The 13th Apostle: A Novel of a Dublin Family, Michael Collins, and the Irish Uprising (32 page)

82

C
harlie Dalton met Dilly Dicker at the North Wall and handed off John Jameson to her. Dilly, carrying a cheap cardboard suitcase with one change of clothes, boarded the boat, never letting Jameson out of her sight.

He immediately headed for the bar, which posed a problem for Dilly, because ladies weren’t usually served in such male bastions. Dilly had no intention of traveling the whole way to England and coming up empty. She charged into the bar, bellied up right next to Jameson, and asked for a pony of sherry.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” said the barman. “I can’t serve you at the bar.”

“Why not?” demanded Dilly, creating a mini-scene.

“You know very well, ma’am,” said the shocked barman.

“Tell you what,” interrupted Jameson. “What if I got a sherry for the lady, and she drank it in the traveling lounge?” The barman nodded his head, just hoping to avoid confrontation. “Problem solved,” said Jameson, triumphantly. Dilly went directly to the lounge, and Jameson followed with her sherry. Dilly accepted her drink and took out her purse to pay for it. “I wouldn’t think of it,” said the chivalrous Jameson.

“You are so kind,” Dilly gushed.

“But not as kind as you are beautiful.”

Dilly smiled sweetly at Jameson, thinking all the time,
Boy, does this fellow work fast!

“My name is John Charles Byrne,” Jameson said, allowing the first crack.

“My name is Madeline,” said Dilly, telling the truth. Her last name would remain a mystery.

“Madeline, are you traveling back to England to visit family?”

Dilly’s smile drooped. “Me poor ould granny is awful sick, and I’m on my way to Liverpool to take care of her.”

“What a dedicated child,” Jameson praised her.

“Yourself?” asked Dilly innocently, as she sipped her sherry and batted her eyelashes at her prey.

“Myself?”

“Why are you traveling to England?”

“I’m returning to England on business.”

“And what kind of business are you in?” queried Dilly, again pretending innocence.

“I’m in the insurance business.”

I’m sure you are
, thought Dilly, but instead she said, “That must be interesting work.”

“I’m taking a beating in Ireland.”

“Are you now, Mr. Byrne?” Dilly asked. “Now, why is that?”

“All the deaths around town,” said Jameson.

“So you insure the locals?”

“Mostly I insure the British army,” Jameson admitted, before adding, “God bless them.”

“Their work is legendary,” replied Dilly.

“It’s tough work,” added Jameson, standing. “Can I get you another sherry?”

“No, thank you,” said Dilly. “I want to read my newspaper, if you don’t mind.”

Jameson headed back to the bar and did not return. Dilly did not take her eye off him the whole trip. As they came closer to Liverpool, she went into the ladies’ room and got to work. First she scrubbed all the makeup off her face. Then she combed her hair tight and wound it into a bun. She opened her suitcase and took out her outfit, which she last used when she robbed the mail boat out in Kingstown. She slipped off her dress and pulled on her britches. She also wore a bulky sweater to cover up her bosom. Lastly, she pulled a cap over her hair and frowned at herself in the mirror. She was ready.

Jameson had had his fill at the bar, and Dilly stuck close to him as he made his way to the London train. He rode in the first-class carriage, and so did Dilly. He dozed most of the way to his destination. At Euston Station, Jameson got off the train and hailed a cab. Dilly jumped in the next cab and said, “Follow that taxi!”

“Bloody hell!” said the hackie. Dilly waved a ten-pound note under the cabbie’s nose. “Yes, sir!” came the reply.

The cabbie was good at his game and damn near tailgated Jameson’s taxi. “Not so close,” barked Dilly in her deepest voice.

“Yes, sir!”

Jameson pulled up in front of Whitehall Place and entered Scotland Yard. Dilly didn’t get out. She gave the cabbie Artie O’Brien’s address and relaxed for the first time in nearly a day. Dilly knocked on O’Brien’s door, and Artie was surprised to see a young man in front of him. “Yes?” he asked, confused.

“I’m Dilly Dicker,” she said. “Mick Collins gave me your address.”

Dilly pulled off her cap, and O’Brien realized it was a very attractive young woman standing in front of him. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve heard Mick speak about you.”

“You have?” asked Dilly, surprised.

“Yes,” said Artie, “he says you’re a bonnie lass!”

“I’m here to use your phone. I have to report back to Dublin.”

