Gallagher’s eyes had opened wide when the three men came into the
room. Then they narrowed until they became thin slits under their long
black lashes. He nodded to Mulholland and Connor. Then he stared at
Gypo.
Gypo returned the stare. The two men, unlike in their features and
bodies, were exactly alike in the impassivity of their stare. Gypo’s
face was like a solid and bulging granite rock, impregnable but
lacking that intelligence that is required by strength in order to be
able to conquer men. Gallagher’s face was less powerful physically,
but it was brimful of intelligence. The forehead was high and it
seemed to surround the face. The eyes were large and wide apart. The
nose was long and straight. The mouth was thin-lipped. The jaws were
firm but slender and refined like a woman’s jaws. The whole face had
absolutely no colour, but there was a constant movement in the cheeks,
as if tiny streams were coursing irregularly beneath the smooth glossy
skin. The hair was coal-black and cut close. The ears were large. The
neck opened out gradually from the base of the shoulders on either
side, like a hill disappearing into a plain.
Then he jumped off his high stool and stood with his legs wide apart
in front of Gypo. He was five feet eleven inches and a half in height,
but Gypo towered over him with his extra two inches. Gallagher wore a
loose brown raincoat, from his throat almost to his ankles, that made
his well-built frame look larger and stouter. Yet Gypo, standing bare
in his dungarees that were now almost sodden with rain, looked immense
compared to him. Gallagher held his hands in his raincoat pockets
thrust in front of his body, as if he were pointing pistols at Gypo.
Gypo held his hands loosely by his sides, two vast red hands hanging
limply from whitish round wrists. Gallagher wore a broad-brimmed black
velour hat of a fashionable make. Gypo’s tattered little round hat was
still perched on his skull, like a tiny school cap on an overgrown
youngster.
They looked at one another, the one, handsome, well dressed, confident
and indifferent; the other crude, ragged, amazed, anxious.
“Well, Gypo,” drawled Gallagher, in the irritating, contemptuous tone
that he affected. “Ye don’t seem glad to see me.”
“Can’t say that I am,” replied Gypo curtly, almost without moving his
lips. “I don’t see no reason to be glad to see ye, Commandant
Gallagher. Ye were never a friend o’ mine, an’ I ain’t in the habit o’
crawlin’ on me belly to anybody that don’t like me. I’m not one o’ yer
pet lambs any more, so ye needn’t do any bleatin’ as far as I’m
concerned. One man is as good as another in this rotten ould world.
I’m usin’ yer own words, amn’t I?”
Gallagher laughed out loud, a merry laugh that showed his white teeth.
He shrugged his shoulders and took a turn around the room. He took a
packet of cigarettes from his pocket as he walked and selected one. He
kept laughing until he paused to light the cigarette over near the
stained-glass window.
“Yer a queer fish, Gypo,” he said, again laughing, as he paused to
throw the used match into a spittoon.
Then he cast a glance all round the room and came back again to Gypo.
Mulholland and Connor watched him all the time with that loving
interest with which a crowd watches the movements of a champion boxer
who is walking around the ring in his dressing-gown, preparatory to a
big fight. They smiled when Gallagher laughed. They stopped smiling
when he stopped laughing.
Gypo, on the other hand, watched Gallagher’s movements angrily. He
felt a desire to pounce on him and crush him to death before he could
do any harm.
Then Gallagher came up to him and caught him by the right shoulder in
a friendly and confidential manner.
“Listen Gypo,” he said. “You’ve got a grudge against me no doubt for
getting you expelled from the Organization, but you have nobody to
blame but yourself. I sent ye down, on the orders of the Executive
Committee, you and Frank McPhillip, to look after the defence work of
the strikers. What orders did I give the two of you? Can you remember?
Well, I’ll remind you. _To keep off the booze and not to use the lead
unless you were attacked._ But what did you do? The very first thing,
the two of you got hold of two women. That, of course, must have been
Frankie’s work because I don’t suppose you were ever a great magnet
among the women. Women were Frankie’s weak spot, damn it. But anyhow,
it doesn’t matter very much which of you started the hunt. You tasted
the honey as well as he did it, as far as was reported to me. The two
of you got drunk at M—— in company with these two women. You got so
mad drunk that McPhillip went to shoot up the town. You might have
assisted him in that pastime, but your time was occupied trying to
pull a lamp-post up by the roots in Oliver Plunket Street, for a bet
of a gallon of stout. In the very middle of your entertainment,
McPhillip met the secretary of the Farmers’ Union and shot him dead.
