In his office, Marker sits opposite a client named Tatlow, who’s reading a typewritten report. Tatlow is a man born to pay unexpected bills and too cowardly to ever lose his temper. His lips move as he reads. He looks up from the report. “This says she went to the pictures,” he notes. “With another woman.”
Marker nods, trying to be patient. “That’s right.”
“Every Wednesday?”
“Isn’t that where she said she was going?”
“It’s a bit much,” says Tatlow, disappointed. “I spend all this money just to find out she’s going to the pictures. It’s a bit thick.”
“At least now you can stop worrying.”
Tatlow finds a straw to grasp at. “She might have met someone inside.”
Marker shakes his head. “I sat behind her.” He points to the report. “It’s all there.”
“That woman she went with – that was Mrs Theobald,” explains Tatlow, mournfully. “Neighbour of ours. Her husband’s an accountant.”
“That’s nice,” says Marker, politely.
“Chartered,” adds Tatlow. “It’s all a bit off-putting.” He returns his attention to the report.
“Mr Tatlow,” says Marker, “there’s not a scrap of evidence that your wife has been unfaithful to you. She left your house three Wednesdays running, she met her woman friend, they went straight to the pictures, had coffee and came straight home.”
“You sure?”
“Why don’t you follow her yourself and find out?”
“I mean, if she isn’t being unfaithful, I think I ought to be given a rebate,” reckons Tatlow. He holds up the report. “This isn’t much for my money. I shouldn’t be asked to pay the full rate.” Marker just stares at him. Then the telephone rings. Marker answers it as Tatlow continues. “Everywhere you go, it’s the same,” he complains. “People trying to extract some money for least effort. A man gets tired always paying through the nose. I must say, I’m disappointed.”
“Do you mind?” asks Marker. Then, into the phone, he says, “Look, Mr… Gannon…? Why don’t you come over and see me?” There’s a pause as the caller replies. “Why can’t you?” asks Marker.
Tatlow is still muttering to himself. “Putting me to this expense… hadn’t the decency to be unfaithful. There’s no craftsmanship any more… just rob you.”
“Shamrock Hotel,” says Marker into the phone. “Sparkbrook?” He looks at Tatlow, who makes a face that suggests Sparkbrook is a pretty dodgy area. “No, I don’t know it,” Marker tells the caller. “Look, Mr… All right, I’ll come over after lunch.”
* * *
That afternoon, Marker gets off a bus in Sparkbrook and crosses the street. He stops and looks down. The sole of his shoe is flapping loose. He stamps his foot on the ground in a vain attempt to bang the sole back into place. He continues along the street, limping for a few yards, then stamping his foot again.
He comes to an alleyway. Leaning against the wall at its entrance are a pair of rather disreputable-looking characters. One of them is picking his teeth with a matchstick. They eye Marker up and down, menacingly. Marker plucks up courage and pushes past them into the alley. After a moment, he stops and looks back. The two thugs are still watching him. Marker moves on up the alley to a porched doorway, above which is a sign that reads “SHAMROCK HOTEL”. He pauses for a moment, then goes inside.
* * *
In the lounge-cum-dining area of the Shamrock Hotel, an elderly couple are having tea. The only other person in the lounge is a hulking young man who sits some distance away, near the fireplace, reading a girlie magazine with a mixture of awe and distaste. Marker comes in, his sole still flapping, and sees the couple. “Mr Gannon?” he asks, uncertainly.
The old man greets him, warmly, exuding a friendly charm that’s totally alien to the world Marker inhabits. “Ah, it’s Mr Marker,” he declares, in an Irish accent. “Aren’t you very good to have come to see us.” He turns to his companion. “This is Mr Marker, Agnes.”
Agnes indicates the teapot. “I have a cup of tea for you and it only wants pouring. Take your coat off, why don’t you?” As Marker does so, Agnes remarks to Gannon in a loud whisper, “Did you ever see anyone so thin? I’m sure he doesn’t mind himself.” She tells Marker to sit down between them. “John, please pass Mr Marker the milk – make yourself helpful.”
“I hope we haven’t brought you too far out of your way,” says Gannon, as he hands over the milk.
“That’s all right,” replies Marker, blandly.
“The way it is,” explains Gannon, “we only got here this morning. We’d never have found your office – and Mrs Gannon is a bit tired after the journey.”
“You came over from Ireland?” asks Marker.
Gannon looks amazed. “Now, how did you know that?” He turns to Mrs Gannon. “Oh, he’s a detective all right, Agnes. We picked a good man.”
“You needn’t tell me,” agrees Mrs Gannon. “Sure, you have only to look at him.”
Marker addresses Gannon, trying to return to the matter in hand. “When you phoned me, you –”
“Have a bit of soda bread,” says Gannon, offering a plate of the stuff.
“No, thanks,” replies Marker. “You –”
“Yes, you will,” insists Mrs Gannon. “You’ll eat that soda bread, or you’re not getting up from this table.” She turns to Gannon. “He doesn’t know what’s good for him.”
“She baked it herself,” Gannon reveals.
