Liam Dwyer lit a cigarette from the stub in his mouth. He put the packet of Sweet Afton into his pocket and dropped the stub to the ground.
‘You’re not the gouger they crack you up to be, Dessie.’
‘So Keller’s not with Lynch?’ Stefan returned to the matter in hand.
‘He was off to the Shelbourne for a drink. There’s a Christmas party on, every German in Dublin. Jimmy Lynch said they’d see him back here.’
‘Well, it’s a pity we didn’t know there was a party. I’m sure the inspector would have told us to back off on the raid if someone had said. But they’re always the lads for a bit of Christmas spirit in Special Branch.’
‘How much longer do I stand here, Sarge? Can’t someone take over?’
Stefan laughed. ‘You’ll have to ask Sergeant Lynch that, Liam.’
The Shelbourne Hotel was warm and welcoming. Two flags still flew over the brightly lit entrance, looking out on to Stephen’s Green — the Nazi swastika and the Irish tricolour. As Detective Sergeant Gillespie and Garda MacMahon entered the frayed-at-the-edges splendour of the Shelbourne lobby the top-hatted doorman smiled. He also gave a quick, warning glance to the porter at his desk. He knew who they were. Detectives didn’t just call in there for a drink. The porter emerged from behind the desk with the same barely disguised combination of welcome and wariness.
‘Anything I can help you with, Mr Gillespie?’
‘There will be, Anto. When I’ve worked out what it is I’ll tell you.’
They walked towards the doors that opened into the dining room, which had been taken over for the evening by the German Christmas party. Stefan stopped and peered into the room. It was festooned with red and white and black swastika flags and red and white Christmas decorations. Inside there was a buzz of loud and cheerful German conversation. Men, women and children filled the tables and milled around amidst the debris of an almost completed meal. Just then a loud ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ boomed across the lobby. As Stefan and Dessie turned, they saw a fat, bearded figure in red, with a bulging sack over his shoulder, heading towards the dining room and the party. He was accompanied by a middle-aged elf in green and gold and a Brunhilde-like maiden, flaxen plaits and all, in German peasant costume. They also carried sacks of presents. The two detectives stepped back. Santa Claus and his companions burst into the dining room to the sound of applause. Children clustered round Santy as he fought his way through the crowd. Stefan turned to the porter, still hovering a little way behind them.
‘Hugo Keller, do you know him?’
‘Mr Keller, of course.’
‘Is he in there? I can’t see him.’
‘He’ll be in the bar. He was just now.’
They moved on towards the Horseshoe Bar.
‘It’s hardly likely Keller isn’t going to notice us,’ remarked Dessie.
‘I’d say you’re right.’
‘But aren’t we meant to be leaving him alone? Inspector Donaldson said the case is dead. And didn’t Lynch tell us to keep our noses out of it?’
‘Which case is that?’
‘What do you mean which case is that?’
‘This is about a missing woman. Susan Field. Twenty-three. Student at UCD. Lived in Little Jerusalem. Sixteen Lennox Street. She disappeared five months ago. We’re trying to trace her last known movements and find out who was the last person to see her. It’s a cold trail though. It’s bound to be after all this time. I’ve got a hunch Herr Keller might be able to help us.’
‘And where did all that come from?’
‘Hannah Rosen. She’s a friend of Susan Field’s.’
‘The woman — ’
‘The woman we arrested at Keller’s house, the one who wasn’t having an abortion after all, and the one DS Lynch dumped on Mother Eustacia.’
‘It doesn’t sound much like leaving Keller alone.’
‘But this is a different inquiry altogether. We only want some help.’
‘What’s this missing woman got to do with Special Branch?’ Dessie didn’t like the sound of it. When Stefan started following his nose you never got much sense of where it would lead. But experience had taught the guard that it usually meant trouble. There didn’t seem any doubt about that here.
‘Nothing I should think. We don’t want to tread on those fellers’ toes.’
