Free The Death of an Irish Lass by Bartholomew Gill Page B

art history. His had long been women, especially those who had possessed one or another of Noreen’s features and qualities. When he had met her, it had been as though some higher power had wanted to reward McGarr for having been dutiful. It had been in the Dawson Art Gallery, which her family owned. McGarr had gone there for some technical information on the theft of several prints from Lord Iveagh’s mansion in Kildare. He had tried to kiss the young woman in the slide room to the rear of the shop. She had slapped his face and threatened to call the commissioner. That had been three years ago.
    “This man,” McGarr said, meaning Inspector Hughie Ward, “is a policeman. Has he told you that?”
    O’Connor shook his head.
    “I didn’t think he was a braggart.” McGarr was feeling good again, after having been somewhat depressed by the events of the day. Noreen always had that effecton him and what was more, she knew it, which galled him. That was a power over him, albeit a benign power, but nonetheless a threat of sorts. “And this hussy is my wife.”
    “ Your wife? I thought—” O’Connor smiled. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. McGarr?”
    “No thank you, Rory.” McGarr then forced his own features to become serious. “I’ve already ordered one, and I have some bad news for you.”
    “Is it about May?”
    McGarr nodded, watching the young man’s features closely.
    “People have been talking.”
    In spite of what McGarr had heard about Rory O’Connor’s wildness, the big man seemed very gentle indeed. Like his contemporary, Dr. Fleming, he had the blackest of eyes, but his were large and soft. His skin was dark too, but clear. He was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt with a black alligator on the pocket. The alligator’s mouth was open and red, which made the teeth seem very white. Americans were a curious people, McGarr thought.
    The barman set his whiskey in front of him.
    “She’s dead.”
    O’Connor blinked. He began shaking his head slightly. “What’s that?” He placed his hands on his knees. His brow furrowed.
    “Somebody murdered May Quirk last night. In a pasture near the Cliffs of Moher.”
    A large hand sprang from below the table and grabbed McGarr. Another hand swept across the table and struck the side of Hughie Ward’s head, knocking him into the wall of the snug. “This had better be the sickest joke you’ve ever told, pal,” a very American voice said.
    McGarr was now raised off his seat.
    Noreen rushed out of the snug.
    “This won’t help her, O’Connor,” said McGarr.
    McGarr saw the fist forming and the arm cock. It then lashed out at him. At the last moment he moved his head and the blow glanced off his jaw. The fist struck the padding of the snug cushions.
    O’Connor dropped McGarr, picked up the table, and tossed it out the open snug door. The table was made of metal and cascaded across the stone floor, slamming into the brass rail of the bar. The glasses had crashed to the floor.
    The barman had come running. O’Connor grabbed the man’s face in his palm and shoved it into the wall of the snug. He then stood. He was one of the biggest men McGarr had ever seen.
    The crowd that had formed outside the snug made an aisle for him. He walked up the aisle to the bar and grasped the edge of it until his fingers whitened. His body began to fold until one of his knees hit the brass rail. Then the other. His neck was bending too, until his forehead touched the bar. It was as though he was praying. But he sobbed. It sounded like the cough of a cow.
    Slowly he got up.
    There was not one sound in the bar.
    He turned. His face was streaming with tears. With the back of his hand he wiped them off his jaw. He then started back toward the booth, where McGarr and Ward still sat.
    He said, “Whiskey,” in a big hoarse voice and closed the door very softly behind him.
    Standing in front of the door, with his hands crossed over his chest, he said, “Everything. If you lie to