“Well, in that case…” says Marker. He bites weakly into a slice. Over by the fireplace, the young man with the girlie magazine snarls with rage and tears out a full-page pin-up, which he crumples savagely into a ball and hurls into the fire. Marker, still chewing his soda bread, asks, “Who’s that?”
“Some young pup,” says Gannon, dismissively. “Don’t mind him. How’s the soda bread?”
“Delicious,” lies Marker. “Very good.”
“I’ll send you some when we go home,” Mrs Gannon promises. “And country butter.”
“That’ll build him up again,” smiles Gannon.
Marker can already feel his arteries clogging up. He tries to get back to business. “I have some calls to make. If you’d just tell me how I can help you –”
Gannon looks confused. “Help us?”
“Us?” echoes Mrs Gannon. “But sure we’re grand, thanks be to God.”
“Mr Gannon,” says Marker, “on the telephone you said you wanted me to find someone.”
For a moment, there’s silence. Then Mrs Gannon begins to weep. “Now, now, Agnes,” says Gannon, comforting her. To Marker, he says, “It’s the young lad.”
“Your son?” asks Marker.
“His name is Michael. There were what you might call hasty words. He –”
Marker guesses. “Left home.” Gannon nods. “What makes you think he’s in Birmingham?” asks Marker.
“We got a postcard,” explains Gannon. “He said he was well, and we weren’t to worry.”
Tearfully, Mrs Gannon interrupts. “He’s not eating his soda bread!”
“Will you eat it, for God’s sake!” urges Gannon.
“Do you have the postcard?” asks Marker.
Gannon looks uncertain. Mrs Gannon speaks up for him. “He flew into a passion and burnt it. But he’s sorry now, aren’t you?”
Marker would like a few details. “Do you have a photograph?”
“A photo of Mick?” replies Gannon. “I do, yes. There’s one at home.”
“Home?” asks Marker, fearing the worst.
“Mullingar,” says Gannon. “15 Fenian Street.”
Marker sighs. “Mr Gannon, it’s not going to be easy finding him if I don’t know what he looks like.”
Gannon nods, thoughtfully. “True. That’s true.”
“You’d better ring up someone at home and ask them to send it on by express.”
“I’ll do it directly.”
“In the meantime, I’ll make some inquiries. Do you mind telling me why he left home?”
Gannon looks awkward. “There was a… a class of a dispute between me and him. I accused him of taking money. Only he didn’t – it was the accounts that were wrong.” Gannon explains that he and Mick run a business together. “There was a mistake in the books. I found it out afterwards when he was gone. I want to bring him home, Mr Marker – make it up to him. He has a terrible temper.”
Mrs Gannon clutches Marker’s hand. “You’ll find him for us, won’t you, Mr Marker?”
“I’ll try,” he promises. “I –”
“I know you will,” says Mrs Gannon, confidently. “And you’ll have your reward. I’ll do a novena for your special intentions.” Marker, horrified, tries to free his hand, but she hangs on. “The prayers of a grateful mother.”
“Of course he’ll find him,” agrees Gannon. “Why wouldn’t he!”
Still desperately trying to escape Mrs Gannon’s clutches, Marker says, “It might help if I knew what line of business you and your son were in.”
“What line?” replies Gannon, as if the answer were obvious. “The most respected there is,” he adds, proudly. “No slumps in our business, Mr Marker. Thriving and steady as a rock. A service to the public.”
* * *
A heart-shaped wreath bears the words “REST IN PEACE”. The wreath is at the head end of an open coffin on a flower-covered catafalque in the ‘slumber room’ of an undertaker’s chapel. Piped quasi-religious music fills the air. A little old man – Arbuthnot – in a raincoat, with a black band on the sleeve, stands looking noncommittally into the coffin. At his side stands a much younger man – the undertaker’s assistant. He speaks, conspiratorially, with an American accent. “I know just what you’re thinking, Mr Arbuthnot. You keep resisting an urge to touch the good lady, as if she were no more than sleeping – isn’t that so?”
Arbuthnot looks at him in mild incredulity. It’s clear that nothing could be farther from the truth. A bell tinkles away in another room.
The assistant continues. “Doesn’t she look as though she had just… dropped off for a moment? Death, where is thy sting, eh? And how wise of you to leave the arrangements to our discretion. If you could see how pleased you look!”
In fact, Arbuthnot does not look happy at all. In the distance, the bell rings again.
The assistant goes on. “As you can see, Mr Arbuthnot, the American way is incomparably the best. Music which soothes, a luxurious casket, this restful slumber room and a beautiful departed.”
“I just wanted her out of the house,” says Arbuthnot.
Marker walks in. The assistant looks at him, questioningly, and bids him good afternoon. Arbuthnot puts on his hat and goes. “Have you come to see Mrs Arbuthnot?” asks the assistant.
Marker looks confused. “Mrs –?” The assistant directs his attention to the coffin. “Uh… no… no,” replies Marker. “I’m making inquiries concerning a Michael Gannon.”
“Gannon?” asks the assistant.
“I rang the bell in your office, but nobody came.”
The assistant says the name again, thoughtfully. “Gannon…”
“He may be working for a firm of undertakers.”