That made you get over your drunkenness damn quick, didn’t it? The two
of you bolted without making any attempt to cover your tracks. You ran
like two hares. You came into Dublin with a red herring of a story
about an attack and what not. It was a tall yarn. Well? D’ye know what
I’m going to tell you, Gypo?”
He paused dramatically and looked Gypo closely in the eyes. Gypo never
moved a muscle in his face. He grunted interrogatively from somewhere
deep down in his chest. Gallagher continued very slowly:
“I’m going to tell you this much, Gypo. Only for me, you wouldn’t have
got away with it as easily as you did that time. There were others who
wanted to give you this, for disobeying orders.”
He moved his right hand suddenly beneath his raincoat, thrusting it
forward against Gypo’s lower ribs. Gypo felt the contact of a blunt
hard metal. He knew it was the muzzle of Gallagher’s Colt automatic
pistol, but Gypo took no notice of the pistol. He was not afraid of
the pistol. But he was afraid of Gallagher’s eyes into which he was
looking steadily. He didn’t like them. They were so cold and blue and
mysterious. Goodness knows what might be hidden behind them. His face
began an irregular chaotic movement. His jaws, cheek-bones, nose,
mouth and forehead convulsed in opposite directions, as if a draught
of wind had stolen in under the skin of his face and caused it to
undulate. Then the face set again. The neck swelled and the little
eyes bulged.
“No use tryin’ yer tricks on me, Danny Gallagher,” he growled,
knocking the pistol muzzle away with a slight movement of his right
hand. Although the blow was slight, it caused Gallagher to reel
backwards two paces before he regained his balance. His face darkened
for a moment and then again he broke into a smile. Gypo continued in a
thunderous melancholy voice: “Gallagher, I got no use for you. Them’s
all lies ye were tellin’ just now about tryin’ to save me life when I
was before the Court of Inquiry last October. I know very well they
was. Yerrah, are ye goin’ to tell me that yer not the chief boss an’
God knows what in the Organization? Who else has got any authority in
it except yersel’? Yah. I got no use for ye. Yer a liar. Yer no good.
An’ I’d be in my job yet in the police only for ye an’ yer soft talk.
It was you that got me outa me job with yer promises o’ the Lord knows
what. I declare to Almighty God that I done more for yer bloody
Organization than any other man in Ireland. I done things that no man
unhung could do. An’ ye went an’ threw me out on account of an ould
farmer gettin’ plugged. Me an’ McPhillip. What did we get for it?
Wha’ . . . ye rotten . . .”
Gypo rambled off incoherently into a long string of blasphemous
curses, raising his voice as he did so. His arms were raised outwards
in a curve and his head was lowered, as if he were in the act of
performing a swimming exercise. He frothed at the mouth and glared
from one to the other of the three men, as if undecided which to
attack first.
Then suddenly a little wooden panel in the wall to the right was
raised up and a pretty red head was pushed through. It was Kitty the
barmaid.
“Lord save us,” she cried, putting her fingers to her lips as she
looked at Gypo. “Who is that fellah? What’s he doin’ here, Dan?”
“That’s all right, Kitty,” said Gallagher with a light laugh; “he’s a
friend of mine. We are having a cursing competition.”
And he laughed heartily as he walked to the spittoon with the stub of
his cigarette.
Gypo turned around and looked at the terrified face of the barmaid. As
he looked at her beautiful face and her pretty soft hair that
shimmered in the artificial light, his head swam and his eyes went
watery. His anger left his body immediately so that it seemed to empty
and collapse. It had been rigid and like a tree. Now it became loose
and jointless. He stood with stooping head and wondering eyes, looking
at the barmaid.
The barmaid, seeing the change she had effected by her presence in the
unruly giant, grew conceited. She smiled in a superior way and dabbed
at her hair. She looked around at the others with an air of: “D’ye all
see that now?”
Then Gallagher came up to the aperture jauntily, took her two hands in
his and looked enticingly into her eyes. Her eyes winced for a moment
as if she had become suddenly afraid. Then she smiled softly, wearily,
like a woman passionately in love. Gallagher bent down his head and
whispered something in her ear. She burst into a loud laugh. Gallagher
smiled, listening to her. Then he suddenly sighed and rapped the
counter curtly.
