Land Beyond the Map

Remembrance of that dark night five years ago had stayed in O’Connell’s mind because on that night his hotel had caught fire. He must have gone over the events leading up to the blaze time after time, sitting tucked away in his little cottage, brooding, reliving the scenes of his days in business and of the conflagration that had ended them.

Crane pieced the story together, sitting drinking strong tea and eating pan bread and strawberry jam.

Allan and Sharon had been drinking a lot in the lounge — that made Polly frown — and they’d been creating quite a disturbance. A stranger had walked in out of the night, called for a drink, and had sat down at their table. He’d had the face and the eyes of the devil, according to O’Connell. Crane was willing to give O’Connell the benefit of being an expert in those matters.

“Him and the young feller got talking. He was trying to buy a book off him and the young feller wasn’t having any, sure he wasn’t.” O’Connell shook his gnome’s head reflectively. “Before you could say Cuchulain they were pummeling each other like it was the glorious twelfth itself.

The young feller was — well — it was like this—” O’Connell stopped and rubbed his nose. “It was like he was hittin’ the whole world, hittin’ that feller with the divil’s face.”

“Poor Allan,” breathed Polly.

“And then,” O’Connell said with some small satisfaction, “me hotel caught fire, the whole works, entire.”

“But I went there yesterday—” Polly protested.

“Terrible fine fire service we have in Belfast, miss. All the best bedrooms running with water and ash. But, d’you know—”

“Now, father,” his daughter said in a voice that held an unmistakable warning.

He rounded on her. “Now what d’you take me for, girl! Don’t I know what happened? Didn’t I see it with my own eyes, then?”

“You know what the insurance people said. You were lucky they didn’t press you too hard…”

“Faith and all! I’m sitting here and telling you, girl, that that divil-faced feller lost the fight with the wee lad and set my hotel afire with his divil’s spit. That’s what I’m atelling you of!”

“Oh, father—!”

Crane glanced at Polly. She had her lower lip gripped tightly between her teeth. She looked intense and, caught limpidly unaware in a betraying pose, appealingly lovely. Crane looked away again, fast.

O’Connell’s daughter — they never did learn her name — said: “You mustn’t mind father too much. He always claimed that the stranger set the hotel alight with his eyes. These old superstitions die hard. I must admit the man did look — well — odd. He registered but of course never stayed the night. I didn’t like the look of him then—”

“Registered, you say?” Crane stepped in quickly.

“That’s right.”

“Do you remember his name?” He waited, aware of the thump of blood through his temples and the dryness of his throat.

“Sure and we all do. ’Twas a McArdle—”

“McArdle!”

Crane nodded at Polly’s surprised exclamation.

“McArdle,” he said, and the satisfaction purred in his voice.

“D’you know the feller, then?” asked O’Connell.

“No, we don’t.” Crane stood up. “But I’m much obliged to you, Mr. O’Connell. We intend to make the acquaintance of this McArdle chap as soon as maybe.”

“Sooner, if possible,” Polly added; and Crane knew she was back on form.

Crane, speaking with great gravity and emphasis, said: “Tell me, Mr. O’Connell. Can you possibly remember if the young man, Allan Gould, gave any indication where he was going in Ireland? It is most important that we know.”

“Divil a word did he say to me on that score. From what they were arguing about I seem to remember a scrap of paper they kept prodding with their wee fingers. But ’twas a lovely fire — only time I remember the best bedroom’s fireplace ever drew properly at all—”

“I know it must be difficult for you to recall details of a night five years ago. But the hotel fire fixes it for you. Is there nothing more you can tell us?” Crane was pleading now, openly and unashamed. Something about this whole fire story annoyed him in an obscure way.

“Well, now.” O’Connell swiveled around to stare at Crane, his eyes bird-bright. “Don’t blame me if it’s nothin’ but a trick of an old man’s memory. After I retired and sold the hotel my mind don’t seem as keen as ’twas.”

“Yes, Mr. O’Connell?”

“I think they talked about County Tyrone. But mind me — I’m not saying they did. Just that I think they did.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Connell,” said Crane simply. He was already standing in the little parlor and when Polly rose to join him they crowded the place with sunshine and shadow from the windows. O’Connell looked up, smiling. He began to pack a pipe kept handy on the mantelpiece. His daughter stood up, a little embarrassed now, at the parting.

Polly smiled at her. “A lovely house you have, Miss O’Connell. You must be very proud of it.”

Miss O’Connell beamed and, having been won over, Polly-beguiled, could let them depart with dignity and all rites fulfilled. As they settled in the car, Polly said wistfully: “An interesting life, with no complications.”