The assistant corrects him. “Here we prefer to think of ourselves as funeral directors. Gannon…”
“You’ve never heard of him,” says Marker, more as a statement than a question.
“Oh, yes,” says the assistant, suddenly.
“Yes?” asks Marker, hopefully.
“I’ll just turn the music off,” says the assistant. He moves to a control panel and flicks a switch. The music wails to a stop like a tired gramophone record. He returns, repeating the name. “Gannon… Michael…” He drums his fingers on the coffin lid. “Irish? Twenty-eight… twenty-nine?”
“That’s him,” says Marker. “Does he work here?”
“That depends on who’s looking for him.”
“His family. They’re anxious to get in touch. My name’s Marker.”
“Hello, glad to meet you,” the assistant replies. “He was here. He was with us for about a week. Not suitable, unfortunately… Nice fellow, but something of a primitive. The old school, you understand – pop them in the box and that’s that. We like to think of ourselves as progressive. He was… well, in your words, an undertaker.”
“Do you have his address?” asks Marker.
The assistant becomes thoughtful again. “His address…”
“Where he lives,” Marker specifies, for the avoidance of doubt.
“Mm,” says the assistant. “Last I heard, he was staying with two Irish friends of his – and each other. Barney and Con. Sociable fellows – you’d like them.”
“Do you know where they live?” asks Marker, losing patience.
The assistant smiles, blandly. “Sorry.”
Marker’s face tightens. He starts out, issuing an insincere “Thanks!”
“But I know a place they go to,” adds the assistant. Marker stops, sighing. He turns back to the assistant. “It’s a pub in Glebe Street,” the young man continues. “The Pride of Erin. Gannon introduced me to it, and now I go there all the time – for the atmosphere. If you like, I’ll bring you along.”
“I think I can find it,” says Marker. “But thanks.” He goes out.
The assistant calls after him, “I hope you’re a good mixer!” The young man hears the outer door closing, then he frowns, no longer in the best of humours. He looks down at the deceased Mrs Arbuthnot, then slams the top section of the coffin lid shut.
* * *
The Pride of Erin is as Irish as only a pub in England can be. It’s scruffy and raucous and full of smoke. The unwashed mirrors behind the bar are emblazoned with huge shamrocks. Most of those present are drinking draught stout. In a corner, a young man with a prominent Adam’s apple is rendering The Rose of Tralee in a liquid tenor voice. The locals are hanging on his every note.
Marker enters and goes to the bar. He takes off his shoe and tries to hammer the sole back into place. The barmaid approaches. Marker orders a Scotch. The barmaid scowls and goes away. Marker puts his shoe back on, peering around the pub. The barmaid returns with the Scotch. Marker gives her a banknote. “I hear you have a customer called Gannon,” he says. “Michael Gannon. Is he in?” The barmaid gives him his change, counting it out slowly, but without acknowledging that Marker has spoken. “He’s Irish,” adds Marker. “Not long over.” No reply. Marker tries another tack. “How about Barney and Con?” The barmaid looks at Marker, considers this, then nods in the direction of a couple of men seated at a table. One of them is a skinny fellow in his late thirties. The other is a little younger and more muscular. Marker picks up his Scotch and goes to the table. “Evening,” he says. The two men regard him, stonily. Marker decides to be amicable. “Do you think John Ford knows about this place?” he asks, lightly.
The two men look at each other. Then the well-built one turns to the skinny one and asks, “Who?”
“John Ford,” replies the skinny one. “English dramatist. Fifteen eighty-six to sixteen thirty-something.”
“Ah-huh,” nods the well-built one, duly informed.
“No,” says Marker, who’d been referring to the film director. “I meant the other one, the –”
The skinny man addresses Marker. “It’s your round.”
“What?” asks Marker.
“Don’t stir,” smiles the skinny man, indicating his associate. “Barney will get them. He’s not proud.” The skinny man – evidently Con – turns to Barney. “Get them, Barney. Large ones.” Barney lumbers to his feet and looks meaningfully at Marker. Marker gives him some money and he crosses to the bar. Con resumes his lecture. “Sixteen thirty… nine, it was. Am I right?” When Marker doesn’t reply, Con adds, “John Ford… I say, he died in 1639.”
“I wouldn’t know,” says Marker.
“I would,” boasts Con. “Name anyone you like. If he’s in The Handy Dictionary of Famous Names, I’ll give you date of birth, death, his occupation and assorted birthmarks.”
“The Handy Dictionary –?”
“It’s a book,” explains Con. “I sell it. Come on, try me. Name someone.”
Marker names someone. “Michael Gannon.”
After a moment, Con replies, “I don’t think he’s in the book.”
“I’ve been told you can help me.”
“Oh, sure,” beams Con. “Glad to. There’s nothing much scruff like me and Barney wouldn’t do for a drink.” His grin grows wider. “That’s a notorious fact. We have a sign up: ‘We sell anything’.”
“I’m not buying,” says Marker. “I’m trying to find Michael Gannon. If he’s a friend of yours, you’d be doing him a favour.”
