The one who most resembled the description the boys had of a Mr. Alastair Wyland, a well-dressed dapper fellow with watch fob and wolf’s head cane, called for one card which precipitated a bit of banter and laughter.
The dealer, a man who looked as old as wood and as hairy as an Irish wolfhound laughed heartily and said, “So… going for an inside straight, eh? Hehehehe… it never works, son.”
“It is worth it just to hear you call me son,” replied Wyland, whipping the single discard at the old man. Wyland, frayed, grey scruffy beard and all, appeared in his early sixties if not older. Most assuredly, rough cut wrinkles spoke of years of experience with worry.
“Mind those long shots,” added the dealer. “You Americans. Risk-takers you are!”
“You are Mr. Wyland?” asked Declan, now standing over the poker table, making the four men nervous. In fact, it appeared everyone sitting here had fragile nerves and itchy fingers.
Wyland was more nervous than any of them, Declan decided, but he covered it well as a good poker player must. Wyland didn’t look up as the others had, instead sizing Declan up from the shadow thrown across the cards. “You’re in my light,” was all that Wyland said to Declan’s shadow.
Declan could see that Wyland was not looking for an inside straight but rather held two pairs. Sixes and eights.
Thomas, beside Declan repeated the question. “Are you Wyland or not?”
“Who might be asking?” the heavyset, well-dressed detective asked.
“We’re wanting to hire you. To find my friend’s uncle who’s gone missing.” Declan nudged Thomas to speak up on the matter, but before Thomas could go into it, one of the men at the poker table said, “It’s them two miners that disappeared, eh? Who’re you lads to O’Toole and McAffey?”
“What two miners?” asked Declan.
Thomas said to Wyland, “My Uncle Anton’s the watchman at Harland and Wolf—the shipyards.”
“Declan put in. “We were supposed to meet him at midnight last eve.”
“But he didn’t show up,” Wyland said, bored, “and he never came home neither. Wife’s worried sick—they’d had a row.”
“All true but how did you know?” asked Declan, eyes wide.
“Hear it every day sittin’ here, son.”
This made all the card players break into laughter.
“Look, this is no joke!” Thomas shouted, drawing Wyland’s eye. “We’re all sick with worry.”
Wyland looked around the table. “Three men missing just like that, all yesterday? Sounds like they found a keg, eh lads?”
Again everyone at the table laughed, one slapping hard against the wood, all except for one man, the old dealer. “Tim McAffey and Francis O’Toole are not the sort to up and disappear, keg or no keg. They are good men, both—stalwart miners! And no one’s more reliable than that big watchman, Fiore.”
“Like yourself McClain, I’m sure,” replied Wyland who looked at his pocket watch and saw that it was just past five, and that he’d been here too long. “Let’s finish the hand, shall we, lads? Then its time I find a meal.”
“Will you take our case?” asked Thomas, displaying fifty-dollars in bills. “It’s all I could collect, but I can get more.”
“One thing at a time.” Wyland continued with his game and his drink, and when the cards were laid out, everyone but Wyland groaned. The detective, known to have left America for Belfast, raked in his winnings. Rumors circulated about the man; why would anyone migrate to Ireland from America? It was not done except for the other way round. He was a secretive man, and in Ireland for fifteen years—the last three in Belfast—or so it was said. Most seriously, no one knew exactly where in America he’d migrated from, but it had been a number of years now that he enjoyed a reputation of getting things done here at street level.
Others said he did so with an iron fist and a swift gun. That and the fact he’d become a fixture in the neighborhood with connections to both police and lowlifes. This made him the right man to locate Anton Fiore as the local authorities had shown little interest in the missing man.
As Wyland now basked in his winnings, Thomas Coogan informed Wyland, “We wanted a real detective—a Pinkerton agent—but we couldn’t afford one.”
“Well now I’m no Pinky and never’ve been one,” replied Wyland, scooping up the last of his coins. “So you’re stuck with me is it?” Wyland stood and stuffed his pockets with his winnings, smoke encircling his head from a pipe he’d taken the time to relight. “I warrant it’s no coincidence your uncle, young man, has disappeared alongside these two miners. Who can tell me where the miners were last seen, and where they take their secret meetings these days.”
“I-I dunno nothing ’bout’ no secret meetings, but I’ll take you to the last place anyone saw McAffey and O’Toole,” said Missing Fingers.
“Where might that be?”
“Number 9 mineshaft; they’d closed it down, you see, but later sent those two in to inspect it. Odd thing is…” he trailed off as if picturing the odd thing.
“Walter, what odd thing?” asked Wyland, leaning into the table.
“They’d been inspecting, but strange thing is the lift, she come up alone by some accounts… but at least one man claims to’ve seen O’Toole come up. But the super, McAffey, he wasn’t with him.”
“What kind of a town is this?” asked Wyland. “You mean to tell me two men were sent into a questionable mineshaft, but no one was in charge of seeing they’d come out?”
“It was quittin’ time, and management don’t pay overtime.”
“Ahhh… makes perfect sense.”
“See the lift was up next day, so it’s a cinch they left outta there.”
“A cinch, eh? Take me to the shaft in question.” Wyland looked hard now at the two young men who had hired him. He opened his palm for payment. “You fellows don’t look like miners.”
“How would you know either way?” asked Declan, withholding the bills.
“Your hands… no coal under the nails, no discoloration of the skin.”
Thomas unconsciously studied his hands. “We are—”
Wyland stopped Thomas with a finger to his lips. “You are students at the university no doubt.”
“No doubt?” challenged Declan. “I suspect you are making an educated guess.”
“Your method of dress, and your politeness give you away—along with a slight scent of the dissection room —formaldehydes, I should say. Aside from this, you are disciplined but show no sign between you of ever having been in the military. Guessing that professors keep you in stringent line rather than sergeants.”
“How can you… how can he… Declan, he’s reading our minds!” Thomas appeared astounded.
“No, no—just quite good at reading our fingernails and ascots,” countered Declan. “The art of detection, correct Mr. Wyland?”
“True but it oft requires intuition and instinct as well as a trained eye. Come along, and we’ll see if the shaft or the lift will tell us anything.”
The two medical students followed the private detective, who in turn followed the miner named Walter. A handful of other curious miners slowly got up and followed the group. Walter said over his shoulder, “No one’s wanted to go near that shaft.”
“Curse on it, eh?” asked Wyland, smirking.
“Had a cave in; McAffey and O’Toole were ’spose to assess the damage, and when the lift was discovered, boss decided they’d gone home for bed. But no sooner’n next mornin’ wives were down at the jail then the mine looking for ’em.”
“Life’s a mystery,” muttered Wyland.
“Not been seen since.”
Wyland calmly replied in his best Sherlock Holmes imitation, “Most likely there exists a logical explanation.”
Walter shrugged. “May’ve gone over to the next town to confer with the owners, and may’ve gotten drunk
