“Cut that out,” he cried. “Did the police find any papers at No. 44? No. Good. Was anything found on the body? You don’t know. Well, you better find out tomorrow at the inquest. Now beat it. Keep at Gypo’s heels like a pot of glue. Find out every damn thing you can. Bring him along sharp to the Bogey Hole at one-thirty. Off.”
Mulholland disappeared without a word. Gallagher turned to Connor.
“You Connor. Mobilize six men of your section. Round up Mulligan. Get him to the Bogey Hole. Get busy.”
Connor mumbled something and disappeared.
Gallagher remained staring at the ground, alone, lost in thought. Drunken voices were singing in the next compartment. Feet were shuffling. A droning voice cried constantly: “Time, please, gentlemen, time.”
Gallagher’s eyes distended dreamily. He sighed.
“The least little rift,” he murmured to himself, “and everything is burst open. Then it’s all up with me. I’ve got to stamp out this damned informer whoever he is. It may be Gypo. It might be the Rat, though that’s very doubtful. That’s of no consequence. What is of consequence is the fact that there is an informer. … Good God! An informer is the great danger. Every man’s hand is against me. It’s only fear that protects me. I must make an example of this fellow.”
His voice had gradually died out. Now silence reigned in the room again. The room was hot and stifling, full of the smell of stale drink and tobacco. He stared at the floor.
A cockroach peered out of its hole, contemplated a blotch of drink four inches away from its snout and then disappeared again. It would come out later on and suck the blotch.
The distance was full of sound as if many things were happening there.
Then Gallagher raised his head with a start. He sighed and walked rapidly over to the aperture. He tapped the panel with his knuckles. It was raised up almost immediately. The pretty red head appeared. Gallagher nodded. The red head disappeared again and the slide was pulled down. Gallagher waited. After three seconds a little door to the left was opened quietly and the barmaid stepped into the room, shutting the door carefully behind her. She rushed immediately to Gallagher and threw her arms around his neck. He kissed her lips several times rapidly. Then he unwound her arms.
“Got anything for me?” he asked.
She nodded and took a piece of paper from within the breast of her black dress. He stuck it within his raincoat.
“Right,” he muttered dreamily.
Then he kissed her again on the lips and patted her cheek. He took a pace away, but she grabbed at him. She held him, looking beseechingly into his face.
“Have ye got nothin’ to say to me, Dan?” she whispered, almost sobbing.
“For goodness’ sake, Kitty, have sense,” he muttered savagely. “This is no time for jig-acting.” He put a finger to his throat. “I’m up to here in it. The whole Organization is in danger.”
“O Lord! What is it, Dan? Tell me.”
“An informer. See ye tomorrow. Let me go. Good night.”
He kissed her on the forehead. Her arms loosened. He was gone. She looked after him dejectedly. Then she shivered and gripped her breasts.
Gallagher walked up Titt Street. Here and there a workman recognized him and saluted respectfully. He did not acknowledge the salutes. He wheeled sharply in at the door of No. 44 and knocked. The door was opened almost immediately by Mary McPhillip. She also started and put her hand to her breast when she saw him.
“Good evening, Mary,” he said gently, holding out his hand. “May I come in? I want to speak to your mother.”
“Yes,” said Mary excitedly; “mother is in the kitchen, but you had better come into the parlour. Father is in the kitchen, too, and there would surely be a row if he saw you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Gallagher. “Is there anybody else there?”
“No, everybody else is gone.”
“Who is that yer talkin’ to, Mary?” came Jack McPhillip’s voice from the kitchen.
“Nobody atall, father,” cried Mary.
“Don’t I hear a man’s voice,” cried the father. “Who is he?”
“Hist! It’s all right,” whispered Gallagher, pushing past her as she tried to speak again. “He won’t bite me. It’s just me, Mr. McPhillip. How are you? I’m very sorry to hear of your trouble.”
The two of them met at the kitchen door. They stared at one another for a moment. Then Gallagher made a movement to come forward and McPhillip with a little start, moved backwards. He did not speak until he was near the bed again.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said angrily. “An’ what brings you here at this hour of the night?”
Gallagher took no notice of him. He turned to Mrs. McPhillip who was still in the same position by the fire, telling her rosary beads.
“I am sorry to trouble you, Mrs. McPhillip,” he said gently and respectfully, “in the middle of your … eh … but there’s a question or two I have to ask you for the sake of him that’s dead. Would you be kind enough to—”
“And what right have you to ask a question or two?” cried McPhillip, raging because Gallagher had refused even to talk to him.
He was sitting on the bed now. He sat on the bed timidly, as if he were in somebody else’s house.
Gallagher turned to him slowly and looked at him fiercely in the eyes.
“I have the right,” he said, “of a revolutionary to track a traitor to the cause.”
“Ha!” sneered McPhillip. “An’ what kind of a revolutionary d’ye call yersel’?”
“A revolutionary Communist,” answered Gallagher.
Then he turned about insolently and bent down his head to talk to Mrs. McPhillip.
“Communist be damned,” cried McPhillip, jumping off the bed. “D’ye know what I’m goin’ to tell ye? Ye—”
“Father,” cried Mary, wringing her hands, “don’t—”
“Shut up, you young rip,” stamped the father; “am I master in me own house or am I not? You, ye Communist, as ye call yersel’! Yer the greatest scoundrel in Ireland. Yer the greatest enemy o’ yer