Barney returns with the drinks. Con turns to him. “D’ya hear that, Barney? Our new palsy-walsy wants us to do Michael Gannon a favour.”
“Mick Gannon?” asks Barney, enthusiastically. He addresses Marker. “Do you know Mick?”
“I’d like to,” Marker replies.
“Mick’s a great fella,” smiles Barney. He turns to Con. “Isn’t he?”
Con nods. “And as cute as a fox. Everybody’s fond of Mick.” He says to Marker, amiably, “Tell us, what’s your name?”
Marker tells him. “Marker.”
Con waves this away. “Ah, no, that’s only half of it. What do your friends call you?”
“Marker.”
Con feigns surprise. “Marker… Marker?”
“That’s good,” Barney guffaws.
“Where do you come from, Marker Marker?” asks Con.
Marker ignores the question. Instead, he says to Barney, “You owe me some change.”
Con carries on with his questioning. “Are you married? How many kids? What’s your religion? Don’t be shy. Tell us. Be sociable. We’re interested.”
“Ask him what he does,” suggests Barney.
“What he what?”
“What he works at.”
Con raises a knowledgeable eyebrow. “We know what he works at.” At this, Marker becomes alert. Barney, however, still doesn’t follow. Con rolls his eyes. “Barney, wake up.”
Now Barney remembers. “Oh, yeah.”
“He’s one of those paid informers,” says Con. “They call themselves detectives.”
Marker is about to reply when the young man from the undertaker’s walks in. He’s accompanied by an attractive woman of similar age. The young man notices Marker and greets him. “Well, hi, there. I see you found them.” He nods to the others. “Hi, Con… Barney.”
“The top o’ the evenin’, sir,” replies Con. “That’s a fine class of a girrul you have with you.”
The undertaker’s assistant regards his companion and smiles. “Aren’t they really something? Gee, these Irish – I love ’em. Well, be seeing you, fellas. Come on, honey.” He leads his date away towards a vacant table. The woman briefly looks back at Marker, with a hint of fear on her face.
Con watches them go. “There goes another cute hawk. But not the worst of them.”
“How would you like to listen for a minute?” suggests Marker.
“Not much,” admits Con.
“Try,” says Marker. “Gannon left home after a row with his people. His father was in the wrong. He admits it and wants to make amends. He’s here now.” Con looks around in alarm. Marker clarifies. “I mean, he’s in the city. The lad can go home or stay – that’s none of my business – but the old man has come a long way. He ought to be allowed to say he’s sorry.”
Con scrutinises him, suspiciously. “How do I know the old so-and-so hasn’t set the polis on Mick?”
“Because I’m here,” argues Marker. “The police don’t need me to help them.”
Con nods. “Fair enough. Maybe I’ll pass on the message.”
“I’d prefer to do that myself. It’s what I’m being paid for.”
Con turns to his friend. “What do you say, Barney? Can we trust him?” Barney thinks for a moment, then agrees. “Okey-dokey,” says Con, rising from his chair. “Let’s go.”
“Now?” asks Marker, surprised.
Con nods again. “Mick stays at our place. It’s not far.” Then he shrugs, casually. “Of course, if you’re not in a hurry –” Marker gets up. “That’s the stuff!” smiles Con. “We won’t be there till we’re back.” He gestures for Marker to take the lead, adding, without a trace of a French accent, “Aprezz vooz.” Marker goes, followed by Con and Barney.
Over at his own table, the undertaker’s assistant watches them go, then whispers something to his companion. She attempts a smile, but looks worried.
* * *
It’s now dark outside. Marker hesitates, uncertainly. Con and Barney beckon him to follow them. He does so, along a squalid and deserted street. Con and Barney turn into a passageway. Again, Marker pauses. “It’s just down here,” says Con. “A few more yards.” Marker follows. The sole of his shoe has come loose again, so he limps into the passageway. After a moment, he stops to examine the shoe. Con also takes a look. “Flappin’ like a wet sheet,” he declares. “Give it to Barney. He’ll fix it. Very handy with his mitts.” He turns to Barney. “Aren’t you?”
Barney grins in agreement. “Yeah.”
Marker leans against the wall, takes off his shoe and hands it to Barney. Barney gives it to Con – who promptly throws it over the wall and into a backyard. “Do him!” shouts Con. Barney grabs Marker and flings him along the passageway. Then Barney goes to where Marker has landed, grabs him and starts hitting him. Con ambles over and joins in.
* * *
The next day, in the lounge of the Shamrock Hotel, Marker is wearing a new pair of shoes. The mahogany leather shines as he rests in one of the easy chairs. Marker’s face is bruised from the fight the night before. Mr and Mrs Gannon come in. “There you are, Mr Marker,” says Gannon as they approach. “I rang up Mullingar, like you said. Me –” He stops when sees Marker’s injuries. “Dear God, what happened to you? Were you in an accident?”
“Sort of,” says Marker.
“Look at the state of him,” cries Mrs Gannon. “Oh, you poor man!”
Marker plays it down. “It looks worse than it is. Did you get the photograph?”
Gannon nods. “It came this morning.” He produces a portrait print, a little larger than a postcard. “There, that’s him, Mr Marker. That’s Michael.” He hands it over.
