Land Beyond the Map

Though he tramped the fascinating alleyways of Smith-field, amid the noise and bustle, penetrating into the quieter, dusty and time-corroded sections, and turned over so many tattered books — all guide books — that he wondered how anyone ever found their way about without them, he did not turn up a guide book with a torn map in the back. Correction — he turned up many guide books with ripped and frail maps in the back; but that warning zephyr he knew would creep up his spine when he found the right one did not happen. He returned to the hotel, discouraged. Everyone to whom he had spoken had been helpful, bringing out piles and arm-loads and old tea chests full of books, had even helped him to turn them over — but one and all they’d shaken their heads.

“Sorry, sir. Feller called McArdle was here, askin’ the very same questions, sure he was.”

McArdle.

“Who the hell was this McArdle to come poking into Crane’s life, trying to steal his map?”

In the loquacious, easy-talking way of the Irish the booksellers would have told McArdle about Crane. That was a surety and Crane felt uncomfortable at the thought. He felt exposed in a way he could not explain even though that, too, was all of a piece with the rest of the mystery surrounding the torn map and the existence or otherwise of the place called the Map Country.

Polly, too, that evening looked crestfallen. “I found the hotel where Allan stayed that last night. Run-down sort of place. I spoke to the proprietor. The place has changed hands since then. It was five years ago, after all.”

“Hard luck, Polly.”

“I’ve a lead to the man who owned it at the time, though. Thought we could hire a car and run out there tomorrow. Little place called Ballybogy, about four miles northwest of Ballymoney.”

“All right. I’m game.” The obvious thought occurred to Crane. “I suppose his name isn’t McArdle?”

“No. Should it be?”

“If this was straight detection, yes, it should be. But we’re mixed up in something a little stronger than mere crime and sudden death. The death’s there, well enough, but I don’t believe it to be sudden.” Crane could not have explained the dark thoughts crowding his brain except by bringing in the fey influences of Ireland — influences he had heretofore scoffingly derided.

“His name,” Polly said, “is O’Connell. Will you see about the car?”

Crane, thinking back to that filthy night he had first met Polly Gould, said: “On condition you drive.”

“Done.”

Crane found it easy enough to obtain a car, a late model Austin, and Polly took it through the traffic the next morning and out along the excellently surfaced roads with a sure, gentle touch that amused and impressed Crane. The green countryside sped past. The sun shone and fluffy clouds wallowed in a mild blue sky like a fleet of white-winged galleons. And, like true ships of war, they could congregate in an instant and open up devastating broadsides, deluging everything in their wrath. Crane held the Ordnance Survey on his knee and followed their progress through the enchanted names of Ireland.

Ballybogy turned out to be just a tiny whitewashed village of closed front doors lining the main street. They were directed to O’Connell’s cottage, knocked, and, after stating then-business, were admitted into the neat, snug, dark little parlor. O’Connell was a brown-faced, wiry, sharp-eyed gnome of a man. He twinkled at them.

As his daughter brewed tea and laid out pan bread and Irish butter, scones and home-made jam from the strawberries of the previous summer, O’Connell racked his brain, thinking back to a single night five years ago when a man and a girl had stayed at his hotel. Amazingly, he remembered.

As he explained why he remembered, Crane’s amazement was replaced by mounting excitement. He leaned forward on the black-wood chair.

“And you say, Mr. O’Connell, that the man scared you?”

“Not scared, young man.” O’Connell rubbed his chin. “I recall surely he was possessed of the evil eye—”

“Oh, come now, father!” O’Connell’s daughter had a fashionable hairdo, and nylons, and a well-cut flowered dress —she was no half-wild girl from the distant bogs. “That’s all nonsense!”

Despite the sunshine flooding golden through the open door and the cheerful wink of china ornaments and tea things on the table, Crane could not help feeling that perhaps the old man’s dark theories were not nonsense. As soon as you set foot in Ireland you realized that anything at all could happen here.

The story as it came out was in itself nothing sensational; but Crane became vividly aware of the undercurrents, the things that were not said, the possibilities this fresh approach opened up.

“The eye o’ the divil himself,” O’Connell rumbled.