O’Brien watched her with some bewilderment as Dilly waited for the long-distance connection to go through. “Mr. Kavanagh,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

“Eoin, it’s Dilly.”

“What have you got?”

“He says his name is John Charles Byrne, and you can reach him at Whitehall-1212.”

“Scotland Yard!” said both Eoin in Dublin and O’Brien as they recognized the famous phone number.

“Good job!” added Eoin, and Dilly hung up the phone.

“You should be more careful about whom you recommend to Mick Collins,” Dilly admonished O’Brien. “You’ve helped create a mess in Dublin.”

Artie was the head of
Sinn Féin
in London, but London pulled no rank in Dublin. He was dumbfounded by this beautiful agent from Ireland. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“Get me a taxi,” said Dilly curtly. “So I can get back to Euston Station and get the hell out of this bloody country.”

Fearing the wrath of Michael Collins, Artie O’Brien did exactly as he was told, praying that the taxi would arrive swiftly.

83

E
OIN’S
D
IARY
S
UNDAY, FEBRUARY
29, 1920

I
t’s a leap year, and Mick is leapin’ all over me today
.

“Have you seen these fookin’ hotel bills from New York?”

I think Mick is cross with Dev, but he’s taking it out on me.

“Have you seen these bills from Devoy in New York?” Mick repeated, now stuttering, as he got red in the face. “I can’t believe them!”

John Devoy is a favorite of Mick’s. We’ve been getting a lot of mail from him since Dev went to America. I’d never heard of him before, and when I innocently inquired into who he was, I was berated by Mick for my ignorance. He informed me that Devoy was one of the greatest of the Fenians. He had fought in the uprising of 1867, did time in Kilmainham, and went to America, where he organized
Clan na Gael
into an organization that brought attention to the cause of Irish freedom. He also got Fenians out of an Australian penal colony on a daring rescue mission, employing an American ship called the
Catalpa
. As the Royal Navy bore down on the
Catalpa
, with the escaped Fenians on board, the captain hoisted the stars and stripes, frightening away the British. I think Mick likes Devoy so much because he is like an older version of Collins himself.

“Ten thousand fookin’ dollars!” shouted the Minister for Finance. “He’s trying to bankrupt the Republic at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York!”

I had to suppress a smile at all this. Mick is going daft trying to buy a few guns and bullets off a shady character like Jameson, and Dev is parading around America like a king. But there’s something about the names of the hotels that digs at Mick. His main target is the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City, but the Copley Plaza in Boston, the Bellevue-Stratford in Philadelphia, the Blackstone in Chicago, and the Wardman Park in Washington, D.C., also get a rise out of him. “Isn’t a B&B good enough for the First Minister?” he asked me.

“Well,” says I, innocently as I can, “he’s not the
Príomh-Aire
anymore. He’s now the august President of Ireland!” That’s how he had signed the register at the Waldorf upon his arrival in New York, which Devoy had duly informed us about. I loved that Dev had invented a new title for himself, and I knew just the mention of it would drive Mick to distraction.

“He thinks he’s Brian fookin’ Boru,” said Mick, as he tossed the hotel bill into a pile of other American bills de Valera and Boland had run up.

“What should we do with Dev’s bills?”

“Pay them.” Mick picked up one of the bills again and ran his finger down the charges. “I see we’re paying for Kathleen O’Connell all these months.” I told Mick that Kathleen was only Dev’s secretary, and that he had a dirty mind. “Indeed I do,” he bragged. “With poor Mrs. de Valera slavin’ away, taking care of the kiddies out in Greystones, and Dev gallivanting around America. Maybe I should have a chat with Mrs. D and see if she’d like to join Dev in America? He’s already renting a suite big enough for ten.” Mick gave me a laugh and a devilish wink.

It was getting too hot in the Harcourt Street offices, so Mick has rented another office at 22 Mary Street. This is where we now do most of the business of the National Loan. Like he had turned a page, Mick instantly forgot about Dev’s largess and turned to more deadly matters. “The British have been snooping around the banks,” said Mick. “I was in the Munster & Leinster Bank in Dame Street yesterday, and the manager told me his books had been summoned to the Police Court at Inns Quay by someone named Alan Bell.”

“What does it mean?”

“They’re beginning to examine the books. They’re looking for the National Loan money.” We have National Loan money hidden in bank accounts all over Ireland, and in England and America, too.

“What can we do?”

“Dead men don’t count,” snapped Mick at me. “Get a dossier on this fellow. The manager said he was in his mid-60s, so he’s been around. Check with Broy and Boynton. This takes priority—do you understand?”