Marker takes the photograph. He looks at it and sighs. The man in the picture is the undertaker’s assistant.
Marker nods, trying to be patient. “That’s right.”
“Every Wednesday?”
“Isn’t that where she said she was going?”
“It’s a bit much,” says Tatlow, disappointed. “I spend all this money just to find out she’s going to the pictures. It’s a bit thick.”
“At least now you can stop worrying.”
Tatlow finds a straw to grasp at. “She might have met someone inside.”
Marker shakes his head. “I sat behind her.” He points to the report. “It’s all there.”
“That woman she went with – that was Mrs Theobald,” explains Tatlow, mournfully. “Neighbour of ours. Her husband’s an accountant.”
“That’s nice,” says Marker, politely.
“Chartered,” adds Tatlow. “It’s all a bit off-putting.” He returns his attention to the report.
“Mr Tatlow,” says Marker, “there’s not a scrap of evidence that your wife has been unfaithful to you. She left your house three Wednesdays running, she met her woman friend, they went straight to the pictures, had coffee and came straight home.”
“You sure?”
“Why don’t you follow her yourself and find out?”
“I mean, if she isn’t being unfaithful, I think I ought to be given a rebate,” reckons Tatlow. He holds up the report. “This isn’t much for my money. I shouldn’t be asked to pay the full rate.” Marker just stares at him. Then the telephone rings. Marker answers it as Tatlow continues. “Everywhere you go, it’s the same,” he complains. “People trying to extract some money for least effort. A man gets tired always paying through the nose. I must say, I’m disappointed.”
“Do you mind?” asks Marker. Then, into the phone, he says, “Look, Mr… Gannon…? Why don’t you come over and see me?” There’s a pause as the caller replies. “Why can’t you?” asks Marker.
Tatlow is still muttering to himself. “Putting me to this expense… hadn’t the decency to be unfaithful. There’s no craftsmanship any more… just rob you.”
“Shamrock Hotel,” says Marker into the phone. “Sparkbrook?” He looks at Tatlow, who makes a face that suggests Sparkbrook is a pretty dodgy area. “No, I don’t know it,” Marker tells the caller. “Look, Mr… All right, I’ll come over after lunch.”
* * *
That afternoon, Marker gets off a bus in Sparkbrook and crosses the street. He stops and looks down. The sole of his shoe is flapping loose. He stamps his foot on the ground in a vain attempt to bang the sole back into place. He continues along the street, limping for a few yards, then stamping his foot again.
He comes to an alleyway. Leaning against the wall at its entrance are a pair of rather disreputable-looking characters. One of them is picking his teeth with a matchstick. They eye Marker up and down, menacingly. Marker plucks up courage and pushes past them into the alley. After a moment, he stops and looks back. The two thugs are still watching him. Marker moves on up the alley to a porched doorway, above which is a sign that reads “SHAMROCK HOTEL”. He pauses for a moment, then goes inside.
* * *
In the lounge-cum-dining area of the Shamrock Hotel, an elderly couple are having tea. The only other person in the lounge is a hulking young man who sits some distance away, near the fireplace, reading a girlie magazine with a mixture of awe and distaste. Marker comes in, his sole still flapping, and sees the couple. “Mr Gannon?” he asks, uncertainly.
The old man greets him, warmly, exuding a friendly charm that’s totally alien to the world Marker inhabits. “Ah, it’s Mr Marker,” he declares, in an Irish accent. “Aren’t you very good to have come to see us.” He turns to his companion. “This is Mr Marker, Agnes.”
Agnes indicates the teapot. “I have a cup of tea for you and it only wants pouring. Take your coat off, why don’t you?” As Marker does so, Agnes remarks to Gannon in a loud whisper, “Did you ever see anyone so thin? I’m sure he doesn’t mind himself.” She tells Marker to sit down between them. “John, please pass Mr Marker the milk – make yourself helpful.”
“I hope we haven’t brought you too far out of your way,” says Gannon, as he hands over the milk.
“That’s all right,” replies Marker, blandly.
“The way it is,” explains Gannon, “we only got here this morning. We’d never have found your office – and Mrs Gannon is a bit tired after the journey.”
“You came over from Ireland?” asks Marker.
Gannon looks amazed. “Now, how did you know that?” He turns to Mrs Gannon. “Oh, he’s a detective all right, Agnes. We picked a good man.”
“You needn’t tell me,” agrees Mrs Gannon. “Sure, you have only to look at him.”
Marker addresses Gannon, trying to return to the matter in hand. “When you phoned me, you –”
“Have a bit of soda bread,” says Gannon, offering a plate of the stuff.
“No, thanks,” replies Marker. “You –”
“Yes, you will,” insists Mrs Gannon. “You’ll eat that soda bread, or you’re not getting up from this table.” She turns to Gannon. “He doesn’t know what’s good for him.”
“She baked it herself,” Gannon reveals.
“Well, in that case…” says Marker. He bites weakly into a slice. Over by the fireplace, the young man with the girlie magazine snarls with rage and tears out a full-page pin-up, which he crumples savagely into a ball and hurls into the fire. Marker, still chewing his soda bread, asks, “Who’s that?”
