not here just, as me circumcised mates might say, to kibitz.”  The way he expressed himself at times cracked me up.  I laughed and nodded.

We deserted what remained of our meals and rushed from the restaurant.  As we were leaving, I told Mama Cappacino, a lady always upset at the sight of half-eaten food, I’d explain later.  Out on the street, we found ourselves in a driving rain.  We agreed to take one automobile on the hunt.  Then, there was a debate over whose heap to use.  Although my LaSalle was no prize package, I’d heard Keyhole’s five-year-old Durant’s engine cough itself still more than once.  My approach to this job didn’t include leaving a reliable vehicle to chance.

As we walked to my machine, a headline on one of the city’s broadsheets sitting in a rack at a newsstand snagged my eye.  I grabbed my companion’s arm, and we detoured to it.  The newspaper had put out an extra edition with the above-the-fold headline “Gruesome Murder Found in Westside House.”  In smaller type just below the eye-catcher, the page screamed a “Mysterious Woman Seen Fleeing the Crime,” followed by “City On Alert.”  The byline was from a newshound named Zier, whose motto was “If it bleeds, it leads.”  He’d sensationalize an egg being boiled if he thought it would sell newspapers.  In my book, his reporting came under the heading of a general anesthesia.

Anyway, the story related a landlord had found the body of an as-yet unidentified man in a row house late that morning.  The Mick’s conversation with Cavanaugh had lit a fuse to the situation.  The concerned banker had gone to the house, curious about the sudden interest in it.  He’d found the body and called the authorities.  Now the coppers were looking for a tall Irishman named O’Shaughnessy, described in detail in the article, and the “mysterious woman,” of unknown appearance, concerning the murder.  It turned out my fellow shamus hadn’t given Cavanaugh his correct name during their meeting.  Well, there was one thing we shared in doing our job.  Keegan was unaffected by the fact the law was looking for a man fitting his description.

*  *  *

We drove my jalopy through a hammering rain toward the west-side boardinghouse where Dorothy was supposedly hiding out.  My crate’s wipers worked hard to sling the heavy raindrops aside.  As we neared Hawthorne Street where the joint was located, the Mick realized he couldn’t find the scrap of paper on which his contact had written the house number.   He fished in his pockets, repeatedly saying he didn’t understand what had become of it.  My frustration rose almost to the point of anger.  I held fast.  The storm in my head passed.  Then I spoke quietly, asking flustered investigator whether he recalled the number being even or odd to narrow our search for the joint.  He couldn’t remember.  The most important clue to Langdon’s whereabouts since she’d taken it on the lam, and my fellow private detective had lost it.  The rain stopped, but the brooding clouds matched my mood.

Unfortunately, I was unfamiliar with the street which consisted primarily of older, modest, but well-kept larger houses, backing up to the river.  The street was unknown to my companion as well.  Luckily, the street was only five blocks long.  After driving its length, I turned back and parked as near as I could to a neighborhood tavern called Hanna’s Place.

Inside, we found a rough-looking greasy spoon serving food.  It also dispensed three-two beer and wine thanks to Roosevelt signing the Cullen–Harrison Amendment to the Volstead Act earlier in the year.  Yeah, I kept up with the more important aspects of the national news.  Anyway, Hanna’s wasn’t a family place and didn’t appear a classy enough dive to serve the hard stuff on the sly like Harry’s Paradise Tavern.  The bartender, who wore a filthy apron, was doubling as the booze-and-food waiter for the tables of customers.  His appearance and demeanor made me even more grateful for Harry’s place.  Frankly, the seedy joint didn’t seem the kind of place a girl of Dorothy’s ilk might frequent, but it was worth a try.  When the barkeep returned to behind the counter, we approached.

“Whaddya have?” he asked, wiping his hands on the apron.

Before I could speak, Keyhole threw a foot up on the brass rail below the bar and called for a whiskey.  He seemed to have momentarily forgotten our true objective.  The bartender became slightly irate.  “What’re you, bub?  A copper?  This ain’t that kinda place.  I got nothin’ but beer and wine.  Take it or leave it.”  The man’s words seemed unconvincing, but he wasn’t ready to serve illegal hooch to two total strangers.  My companion changed his request to a beer.

When the “publican,” as Keegan referred to him, turned to me, I declined anything.  “I’m looking for a woman.”

“Yeah?  Well, so’re most of the bums in this dump, Mac,” he responded gruffly as he served my sidekick.

“No, not that way,” I snickered.  “This is one in particular and I have a name.”  Neither Dorothy’s name nor her description meant anything to the man.  Probably because I wasn’t buying any liquid refreshment, his disposition became nastier as we spoke.  Although put off by his attitude, I stopped myself from asking if he was the Hanna in the joint’s name.  This was no time for a dustup, I told myself.  Besides, I wasn’t certain just how much I could count on the Mick for support.  Also, there were more than a few burly customers present the proprietor could likely call on to handle me.  As a peace offering, I extended my pack of cigarettes to the barman.  He took one and tucked it behind an ear.

