Red Herring Page 8

  Barnes blew out a stream of smoke. His tone was flat. “It’s a democratic organisation. The boys liked him. All that Irish malarkey. It was better to present a united front,” he said.

  Molloy looked around. “In the note the police found at the beach he said something about stealing money from the Welfare Fund.”

  Barnes dismissed the suggestion. “Toby wouldn’t let him within coo-ee of our money. Or anything else, for that matter.” He looked straight at Molloy. “He was a flippin’ rat.”

  “A rat?”

  Barnes’ hands were shaking. “A rat,” he repeated. “A stooge. A sell-out merchant.”

  “Come on—” Molloy began.

  “Come on, hell,” said Barnes, his face turning red. “Nobody yelled louder than Frank about the need to face down the employers and the Government and them, not even me. And now that we’re out on a limb, facing the chop, what does he do?” Barnes dropped his half-smoked rollie on the floor and stamped it out with a large boot. “Goes to Piha for the waters.”

  “Who was he working for, do you reckon?”

  Barnes shrugged. “Who stands to gain the most from the present situation?” he asked. “The ship owners? Sid Holland? The Yanks?” He put his big hand on Molloy’s shoulder. “You’re the detective, Johnny. You work it out.”

  He walked off down the corridor as the last notes of “Jarama Valley” died away.

  From this valley they say we are going

  Do not hasten to bid us adieu

  Even though we lost the battle of Jarama

  We’ll set this valley free afore we’re through.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Outside the Trades Hall people were talking and smoking. Molloy made his way through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces. A voice called out to him. “Mr Molloy! Wait.” It was Caitlin O’Carolan.

  “What did Mr Barnes say?” she asked.

  “About what?”

  “About Frank O’Flynn,” she said. “I know that’s why you went to see him.”

  “What makes you so sure about that?”

  “I’m a reporter,” she said. “I’m resourceful.”

  “You squeezed it out of O’Driscoll, you mean,” said Molloy, shaking his head. “You’re right. He does have a big mouth.”

  “Oh, don’t be too hard on him,” she said. “He lusts after me, poor man.” She slipped her arm under his. “May I shout you lunch? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  They crossed Hobson Street, dodging traffic, walked down to Smith & Caughey’s and took the lift up to the third-floor cafeteria. After queuing to order lunch, they sat at a table by a window overlooking Queen Street.

  “Did that song make you sad?” said Caitlin, removing her gloves finger by finger.

  Molloy shrugged. “No. I’m over that business.”

  “The Spanish Civil War,” she said, slowly enunciating. “Brigadas Internacionales. Partido Comunista de España. ¡No pasarán! It’s so romantic.”

  “There wasn’t anything romantic about it,” said Molloy.

  “What did you do there? Were you a soldier?”

  “I drove an ambulance.”

  “An ambulance! My God,” she said. “You were an idealist. And now you’re a hard-bitten cynic. It’s like something you’d see in the pictures.”

  “I don’t go to the pictures much.”

  “Were you in the front lines?”

  “Most of the time,” he said. “It’s where the casualties were.”

  “Oh, touché!” said Caitlin. “And after Spain, what then?”

  “Joined up,” said Molloy. “Like a mug.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Greece, Crete, North Africa, Italy, all up through there.” He caught himself. What was going on? He couldn’t stand jokers who talked about the war, yet here he was, prattling away like a rear echelon skite at a battalion reunion.

  “My father was in the 28th Battalion,” said Caitlin.

  Molloy looked at her.

  “That took you by surprise, didn’t it?” she said. “He was a medical officer. He lost a leg in Tunisia. A landmine.”

  “That’s no good,” said Molloy.

  “No,” said Caitlin. “Did you know Colonel Awatere, the CO?”

  “I saw him once,” said Molloy. “After Cassino. They lost a lot of men there.”

  “Father knows him well. He calls in occasionally. They go into the study and drink whisky and talk for hours. Father thinks the colonel is a broken man.”

  Molloy said nothing.