“Some young pup,” says Gannon, dismissively. “Don’t mind him. How’s the soda bread?”
“Delicious,” lies Marker. “Very good.”
“I’ll send you some when we go home,” Mrs Gannon promises. “And country butter.”
“That’ll build him up again,” smiles Gannon.
Marker can already feel his arteries clogging up. He tries to get back to business. “I have some calls to make. If you’d just tell me how I can help you –”
Gannon looks confused. “Help us?”
“Us?” echoes Mrs Gannon. “But sure we’re grand, thanks be to God.”
“Mr Gannon,” says Marker, “on the telephone you said you wanted me to find someone.”
For a moment, there’s silence. Then Mrs Gannon begins to weep. “Now, now, Agnes,” says Gannon, comforting her. To Marker, he says, “It’s the young lad.”
“Your son?” asks Marker.
“His name is Michael. There were what you might call hasty words. He –”
Marker guesses. “Left home.” Gannon nods. “What makes you think he’s in Birmingham?” asks Marker.
“We got a postcard,” explains Gannon. “He said he was well, and we weren’t to worry.”
Tearfully, Mrs Gannon interrupts. “He’s not eating his soda bread!”
“Will you eat it, for God’s sake!” urges Gannon.
“Do you have the postcard?” asks Marker.
Gannon looks uncertain. Mrs Gannon speaks up for him. “He flew into a passion and burnt it. But he’s sorry now, aren’t you?”
Marker would like a few details. “Do you have a photograph?”
“A photo of Mick?” replies Gannon. “I do, yes. There’s one at home.”
“Home?” asks Marker, fearing the worst.
“Mullingar,” says Gannon. “15 Fenian Street.”
Marker sighs. “Mr Gannon, it’s not going to be easy finding him if I don’t know what he looks like.”
Gannon nods, thoughtfully. “True. That’s true.”
“You’d better ring up someone at home and ask them to send it on by express.”
“I’ll do it directly.”
“In the meantime, I’ll make some inquiries. Do you mind telling me why he left home?”
Gannon looks awkward. “There was a… a class of a dispute between me and him. I accused him of taking money. Only he didn’t – it was the accounts that were wrong.” Gannon explains that he and Mick run a business together. “There was a mistake in the books. I found it out afterwards when he was gone. I want to bring him home, Mr Marker – make it up to him. He has a terrible temper.”
Mrs Gannon clutches Marker’s hand. “You’ll find him for us, won’t you, Mr Marker?”
“I’ll try,” he promises. “I –”
“I know you will,” says Mrs Gannon, confidently. “And you’ll have your reward. I’ll do a novena for your special intentions.” Marker, horrified, tries to free his hand, but she hangs on. “The prayers of a grateful mother.”
“Of course he’ll find him,” agrees Gannon. “Why wouldn’t he!”
Still desperately trying to escape Mrs Gannon’s clutches, Marker says, “It might help if I knew what line of business you and your son were in.”
“What line?” replies Gannon, as if the answer were obvious. “The most respected there is,” he adds, proudly. “No slumps in our business, Mr Marker. Thriving and steady as a rock. A service to the public.”
* * *
A heart-shaped wreath bears the words “REST IN PEACE”. The wreath is at the head end of an open coffin on a flower-covered catafalque in the ‘slumber room’ of an undertaker’s chapel. Piped quasi-religious music fills the air. A little old man – Arbuthnot – in a raincoat, with a black band on the sleeve, stands looking noncommittally into the coffin. At his side stands a much younger man – the undertaker’s assistant. He speaks, conspiratorially, with an American accent. “I know just what you’re thinking, Mr Arbuthnot. You keep resisting an urge to touch the good lady, as if she were no more than sleeping – isn’t that so?”
Arbuthnot looks at him in mild incredulity. It’s clear that nothing could be farther from the truth. A bell tinkles away in another room.
The assistant continues. “Doesn’t she look as though she had just… dropped off for a moment? Death, where is thy sting, eh? And how wise of you to leave the arrangements to our discretion. If you could see how pleased you look!”
In fact, Arbuthnot does not look happy at all. In the distance, the bell rings again.
The assistant goes on. “As you can see, Mr Arbuthnot, the American way is incomparably the best. Music which soothes, a luxurious casket, this restful slumber room and a beautiful departed.”
“I just wanted her out of the house,” says Arbuthnot.
Marker walks in. The assistant looks at him, questioningly, and bids him good afternoon. Arbuthnot puts on his hat and goes. “Have you come to see Mrs Arbuthnot?” asks the assistant.
Marker looks confused. “Mrs –?” The assistant directs his attention to the coffin. “Uh… no… no,” replies Marker. “I’m making inquiries concerning a Michael Gannon.”
“Gannon?” asks the assistant.
“I rang the bell in your office, but nobody came.”
The assistant says the name again, thoughtfully. “Gannon…”
“He may be working for a firm of undertakers.”
The assistant corrects him. “Here we prefer to think of ourselves as funeral directors. Gannon…”
“You’ve never heard of him,” says Marker, more as a statement than a question.