As they pushed their way into the small bar it was packed. People were spilling out into the hallway. Inside much of the conversation was in German, loud and enthusiastic and fuelled by large quantities of highly proofed Christmas cheer. The detectives squeezed through to the bar, Stefan apologising in festive German. Dessie caught the barman’s eye.
‘A hot whiskey.’
‘That’ll be two!’ called Stefan.
The barman poured two whiskeys and topped them up with hot water from the kettle. Stefan was trying to locate Keller. Dessie took the drinks and moved his hand towards the wallet in his jacket pocket. It was a gesture. He didn’t intend to pay and the barman didn’t expect him to. He simply waved his hand. It was on the house. It always was. Stefan pushed his way through the noisy crowd again, exchanging more Christmas greetings in German as he went. Then he stopped, close to a corner table where Hugo Keller sat with two other people. There was a sharp-featured, middle-aged man with balding, close-cropped hair and thick-rimmed circular glasses, and a younger man, with a shock of dark hair, wearing a brown suit that bore a small swastika emblem on one lapel. The two older men were arguing. It wasn’t comfortable and it certainly wasn’t festive. But they spoke quietly and it was impossible for Stefan to pick up even a few of the words. The younger man sat back, smoking a Turkish cigarette, with an expression of impatience. Keller became aware someone was watching him. He looked up.
Hugo Keller was surprised, but it was only seconds before the same look of supercilious self-confidence he had shown when he was arrested reappeared. The other two looked at Sergeant Gillespie too. They had no idea who he was. Keller fired some kind of explanation, unheard over the melee. The older man in glasses looked even more ill-tempered. He was distinctly put out by the explanation. The three got up abruptly. Stefan smiled at the abortionist and raised his glass. ‘Frohliche Weihnachten!’ The Christmas greeting spread through the bar, until even the three men trying to leave were forced to respond to the people around them wishing them a Merry Christmas. Hugo Keller was only a few feet from Stefan, who was still irritated by the smirk of invulnerability that hung about his smile. ‘Did you find what you were looking for, Herr Doktor Keller?’ He stressed ‘Doktor’. The smirk disappeared. Stefan had thrown these words out on a whim, but he had got something back. Whatever was being searched for at twenty-five Merrion Square, it hadn’t been found. Then Keller was gone. The detectives downed the whiskeys and pushed their way back through the crowd to the hotel lobby. As they extricated themselves at last from the bar, the three Germans were ahead of them, just turning into the dining room.
People were stepping aside for Father Christmas and his entourage, now emerging from the party, their task completed. Chriskindl continued to call out ‘Ho, Ho, Ho,’ and ‘Herzliche Weihnachtsgrusse!’ He reached into his pocket and handed small Nazi lapel pins to anyone sitting in the hotel lobby or passing through it. He grabbed Stefan’s reluctant hand and thrust one into it. The policemen carried on to the doors that opened into the party. All around children were playing with their gifts from Santy, at the tables, on the floor. Several of them ran out into the lobby chasing a boy who held a model fighter plane over his head, all making rat-tat-tat machine gun noises.
In the restaurant, waiters were ladling out mulled wine. Someone started playing the piano. After only a few notes an abrupt and almost complete silence descended on the noisy gathering. A boy of nine or ten was lifted up on to one of the tables. He started to sing. As he did, everyone in the room who wasn’t already standing, rose. Detective Sergeant Gillespie was one of the few people — besides the partygoers — who understood the words. They had nothing to do with Christmas, but after some of the day’s events they made him feel very uncomfortable. ‘Deutschland erwache aus deinem bosen Traum! Gib fremden Juden in deinem Reich nicht Raum!’ Germany wake from this fearful dream. Give Jews no room to live and scheme. Germany arise, our battle cry. Our Aryan blood shall never die! There were tears in watching German eyes. Even Dessie MacMahon, who understood not a single word, was captivated by the boy’s perfect voice.
‘Let’s go, Dessie,’ said Stefan abruptly.
As they turned, he beckoned the porter over. He looked back into the room once more, pointing to where the