“Four glasses of Jameson’s quickly,” he said in a low sharp cold
voice.
The barmaid stopped laughing as suddenly as if she had been stricken
by a pain. She pulled down the shutter, lisping as she did so: “Yes
Dan.”
Gallagher came back to Gypo and put his hand again on Gypo’s shoulder.
Gypo had his two hands now in his trousers pockets. After his
unsuccessful outburst he felt tired. He wanted to go away somewhere
and lie down and sleep for days and days. His mind was in a maze. He
was very tired. As he looked at Gallagher he even felt a longing to
confide his secret to him. Gallagher’s eyes were so devilishly
attractive. They seemed to draw things out of Gypo towards themselves.
They would be able to form a plan and . . .
Gypo had uttered one syllable of Gallagher’s name before he realized
the real identity of the man and the consequences of a confession to
him. The name died on his lips. Gallagher smiled.
“Gypo, old boy,” he said in a friendly tone, “ye had better forget all
that’s past. We’ve got something on hand that’s as much your business
as ours. So we can act together on it. That’s why I sent Bartly
Mulholland into McPhillip’s house to look for ye. A pal of yours has
been done in by the police. D’ye hear? It looks like an informer’s
job. We have to get that informer. It’s really no business of the
Organization because Frank had ceased to be a member. He was only an
ordinary civilian criminal as far as we are concerned. But an informer
is an informer. He’s got to be wiped out like the first sign of a
plague as soon as he’s spotted. He’s a common enemy. He’s got to be
got, Gypo. And it’s up to you to give us a hand in tracking the
traitor that sent your pal to his death. Because . . .”
At that moment the slide was drawn up again sharply and the barmaid
appeared at the aperture with four glasses of whisky on a tray.
Gallagher went to the aperture, paid for the whisky, handed glasses to
Connor and Mulholland, received his change, pinched the barmaid’s
cheek and made her scream, laughed, pulled down the shutter himself
and then advanced smiling to Gypo with a glass of whisky in each hand.
He held out one glass to Gypo. Gypo stared at it without making any
movement to take it or reject it.
He had followed all Gallagher’s movements with the stupid and
suspicious wonder of a terrified wild animal that thinks some trick is
being played on it. Now he stared at the glass as if he suspected some
trick in that too.
“Take it,” said Gallagher coldly. “Take it, man, if you’ve any sense.
It’s better to have me as a friend than as an enemy. If you are not
going to help us in this job . . . er . . . people might think . . .
er . . . that . . .”
“Uh,” began Gypo with a shrug of his whole body. Then he stopped
panting. He went on, speaking at a very high pitch. “It’s not that
but . . . Look here . . . It’s how . . .” His voice suddenly deepened
into a hoarse shout, “It’s how I don’t know what I’m doin’.”
He stopped. Gallagher glanced at Mulholland. Mulholland’s cat’s eyes
both winked inperceptibly.
“I’ve been starvin’ here for the past six months,” continued Gypo,
suddenly breaking out into a torrent of words. He talked like a negro,
hollow, thunderous and melancholy. “I’ve been kicking about this town
an’ every one o’ you fellahs I met passed me by without a word as if I
never knew ye. I been over in the House there, livin’ from hand to
mouth on whatever I could bum from sailors and pimps and dockers. I
got no clothes. I got no money. I got nothin’. An’ then you come up
all of a sudden with yer soft talk. Well . . . uh . . . how is it
that . . .”
He came to a stop once more with his chest heaving. He seemed to be
about to go into a rage once more, but suddenly Gallagher moved closer
to him and whispered gently and soothingly:
“Look here, Gypo. I’m going to make a fair deal with you. I’ll admit
you have done a lot for the movement. You have paid the penalty during
the last six months for the dangerous position you placed the whole
Organization in last October. We’ll call that quits on one condition.
If you can give us a clue to the man that informed on Francis Joseph
McPhillip I’ll get ye taken back again into the Organization at yer
old job on Head-quarters Staff. Here. Take this drink.”
Gypo’s hand shot out immediately. He grasped the glass and Gallagher’s
hand both together in his immense paw. The two men almost struggled
trying to disengage their hands. As soon as the glass was free Gypo
put it to his lips and drained it. Then he stalked slowly over to the
mantelpiece and placed the empty glass on it. With his back to his
companions he paused to wipe his mouth with his sleeve.