The bartender curtly suggested I try a family restaurant, The White Lantern Grille, on the next block over.  I thanked him for the tip and paid for Keegan’s beer.  “Sláinte,” my Irish companion bid me, as he quickly tucked the beer away and laid the glass aside.

As we decamped back to the LaSalle, the Irishman suggested, if we located the Langdon girl, I needed to be the one to brace her.  After we were in my crate, he turned in the seat and took my arm in his hand before I could crank the motor.

He felt the need to share with me the reason for his hesitancy relating to pressing women with hard questions.  “Once, a covey of joy girls plyin’ their wares to a group of conventioneers overrun me hotel.  The state of affairs put the wind up the hotel manager, who demanded I clear the little darlin’s from the premises.  In goin’ about doin’ the boss’s biddin’, I caught a slag-lookin’ dame skulkin’ around the hallways.  She reeked of whiskey.  When I confronted her, she created a huge kerfuffle, claimin’ she was not a workin’ tart.  Well, by that time, I’d heard all their stories and excuses, so I told her to shut it!  I was showin’ her the door when her husband, one of the conventioneers, arrived on the scene.  As luck would have it, he was some grand poohbah or such in the organization.  A near donnybrook ensued.  It were my mistake.  And,” he exhaled heavily, “it cost me me situation.”  After a pause, he finished, “So, when it comes to questionin’ a female, I’d rather slam me willy in a drawer.”  I had nothing in response to his tale.  What could I say?  All I could do was nod.  “That’s when I took on the career of a private investigator,” he smiled, “same as yourself.  Now we’re a team.  And a proper little team, we are!  I fancy how we’re gettin’ along!”  I looked into his anxious eyes, smiled, and, contrary to my uncertain assessment of our partnership, agreed.

When we’d reached the next block, the White Lantern Grill was a few doors from the intersection.  I eased the LaSalle to the curb just down the street, and we hustled to the restaurant.

As Hanna’s barkeeper had indicated, it was a quiet family restaurant with a few patrons at tables scattered around the place.  Stopping at the door, I surveyed the joint for Dorothy.  I didn’t see her initially, but there was a woman, sitting alone across the room, facing away from us, who caught my eye.  A blue and white runabout hat covered most of her head, but she had the right hair color and body shape.  I could tell she was glancing around guardedly from time to time.

I nudged Rupert and nodded toward her table.  He grinned and followed me across the restaurant.  As I walked around her table and took up a position across from her, she started to rise from her seat.  My cohort, standing behind her, put a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder.  The move startled the woman, but she eased back into her chair.  I took a seat and dropped my lid on the table top.  My companion walked around the edge of the table.  He spun a chair around and straddled it backward to face her.  She sat motionless, looking around, sizing up her options.  At the moment, she had none. 

She stammered, “Who … who are you?  What do you want?”

“My name’s Tanner.  This my partner, Mr. Keegan.”  Keyhole gave me a sidelong glance and let loose with a big grin at my putting us on equal footing in the case.  “Your father hired us to locate you and get you back to Colorado.” 

Her piercing blue eyes narrowed and her chin stuck out defiantly.  Before she could speak, the Irishman threw up a restraining hand.  “And back to Colorado you may go, Dottie me darlin’, but not before you answer for your actions here.”  Langdon flinched at Rupert’s use of the nickname Harvey had given her. 

A waiter appeared and took the remnants of her finished meal.  He gave Keegan a harsh look, apparently for the unorthodox way he sat in the chair.  He then asked us if we wanted to order something.  The other man requested a cup of strong tea while I opted for coffee.  

To break the tension, I dug a package of cigarettes out of a pocket and offered her one.  She shook it off.  With a forlorn expression, the woman looked at me.  “I … I don’t understand.  What have I done?”  Her voice held a certain helplessness.

When the waiter left, Keegan ignored her question and returned to business.  “What’s your boyfriend’s name, if you please?”

Dorothy’s tone changed dramatically.  “That’s none of your business!”  Her voice was low but edged toward a snarl.  “And you can tell Daddy to keep out of my affairs!  I’m a grown woman who can make her own decisions.  I’m in love!  We’re getting married!”

“Funny that!” Rupert sneered.  “The authorities hereabouts frown on folks marryin’ a corpse.”

“What?  What do you mean?  Has something happened to Floyd?”  She started to stand as she spoke, but my firm hand on hers convinced her otherwise.  Tears filled her eyes as she dropped back to her seat.  Her face reflected a great deal of worry or an undisguised fear.

The Mick grabbed her arm, hard this time.  Stunned, she looked rigidly into his face.  A frown creased his forehead.  Holding her glance with a cold level stare, he said harshly, “See here, girlie!  What are you playin’ at?  You killed the man in that bedroom, and we know it!  We found the body after you took it on the lam.”  There was in his eyes the flow of indomitable will.  I’d not seen this side of Keegan.  None of the reluctance to put questions to a female he’d mentioned moments earlier revealed itself.  I let him run with the ball for the most part.  “Be truthful with me, my lassie, or I’ll make your life a misery.  Why d’you do it?”