“Oh, yes,” says the assistant, suddenly.
“Yes?” asks Marker, hopefully.
“I’ll just turn the music off,” says the assistant. He moves to a control panel and flicks a switch. The music wails to a stop like a tired gramophone record. He returns, repeating the name. “Gannon… Michael…” He drums his fingers on the coffin lid. “Irish? Twenty-eight… twenty-nine?”
“That’s him,” says Marker. “Does he work here?”
“That depends on who’s looking for him.”
“His family. They’re anxious to get in touch. My name’s Marker.”
“Hello, glad to meet you,” the assistant replies. “He was here. He was with us for about a week. Not suitable, unfortunately… Nice fellow, but something of a primitive. The old school, you understand – pop them in the box and that’s that. We like to think of ourselves as progressive. He was… well, in your words, an undertaker.”
“Do you have his address?” asks Marker.
The assistant becomes thoughtful again. “His address…”
“Where he lives,” Marker specifies, for the avoidance of doubt.
“Mm,” says the assistant. “Last I heard, he was staying with two Irish friends of his – and each other. Barney and Con. Sociable fellows – you’d like them.”
“Do you know where they live?” asks Marker, losing patience.
The assistant smiles, blandly. “Sorry.”
Marker’s face tightens. He starts out, issuing an insincere “Thanks!”
“But I know a place they go to,” adds the assistant. Marker stops, sighing. He turns back to the assistant. “It’s a pub in Glebe Street,” the young man continues. “The Pride of Erin. Gannon introduced me to it, and now I go there all the time – for the atmosphere. If you like, I’ll bring you along.”
“I think I can find it,” says Marker. “But thanks.” He goes out.
The assistant calls after him, “I hope you’re a good mixer!” The young man hears the outer door closing, then he frowns, no longer in the best of humours. He looks down at the deceased Mrs Arbuthnot, then slams the top section of the coffin lid shut.
* * *
The Pride of Erin is as Irish as only a pub in England can be. It’s scruffy and raucous and full of smoke. The unwashed mirrors behind the bar are emblazoned with huge shamrocks. Most of those present are drinking draught stout. In a corner, a young man with a prominent Adam’s apple is rendering The Rose of Tralee in a liquid tenor voice. The locals are hanging on his every note.
Marker enters and goes to the bar. He takes off his shoe and tries to hammer the sole back into place. The barmaid approaches. Marker orders a Scotch. The barmaid scowls and goes away. Marker puts his shoe back on, peering around the pub. The barmaid returns with the Scotch. Marker gives her a banknote. “I hear you have a customer called Gannon,” he says. “Michael Gannon. Is he in?” The barmaid gives him his change, counting it out slowly, but without acknowledging that Marker has spoken. “He’s Irish,” adds Marker. “Not long over.” No reply. Marker tries another tack. “How about Barney and Con?” The barmaid looks at Marker, considers this, then nods in the direction of a couple of men seated at a table. One of them is a skinny fellow in his late thirties. The other is a little younger and more muscular. Marker picks up his Scotch and goes to the table. “Evening,” he says. The two men regard him, stonily. Marker decides to be amicable. “Do you think John Ford knows about this place?” he asks, lightly.
The two men look at each other. Then the well-built one turns to the skinny one and asks, “Who?”
“John Ford,” replies the skinny one. “English dramatist. Fifteen eighty-six to sixteen thirty-something.”
“Ah-huh,” nods the well-built one, duly informed.
“No,” says Marker, who’d been referring to the film director. “I meant the other one, the –”
The skinny man addresses Marker. “It’s your round.”
“What?” asks Marker.
“Don’t stir,” smiles the skinny man, indicating his associate. “Barney will get them. He’s not proud.” The skinny man – evidently Con – turns to Barney. “Get them, Barney. Large ones.” Barney lumbers to his feet and looks meaningfully at Marker. Marker gives him some money and he crosses to the bar. Con resumes his lecture. “Sixteen thirty… nine, it was. Am I right?” When Marker doesn’t reply, Con adds, “John Ford… I say, he died in 1639.”
“I wouldn’t know,” says Marker.
“I would,” boasts Con. “Name anyone you like. If he’s in The Handy Dictionary of Famous Names, I’ll give you date of birth, death, his occupation and assorted birthmarks.”
“The Handy Dictionary –?”
“It’s a book,” explains Con. “I sell it. Come on, try me. Name someone.”
Marker names someone. “Michael Gannon.”
After a moment, Con replies, “I don’t think he’s in the book.”
“I’ve been told you can help me.”
“Oh, sure,” beams Con. “Glad to. There’s nothing much scruff like me and Barney wouldn’t do for a drink.” His grin grows wider. “That’s a notorious fact. We have a sign up: ‘We sell anything’.”
“I’m not buying,” says Marker. “I’m trying to find Michael Gannon. If he’s a friend of yours, you’d be doing him a favour.”
Barney returns with the drinks. Con turns to him. “D’ya hear that, Barney? Our new palsy-walsy wants us to do Michael Gannon a favour.”
“Mick Gannon?” asks Barney, enthusiastically. He addresses Marker. “Do you know Mick?”