He wanted time to compose himself. Gallagher’s proposal had taken him
so completely by surprise that he was beside himself. Since that
infernal moment when he kicked open the door of the police-station,
his whole life had been submerged in a pitch-black cloud that was
impenetrable and offered no escape. He had been alone, outcast,
encompassed by a universal horde of enemies. Now, suddenly, he was
offered a means of escape by the great Gallagher himself. Gallagher,
the great Gallagher, had made him an offer. He would get back again
into the Organization. Again people would be afraid of him. Again
clever men would be always at hand to make plans for him, to provide
him with money for doing daring things, to protect him, to praise his
recklessness, his strength and his . . . Mother of Mercy! What Luck!
As he wiped his mouth on his sleeve at the counter an insane idea
struck him, such was his eagerness to qualify immediately for
readmission to the Organization. For a moment he contemplated the man
who had gone into the police-station as a being apart from himself.
Sound began to gurgle up his throat. It was an attempt on the part of
his present personality to speak and deliver information against that
dazed Gypo Nolan who had stumbled into the police-station. But the
sound froze in his throat, in a ball, hurting him as if his tonsils
had swollen suddenly. He realized that he himself was one with that
ponderous fellow, wearing a little tattered round hat, who had gone
into the police-station. It was only another artifice on the part of
something within him, his conscience maybe, to persuade him to make a
confession of his betrayal.
That same impulse had confused him all the time that he was looking at
Mrs. McPhillip.
And then, just as in the public-house, when he had been terrified by
Katie Fox, his mind had given birth to an insane plan about a sailor
in a tavern, so now also his mind conceived an amazing fabrication. It
entered his brain suddenly, like a thunder-storm, with noise and fury.
His face and eyes lit up. He opened his mouth. He walked over to
Gallagher quickly and spoke in a hissing whisper.
“I’ll tell ye who informed,” he gasped. “It’s the Rat Mulligan. It’s
him as sure as Christ was crucified.”
The three men gathered up close to him. They all looked behind them
suspiciously and then stared at him with narrowed eyes. There was a
moment of tense silence. Then each drew a deep breath. Connor slipped
his finger over the trigger of his revolver.
“The Rat Mulligan!” exclaimed Gallagher at length. “How d’ye make that
out, Gypo?”
“I’ll tell ye,” cried Gypo triumphantly. Then he paused again and
looked about him with furrowed brows dramatically. “I didn’t like to
say anythin’ mesel’ for reasons that everybody knows. A man can never
be sure of a thing like that. An’ God knows it’s a quare charge to
bring agin a man. But as ye put it the way ye put it, Commandant,
about him bein’ me pal an’ me duty to the Cause, well . . . Still!
Poor Mulligan!”
“Oh, come on,” cried Gallagher twitching with excitement. “Get
finished with what you have to say. Make your statement, man.”
But Gypo was not to be hurried. An amazing arrogance had taken
possession of him. He reached out towards the glass of whisky that
Gallagher still held untasted in his hand.
“Gimme that, Commandant,” he said, “seein’ as yer not tastin’ it.”
Gallagher nervously handed him the drink. “Thanks. Here’s luck. Ah!
Good stuff that. Well. This is how it was. Just after Frankie left me
in the dining-room, I suddenly thought to mesel’ that I had better run
after him and try an’ head him off from goin’ home. I had been tryin’
to make him clear out of town again an’ not go near Titt Street, but
the same cranky fellah that he always was wouldn’t listen to a word of
what I said. So that I said to mesel’, Lord have mercy on him, ‘Well,
me fine fellah, I’m not goin’ to get mesel’ into a fever, tryin’ to
keep ye outa harm’s way an’ get cursed upside down for doin’ so.’ Well
anyway, as soon as he had gone, I decided to follow him and give him a
last shout. I ran out into the hall an’ who do I see but the Rat
sneakin’ around the corner. I ran down the hall. There was the Rat at
the door with his hands in his overcoat pockets peerin’ up the lane.
Then he dived out into the street, I chased after him. I was just in
time to see Frankie turnin’ the corner into the road with the Rat
crawlin’ after him. It’s as clear as daylight. So it is. Lord have
mercy on the dead, if I had only thought of it at the time, Frankie
might have been alive at this minute instead o’ bein’ a frozen corpse.
