Shadow of Death

The priest stood motionless for some time, pondering the stranger’s message.

5.

Talk about serpentine! Father Koesler thought as he left Dublin and drove toward Boyle; the roads of Ireland seemed to weave in and out and up and down more than any other place he could recall. In addition, it had been many years since he had driven a stick-shift automobile. Also, the gearshift was to the left of the steering wheel instead of to the right.

And, to cap the climax, he had to remember to drive on the left side of the road. It seemed that no sooner did he allow himself the luxury of thinking things over than his car would begin to slow down going up a hill and he would be forced to shift down into third. He wondered how long it would be before he would become accustomed to this car and the driving procedures of this country. Ah, there seemed to be a fairly long stretch of unswerving, flat road coming up. He leaned back in the bucket seat and aimed the car down the straight and narrow.

What a strange message! And delivered by a stranger! After he had recovered from his surprise, he had returned to Koznicki’s room and related his strange meeting to the Inspector.

Koznicki’s initial reaction had been to doubt the authenticity of the message. They had no idea of the identity of the messenger nor any way of verifying the message. Just as easily as being true, it might as well have been a ploy to lull them into lowering their guard. After all, somebody had shot Koznicki.

Still, Koesler leaned toward belief. He was not a particularly intuitive person, but he had a strong feeling the message had been genuine.

He also had been perturbed since leaving the outskirts of Dublin by a strange but definite feeling that he was being followed. As often as he was able, what with all the uncommon distractions of driving this strange car in this foreign land, he glanced into the rearview mirror. But he saw nothing that he could in any way describe as unusual or untoward. Finally, he dismissed the possibility of being followed, and ascribed the sensation to tension or stress.

He returned to his consideration of the stranger and his message. If it was the truth—and Koesler strongly believed it was—the Detroit contingent could relax . . .at least during their Ireland stay.

Which was precisely what he intended to do. He deserved three days of rest and relaxation, he assured himself; he had paid his dues.

And, regardless of whether the message had been calculated to put them off their guard, he was positive the Irish police would be out in full complement and with intense vigilance at the single public ceremony on Cardinal Boyle’s schedule. Sufficient unto that day was the possible evil thereof. Now, for some relaxation.

He had no sooner determined to relax when he spied coming toward him, over the crest of a hill not less than fifty yards ahead, a compact car about the same size as his Escort, but a foreign model. The oncoming vehicle was traveling at high speed on a collision course with Koesler’s car.

The adrenalin began pumping. Did the Irish enjoy playing chicken? What should he do? Pull off the road to the left into a bog? Pull over to the right and chance a collision with some other driver who might come over the hill in the correct lane?

In the seconds that had passed since the car had appeared, typically, Koesler had come to no decision.

Suddenly, the other vehicle swerved to Koesler’s right and, to his great relief, continued past him on the other side of the road. As it whizzed by, Koesler took considerable interest in the driver and passenger. Unless he was badly mistaken, the driver was Joe Cox and the passenger Patricia Lennon—who appeared to be giving Cox what- for. If Koesler was correct in his identification, they must be returning to Dublin after learning of the attempt on Inspector Koznicki’s life.

He chuckled. Their excursion had been ended abruptly by a news story that needed reporting. While, with everything in as good order as possible in Dublin, and with the promise of no further trouble during their stay, his excursion was just beginning.

The engine seemed to be laboring. He looked down at the gearshift. It was still in third, where he had shoved it after slowing for Cox’s near-miss. Koesler depressed the clutch and shifted into overdrive.

There appeared to be another fairly straight, flat stretch ahead. Gazing down the asphalt highway of indifference, Koesler mused, his mind turning to reminiscences with Irish overtones.

He recalled, and laughed aloud at the memory, the time in the seminary when some patriots, to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, had painted all the toilet seats green. In apparent response then, some others, to commemorate the Feast of the Circumcision, had painted them red.

His mind wandered on to Irish jokes. The one about Mrs. McGillicuddy, whose thirteen children all were in a peck of trouble in various precincts throughout greater New York. She was being consoled as well as admonished by her friendly parish priest.

“Ah, now, Mrs. McGillicuddy,” said Father Murphy, “you must look for your inspiration, as well as your consolation, to the Holy Family. And particularly the Blessed Mother: think of her trials and tribulations, her sorrows, her afflictions—”

“Oh, yes,” says Mrs. McGillicuddy bitterly. “Her and her One!”

He shifted as he drove through Carrick-on-Shannon, which he knew was the home of Nelson Kane’s mother, one of Ireland’s grandest and most delightful gifts to the City of Detroit.

Koesler smiled, depressed the clutch, and shifted to third for a brief but steep hill. Then, back in overdrive, he relaxed again and returned his thoughts to Irish humor.

He remembered the one Arthur Godfrey liked to tell about the small-town girl who became a dancer in New York City. Back home on a visit, she went to confession one Saturday at the parish church.

As luck would have it, she was the last one in line. So, after she had gone to confession, the priest left his confessional, and the two of them began to talk about her life as a dancer. “Now, isn’t that wonderful,” said the priest, “and why don’t you just show me a bit of your routine?” So the girl did a couple of time steps and turned a cartwheel.

Just at that moment, Mrs. Murphy and Mrs. O’Toole entered the church to go to confession. Taking a look at what was going on outside Father McKiernan’s confessional, Mrs. Murphy nudged Mrs. O’Toole: “Glory be to God, would you look at what Father is givin’ out for penance, and me with me patched-up bloomers on!”

Koesler smiled again, as he shifted for another hill. He momentarily considered building up speed as he approached each hill so he wouldn’t have to shift, but in, for him, a rare moment of prescience he also considered the odds of traveling up the hill at considerable velocity only to reach the crest and encounter another Joe Cox coming at him on the wrong side of the road. All things considered, he decided it would be less risky to continue shifting.

Then, he recalled, letting his mind shift back into neutral, there was the time one of his classmates was being measured for a pair of trousers by an Irish tailor, who announced quite loudly, “He’s farty in the seat.”

But, Koesler reflected, that was missing the point. Those were not genuine Irish jokes, not authentic Irish humor. They were the transplanted Irish-American, Pat-and-Mike humor. He recalled hearing Liam Clancy offer a taste of genuine Irish humor. Now, how had it gone?

Oh, yes; it was coming back.

It had happened in a small Irish village, where, one rainy day, the parish priest came to the Maloney house to anoint the ailing grandmother. Over his head, he held an open umbrella. Now, it was the only, and, in fact, the first umbrella the villagers had ever seen. They couldn’t get over it: a man carrying his own cloud over his head.

The priest entered the house and laid the big black umbrella, still open, on the hearth to dry.

All during the ceremony of the anointing, there were sidelong glances cast, as the eyes of all present kept wandering back to the Thing. None had seen such a sight ever.

By the time the anointing was over, the rain had stopped, and the old pastor forgot about his umbrella, leaving it on the hearth, and returning to the parish house without it.

Then, the woman of the house said to her husband, “I’ll not have that Thing,” jerking her head sidewise at it, “in my house.” And she kept it up and wouldn’t let the matter rest.

Well, they couldn’t get the umbrella out of the door no matter which way they turned or twisted it. So the husband gathered the men of the village in for a consultation. They put their heads together and tried to figure out how to make the door wider without ruining the foundation, so they could get rid of the Thing.

Meanwhile, it began to rain again. The priest, recalling his umbrella, returned to the house, was admitted,