“I’d like to,” Marker replies.
“Mick’s a great fella,” smiles Barney. He turns to Con. “Isn’t he?”
Con nods. “And as cute as a fox. Everybody’s fond of Mick.” He says to Marker, amiably, “Tell us, what’s your name?”
Marker tells him. “Marker.”
Con waves this away. “Ah, no, that’s only half of it. What do your friends call you?”
“Marker.”
Con feigns surprise. “Marker… Marker?”
“That’s good,” Barney guffaws.
“Where do you come from, Marker Marker?” asks Con.
Marker ignores the question. Instead, he says to Barney, “You owe me some change.”
Con carries on with his questioning. “Are you married? How many kids? What’s your religion? Don’t be shy. Tell us. Be sociable. We’re interested.”
“Ask him what he does,” suggests Barney.
“What he what?”
“What he works at.”
Con raises a knowledgeable eyebrow. “We know what he works at.” At this, Marker becomes alert. Barney, however, still doesn’t follow. Con rolls his eyes. “Barney, wake up.”
Now Barney remembers. “Oh, yeah.”
“He’s one of those paid informers,” says Con. “They call themselves detectives.”
Marker is about to reply when the young man from the undertaker’s walks in. He’s accompanied by an attractive woman of similar age. The young man notices Marker and greets him. “Well, hi, there. I see you found them.” He nods to the others. “Hi, Con… Barney.”
“The top o’ the evenin’, sir,” replies Con. “That’s a fine class of a girrul you have with you.”
The undertaker’s assistant regards his companion and smiles. “Aren’t they really something? Gee, these Irish – I love ’em. Well, be seeing you, fellas. Come on, honey.” He leads his date away towards a vacant table. The woman briefly looks back at Marker, with a hint of fear on her face.
Con watches them go. “There goes another cute hawk. But not the worst of them.”
“How would you like to listen for a minute?” suggests Marker.
“Not much,” admits Con.
“Try,” says Marker. “Gannon left home after a row with his people. His father was in the wrong. He admits it and wants to make amends. He’s here now.” Con looks around in alarm. Marker clarifies. “I mean, he’s in the city. The lad can go home or stay – that’s none of my business – but the old man has come a long way. He ought to be allowed to say he’s sorry.”
Con scrutinises him, suspiciously. “How do I know the old so-and-so hasn’t set the polis on Mick?”
“Because I’m here,” argues Marker. “The police don’t need me to help them.”
Con nods. “Fair enough. Maybe I’ll pass on the message.”
“I’d prefer to do that myself. It’s what I’m being paid for.”
Con turns to his friend. “What do you say, Barney? Can we trust him?” Barney thinks for a moment, then agrees. “Okey-dokey,” says Con, rising from his chair. “Let’s go.”
“Now?” asks Marker, surprised.
Con nods again. “Mick stays at our place. It’s not far.” Then he shrugs, casually. “Of course, if you’re not in a hurry –” Marker gets up. “That’s the stuff!” smiles Con. “We won’t be there till we’re back.” He gestures for Marker to take the lead, adding, without a trace of a French accent, “Aprezz vooz.” Marker goes, followed by Con and Barney.
Over at his own table, the undertaker’s assistant watches them go, then whispers something to his companion. She attempts a smile, but looks worried.
* * *
It’s now dark outside. Marker hesitates, uncertainly. Con and Barney beckon him to follow them. He does so, along a squalid and deserted street. Con and Barney turn into a passageway. Again, Marker pauses. “It’s just down here,” says Con. “A few more yards.” Marker follows. The sole of his shoe has come loose again, so he limps into the passageway. After a moment, he stops to examine the shoe. Con also takes a look. “Flappin’ like a wet sheet,” he declares. “Give it to Barney. He’ll fix it. Very handy with his mitts.” He turns to Barney. “Aren’t you?”
Barney grins in agreement. “Yeah.”
Marker leans against the wall, takes off his shoe and hands it to Barney. Barney gives it to Con – who promptly throws it over the wall and into a backyard. “Do him!” shouts Con. Barney grabs Marker and flings him along the passageway. Then Barney goes to where Marker has landed, grabs him and starts hitting him. Con ambles over and joins in.
* * *
The next day, in the lounge of the Shamrock Hotel, Marker is wearing a new pair of shoes. The mahogany leather shines as he rests in one of the easy chairs. Marker’s face is bruised from the fight the night before. Mr and Mrs Gannon come in. “There you are, Mr Marker,” says Gannon as they approach. “I rang up Mullingar, like you said. Me –” He stops when sees Marker’s injuries. “Dear God, what happened to you? Were you in an accident?”
“Sort of,” says Marker.
“Look at the state of him,” cries Mrs Gannon. “Oh, you poor man!”
Marker plays it down. “It looks worse than it is. Did you get the photograph?”
Gannon nods. “It came this morning.” He produces a portrait print, a little larger than a postcard. “There, that’s him, Mr Marker. That’s Michael.” He hands it over.
Marker takes the photograph. He looks at it and sighs. The man in the picture is the undertaker’s assistant.