“See here, girlie!  What are you playin’ at?  You killed the man in that bedroom, and we know it!”

She turned angry eyes on him.  “That’s not what happened!”

“Then tell us what happened!” I put in, flicking ash from my gasper.

She looked away, her breasts rising and falling while she compelled herself to calm.  “I was to meet Floyd at his house.  We agreed he wouldn’t meet me at the train station in case Daddy’s people were following me.”  Her voice lowered and her eyes suspiciously followed the waiter as he delivered our orders and walked away.  The big Mick was looking at her with hawk-like keenness.  Out on the street, a car backfired.  She jumped in fright.  As her gaze shifted from me to Keyhole and back again, a brief smile lifted the corners of her mouth.  It was a smile that, somehow, still had in it much sorrow.  Then she continued.  “When I was certain no one had followed me, I took a taxi to Floyd’s place.  When he didn’t answer the door, I let myself in, thinking maybe he’d fallen asleep while waiting for me.  I started looking through the house.  That’s when I found the body upstairs.  But I swear he was dead when I found him!”  She paused as her eyes welled with tears again.  “I just panicked and ran.”  After a brief pause, she finished, “I guess it must have been one of you trying to break in the front door when I came down the stairs.”

The Irishman’s dander was up.  “You’ll have to do better than that!”

“Better than the truth?” she shot back.

“Well, somebody killed Floyd,” Keegan put it to her, using the man’s name.  “He was–”

“But it wasn’t Floyd McManus in the room, I tell you!” she broke in, her mouth twisting as she went hard.  Her anger was white hot.  The girl paused and took a deep breath before continuing, “That man had black hair.  Floyd’s a blond.  And, whoever the man was, I found him the way you saw him!  I’d never seen the man before last night!”  Her voice raised and caught the attention of nearby diners.  She paused and put on a strained smile to relieve their apprehension.  After a few seconds, the others returned to their meals and quiet conversations.  She lowered her tone again, “I’ve been trying to find Floyd since then.  Why, I even put a notice in the newspaper this morning, letting him know how and where to find me.  You can check.  Would I do that if I knew Floyd was dead?”

As we sat back in stunned disbelief at her revelation, Keegan and I exchanged hard looks.  I knew we were thinking the same things.  Who was the dead man?  Was it this Hiltzik fella?  And what, if any, connection did he have to Floyd or Dorothy?  If not Langdon, then who killed him and why?  Could it have been Floyd?  Where is Floyd?  Her revelation raised more questions than it answered.

I glanced at the young woman, who was starring off at nothing.  At once, her countenance told me she had not seen the evening extra editions yet.  She had no idea she was in the crosshairs of the law.  We needed to look after her until we could answer these questions.  If the coppers grabbed her, she might never see Colorado or her father again.  A sudden expression of consternation crossed her face.  “I need to go to the restroom,” she said evenly.

Keyhole shot a quick look my way.  I nodded my assent.  He smiled at the girl.  “When you gotta, you gotta.  Off you go then!”

The woman blushed slightly.  She rose slowly, taking her handbag, and walked toward the rear of the restaurant.  I turned and watched as she disappeared through a door there.  Shifting back to face the Mick, I told him, “Well, I generally can grasp when someone’s bullshitting me.  I don’t think the girl’s lying.” 

He waggled his head in agreement with my assessment.  “And it’s too long a stretch to think someone tried to fit up the girl for the murder.”

When Dorothy didn’t return in what seemed to be a reasonable time, that old uneasy feeling hit me.  I grabbed a passing waiter and asked if they had a restroom.  He nodded and pointed to an unmarked door set in an alcove at the far end of the restaurant.  Without being asked, he explained the usual customers were locals who knew what and where it was.  While this was going on, Keegan limped to and through the door she’d used. 

My companion hurried back to our table.  “Bloody hell!  The door leads to the kitchen, Tanner!  An exit from the kitchen goes to a back alley.  Nothin’ there but rubbish bins.  The toffee-nosed lass has done another runner!”  Tossing a buck on the table for our drinks and another for her meal, I grabbed my hat and moved to the kitchen door.  The gumshoe was beside me, expressing the obvious, “Made right fools of us, she did!” 

“The toffee-nosed lass has done another runner!”

I scanned both directions of the alley.  It was as empty as last year’s bird nest.  Losing this broad in an alley was becoming a habit with me.  I stood there with a sinking feeling of helplessness and frustration.  All because of a spoiled brat!  This was not my normal course of practice.  “Son of a bitch!  Next time we find her, if we find her again, I’m gonna hog tie that dame!”

Keegan laughed.  “What’re you on about?   Keep your hair on!  We’ll find her dodgy self and sort it out!”  He slapped me on the back.  “All’s I gotta do is get back with me cabbie mate and get the address.”