  “‘For God, for King, and for country — au-e!’” said Caitlin, an edge to her tone. “Did you feel that way?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Who’s the toasted sandwich?” said a waitress. She had their lunch on a trolley.

  Molloy nodded. “That’s me, thanks.”

  “So you’re the asparagus roll,” the waitress said to Caitlin.

  “I’m sorry for getting all maudlin out of the blue,” said Caitlin, once the waitress had gone.

  “Funerals can do that to people,” said Molloy. There was a moment of silence. “Anyway, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Caitlin leaned forward. “O’Driscoll said you were interested in Frank O’Flynn and that it was probably a divorce matter, since that’s the sort of thing you do. Do you take milk?”

  “Please.”

  “But I don’t think that’s why you’re interested in him.”

  “Don’t you?” said Molloy. “What do you think?”

  She passed his cup. “I think Mr Barnes asked you to investigate O’Flynn. Because of the theft of money from the Welfare Fund. And you were giving him your report.”

  Molloy put a spoonful of sugar into his tea and stirred it slowly before answering. “Miss O’Carolan, may I ask you something?” he said.

  “On one condition. That you please stop calling me Miss O’Carolan. It makes me sound like a Latin teacher. Call me Caitlin.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Caitlin, why were you waiting outside Frank O’Flynn’s boarding house in Grey Lynn the other night?”

  He bit into his ham and cheese toasted sandwich. It made a crunching sound. He looked at her. “In a Baby Austin.”

  “I don’t know what . . .” she said.

  “You don’t know what . . . what?”

  “What makes you . . .?” She picked up her napkin and put it down on the other side of her plate.

  Molloy put down his toasted sandwich and reached into a pocket for his notebook. He thumbed its pages. “Who’s Miss C. Cotterill of Marine Parade, Herne Bay?” He looked up. “Your mother?”

  Caitlin glared at him. Then she smiled and shrugged. “My mother’s sister, actually,” she said. “My Aunt Caroline. She’s in Melbourne and I’m looking after her home for a little bit.”

  “And her motorcar?”

  “Yes. Not to mention feeding her blasted cats and a few other things. Dead-heading her roses when required.”

  “So why were you outside O’Flynn’s boarding house?” he asked. “That’s a fair way from Marine Parade.”

  Caitlin opened her purse, took out a compact and began dabbing powder on her cheeks. “O’Driscoll told me the Welfare Fund rumour last week and I thought it would make a good article. Not that the Star would be interested, of course, but it’s the sort of thing that Truth might—”

  “Cut it out,” said Molloy. He pointed to the scab on his chin. “This happened because I was asking questions about O’Flynn. There are people out there who don’t want him bothered, I don’t know why.” He looked at his watch. “I admire your pluck,” he said. “And I can imagine you making quite a name for yourself at Home. But it’s not a good time to be doing what you’re doing here, for whatever reason you’re doing it. I don’t mean to patronise you, but you will get hurt. People think because nothing much happens in New Zealand nothing much happens. They’re wrong.”

  He finished his tea and stood. “Now, I’m sorry, bu
t I’ve got an appointment. Excuse me.” He raised his hat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Molloy crossed Queen Street and walked up through Albert Park to Princes Street. The university wasn’t in session and there weren’t many people about. The sound of a violin came from the open window of a merchant’s house recently colonised by the Music Department, the last privately owned mansion in the street. Molloy went into the Clock Tower and asked the receptionist where he might find Archie Green. She looked at the watch pinned to her bosom. “Any weekday between half-past eleven and half-past two I would try the Staff Common Room,” she said.

  The Common Room had begun life as the officers’ quarters for the 58th Infantry during the Maori Wars, and appeared to have had few improvements of any significance since. There was a closed-in fireplace at one end with a portrait of a college notable above it. The room had a high ceiling, and worn carpet faded by the sun which came in through a line of dormer windows. A Roll of Honour — In Loving and Grateful Memory of the Men of This College Who Gave Their Lives for the Honour of the British Empire During the Great European War 1914–1918 — had been moved further along the wall to make room for a new roll honouring the men who’d given their lives between 1939 and 1945. A wooden ladder stood on a canvas drop cloth and there were tins and jars and brushes and paint-splattered rulers on the floor. The signwriter was working on names beginning with D. There were couches and armchairs, and a few people scattered about, all male, one of whom was Archie Green.