“Even over Jameson?”

“Even over Jameson,” replied Collins. “After all the trouble I’ve gone through with this money, no old English bastard is going to snatch it away from me.”

“Jameson is due back in Dublin tomorrow,” says I. “Joe Leonard and Charlie Dalton went over to England to tag him.”

“Good move,” said Mick. “Make an appointment so I can meet with him on Monday.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? This fellow works for Scotland Yard, maybe one of the British Secret Services. Maybe he’s a double-agent?”

“Don’t be getting too excited about all that Scotland Yard stuff that Dilly discovered,” he said matter-of-factly. “He told us he was organizing the police into a union. Maybe that’s what he was doing there.”

I just shook my head. Sometimes I think Mick is naïve, but I never think that for long. I think he secretly loves danger, whereas it terrifies me. I think Mick gets a rush from it. “Do not underestimate Jameson,” I finally cautioned. “Or I’ll be reading an oration over your grave at Glasnevin.”

“I know that, for fook’s sake,” snapped Mick, looking at me with disgust. “But if he has some guns, maybe I can get them off of him before we send him on his way.”

“We have our hands full,” I conceded, wondering what would happen next to gum up the works.

“First Jameson,” said Mick, “now Bell. I don’t believe in coincidences. I bet these guys are connected somehow. You’re right. Whatever we do, we cannot let either of these men out of our sight.”

I don’t believe in coincidences, either. I think it’s time I carry me Webley with me at all times.

84

A
knock came at the door of John Jameson’s room at the Gresham Hotel. He opened the door to see Liam Tobin standing on his threshold. “Michael Collins wants to see you immediately.”

“Oh,” said Jameson, “I have to make a phone call before I leave.”

“No call,” said Tobin. “Let’s get going, now.”

There was a taxi waiting in Sackville Street for them, and it took a left at North Earl Street and headed in the direction of Amien Street Station. At Amien Street, it pulled up to the J&M Cleary public house. Tobin got out of the cab and held the door of the pub open so Jameson could enter. “Upstairs,” he said, and was right behind Jameson as he climbed the stairs to the private room on the second floor. Inside the room sat Collins, alone at the large round table in the middle of the room. Paddy Daly sat in a chair to the right of the fireplace.

“Mr. Jameson,” said Collins.

“General,” returned Jameson, as he shook hands.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” Collins said. “I just wanted to check to see when you’ll have my guns.”

“I can deliver the revolvers tomorrow.”

Collins looked surprised. “Grand man, ya are!” he said, with genuine delight.

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Liam here will contact you and tell you where to bring them,” said Collins. “Don’t leave your room at the Gresham. You’ll be hearing from us.” Jameson gave a small laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“Your mustache,” said Jameson. “It’s beginning to fill in.” Collins did look kind of ridiculous when he grew a mustache. “Are you trying to disguise yourself from the British?”

This fellow doesn’t know when to shut up
, thought Collins but simply said, “Not at ‘tal.” He grinned mischeviously before adding, “I do it for the ladies!” With that, he stood up and started showing Jameson to the door. “How much will it cost?” added Collins.

“One hundred pounds should cover it.”

“Cheaper by the pound,” Collins joked. “I’ll be in touch.”

Collins closed the door on Jameson and turned to his two cohorts. “If this gobshite has any guns, take them and pay him for them. Let’s see what happens after that. Maybe you should put out a little milk for the cat, Liam,” said Collins mischievously. “What do you think of him?”

“I don’t know,” Tobin remarked, thoughtfully. “I wanted to meet him so I could get a feel for him. He’s as smooth as aged whiskey.”

“And well-named, too,” said Collins with a laugh. “Let’s get the hell out of here in case he’s ambitious.” Soon Collins was on his clanker, heading in the direction of Vaughan’s. Daly headed for the Dump in Abbey Street, while Tobin decided to return to Crow Street to catch up on his intelligence work.

John Jameson was walking down Talbot Street, heading in the direction of Sackville Street and his hotel. He could see Nelson’s imposing pillar right in front of him, dead ahead. He thought that the old one-armed, adulterous admiral would be proud of him and his seduction of Michael Collins. Jameson was beginning to enjoy Dublin City, and he walked leisurely, in no hurry. Charlie Dalton and Joe Leonard were in no hurry, either, as they discreetly tagged him from the opposite side of the street, under strict orders from Collins not to let Jameson out of their sight.