*  *  *

Late the next morning found us at the Lucky Cab offices, the company that employed Keegan’s associate.  Rupert showed up looking like death on a cracker.  His condition concerned me, but I said nothing.

He spoke to the owner, a big, coarse mug named Kowalski regarding the trip Dorothy had made in one of their taxis.  The proprietor grudgingly explained they didn’t keep records of pickups and drop-offs.  Benny, the hack driver we sought, was not on duty at the moment.  When my partner asked for his address, the big man muttered a few cuss words under his breath and snarled at us to get out.  Obviously, he didn’t care to share.  Kowalski was a forbidding, muscular brute whose arms were as enormous as any I’d ever seen.  It looked as if his legs were protruding from his arm sockets.  Before I could say anything, the tall Mick, undeterred, squared up to the man.  “I have it on good authority a few of your drivers are usin’ your new radios to steal fares from the other cab companies.  I’m not certain that’s what Galvin Manufacturin’ had in mind when they sold ‘em to you.  Also, they’re payin’ kickbacks to hotel doormen to get fares ahead of other cabbies.”

Kowalski dropped the papers he was holding and stared angrily at his accuser. “You’re fulla shit, bub.  I don’t know nothin’ about what you’re sayin’.  I run a clean business!”

“Well, I’m no grass,” he pressed on, “but I ’spose me mates in city hall might want to know of your company’s little schemes.  A few of the other cutthroat cab companies swing big shillelaghs down there, you know.  They’d be glad to put your taxi medallion at risk.”  Keyhole cut off Kowalski’s attempt to respond.  “Mind you, if you’ll just be so kind as to give me the man’s address, I’ll be on me way and you’ll never hear another peep from me.”  Kowalski looked to me.  I tried to give him my fiercest “or-else” look.  After a second considering what Keegan had suggested, the big man looked in a notebook and jotted on a scrap of paper the information requested.

As we sprinted across the parking lot to the LaSalle, I glanced at the lanky Irishman.  “How the hell do you know the crap you spewed at Kowalski?”

“Who said I know it for a fact?” he smiled.  “The wee fella was just grindin’ me gears.  Besides, I’m sure more than a few cabbies in this city are doin’ such things.  Maybe a few of his, perhaps not.   Possibly he knows, perchance he doesn’t.  If not, he can’t be certain.  He had to make allowances a few might have done.  But I’m not for toyin’ when we’ve a lass in trouble.  You don’t always have to use force, my son.  Sometimes, you just have to project strength.”

I chuckled.  Rupert Keegan had a better handle on being a private investigator than many gave him credit for.  But I took the piece of paper with the cabbie’s information from Keyhole for safekeeping, anyway.

*  *  *

After a quick check for Dorothy at the various transportation hubs, we traveled to find the cabdriver.

*  *  *

In time, we’d made our way to the cabbie’s residence.  The place was an unpretentious frame house in a salt-and-pepper neighborhood on the east side of town.  I parked my machine in a yard comprising dirt.  From across the road, several folks suspiciously eyed us, two men in suits.  Climbing the steps to the small front porch, we caught the sounds of a raucous, contentious conversation inside.  I returned the scrap of paper with Benny’s information to the Irishman.  Keegan knocked plenty loud.  The voices died away as we heard heavy footfalls on a wooden floor moving in our direction.  A plump but firm woman wearing a faded floral-patterned housedress and flats opened the door.  She had a bib apron tied around her waist.  A cigarette dangled from her mouth below dark eyes squinting from the smoke.  Despite the relative lateness of the day, a row of curlers protruded from the gray-black hair which framed her face.  A brood of children filled the part of the doorway she didn’t occupy.

“Mrs. Mikłaszewicz?” 

“Yes?  I’m Beatrycze Mikłaszewicz, but I go by Beatrice.” she smiled sweetly, her gasper bouncing as she spoke around it. 

Hearing the name, I glanced in wonderment around my chum’s shoulder to the piece of paper he held.  How the hell did he ever pronounce their last name so easily and correctly?

“My name is Keegan, and this is me partner, Mr. Tanner.”  Mrs. Mikłaszewicz and I exchanged smiles and nods.  “We’re private investigators lookin’ into the whereabouts of a young lady who might be in danger.  Your husband took her on as a fare yesterday and we need his help to locate her.”

At the mention of her husband, Beatrice’s demeanor changed markedly.  A scowl replaced her kind expression. When she opened her mouth, the maternal sweetness left her face.  “That worthless crumb ain’t here!”  The kids started giggling and repeating her words in mirth to each other before she angrily chased them off.  When she returned to us, she added, “And he hasn’t been here since yesterday mornin’!  It’s okay with me if he never comes back!  He’s probably holed up somewhere with a bottle or a bottle blonde or both!”  She stopped flailing her arms, plucked her cigarette from her lips, and mopped her mouth with her apron, taking a deep breath.  Then she fired up again.  “You might try the cab company!  Why my brother ain’t fired that good-for-nothin’, I’ll never know!”  My thought was she’d just given us the answer: nepotism.  Mrs. Mikłaszewicz started to close the door but stopped long enough to tell us, if we found Benny, we could keep him.  “On second thought, just tell Dimitri to send Benny’s pay home!”  With that, she completed the slamming of the door.