  Green was Molloy’s age, bony, with thinning red hair and freckled skin. He was sitting alone on a couch, legs crossed, reading an airmail edition of the Observer. A cup of tea and the remains of a thin white sandwich sat on greaseproof paper on a low table in front of him.

  “Mind if I join you, Archie?” said Molloy.

  Green looked up at him and froze. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong chap,” he said.

  “No I don’t, Comrade,” said Molloy. “Johnny Molloy, remember? Young Communist League. Committee For—”

  Green crunched his copy of the Observer. It was surprisingly loud for tissue paper.

  “For God’s sake!” he said, leaning forward. “Keep your blasted voice down.”

  He took off his specs and put them in the breast pocket of his shirt, struggling to find the opening, his eyes sweeping the room like a rat on a recce. “What do you want?”

  “Your help,” said Molloy.

  Green spluttered. “Out of the question.”

  “Come on, Archie,” said Molloy. “That’s not very fraternal. Remember those singalongs round the bonfire out at Karekare? ‘Arise, ye prisoners of starvation! Arise, ye wretched of—’”

  Green shuddered. “Oh, God. I knew this would happen. The Party reaching out from the past to tap me on the shoulder.”

  “Steady on, Archie. I got out of the Party in 1939, the day Hitler joined.”

  “You never get out of the Party.”

  “That so?” said Molloy. “Well, it’s not a Party matter, put it that way. I’m a private detective these days.”

  Green groaned. “For the College?” he said.

  “Nothing to do with the College,” said Molloy. “Army matter.”

  Archie paused. “What do you mean?”

  “You were on Freyberg’s staff during the war, weren’t you?”

  Green’s little chest swelled. “Yes I bloody was,” he said. “Intelligence officer. Mentioned in despatches twice.”

  “How many of you were there?”

  “What? IOs?” said Green. “Gosh. Me, Whitey, Dan Davin, Cox, Paddy Costello — now there was a Red, by God! — I don’t know. Quite a few over the duration. Why?”

  “Still keep in touch with any of them?”

  “Not really. Possibly. When I’m in Wellington. Hard not to bump into chaps you know down there.”

  “Anyone who’s remained in that area?”

  “In that area?” said Green. “You mean . . .? Oh, dear. I think you’re confusing the work of an intelligence officer in wartime with . . .” He lowered his voice. “We weren’t spies by any stretch of—”

  “Yes or no, Archie?” said Molloy, cutting him off.

  “We can’t talk here.” Green was breathing heavily.

  “Where?”

  “Albert Park in fifteen minutes,” said Green, just above a whisper. “By the floral clock.” He let out an enormous sigh, and stood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Twenty minutes later Molloy was sitting on a wooden bench in Albert Park watching a young couple stretched out on the grass holding hands. Or rather she was holding his hand. Holding it back. The boy was trying to make a game of it, walking his fingers up her bare arm, his obvious intention to walk right up to her breasts and settle in. When his hand reached her sleeve she would take it in hers and place it on the grass and wriggle her fingers at him. Lots of giggling and whispering going on, but Molloy was impressed by the boy’s relentless determination. It was like watching an ant at work, or the building of a pyramid.

  Archie Green sat down next to him. He had put on a sports coat and a felt hat tilted forward so that his face was half in shadow. He had been dux of Auckland Grammar and a guild scholar at Cambridge before the war, and was making a name for himself as an academic, an economist in the area of price controls. There had been talk of a posting to the United Nations. And now here he was having a meeting with a private detective in a public park, like some grubby character, he thought, from The Maltese Falcon.

  “Early political enthusiasms proving a bit of an embarrassment, are they, Arch?” said Molloy, offering him a smoke.

