He waited for Lassiter to congratulate him on his cleverness. Instead the chief sounded puzzled: “That’s not what I got from Stephen at the mine. He told me it was Michael F. O’Flynn, powderman, who I happen to know is a black Irishman - and who lives at 51 Brattice Street. Who told you it was Red Mike?”
“McGaffigan,” Bushell answered. “Somebody’s lying. Finding out who might be - interesting.” He dug out a notebook and pencil, then snorted - he reminded himself of Jerry Doyle. “Can you give me their telephone numbers?”
“Colonel, these chaps are lucky the months they scrape together enough brass for rent and food both,” Lassiter said. “That’s how it is in Charleroi. I’m not saying that’s how it should be, necessarily, but that’s how it is. There’ll be no phone in either of those houses.”
“Damnation,” Bushell said. “Well, Chief, will you send a constabulary steamer over to the hotel here? If I can’t telephone them, I’ll have to take a steamer to both Michael O’Flynns and find out which one of them was really out in New Liverpool.”
“And whether McGaffigan or Stephen Niles is lying,” Lassiter said. “I can’t believe Stephen would. He’s always been - “
Though Lassiter couldn’t see him, Bushell made a chopping motion with his right hand. “In this bloody case, saying ‘I can’t believe’ is the best way I can think of to make something come true. Are you going to send me that steamer?”
“Five minutes,” Lassiter promised, and hung up.
Bushell told Stanley where he was going, then hurried downstairs to wait in front of the Ribblesdale House. A northbound train rolled out of the Charleroi station, a plume of black smoke rising against the fading twilight. The steamer pulled up. A red lamp on its roof proclaimed its status. The constable who was driving leaned over to open the kerbside door. “Colonel Bushell? I’m Sergeant Vining. I’ll do what I can for you.”
“Thanks.” Bushell slid in. “Are we closer to 29 Colliery Road or 51 Brattice Street?”
“Colliery Road,” Vining answered.
“Then go there,” Bushell said.
“Right you are, sir,” Vining said. Bushell leaned forward in his seat, as if to urge the steamer to a greater turn of speed. At last, one place or the other, he’d get some answers. Colliery Road was narrow and winding and full of potholes. Most of the street lamps along it had been broken. Sergeant Vining peered through the windscreen. About halfway down a long block, he stepped on the brake. “There you are, sir,” he said, pointing. “That one on the left is number 29.”
Bushell got out of the steamer and walked up to the door. The racket of several children playing together or trying to kill one another - Bushell couldn’t quite tell which - floated out through the open window next to it. He knocked on the door. When nothing happened, he knocked again, harder this time. The door opened. A young man with carroty red hair and mustache and wearing a sleeveless vest and denim trousers with holes at the knees stared out a Bushell. “Who the devil might you be?”
“I might be anyone.” Bushell showed his badge. “I am Colonel Thomas Bushell of the Royal American Mounted Police.” The redheaded man gaped in blank surprise. “Are you Michael O’Flynn, called Red Mike?”
“That I am,” O’Flynn answered. “And what would you want with me?”
“Were you in New Liverpool on the night of 15 June?”
“New Liverpool? In Upper California, d’you mean? That I wasn’t. I’ve never been further than Pittsburgh in all my days, and I’ve not been out of Charleroi this year, nor the last one, either. Why on earth do you care to know that?”
“To see who’s lying to me - today,” Bushell said. He turned and hurried back to the constabulary steamer, leaving Red Mike O’Flynn standing in the doorway staring after him. “Brattice Street,” he told Sergeant Vining. “Red Mike here says he’s never been out past Pittsburgh, and I believe him, so that means Percy McGaffigan’s been telling tall tales. I do wonder why.”
“Maybe you’ll find out,” Vining answered. “Brattice Street’s about five minutes from here. Number 51 you want, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
Brattice Street was a step up the social ladder from Lantern Way and Colliery Road. More houses had steamers in front of them, and fewer leaned either forward or sideways. More of the street lamps worked, too. It still wasn’t the sort of place where Bushell would have wanted to live, but he might have contemplated the prospect without giving suicide at least even money as the better choice. Sergeant Vining came to a stop in front of number 51. “Here, I’ll come with you, sir,” he said, and got out. “If this fellow’s a right villain, who knows what he’ll try? I should have thought of that before.”
Bushell wondered how much help Vining would be in case of trouble. Constables dealt with vagrants and drunks and burglars. When it came to the Sons of Liberty . . . when it came to them, the Royal Marines hadn’t been as much help as they might have. But any reinforcement was better than none. If this Michael O’Flynn was a villain, his children didn’t know it. They were raising Cain inside the house when Bushell rang the belclass="underline" this was the first miner’s house with such an amenity he’d visited. A blonde who might have been pretty if she hadn’t looked worn to death opened the door. “Yes?” she said, staring in surprise from Sergeant Vining to Bushell and back again. “I thought you’d be my husband.” Four or five children of assorted sizes peered out from behind her.
“Michael O’Flynn’s not here?” Bushell said, making sure he had the right house. When the woman nodded, he showed his RAM badge and demanded, “Where’d he go?”
“Why, he took a friend to the train station,” Mrs. O’Flynn answered. “And is there anything wrong with that, I’d like to know?” She set her hands on her hips. “Now you see here, sir, my husband’s not done a thing, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”
“That’s telling him, Mother,” said the oldest child, a boy of about thirteen.
“I didn’t say he had,” Bushell answered. “He did go to New Liverpool, to the governor’s mansion there, didn’t he?”
“What if he did? It wasn’t against the law, and not even a RAM can make out that it was.” By the way she said not even a RAM, she gave Bushell the distinct impression she lacked the admiration for his corps most citizens of the NAU felt. Taking a deep breath, she went on, “And taking Mr. Kilbride to the train station isn’t against the law, either, so why don’t you just go home?”
“I didn’t say it was against - “ Bushell’s wits caught up to what his ears had heard. “Mr. Kilbride?” he said. “Mr. Joseph Kilbride? Older man, looks like he’s taken a few too many rights to the chops?”
“He does not,” she said indignantly. “No such thing. He’s - distinguished, Mr. Kilbride is. Collects art, he does, and all like that.”
“Does he?” Bushell said. “And how does such a - distinguished - man know your husband?”
“He sympathizes with the hard life coal miners have, Mr. Kilbride does,” Mrs. O’Flynn answered. “More than you can say for most officers of the Crown, too,” she added with a venomous glare.
“You may find others with a different opinion,” Bushell said. He turned to Vining and snapped, “Come on, Sergeant, what are you dawdling for?” Without waiting for a reply, he hurried back down the walk to the constabulary steamer.
Vining followed; being well trained, he didn’t start expostulating till he got into the motorcar and saw Mrs. O’Flynn slam the door in what she obviously took to be triumph. So did Vining. “Aren’t you going to wait and pinch Mike?” he asked in incredulous tones.
“Sergeant, I don’t give a damn about O’Flynn,” Bushell said. “I want Kilbride. He gives me a straight trail to The Two Georges; O’Flynn doesn’t. Get me to the train station right now.”