Free Death of a Pilgrim by David Dickinson Page B

‘Quiet, please, quiet! Alex,’ he shouted, ‘this is monstrous! Monstrous! It’s intolerable! We’ve come on a pilgrimage,
for God’s sake. Why can’t we bury the poor man and move on? Haven’t they got a policeman in this place who speaks English? Tell him I want to speak to the Chief Police Officer in
the morning.’
    Alex wrote as fast as he could. The reply was short.
    ‘You’re not going to like this, sir. He says the Chief Constable will not be available in the morning. The Sergeant is going now. He says he’s late for his supper. It’s
always bad for his digestion, the Sergeant says, to be late for his supper. His wife doesn’t like it either. He will see us here in the morning. His two men will be on duty here in the hotel
all night, sir. To make sure nobody leaves.’
    As Alex Bentley finished speaking, the Sergeant rose slowly to his feet and marched out of the room. One of his constables took up a position in the centre of the doors leading to the hotel
foyer and the outside world. Delaney restrained himself with difficulty. He downed a glass of red wine at breakneck speed. A French priest, presumably the local curé, came in and began
talking quietly to Father Kennedy in a corner of the room. Brother White joined his companions of the cloth. Wee Jimmy, who was closest to them, thought they were conversing about the funeral in a
kind of prayer book Latin.
    ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Michael Delaney at last. ‘Let’s try and approach this thing in a businesslike manner.’ It is one of the many differences between
the French and the American character that the French attach great value to collective action. Fraternity. The Americans are suspicious of the state, and all in favour of individual initiative, of
citizens taking responsibility for their own lives, rather than depending on others to do it for them.
    ‘Damn French police,’ Delaney began. ‘Useless, completely useless. If I don’t do anything else I’m going to get my own man to look into this death.
Pinkerton’s, Alex, what chance of Pinkerton’s here in this dump?’ Michael Delaney had an account with the great detective agency Pinkerton’s in New York, enabling him to spy
on his competitors all across the United States.
    ‘I doubt if there are any Pinkertons to be found anywhere in Europe, sir.’
    ‘Damn! We’ve got to find the top man,’ said Delaney firmly, ‘top private investigator fluent in English and French, able to drop whatever he’s doing and start
immediately. Money no object. Anybody got any ideas?’
    He turned to Father Kennedy. God might have some ideas. Plenty of contacts, God. ‘Your friend there, Father. Does he speak English?’
    ‘I’m afraid not, Michael,’ said Father Kennedy. ‘We’re conversing in Latin here.’
    ‘God in heaven,’ said Delaney. ‘Alex, can you take your ouija board over there and ask the man to help us find this bilingual detective. Tell him to ask his bishop, for
God’s sake. And ask the bishop to ask his archbishop if he doesn’t know. Not sure where we go after the archbishop. Anybody else got any suggestions?
    Oddly enough, it was the youngest member of the party who had the best idea. He might have been only eighteen years old but Christy Delaney was a very intelligent young man. His parents moved in
sophisticated circles in Dublin.
    ‘Why don’t you ask the Ambassadors, sir? Telegraph them in the morning. Ask them to find you such a man.’
    Delaney, unusually for him, didn’t understand at first. ‘Ambassadors?’ he said, looking at the young man in rather a patronizing way. ‘Ambassadors plural? Why
plural?’
    ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Christy, ‘I didn’t make myself clear. Telegraph the American Ambassador in Paris and the American Ambassador in London. They may not know the name of
such a person but they will certainly know someone who will.’
    ‘Excellent, by God!’ said Michael Delaney. ‘Well done indeed. I’ll do it first