The police of Glengowra were very inquisitive about the affair of that
night. The town was exceedingly quiet, as a rule, and the fact that
two well-dressed men had been engaged at midnight in a deadly
encounter was unique and fascinating to the police mind. There was no
doubt in the town or village, for it was indifferently called either,
that the two men had fought, and that jealousy was at the bottom of
the encounter. But both O'Donnell and Lavirotte held impregnable
silence on the matter. Neither would make any statement. Lavirotte
said they might ask O'Donnell, and O'Donnell said they might ask
Lavirotte; and it was known that no matter what may have occurred the
previous night, the friendship of the men was now re-established.
This last fact was gall and wormwood to the police. It was sheerly the
loss to them of a golden opportunity. To think that the biggest crime
which had been committed for years in the town should not be made the
subject of a magisterial inquiry, was heartbreaking. What was the good
of having crimes and policemen cheek by jowl, if they were not to come
into contact?
A policeman lounged all day about the door of Maher's hotel, affecting
to take an interest in the cars and carts passing by, and in the warm
baths opposite, and to be supremely unconscious of the existence of
Maher's. Nothing came of this.
Supposing each man should say his hurt was the result of an accident,
there would be no evidence to prove the contrary, and the police would
only get into trouble and be laughed at if they stirred in the affair.
A fussy and blusterous Justice of the Peace made it his business to
call at the hotel, see Maher, and impress upon him the absolute
necessity of doing something.
Dr. O'Malley absolutely forbade any "justices of the peace, policemen,
or such carrion," entering either of the sick rooms.
He said to the magistrate: "Don't you bother about this affair. I
promise you, on the word of a man of honour, to let you know if either
of the men is in danger of death, so that a deposition may be taken;
and I promise you my word, as a man of the world, that if anyone goes
poking his nose into this affair, one or both of these young men will
have something unpleasant to say to that nose when they get about."
This speech made the worthy magistrate extremely wroth. He stamped and
fumed for a while, and muttered something about puppies, and left the
hotel in dudgeon.
Still later in the day the sub-inspector of the district, who was a
friend of O'Malley's, and happened, by a miracle in which few will
believe, to be a man of gentlemanly instincts and manners--called at
O'Malley's house, spoke of the weather, the regatta, the price of
beasts at the last horse fair, the desirability of building a pier for
the fishing-boats in the cove, the hideous inconveniences of not being
able to get ice in Glengowra in such roasting weather, the interesting
case at the last Quarter Sessions, and finally, he said: "By-the-way,
O'Malley, if you do know anything about what occurred last night on
the Cove Road, and if you can do so without any breach of good faith,
tell me what you know?"
"I don't know all about it," said O'Malley, briskly; "and what I do
know I am bound to keep to myself. The part of the case about which I
am game to speak is the medical aspect of it, and of that I am free to
tell you there is no cause to fear either of the men will die. Now,
that is all you want to know, because you're a good sort of fellow;
you're not more than a thousand years old yourself. Boys will be boys.
Have a cigar."
Thus the young sub-inspector left O'Malley's house scarcely any wiser
than he came. In the phrase, "Boys will be boys," O'Malley had
conveyed to him an unmistakable impression that the theory of the
fight was the correct one, and at the same time he recognised the
skilful way in which O'Malley avoided any breach of confidence.
Directly opposite Maher's hotel were the warm baths, and a little to
the right of these a shop, famous in the history of Glengowra, and
called by the pretentious name of the Confectionery Hall.
This title was ludicrously out of proportion with the appearance of
the place. The "Hall," that is, the place open to the general public,
was not more than twelve by fifteen feet. Here were displayed on a
counter, presided over by a thin-featured maiden lady of long ago
ascertained years, cakes of various kinds and sorts and ages,
sweetmeats of universal dustiness and stickiness, ginger-beer,
lemonade, and bottled Guinness and Bass. Sherry might, too, be
obtained here in genteel quantities out of a cut-glass decanter, but
the inhabitants of Glengowra had a national antipathy to the spirit
known as sherry and when they wanted anything stronger than Bass or
Guinness, they asked for whisky.
Now, the great feature of the Confectionery Hall, as opposed in
principle to a mere public-house, was that whisky could not be
obtained at the counter. If a man wanted that form of mundane
consolation, he was obliged to enter an inner penetralia, where not
only could he have the "wine of the country," but an easy-chair to sit
in and tobacco for his perturbed mind.