Give us another drink, Commandant. Me throat is parched.”
Without a word or a glance Gallagher walked up to the counter and
rapped at the aperture. Gypo did not even condescend to follow his
movements. His conceit was now boundless. He realized that he himself
was amazingly cunning. He even felt a contempt for Gallagher in his
mind. As for Mulholland and Connor . . . He glanced at them
appraisingly, as a man might glance at a useful pair of dogs. It was
the same kind of glance that Gallagher was in the habit of directing
towards everybody.
Gallagher brought a fresh glass of whisky and handed it to him. He
took it without a word of thanks. He walked to the spittoon and
emptied his mouth into it. Then he swallowed the drink again at one
draught. He put the empty glass on the mantelpiece and coughed deeply.
He clasped his hands behind his back with a loud sound. He began to
balance himself backwards and forwards on his heels like a policeman.
“How didn’t I think of it before?” he cried, looking thoughtfully at
the ceiling.
He was completely immersed now in the contemplation of his own
cleverness. He did not notice the utter silence with which his story
had been received by Gallagher and the other two men. He was
contemplating with pleasure the old days, when he had a criminal in
his charge, in the cells, at the police-station. He used to stand for
a whole hour in the stillness of the night, baiting the prisoner,
terrorizing him with his eyes, with a sudden display of strength, with
a mad laugh, with silent staring. He was feeling that same sensation
now. Exhilarated by the whisky he had drunk and carried away by the
concentrated nerve strain of the past few hours, he imagined that he
had Gallagher and the other two men at his mercy, that he was a
policeman and that they were civilians who were asking a favour of
him, an illegal favour that put them in his power. It was just that
way in the old days, when he used to sell Gallagher little tit-bits of
information over a drink; little harmless, he thought, bits of
information, about head-quarters routine and the disposition of the
detective-force personnel.
“Think of what before?” Gallagher remarked coldly.
He spoke slowly and casually, looking at Gypo in a brooding way.
“Why, I mean the grudge that the Rat had in for Frankie,” Gypo replied
confidentially and with an air of great importance.
“What grudge are you referring to?”
“Oh, it’s a long story,” said Gypo with a sigh, as he walked over to
the spittoon and spat into it. Then he hitched up his trousers. He
cleared his throat with a tremendous noise. It was very tantalizing.
“Stand us another drink, Commandant, before they close,” he cried
suddenly, with amazing nonchalance.
“By the lumpin’ Moses!” ejaculated Gallagher. “You’re a cool customer,
Gypo. Ha, ha, ha! Well now! You’re worth another drink anyway.”
He winked secretly at Mulholland and Connor as he walked over to the
aperture. Gypo called after him almost contemptuously.
“Hurry up,” he said, as he looked at the clock with a scowling face,
“we only have another minute. It’s a minute to eleven.”
Again four glasses of whisky were passed around. Gypo took his and
swallowed it at a draught. This time he took the glass from
Gallagher’s hand without asking for it. He swallowed that also at a
draught, as if he were going through a public exhibition of his
drinking powers. Mulholland and Connor swallowed their drinks
hurriedly, as if they were afraid that he was going to take theirs
too. He walked over to the mantelpiece and put the two empty glasses
on it. He looked at the five glasses he had emptied and smiled
broadly. He whacked his chest with a loud sound.
“Come on now, comrade,” said Gallagher sharply, “out with your news.
No fooling.”
“All right,” said Gypo, thrusting forward his huge head so that it
looked like a battering-ram, suddenly attached to his collar-bone.
“D’ye remember the Rat’s sister Susie? She used to be a member o’ the
Organization. She——”
“All right,” snapped Gallagher angrily. “I remember her. What about
her? What has she got to do with it?”
“Well, why wouldn’t she have a lot to do with it? She had a baby,
didn’t she? Didn’t she leave——”
“What d’you know about her baby?” hissed Gallagher. He was deadly
pale.
“Don’t get yer rag out, Commandant,” leered Gypo with a broad laugh.
