guns, but as the State Pathologist held it up he recognised what it was.
‘A Messrs Accles and Shelvoke captive bolt pistol,’ proclaimed Wayland-Smith. ‘Not a pretty thing. I borrowed it from the slaughterhouse which is, in the absence of cadavers, the source of carcasses, usually pigs, for my anatomy students. The skulls always come with a neat, round hole, where the animal has been, as we like to say — to show what nice fellers we all are — humanely stunned before slaughter. Now, if we take a pig’s head — ’
In a gesture that was unashamedly theatrical, he picked up a piece of oilcloth to reveal a pink pig’s head, sitting on a large white plate; it only needed an apple in its mouth to go into an oven. He cocked the pistol and held it to the pink, bristly skin, just above the eyes, and fired. The blank cartridge discharged violently in the echoing mortuary; there was the smell of cordite. They were both deafened for several seconds. ‘There are pistols that operate by means of compressed air,’ shouted Wayland-Smith. ‘It’s all I could find, I’m afraid.’ He put down the pistol and pointed at a small hole. ‘Remove the flesh and we’d have a match for the hole in our friend’s skull.’
‘Which may or may not be the cause of death,’ said Stefan.
‘Yes. The function of the gun is to render an animal unconscious so that its throat can be cut for bleeding. I don’t know if that killed him. But between whatever smashed into him and the bolt from the stunner piercing his brain, we can at least say death couldn’t have come as a great surprise.’
‘So when did it happen?’
‘1932. Some time in June or July.’
‘Now you’re showing off.’ Stefan hadn’t expected that much.
Wayland-Smith gestured at several dark shapes sitting on a sheet of white paper. Beside them were the remains of the dead man’s leather wallet.
‘I’ve cut open the wallet. There are several pieces of what was originally paper. Naturally most of it has perished, but the conditions have preserved some things rather well. I’ve done as much as I can to clean up the scraps and dry them out; much more and we’d simply destroy the things. There’s a little corner of a ten shilling note. It might get you some sort of date if you can find a serial number, but not terribly useful unless it was a new note. Some of the paper has simply congealed into papier mache. You won’t do much with that. And then there’s this, which I think has two clearly discernible words, if you look here, and part of a date as well, just here.’
He handed across a magnifying glass and Stefan bent over the scrap of blackened paper. After a moment he could make out some letters and what looked like a number, all slightly darker than the surrounding brown.
‘It’s a three, or an eight?’
‘One or the other I think.’
‘And that has to be July, doesn’t it? But no year.’
Wayland-Smith shrugged cheerfully and pointed. He had more.
‘Do you think that says “the word” or “the world”? I’d go for “world”.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ said Stefan, smiling slowly as he looked up at the State Pathologist. It was his turn now. ‘
‘What do you mean, Sergeant?’
‘William Congreve. I saw it at the Gate, a couple of years ago. I suppose it would have been summer. It’s July thirty-two. A theatre ticket.’
Dessie MacMahon heaped a third spoonful of sugar into a steaming cup.
‘Jesus, you’d want to keep your back to the wall in that place!’
‘But your virtue’s intact.’
‘Sure that’d be telling!’ Dessie grinned and gulped the tea. It had been his first visit to the Gate Theatre. Even if he’d got no further than the box office and front of house manager, its exotic reputation could not go unremarked. Closer examination of the ticket in the dead man’s wallet had confirmed the date and the name of the play. It had also revealed a seat number.
‘They thought I was joking them when I wanted to know who’d bought a ticket for a play two years ago. This front of house feller, Sinclair, was rolling his eyes at the woman in the box office like I was an eejit straight from the eejits’ home.’ Dessie grinned and drank some of the tea.
‘But?’ asked Stefan.
‘Hmm?’
‘There’s a but.’
‘The date on the ticket wasn’t any old date, Sarge. It was the first night.’ He was pleased with himself. ‘When they put the thing on after — ’
‘I know what it is, Dessie.’
‘That’ll be why you’re a sergeant so.’ He drained the cup. ‘Anyway, most people there wouldn’t have bought tickets. They’d have been invited.’
‘So there would have been a list?’
‘There would.’
‘And?’
‘They’re going to see if they can dig it out. I wouldn’t say it’s the best organised place. You wouldn’t expect it to be, would you? The arty type.’
Stefan surveyed the debris piled on Dessie’s desk. Garda MacMahon laughed. Suddenly they both sensed someone watching them. They looked round to see Inspector Donaldson in his usual position, in the doorway, debating whether he really wanted to walk in and have a conversation with Detective Sergeant Gillespie or whether it could be left for another day.
‘This body’s a nasty business. I’ve just seen the autopsy report.’
‘Very nasty, sir.’
‘Are you any nearer identifying him?’
‘We’ve got something.’
‘What about this woman you’re looking for?’
‘Susan Field.’
The inspector hesitated. This was what was really on his mind.
‘I understand there’s a connection with the man Keller, Sergeant.’
Donaldson sniffed uncomfortably, but it had to be said.
‘There is. We know she was going to him for an abortion.’
The word still offended Inspector Donaldson and he thought he’d seen the back of it. ‘Didn’t they look into her at Rathmines? They didn’t find anything.’
‘There’s more evidence now, and more reason to be concerned.’
‘They concluded she’d gone to England,’ persisted the inspector.
‘I’m not convinced of that sir. There’s no evidence at all. It’s an assumption, just that. The abortion is still the last thing we know about Susan Field. Of course, if Keller was still here we’d have someone to talk to about it.’
Stefan and Dessie gazed blandly at Donaldson, waiting for him to say something. He was the one who had allowed the Special Branch detectives to pull Hugo Keller out of the Pearse Street cells. But as far as the inspector was concerned it wasn’t his business any more, and that was the end of it.
‘You’d better take that up with Special Branch.’
‘It didn’t go down well last time.’ Stefan pointed at his bruised face.
‘Is that some kind of accusation, Gillespie?’
‘It should be. What do you think, sir? Shall we have a go?’
Stefan glanced at Dessie and Dessie tried hard to keep a straight face. Inspector Donaldson bristled. If there was any truth to the suggestion that Detective Sergeant Lynch had something to do with Gillespie’s injuries it was between the two of them. Lynch was a thug; Gillespie ought to have known better than to cross him. No one would thank James Donaldson for poking his nose into Special Branch’s sewer and he had no intention of doing so.
‘I suggest you get on with your job and put personal matters aside.’
He was pleased with that; it came very close to sounding like leadership. But there seemed no need to cross the threshold into the CID office now. He turned and walked away. The soles of his always highly polished shoes echoed loudly and decisively along the corridor. Dessie looked at Stefan.
‘You haven’t told him there’s a priest in it somewhere?’
‘Hasn’t the man got enough to worry about?’ laughed Stefan.
