Gallagher uttered the sentence slowly and in a loud voice, looking closely at Gypo as he did so. Gypo started. His lips opened wide. But he remained silent. His lips moved, forming the words Gallagher had uttered silently.
Gallagher watched the movement of Gypo’s lips with curious detachment. Then he smiled slightly before continuing.
“Before that of course,” he continued, “I met you myself in the public-house, in—er—Ryan’s public-house in Titt Street. There was where you told me that funny story about the Rat Mulligan. Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! …”
Gallagher suddenly roared with laughter, holding his sides, with his head in the air. Gypo almost leaped from his form. He trembled.
“Well, of all the stories!” continued Gallagher, pretending to gasp with laughter. “I can’t make out why you told me that story, Gypo. I can’t make it out. Well, there’s no knowing. … But we must get on with our own work. Time’s running short and we have some stiff work to do before the night’s over. Some stiff work, Gypo. Well? Before you came into the public-house you were in Francis McPhillip’s house in 44 Titt Street. There again, you seemed to be acting in a very funny way, according to Bartly Mulholland. Of course, I can understand your being stirred up and excited on account of the death of your pal. But still. … Do you remember giving Mrs. McPhillip the money that fell out of your pocket on to the kitchen floor? What did you do that for? Eh? Good Lord! You have left a trail of gold after you all the evening. I wish it were as easy to track the man you saw coming out of the Dunboy Lodging House after Frankie. But why did you give that few shillings to Mrs. McPhillip and say it was all the money you had when you knew very well you had a lot more in your pocket at that very moment?”
“I don’t know,” growled Gypo.
His voice was no longer weak and childish. He was stiffening again.
“Maybe you were drunk even then,” suggested Gallagher, almost excitedly, as if he were deliberately trying to apologize for Gypo’s absurdities. “Maybe you were drunk. What?”
“Didn’t I tell ye before I was drunk,” grunted Gypo.
“Ha! I knew ye were drunk. Where had you been drinking?”
“Couldn’t tell ye where, but I know I was drinkin’ with Katie Fox.”
“Ha! Now we have it,” cried Gallagher, striking the table.
“Now you got what?” yelled Gypo, panting and leaning forward savagely. He opened his fists out like claws. Ho spread his feet out ready to spring. “What have ye got, Commandant?” he yelled hoarsely.
Gallagher took his pistol by the butt and tapped the muzzle slightly on the table three times. The two armed men pointed their revolvers at Gypo’s back. The three judges who had been calmly smoking cigarettes started, Mulholland made a slight movement towards the door.
Then Gypo subsided into his seat loosely. The dreadful fascination of Gallagher’s cold eyes sucked his passion clean out of him. Breathing in a tired way, he sat still. The tension relaxed again. Gallagher laid his pistol on the table and smiled.
“No need to have got excited, Gypo,” he said. “I was just saying that it was when you were drinking with Katie Fox you said you robbed a sailor at the back of Cassidy’s public-house. Maybe she asked you where you got the money out of pure idle curiosity and you told her that as a joke. We all know what curious creatures women are. That doesn’t matter, though. What does matter is this. Could you remember what time that was? When you were drinking with Katie Fox? What time was it?”
“I can’t say,” mumbled Gypo stolidly. “I’m drunk. I can’t remember.”
“Well, now that’s a pity,” said Gallagher. “For it’s very important for us to find out what that time was. If we were able to find out what time that was, then we would surely be able to find out lots more. Let us say it was nine o’clock at that time. Let us say nine. That wouldn’t be far out? Would it be far out, Gypo?”
“How do I know what time it was?” roared Gypo. “Amn’t I tellin’ ye that I was drunk?”
“Well, now,” continued Gallagher, getting a little more excited, “we have got as far as nine o’clock. We are as far back as nine o’clock.”
He paused. His face began to light up and his forehead began to wrinkle. His eyes were no longer steely and cold. They became restless points, fiery and full of turbulent activity. They kept roaming over Gypo’s face. His lips, on the contrary, were creased at the corners in a strange, dry smile. His voice was laughing and at a slightly higher and sweeter pitch.
“Now we have arrived at nine o’clock,” he continued, “travelling backwards. Great way this for travelling, Gypo. You never know what you are going to bump against without knowing. Any minute now we are liable to find something, Gypo. We might in a few moments, even jump on the man that informed on Frankie McPhillip. We might jump on him. Now! Easy there, Gypo. I mean the man you saw tracking Frankie McPhillip out of the Dunboy Lodging House. Could you give the court any idea of the description of that man you saw? You say he was like Mulligan? Do you say he was like Mulligan? Speak, man. Speak, I say,” he roared.
But Gypo was no longer able to speak.
A sudden transformation had come over him. As a thunderstorm bursts over a calm sea on a sultry day, rending the oily ocean back and covering it with cavorting, black
