The Silver Swan

'Your friend Mr. Hunt. The one whose wife died-remember?'

Now the hearse followed where the Archbishop's car had gone; the long, bare space in the back, where the coffin had been, was lugubrious in its emptiness.

'Yes,' Quirke said. 'I remember. And?'

'Ah, God help the poor fellow, he's in an awful state.'

'I imagine he is.'

The policeman glanced at him again. 'I sometimes suspect, Mr. Quirke,' he said, 'that you have a hard heart.'

To this Quirke made no response. Instead he asked: 'What did Billy Hunt say?'

'About what?'

They came in sight of Rose Crawford and Phoebe, walking ahead of them along the cinder path, Rose linking the younger woman's arm in her own.

'About his wife's death,' Quirke said patiently.

'Oh, not much. Doesn't know why she did it, if she did it.'

'If?'

'Ah, now, Mr. Quirke, don't play the innocent. You have your doubts as much as I have in this case.'

They had gone half a dozen paces before Quirke spoke again. 'Do you think Billy Hunt is not innocent either?'

The inspector chuckled. 'In my experience, no one is completely innocent. But then, you'd expect me to say that, wouldn't you?'

They caught up now with Rose and Phoebe. When Phoebe saw it was Quirke behind her she murmured something and disengaged her arm from Rose's and walked off briskly along the path. Rose looked after her and shook her head. 'So abrupt, the young,' she said. Quirke introduced her to the policeman. 'How do you do, Officer?' she said, offering a slender, black-gloved hand to Hackett, who smiled shyly, the corners of his fish mouth stretching up almost to his earlobes. 'So glad to meet a friend of Mr. Quirke's. You're one of a select and tiny band, so far as we can see.'

Quirke was gazing after Phoebe, who had met up with Mal and stood with him now under the arched gateway that led to Glasnevin Road. They looked more like father and daughter, Quirke knew, than Quirke and she would ever look.

'And you must have known the Judge, too, of course,' Rose was saying to the policeman. His grin grew wider still. 'Oh, I did, ma'am,' he said, putting on his Midlands drawl to match her southern twang. 'A grand person he was, too, and a great upholder of justice and the law. Isn't that so, Mr. Quirke?'

Quirke looked at him. Did he imagine it, or did the policeman's left eyelid momentarily flicker?

2

SHE MET THE SILVER-HAIRED MAN ONE WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON WHEN she arrived at the house in Adelaide Road and he was there, sitting on the sofa in Dr. Kreutz's room and looking as if he owned the place. She had thought the Doctor was alone because the copper bowl, his signal to her, was not on the windowsill, but it was only that he had forgotten to put it there, which just showed how agitated he must have been. When he opened the door to her he gave her such a strange, wild look, the meaning of which she could not understand until she went in ahead of him and there was the man sitting sprawled on the sofa in his camel-hair coat. He had one arm draped on the back of the sofa, and his feet with his ankles crossed were on the low table. He was smoking a cigarette, holding it in an affected way, between the second and third fingers of his left hand. He gave her a lazy smile and looked her up and down and said, 'Well well, who have we here?' It was the camel-hair coat again, the wings of it flung wide open on either side of him, that made him seem to be displaying himself to her in a way that was almost, she thought, indecent. Dr. Kreutz stood to one side, glancing from one of them to the other with a bemused, helpless expression. She felt awkward, and did not know where to look. The man took his feet from the table and stood up languidly and offered her a slender, almost colorless hand.

'The name is White,' he said. 'Leslie White.'

She took his hand, which was soft as a girl's and coolly damp, but forgot to say her name, so mesmerized was she by that crooked smile, that lock of hair flopping on his forehead-it was platinum, really, more than silver-and those eyes in which were mixed amusement, curiosity, brazenness, but which also had a rueful, mock-apologetic gleam, as if he were saying to her, Yes, I know, I'm a rogue, but I'm such fun, too, you'll see. Dr. Kreutz roused himself then and introduced her, as 'Mrs. Hunt,' but she, lifting her chin, looked straight into Leslie White's face and said: 'Deirdre.' She was surprised how steady her voice sounded.

Dr. Kreutz mentioned tea, but it was plain to see his heart was not in the offer. She had never seen him so unsure of himself. He still had that wild, mute look with which he had greeted her at the door, like that of a character in the pictures trying to let the heroine know there is a man with a gun hiding behind the curtains, and he kept lifting his two hands, palm upwards in a peculiar gesture, almost as if he was praying, and letting them fall back again, defeatedly, to his sides. Leslie White ignored him, did not even glance in his direction. 'I must be going,' he said now, in that soft, sleepy voice that he had, still smiling down at her. As if he knew how uneasily she felt about that coat of his he drew it now slowly, caressingly, around himself, watching her all the time, and knotted the belt loosely, disdaining the buckle. 'Good-bye, Deirdre,' he said. He pronounced it Deardree. He went to the door, followed hurriedly by Dr. Kreutz, and turned once more before going out and gave her a last, faint, mischievous smile.

She heard them in the hall, Dr. Kreutz speaking in an urgent undertone and Leslie White saying dismissively, 'Yes, yes, yes, keep your hair on, for heaven's sake.' She heard the front door open and shut again, and a moment later she glimpsed that shining head of his, like a silver helmet, ducking past the window.

What seemed a long time went by before Dr. Kreutz came back into the room. She had not realized that a person that color could turn pale, but his brown skin had taken on a definite grayish tinge. He would not look at her. She said she was sorry to have interrupted but when she saw that the copper pot was not in the window… He nodded distractedly. She felt sorry for him, but she was burning with curiosity, too.

She did not stay long, that day. She could see Dr. Kreutz was relieved when she lied and said that she had arranged to meet Billy, and that she would have to go. At the door he made that ineffectual, pleading gesture again, lifting only one hand this time, and letting it fall back, helplessly.

It was Christmastime and the weather was raw, with flurries of wet snow and showers of sleet as sharp as needles. Although it was the middle of the afternoon it was almost dark, and what light remained was the color of dishwater. Outside the gate she paused and glanced in both directions along the road, then turned right and walked towards Leeson Street, pulling up the collar of her coat against the cold.

He was standing in the shelter of the newspaper kiosk at the bridge. She was not surprised; something in her had told her he would wait for her. He crossed the road, rubbing his hands together and smiling reproachfully. 'Crumbs,' he said, 'I thought you were never going to get away.'

She considered telling him what she thought of him for his presumption, but before she could say anything he took her arm and turned and drew her with him across the road to the corner of Fitzwilliam Street.

'And where,' she said, with a disbelieving laugh, 'do you think we're going?'

'We're going, my dear, to a pub, where I shall order a hot whiskey for