The yelling inside the house started again as soon as the door closed.  The sound of it died away behind us as we returned to the car.  Rupert’s eyes crawled sideways to me.  “The poor bloke doesn’t know what he’s missin’,” said he sarcastically.

I stole a look back over my shoulder at the Mikłaszewicz house and rolled my eyes at my partner.  “Oh, yeah?  Maybe he does.”  We busted out laughing.

Regrouping in the LaSalle, we decided, as painfully slow as it might be, our best bet was to stake out Benny’s house in hope he’d return soon.   We had no idea where to look for him.  It was doubtful Kowalski, even being Beatrice’s brother, knew Benny had temporarily abandoned his sister for a bender.  If he was aware and knew of Mikłaszewicz’s location, our guess was he’d be there now to show his brother-in-law a little retribution.  I moved the automobile a little further away from the house, but still with an unobstructed view of every approach. 

While I watched the Mikłaszewicz house, my fellow shamus hobbled away to find a phone and call the Lucky Cab offices.  He was to tell Kowalski, if Benny showed up for work, we needed to speak with him as soon as possible.  The wayward hack driver could contact us at his house where we waited.  It was worth a sawbuck for each of them.  When he came back, Rupert took up the surveillance so I could drive to check the bus, train, and airport terminals in the event our girl had changed her mind about leaving town.  I drew a blank everywhere and was back at the stakeout by midafternoon.  Still no sign of the cabbie.  At one point, Keyhole expressed concern for his associate’s well-being.  “Benny’s prone to gargle anythin’, including smoke.  Every drink could be his last.”

We sat in my bucket, watching the Mikłaszewicz joint and smoking, as the overcast day gave way to darkness.  After a bit of silence, Keegan’s hand holding the cigar beat a tattoo on the door frame.  His stamina appeared to be on the wane.  But he was getting restless.  Possibly stakeouts were not something he was used to, I thought.  He abruptly flicked his dead cigar through the opened window.

 After a time, Rupert turned halfway in the car seat and sat with one arm over its back.  “So, you’ve not mentioned it but are you married, Gil?  Do you have a steady?” he asked.

“No,” I laughed.  “You’re the only one I’m dating right now.”  He smiled.  It was in my mind to return the favor and ask him about his love life.  But another question popped into my head first.  “Mind if I ask you a personal question, Rupert?”

“No, lad.  I’ve nothin’ to hide.  Give it a go.”

“Is it true you were with Mulcahy at Ashbourne?”

Keegan twirled a fresh cigar between his fingers, contemplating the question.  In the moonlight, I saw him flash a knowing smile, brimming with self-satisfaction.  He shot me a quick sidelong glance.  Then, his eyes looked far into the darkness which had enveloped us.  “I was proud to do me bit for Ireland.  ‘Twas not so much the fight, as the things fought for,’” he offered, quoting something or someone.  “Old Tom Clarke, James Connolly, Thomas MacDonagh, and the lot.  They were a special group of men, they were.  Doin’ things, not just gabbin’ about ‘em.  But to no avail,” he sighed heavily. “Copped it sweet afterwards, did I.  Spent a wee spot of time in Joy but was out afore Dicky boy got his release from Frongoch.  Didn’t see him again afterward.  Me consumptive mum had died in the meantime.  The whole thing knocked the stuffin’ outta me,” he added, rubbing his gimpy leg.  “There was nothin’ left for me there.  I was damned well skint.  Managed to come to the States to start anew.  And here I sit.”

“I was proud to do me bit for Ireland.  ‘Twas not so much the fight, as the things fought for.’”

So that put an answer to the questions.  Knowing the private sort of mug Keegan was, I let it drift.  Then, I asked, “What of you, Rupert?  Got a wife or someone waiting for you at home?”

I could barely make out how his eyes moistened as he shook his head almost imperceptibly.  “No,” he moaned, “I had a girl once.  Rose Carney was her name.  The sweetest flower ever to bloom in the old sod.  I was over the moon for the lass, I was.  And, if I may be so bold as to say, she felt the same about me.  We were in love ….”  His eyes showed his thoughts had drifted back over time.

After a second or so, I gently pressed him.  “And?”