Towards the close of the evening of the day following the occurrence
on the Cove Road, two young men were seated in this cave of nicotine
discussing the event of the day, nay, of the year. Both were out from
Rathclare for the cool evening by the sea, and in order to enjoy the
most perfect coolness of the sea, they had retired to this back room,
which was heavier to the senses and less open to the air than the
stuffiest back slum of Rathclare.
Both had of course heard the great Glengowra news, and the great
Dublin news of the day. It happened that one of these young men was in
the employment of the State--to wit, the Post Office, and the other in
that of a public company--to wit, the railway.
"I can't make it out," said the Railway, "how it is that Lavirotte
should have fought O'Donnell about Nellie Creagh, because a fellow
told me that a good while ago--a couple of years, I think--when
Lavirotte was over in London, he had made it all right with some other
girl there."
"I don't like Lavirotte, and I never did," said the Post Office; "but
this I am sure of--that he had some great friend in London, and that
his friend was not a man. Of course I don't wish this mentioned, and I
tell you it in confidence. I remember his coming over here. We make up
the bags from Glengowra at Rathclare, and when he came here first, and
I met him and knew his writing, I saw a letter from him to a Miss
Somebody (I will not tell you her name) in London, and this letter
went two or three times a week."
"Who was she?" inquired the others, inquisitively.
"I won't tell. I have already told you more than I should. You must
not mention the matter to anyone. I know you so long, old fellow, I am
sure I may rely on you."
"Well," said the other, "I don't want to seem prying. In all
likelihood I shall never see Lavirotte or O'Donnell again. I am off
next week."
"I am very sorry to lose you; but you're sure to come back to see the
old ground shortly."
"I don't think I shall," said the other, carelessly. "It costs a lot
for the mere travelling, and you know none of my people live here
about. Anyway, when I get to London, supposing I am curious, which I
am not, I can find out all about it; for I know an artist there who
told me all about Lavirotte and the girl."
"How on earth did you find anything out about one man in such a big
place as London?"
"My dear fellow, London is at once the biggest and the smallest place
in the world. You have never been there?"
"No, never."
"Well, you see, most of the nationalities and arts and professions
live in districts, chiefly inhabited by themselves; and when they do
not, they have clubs and other places of resort where they meet. So
that, in the case of Lavirotte, who was then thinking of being a
figure-painter, but hadn't got the talent, there was nothing unlikely
in his meeting other men of similar ambition, and so it was he came
across there the artist I know, who happened to have a studio in the
house I lodged in."
"I have often looked at the map of London and wondered how it was
anyone ever found out where anyone else lived, even when he had the
address. But I cannot understand how two friends can fall across one
another accidentally in such a tremendously large place."
"You have never been in Dublin even, I believe?" said the Railway.
"No, never," said the other.
"Well, then, all I can tell you is, that if you walk from the College
of Surgeons in Stephen's Green to the Post Office in Sackville Street
three times a day, you will meet any stranger who may happen to be in
the city."
For a little while both men were silent. Then the Post Office said:
"Well, as there is but a week between you and finding out all about
this girl and Lavirotte, I may as well tell you, in strict confidence,
that her name is Miss Harrington. I forget her address. She changed it
often, but it did not seem a swell address to me. At first he wrote to
her two or three times a week; but of late his letters have not gone
nearly so often, although some one in London, I suppose this Miss
Harrington, wrote him twice a week regularly. Within the past two
months I don't think he has written to her at all."
While this conversation was going on in the back parlour of the
Confectionery Hall, the policeman, who had during the day devoted most
of his attention to the vehicles passing in front of Maher's hotel and
to the warm baths opposite, was relieved, and came over to the "Hall"
for a small bottle of Guinness. It so happened that he had overheard,
through the glass-door from the shop to the parlour, most of the
conversation which had passed between the two friends.
He heard the two friends rise to leave. Before the handle of the door
turned he was out of the shop. In a few minutes he was back in the
police-station.
"Well, any news?" said the sergeant, gloomily.
"I have heard something that may be useful," said the constable; and
he detailed the conversation.
"And we have found something which may be useful," said the sergeant.
"After a long search among the stones we came upon the knife Lavirotte
stabbed O'Donnell with. Here it is, with Lavirotte's name and
O'Donnell's blood upon it. It will go hard with us if we can't get
Lavirotte seven years on this alone."