He was slightly drunk and insolent. “Hit a sore spot, wha’? Well, I
don’t know anythin’ about that. Ye can set yer mind at rest. Frank
McPhillip was the father o’ that kid an’ he refused to marry her. I
remember me an’ him were at the back o’ Cassidy’s havin’ a pint one
night, when somebody came in an’ asked Frankie to step around the
corner a minute. He was gone a long time so I followed him, suspectin’
that there might be a bit o’ foul play. But I found him an’ Susie
jawin’ away to beat the band. She was cryin’ an’ askin’ him to take
her away with him somewhere. O’ course he didn’t budge. Next day she
went to the ’Pool. Gone on Lime Street, as far as I can hear. Well!
You bet yer life that’s why the Rat did it. That’s why he informed.”
Gallagher looked at Mulholland. Mulholland wrinkled his forehead and
shook his head slightly. Then he looked at Gypo curiously. Connor’s
mouth was wide open and there was a look of wonder in his eyes as he
gaped at Gypo. Gypo was tightening his trousers belt.
“Well, Commandant,” he said, when he had finished, “Yer word holds
good about takin’ me back into the Organization?”
“Steady on,” murmured Gallagher dreamily, staring at the ground. “We
have to verify your statement first. If your statement is true you’ll
get back all right.” Suddenly he looked up, smiling, with sparkling
eyes. He seized Gypo by the right hand and smiled into his face in a
friendly intimate way. “Listen. There’s a Court of Inquiry to-night at
half-past one. Be there. Mulholland will take you up there. You can
arrange to meet him somewhere. You can rely on me, comrade, to fix you
up again. You did good work before, comrade, and you’ll do good work
again for the liberation of your class.”
Gypo gripped Gallagher’s hand and squeezed it eagerly. Then he clicked
his heels and saluted in a grandiose fashion. Then he turned to
Mulholland.
“I’ll be at Biddy Burke’s place,” he whispered; “about one o’clock.
I’ll see ye there.”
“Right ye are,” answered Mulholland.
“Good night, boys,” cried Gypo in a loud hearty voice.
Then he stalked out of the room, striking the floor with his heels
fiercely and clearing his throat.
They all looked after him in silence for two seconds. Then somebody
called, “Time, gentlemen, time.” Gallagher started.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he cried, striking his left hand into his
right.
“It’s him,” hissed Connor, rushing up to Gallagher with open mouth.
“Shut up, you fool,” snapped Gallagher.
“Listen, Commandant,” cried Mulholland excitedly; “it’s him. I’ll
swear it is, because——”
“Damn you,” snarled Gallagher, “who is asking your opinion? Give me
your report. Quick, quick. Don’t make a song of it.”
In short jerky statements, with rapid gestures, Mulholland described
all that had happened at No. 44 Titt Street, Gypo’s excitement, the
falling of the money to the floor, Gypo’s giving it to Mrs. McPhillip,
his rush from the house. Then suddenly he began in a whining voice to
recount all he had done since he had been mobilized at eight o’clock
on receipt of the news of Francis McPhillip’s death. But Gallagher cut
him short.
“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 to-morrow 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 to-morrow. 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 class.
Now, let me alone, Mary, or I’ll tan yer skin for ye. Let me tell
him. . . . Let me . . . Let go,” he screamed shrilly, as she seized
him tightly about the body and began to push him forcibly from the
room.
He placed his hands and feet against the jambs of the door and turning
his head around, he continued in a half-hysterical voice:
“It’s the likes o’ me that’s the revolutionaries, but we get no credit
for it. It’s the likes o’ me that does the hard work, eddicatin’ me
fellow-men, an’ at the same time strikin’ an honest blow for better
conditions. But men like you are criminals. Criminals, criminals,
that’s what yez are. Don’t lay hands on yer father, Mary. Don’t——”
“I’m not touching you,” cried Mary. “Come on now. Get to bed.”
She got him into the hall. He sighed and broke into half-stifled sobs.
Going up the stairs he kept saying in a low melancholy voice:
“If I had only put him on the scaffoldin’ with me, instead of
eddicatin’ him, maybe he’d be alive an’ an honest man to-day. If I had
only . . .”
Then his voice died away into a mumble as a door closed behind him
upstairs.
When Mary returned to the kitchen after putting him to bed, she found
Gallagher sitting beside her mother, writing rapidly in a notebook. He
had taken off his hat. His close-cropped black head looked very
handsome to her. Still she shivered looking at it. The side face
looked very cruel, with the brooding expression on it, as he looked
downwards at the notebook.