My question broke the memory thread.  The big Mick slowly returned from his reverie.  “Back in ’16, we were both deeply committed to the cause.  Rose was a member of Cumann na mBan, trained in drills and first aid and such.  In the early months of that year, she was one of the scores of women workin’ in the basement of Liberty Hall.  They’d turned the place into a munitions works by that time.”  He set fire to his stogie and took a deep drag.  “When the Risin’ came durin’ Easter week, she worked as a dispatch courier ridin’ a bicycle to deliver communiques.  At one point they sent her to deliver a message to St. Stephens Green.  She never arrived,” he sighed with a shudder.  The painful emotion reflected in his face all these years later.  After a brief silence, the Irishman continued, “They found her bicycle, but Rose had disappeared.”  He swallowed hard.  “We never saw or heard from her again.  Ever.”  He wiped his eyes and exhaled audibly.  It was a sound laced with hurt and anger.  “I never learned what brought about her vanishin’.  Don’t know whether it was those jackbooted Tommies or some other miscreant responsible.  I just don’t know.  The Tans arrested me and sent me to Joy before I could learn anything.  My soul died then and there, Gil, well and truly.”  

I looked at the man sitting beside me.  Recalling the memories seemed to have driven Keyhole into a deeper state of physical lethargy.  His eyes looked bilious.  The long lull which followed was a vacuum.  Suddenly, my partner pointed to a figure under a streetlamp farther along the block.  “That’s me boy Benny,” he said woozily, as he swore under his breath.  I saw a man staggering heavily in our direction.  We climbed out of the LaSalle, tossed our smokes, and made our way to him.

Benny was jammed.  He could barely walk.  I didn’t figure how he’d made it this far.  His clothes were in total disarray.  We each took one of his arms over our shoulders and dragged him back to my automobile.  Talking to the cabman would be easier out of earshot of the wifey.  We eased him down onto the running board. 

The cab driver moved in and out of consciousness as the Irishman spoke to him.  Rupert finally got his buddy into the here and now enough to have something of a conversation.  The man started making a measure of sense.  Yeah, Benny remembered taking “the looker” to a house on Hawthorne Street.  Through heavily slurred words, though, he explained he couldn’t help us with the house number where he’d dropped Dorothy off.  He just couldn’t remember.  Rupert and I agreed we were wasting our time trying to get anything out of Benny.  We carried him to his front porch and sat him down.  It was close enough to his home and his old lady for us.  We didn’t want to hang around for what was sure to be a “heartwarming reunion” with Beatrice.

As we were walking away, Benny called out to Keegan to come back.  When we got to the drunk, a frustrated Keyhole spit out, “Don’t be windin’ us up, Benny!”

“Naw, pally, naw.  I jush ‘membered somethin’.  The housh the doll went in had one of thosh military service flags with three stars on it hangin’ in a winder.  What they call ‘em?”

Rupert unexpectedly grabbed the man’s collar, partially lifting him from the steps.  His time for gentility had passed.  “You sure of that?”

“Yesh, I’m poshitive.”

“You better had,” added Keegan, pushing the man back to the stairs.

We turned back to my automobile.  Try as he might, Keegan’s actions were slowing as time moved on.  As we pulled away from Benny’s place, Keyhole looked back at his pal, shook his head, and chuckled quietly.  “There the man sits.  His arse is hangin’ out his britches, pockets fulla nothin’.”

 We hurried to Hawthorne Street.  Dawn was breaking.  While we drove, we decided, despite the early hour, we’d contact Dorothy.  In case the elusive Miss Langdon tried to make one of her now-infamous escapes, Rupert offered to cover the back of the house while I entered the front.  I agreed with his plan.

*  *  *

As Benny had said, on Hawthorne we found a rooming house with a badly faded service banner hanging in a front window.  Apparently left from the Great War, it displayed one gold star and two blue stars.  I eased the LaSalle to the curb a few feet from a fireplug.  We scrambled out of the car.  While Keegan limped along a rutted driveway to the rear of the place, I hustled to the front door.

Repeated loud raps brought an unhappy, older dame in a flannel bathrobe of indistinguishable pattern and indiscernible color to the front entrance.  Firmly blocking the door, she angrily informed me of the early hour.  I responded harshly with my prey’s name and the urgency of the circumstances.  The relenting woman told me my client’s daughter occupied the first-floor rear room on the right side.  She warned me against making any noise as I pushed past her into the hallway.

When I reached the room’s door, I could hear heavy movement inside.  I knocked, called out Dorothy’s name, and identified myself hoping to get her to open the door.  The scurrying sounds coming through the door seemed to bring on a new urgency.  At the same time, there came the low, mournful moan of a female.  It was a sound I was familiar with, a death struggle. 

An uncertain panic set in on me.  Trying the doorknob and finding it locked, I stepped back.  The landlady, who was right on my tail and sensed my next move, yelled for me to stop.  I ignored her, turned a shoulder to the door, and sprang forward.  The jamb split and the door fell into the pitch-black room.  The proprietor screamed she was calling the police and retreated along the hall.

I couldn’t find a wall switch for a light anywhere inside the door.  As I moved across the darkened space, a piece of furniture stopped me in my tracks.  I reached to it and discovered it was the end of a bed.  An icy finger traced its way down my spine when I felt a smallish, unshod foot.  I followed the edge of the bed until I found a table.  Switching on the lamp I located there, I saw my worst fear.