  “There’s a witch hunt here too, you know,” said Green, leaning in to the match. His voice was a little steadier. Molloy smelt gin. “The Americans are supplying lists. Names of known Communists and fellow travellers. Full of mistakes, apparently. Not that that would bother them.” He drew on the cigarette. “It’s not fair. Three years in the thick of it. Alamein, Cassino.” He hooked a bitter thumb in the direction of the Clock Tower. “Means nothing.” He rubbed his forehead, pushing his hat back on his head with the tips of his fingers. “If the College hears I was a Party member, I’m finished.”

  “Well, they won’t hear it from me.”

  “On one condition, no doubt.”

  “Not a condition. A favour.”

  “Ah yes, a favour,” said Green, feeling immensely sorry for himself. “And so it begins.”

  Molloy took an envelope from his pocket and put it on the bench. “There’s an Irishman who was arrested last year for drunk and disorderly and one or two other things, and found to be in the country without papers. He should have been given the boot but he wasn’t. I want to find out if someone pulled strings for him, and if so, who.” He nodded at the envelope. “The details are in there. Not that there’s much.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Molloy looked at him and said nothing. Actually, bugger all, he thought, but Archie didn’t need to know that.

  “I do some work with Industries and Commerce,” said Green, putting the envelope in the pocket of his sports coat. “There’s a chap there who . . .” He shrugged. “I could talk to him.”

  “That’d be good.”

  Green’s shoulders slumped. “My God, I was hardly a Communist. I joined the YCL as a way to meet fast girls, if the truth be known.” He looked at Molloy. “Remember? ‘The redder the bedder’? Fat lot of good that did me either.”

  He stood without a word and walked off, hands in pockets, head down.

  Molloy gave him a minute. On the grass by the floral clock the boy’s walking fingers had made it to the girl’s shoulder, and they were kissing. He had subtly altered his angle of attack so that it was awkward for her to find his hand with her eyes closed. Molloy got up and watched as Green crossed Princes Street, and saw, beyond him, Miss Cotterill’s brown Baby Austin parked on the other side of the road.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Molloy drove to the Newt
on Police Station in Ponsonby Road and asked for Pat Toomey. He took a seat in the waiting room and read the race results from Saturday’s 8 O’Clock. It was shortly after two. The station was busy. Telephones rang, doors opened and closed, policemen came and went.

  A boy about twelve with a black eye and grass stains on his knees sat sniffling on a bench next to his furious mother.

  “I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” she said, her worn hands strangling the strap on her shopping bag. “God knows I’ve tried.”

  “They started it,” said the boy, bottom lip poking out like a plate.

  “Oh yes,” said his mother. “It’s always they with you. Just like your useless father.”

  Toomey leaned out of an interview room and hooked a finger at Molloy. “Johnny,” he said.

  There was a cardboard box on a table in the middle of the room with a typed label which read O’Flynn, F. X. personal effects of, and the address — Room 4, 3 Chamberlain Street, Grey Lynn — and a reference number. Toomey closed the door.

  “Make it snappy,” he said.

  Molloy emptied the contents of the box onto the table. A worn toothbrush, a shaving strop, a cutthroat razor, two combs, some coins, rosary beads, a Western — A.B. Guthrie Jr’s The Way West — which Molloy had heard somewhere was pretty good.

  “Is this the lot?” Molloy asked.

  “What were you expecting, Johnny?” said Toomey. “A trousseau?”

  “I dunno,” said Molloy, flicking through the novel. “More than this though. Didn’t he have any clothes? What about his work gear? He was a wharfie. He’d have had boots and a raincoat surely?”

  “Perhaps he kept his work duds on the back porch?”

  “Could be, I suppose,” said Molloy. “What about personal stuff? Letters, that sort of thing?”

  “Landlady probably threw them out,” said Toomey. “Said she didn’t but you know what they’re like.”

  “I do,” said Molloy, returning the items to the box and closing it. “Thanks, Pat.”

  Molloy drove to Grey Lynn and parked in Chamberlain Street. He climbed the steps at number 3 and knocked on the door. He heard someone shuffling up the hallway. The door opened. The landlady, a woman in her fifties with flaming red hair, glared at him.