She stood watching him until he finished writing. Then he sighed. He
got up. He said a few words to Mrs. McPhillip. Then he shook hands
with her and turned to Mary.
“I want to speak to you,” he said.
She led him into the parlour excitedly. It was dark there and she had
to fumble around for matches to light the gas. She couldn’t find them.
Gallagher offered his box. He lit a match. She went to take it from
him. Their fingers touched. She started and stumbled over something.
The match fell from his fingers and went out. He reached out his hands
to catch her as she stumbled. He caught her by the wrists and held her
tightly. They had not spoken a word. It was very queer in the
darkness. Their faces were very close together, but they could not see
one another. They stood still, each of them mastered by some strange
impulse, that bound their tongues. They stood still, in the utter
darkness and silence of the little stuffed room, for almost a minute.
Then Gallagher spoke. He spoke in a soft whisper. The sound of his
voice was soft and caressing. His lips were so close to hers that his
breath came moist to her lips. There was a catch in his voice, as if
the volume of sound were not strong enough to steady itself on the
air.
“Mary,” he said, “I want you to come to a Court of Inquiry with me
to-night.”
She made no attempt to reply. Neither did he seem to expect a reply.
It seemed that the words and their implication were foreign to the
purpose of their meeting here. It seemed that the coursing of their
blood and the confused beating of their hearts, was in response to
some prearranged assignation of declared love.
But there had never been a question of amorous relations between them.
They had never met in privacy like this before. Their previous
meetings were more in the nature of quarrels. Mary had always disputed
with Gallagher, particularly of late, when she had become violently
opposed to him. But now in the darkness, in the solitude, both she and
he were mastered by some amazing emotion that was inexplicable.
“Dan,” she whispered suddenly, “you make me afraid. Why are we
standing here in the darkness? What do you want with me?”
“I want you to revenge your brother,” said Gallagher suddenly, as if
he had obeyed an unforeseen impulse and broached an unexpected
subject, with which his mind had hitherto only toyed nervously. “I
want you to join me, Mary. I want you to take your brother’s place in
the Organization. But a greater place than he held. No. It’s not your
brother’s place I want you to take but . . .”
“Dan, what are you talking about?” she panted in a terrified voice.
There was a pause during which Gallagher imperceptibly moved his face
closer to hers. Their lips met. They kissed gently. Then she drew back
suddenly, shivering violently. She wanted to rush away and to shout,
but the fascination of his voice was upon her. His voice and the
glamour of his face. His face and the romance of his life. She was
bound suddenly by it. Suddenly too, it became apparent to her why she
had been eager to convert him. It had been in order to meet him, with
a plausible excuse.
And she was almost engaged to Joseph Augustine Short, who was a
“gentleman,” who would place her in a respectable sphere of life, who
would free her for ever from the hated associations of her slum life
with its squalor, its revolutionary crises, its damnable insecurity,
its soul-devouring monotony.
Mother of Mercy! Was she in love with Gallagher? Was she going to be
drawn into the web of his conspiracies by the deadly fascination of
his face and of his voice, by the romance of his life?
“Mary,” he murmured at last, “you are the remainder of me. The two of
us together would make a complete whole. There would be nothing else
wanting to the two of us, no unfulfilled . . . er . . . well . . .
it’s not that either. I have not fully worked out that part of the
theory. I have approached it from another point of view.”
“What is it, Dan?” She drew away her face farther and loosened one
hand. He was wrapped in dreams now and he did not attempt to stop her.
In fact he let her go altogether suddenly and sat on the table, simply
holding her right hand in his. “What do you want with me?” she said
again.
“I want you to join me,” he muttered almost inaudibly, wrapped in his
thoughts.
“Dan, I don’t understand,” she gasped, afraid of his voice.
“How? How?” he muttered. “Why don’t you understand? I want you to join
me.”
“Do you mean . . . to . . . to . . . to marry you?”
“Oh rot,” he cried irritably, waking from his half-reverie and turning
towards her. “These ridiculous conventions don’t enter my
consciousness. Not only have I no respect for them, but they don’t
enter my consciousness. You understand the significance of that. My
personality is entirely in keeping with my mission in life. For me all
these words attain their true values. Marriage, for instance, is truly
a capitalist word meaning an arrangement for the protection of
property so that legitimate sons could inherit it. So I don’t have to
argue with it in my own mind in order to rid myself of a belief in it.