Dorothy lay on the bed, spread-eagled with wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts.  She wore a disheveled dress discolored by blood.  There were runs in the stockings covering her thin legs.  Her shoes were on the floor beside the bed.  One quick look told me she was dead.

Beyond the body was an open window.  I moved to it and saw it was only a six-foot drop to the yard.  The scene outside the window was silent and dimly lit by the rising sun moving in and out from behind clouds. 

I returned to the young woman’s body and saw one of her eyes was swollen shut.  Her lower lip had been split and was twice its normal size. Blood had oozed slowly from the opening and around a gag at some point.  The poor girl had taken an awful beating.  Savage and full of anger.  What else she may have suffered would be for a cutter to determine.  I didn’t want to think of it.  She’d died hard.  For the first time, I noticed the coppery highlights in her dark, wavy hair.  Swallowing hard, I swore under my breath.  I wasn’t always as tough as I wanted to be.

Just as I started to check the room for any other items worth noting, a shot blasted behind me.  Pivoting to the window, I saw a blond man climbing back into the opening.  He wore a small gleaming revolver in his left hand.  His face contorted in pain.  As I started to unholster my gat, he swung his gun back to the yard.  A second gunshot rang out from behind him.  The man’s expression became more twisted, and he fell from the window into the yard.  As I moved to the window, his rod belched lead twice into the air, then clicked dry.  In the ensuing silence, I heard a groan and a thud as something, someone hit the ground in the distance.

Pivoting to the window, I saw a blond man climbing back into the opening.  He wore a small gleaming revolver in his left hand.

I climbed through the window and dropped to the yard and the crumpled figure below.  By the low morning light, I could see the man, who appeared to be in his thirties, wasn’t moving.  His breathing was labored and raspy.  The first two gun blasts I’d heard were causing a scarlet stain to soak through his shirt below a loosened necktie.  My guess was this was Floyd McManus.  He looked at his gun vacantly.  I took it from his hand and dropped it into my side pocket.  The landlady appeared in the window above me.  I told her to call for an ambulance.  I added she should also telephone the police, just in case her earlier threat had been a bluff.

As she disappeared, I walked in the direction I’d heard the thump.  Shortly, I found Keegan seated and leaning back against a tree, his legs splayed before him.  He had a gunshot wound to his left shoulder.  It was bad but didn’t appear to be life-threatening.  His .38 lay beside his left hand.  Keyhole was smiling.  “Mornin’, guv.”  I lit a cigarette and put it between his lips.  “You wouldn’t also be havin’ a pint on you by chance?”  I chuckled and shook my head.  “And the poxy lad who did this to me?”  I glanced back in the blond’s direction.  When I returned to Rupert, his eyes were closed.  I put two fingers to the fallen man’s throat, checking for a pulse.  He’d passed out.

When the ambulance took more time to appear than I was comfortable with, I loaded both men into my crate and rushed them to the closest hospital.  What the proprietor had done relating to making the telephone calls was beyond my control and didn’t matter by that time.  I really didn’t give a shit for McManus, but he had answers to questions which needed asking.  As I drove, I saw the blood running down Keegan’s arm inside his sleeve and across his drooping hand, dripping from his fingertips.  I’d take care of the blood in my heap later.  The man had saved my life.

I yelled like mad when I got out of the car at the receiving hospital.  Staff met me at entrance and took charge of the men.  I waited.

*  *  *

In short order, Detective Sergeant Rob Waddell came by to see me as he was going to interview Floyd McManus.  Under the law, the hospital had called the coppers to report the gunshot wounds Keegan and McManus had suffered.  I briefly explained the circumstances of my investigation and the night’s events to the detective.

For over an hour, I paced the receiving hospital’s waiting area while the doctors worked on Rupert.  I couldn’t figure the time they were taking unless they’d had to operate for some reason.  And I didn’t get answers from anybody.  So I waited.  Calling my client would have to wait due to the time differences between here and Colorado.  Besides, I wasn’t looking forward to telling what I had to report.

  Waddell came by again as he was leaving to go back to the station house.  He let me know he’d been able to question Floyd briefly before he died.  He’d made a deathbed confession to the murders of Marvin Hiltzik and Langdon.  The detective snickered the blond had suddenly become worried over meeting his Maker without confessing his transgressions.  Floyd had admitted he and Hiltzik were in cahoots to rob Dorothy of any money she might have with her.  And the pair intended to hold her for a ransom from her old man.  The two men had had a falling-out, ending in Hiltzik’s death.  Earlier that night, when he’d confronted her, the woman had apparently fought him “like a wildcat.”  Floyd had tied her up and beat her viciously to learn where her money was.  She stubbornly refused to spill it.  Eventually, she died from her injuries.  Rob added he’d get my statement concerning the events at headquarters later that morning.  He didn’t mention interviewing Keegan.  I didn’t press the issue.

The detective snickered that the blond had suddenly become worried over meeting his Maker without confessing his transgressions.

