Free The Death of an Irish Consul by Bartholomew Gill

nearly five million pounds. If Tartan wins the fight, however, they can put up more rigs. The Tartan principals then would become very wealthy men indeed.” Madigan seemed to think this story was fraught with significance. He had been drinking a good deal, McGarr could tell.
    “But, I don’t understand,” said McGarr. “What does this have to do with me?”
    “Didn’t I mention that Hitchcock was a co-founder of this concern along with a chap named C. B. H. Browne?”
    That knocked McGarr back. “No—no you didn’t.Tell me, Hugh, did a fellow named Moses Foster work for them as well? He’s a big black man, former SIS too. Pretty much of a rough customer.”
    “I wouldn’t have the vaguest, but if you’ll hold on—” Suddenly, McGarr could only hear the sounds of a bar crowd, a small band, and a chanteuse wailing a sultry nightclub number in decidedly American dialect. At least five minutes later, somebody demanded, “Is this McGarrity?”
    “McGarr. Who’s this?”
    “Rod Drake of Exxon.” He too was quite drunk. “How ’bout that nigger of yours—he pack a punch?” Drake had a heavy Texan drawl.
    “Yes, I think so.”
    “Then, he works for ENI. Damn near handed me my head three weeks ago.”
    “Why so?”
    “Got in an argument with him in a bar. Not much to do out there in Scotland but drink and fight and—” The bar crowd drowned out the last word. “He’s got a thing about Cuba. Says it’s a form of necessary totalitarianism.”
    “He does?” McGarr was surprised that this line of conversation could have come from a man like Foster who had spent years as a covert agent in several Communist countries including Cuba. Perhaps his recent troubles with SIS, McGarr thought, had changed his approach.
    “Some happy horse manure about the citizen-worker. I asked him to step outside. That sidewindergrabbed me by the craw and chucked me down the gulch out back. Told me if he saw me again he’d break my back. He ain’t seen me again.”
    Madigan came back on the line. “Isn’t there a dandy little conflict of interest here, Peter? I say—working for one outfit’s security section while your own company is pumping its reserves dry. We both know Hitchcock could have used the money.”
    “Could you do the same sort of background investigation of Browne too, Hugh? And Foster, if that’s possible. And Tartan itself. Would you mind?”
    “Now—no. I’m interested in this whole messy business, and I’m beginning to think I’m over in the States.” When McGarr didn’t say anything, Madigan completed the thought. “All the money I’ve spent today is green.”
    McGarr groaned and placed the receiver in its yoke. He took thirty pounds from his wallet and fitted the bills under the mat on the table. He had decided on the amount previously, thinking it enough to cover the food, drink, and phone calls. Now he wasn’t quite sure and added ten more to be safe.
    Gallup handed him his hat and coat. “Let’s get up to the house and look around, then get me back to Shannon.”
    “Don’t you want to call Cummings?”
    “Not until I look around up there at the house. You know how he is—sticky on details.”
    “Perhaps I better tell you a few things as well,” said McGarr, “but first—” McGarr turned back to the oldwoman. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Thank you for the very fine dinner, as tasty— tastier —than I remember my mother’s as being. I put a few quid under the mat there. Buy yourself something special with what’s left.”
    “Isn’t that nice of you, lad. What did you say your name was again?”
    “McGarr, Peter McGarr.”
    “And I could tell from your conversation that you’re a policeman.”
    “That I am.”
    “It shames me to think I asked you to commit a crime.”
    “It isn’t the first time a pretty woman has.”
    “Nor, I hope for your sake, the last,” said the old woman.
    As they tramped down the road toward Hitchcock’s vacation house,