Most men have to do that. I am a hundred years before my time. I want
to destroy the idea of property. It is my mission. I don’t want to
leave property to my children. I don’t want children. They are nothing
to me. The perpetuation of my life is in my work, in men’s thoughts,
in the fulfillment of my mission. That’s why I want you to join me,
because I feel something, an affinity maybe—that’s a wrong word
though—between you and myself. I am sure there is a natural
relationship, chemical maybe, between the two of us. We are two parts
of one whole. I am sure of that. No, damn it all. What a ridiculous
idea! I don’t want you to join me for the purpose of cohabitation. I
have no time to make sentiment a main impulse of my desire to live.
Neither have you. I am certain of it. You are governed by other
impulses. Maybe you don’t know it. Probably you are afraid to analyse
yourself. But I know it. I don’t know it. I feel it. ‘Know’ is not a
proper word. It’s out of use. ‘Feel’ is better. It is an outcome of
the new consciousness that I am discovering. But I haven’t worked that
out fully yet. It’s only embryonic.”
He paused. She started when he stopped. She had not been listening to
what he had been saying. She had been arguing with herself. She had
not succeeded in settling with her conscience what she had been
discussing when he stopped. She bit her lip and started. She was
blushing.
“Tell me, Dan,” she whispered, “do you believe in anything? Do you
even believe in Communism? Do you feel pity for the working class?”
Gallagher uttered an exclamation of contempt and shrugged his
shoulders. He panted as he spoke, such was the rapidity of his words,
in an effort to keep pace with the rapidity of his tempestuous
thoughts.
“No,” he said, “I believe in nothing fundamentally. And I don’t feel
pity. Nothing fundamental that has consciousness capable of being
understood by a human being exists, so I don’t believe in anything,
since an intelligent person can only believe in something that is
fundamental. If I could believe in something fundamental, then the
whole superstructure of life would be capable of being comprehended by
me. Life would resolve itself into a period of intense contemplation.
Action would be impossible. There would be no inducement for action.
There would be some definite measurement for explaining everything.
Men seek only that which offers no explanation of itself. But wait a
minute. I haven’t worked out that fully yet. It’s only in the
theoretical stage yet. I have no time.
“But you spoke of pity. Pity? Pity is a ridiculous sensation for a man
of my nature. We are incapable of it. A revolutionary is incapable of
feeling pity. Listen. The philosophy of a revolutionary is this.
Civilization is a process in the development of the human species. I
am an atom of the human species, groping in advance, impelled by a
force over which neither I nor the human species have any control. I
am impelled by the Universal Law to thrust forward the human species
from one phase of its development to another. I am at war with the
remainder of the species. I am a Christ beating them with rods. I have
no mercy. I have no pity. I have no beliefs. I am not master of
myself. I am an automaton. I am a revolutionary. And there is no
reward for me but the satisfaction of one lust, the lust for the
achievement of my mission, for power maybe, but I haven’t worked out
that yet. I am not certain that the lust for power is a true impulse,
a true . . . but listen. That can come later. Can you give me an
answer now? Will you join me?”
“No . . . no, Dan. Stop. Listen.” She gasped, holding him back. “Not
now. Later on I’ll tell you. On a night like this, with death in the
house, how can you talk of . . . ?”
“Why?” he uttered fiercely. “What night would be better suited for you
to join me? Don’t you want to avenge your brother’s death? Don’t you
want . . .”
“Dan, Dan,” she gasped, struggling away as he attempted to seize her
in his arms, “don’t touch me or I’ll scream. I’m so excited.”
There was a pause. Their breathing was loud in the silence. A noise
came from the kitchen.
“That’s mother going to bed, Dan,” said Mary hurriedly. “You must go,
Dan.”
“Will you come to the Court of Inquiry to-night?”
“Dan, I’d rather——”
“You must come, Mary. You must. You——”
“All right, Dan, I’ll come.”
“Good. I’ll come for you. Be ready at one o’clock.”
“All right, I’ll be ready.”
“Be waiting in the parlour here. I’ll knock on the window.”
“All right, Dan. Go now immediately. I’m coming, mother. Good night.”
He bent hurriedly and kissed her lips. Then he stumbled from the room.
She waited until the hall door closed behind him. Then she shuddered
as the barmaid had done.
Gallagher walked away northwards furiously, with glittering eyes,
thinking.