I returned to waiting.  After a time, a man in a white tunic approached.  He wasn’t the receiving room physician who’d first seen and began treating Keegan.  “Are you Mr. Tanner?” he asked softly.  When I acknowledged I was, the fellow continued, “I’m Doctor Jacobs, Mr. Keegan’s treating physician.  He said you brought him in and you’d be out here.”

“Yeah, doc,” I responded, somewhat relieved to hear anything of Rupert.  “I’ll be taking him home after you patch him up.  Is he–?”

“Mr. Keegan won’t be going home, Mr. Tanner,” he interrupted as his eyes softened. 

I didn’t understand and, after waiting all that time, my patience was wearing thin.  “What?  That’s crazy!  It wasn’t much more than a flesh wound, doc!”

“It’s not his gunshot wound.  That was relatively minor.  It’s the cancer.”

“Cancer?” I exclaimed loudly in shock.

“Didn’t you know?”  His face showed a mild surprise.  “The way Mr. Keegan referred to you, I assumed you were close friends, and you knew of his condition.”  He glanced at the medical chart he was holding and shook his head.  “The cancer’s advanced a lot quicker than we thought it could.”  When he looked back to my face, his expression showed a genuine concern.  “Frankly, I’m surprised he was still on his feet.”  I swallowed hard.  My mind raced with this bombshell.  “I’d ordered Mr. Keegan to rest, take it easy.  Obviously, he hadn’t been.  We’ve done everything we can for him.  Anyway, he wants to see you.”  As I turned to go into the emergency care area, the doctor grabbed my arm.  “I’ve had him moved to a semi-private room upstairs so he’ll be more comfortable, Mr. Tanner.  The trauma of the gunshot wound and losing blood has weakened him significantly.  He has only a few hours at most.  Room four-thirty-eight.”  I pulled away and went to an elevator.

When I eased into the room, Rupert was lying on his back with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly.  The second bed in the space was unoccupied.  I pulled a chair to his bedside.  He slowly opened his eyes, moved them to me, and smiled weakly.  “Here for me wake, boyo?” he asked in a low tone, his voice tremulous.  Suddenly, I was aware of the level of suffering in the man’s face.  “Would you be for singin’ … a few verses of Danny Boy for a mate … from the old sod?  There’s,” he swallowed with difficulty, “a good lad.”  When I looked flustered, uncertain, he gave a soft, fragile chuckle.  “Steady on, my son.  I’m … messin’ you about, ‘tis all.”  A quick laugh ended in a long, hard coughing jag that shook his entire body.  When it finished, he looked solemnly at my face.  “I knew it was … me last job, Gil.”  He struggled on, “I wanted it to be a … grand finish like.  And not endin’ in bein’ dismissed … as a ne’er-do-well, the way Langdon treated me.  Tell me, man, did … did we find Dorothy?”

My throat felt as if it was closing up, but I hoped my voice sounded reassuring.  “Yes, Rupert, we did.”  I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the whole truth.  He smiled gratefully.  I rested a hand on one of his.  “Why didn’t you say something?”

His voice was growing fainter.  “I liked you the first time I clapped eyes on you.”  I smiled because I recalled holding a gat on the man at the time.  Maybe he’d forgotten.  “And you were the only one who gave a toss about me since Rose.  But I couldn’t tell you part of it … without tellin’ you all of it.  We had a job to do.  And … I’d have none of you feelin’ sorry for me.”  After a second, he followed with, “It’s okay.”  I wanted to say it was never okay, but could only nod in response.

“How do you feel?” I asked, at a loss for anything else to say.

“With me hands,” he replied softly, a wry smile playing faintly at the edges of his mouth.  “You wouldn’t be havin’ a spot of whiskey on you, would you, Gil?”

Then something happened to me that had only occurred a couple of times before in my lifetime.  Tears came to my eyes.  Rupert clasped my hand tight.  I squeezed back.  We made an unspoken promise.  I’ve never been much good at goodbyes.  Even when I’ve had a chance to say one.  He closed his eyes and said nothing more.  I was holding Rupert Keegan’s hand when he died.  That … that’s not something you get past easily.

I’ve never been much good at goodbyes.  Even when I’ve had a chance to say one.

*  *  *

Entering the Paradise Tavern, I sat wearily on my usual bar stool.  For once, my heart was heavier than my ass.  My pal Harry took a good look at my face and skipped any pretense of lawfulness.  He slid a whiskey glass across to me.  The repeal of Prohibition was as good as done, anyway.  Then, he started to crack open a bottle of Jack Daniels.  Putting my hand over the glass, I shook my head.  The bartender shot me a quizzical look.  “Not tonight, Harry.  You got any Irish whiskey back there?”  Harry’s eyebrows arched, but he said nothing.  He just nodded, stepped back half a pace from the bar, and searched the shelves below.  He bent over and came up with a dusty bottle of Bushmills.  “That’ll do nicely, my friend,” I mumbled as he poured.  “Tonight, I’m drinking to the memory of an irrepressible Irishman.  A friend who wasn’t a friend long enough to suit me.”   ©