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back and arms of it.
    “I won’t stop until I do.”
    “That’s easy to say,” said Quirk.
    “He’s the best, John,” said O’Malley. “He’ll find the bastard. For my money, we got him already. Like I told you.”
    Quirk wasn’t listening to O’Malley. “And what will you do when you find him?”
    “I’ll try to make it so he’ll get hanged,” said McGarr without hesitating. He knew what Quirk wanted to hear, and in fact it was the way he was feeling then too.
    Quirk nodded his head. He then turned and looked at the picture of his daughter on the mantel.
    From where he sat, McGarr couldn’t tell if the photographer had added the blush to May Quirk’s young cheeks, but she looked fresh and innocent, with a happy smile and a big space between her two front teeth, which then had not been capped. Knowing how she had been murdered was enough to mist the eyes of even McGarr, who had sat through many such interviews and was in his own way a very hard man indeed.
    “How did he do it to her?”
    “P—, poison,” O’Malley said. “Something new and quick. She didn’t suffer a bit. Must have spiked her drink.”
    “But why?” Quirk asked.
    “That’s the reason we’re here,” said McGarr. “Perhaps if we can gather the facts quickly, we can get right on the trail of whoever it was. What can you tell me about your daughter? I understand she’s been away for quite some time now.” He stood, holding his empty glass.
    “Oh,” said Quirk suddenly. “Help yourself.”
    “It’s a shame the cap’s missing. All its strength will escape.”
    “Jim Cleary from next door gave it to me like that. Last night.” Quirk turned to O’Malley. “Strangest thing. He just knocked on the door and when I opened it he thrust that thing at me. He looked like something or somebody had scared him witless. Do you suppose—?”
    O’Malley shook his head. “Not Jim Cleary. He’s just getting a little soft is all. Sure and you know him better than me. He’s as gentle as a lamb and has always been. Even when he’s on the drink.”
    But Quirk wasn’t listening. Again he had turned to look at the picture of his daughter on the mantel. “She was a changed girl when she came back from America. Forgetful like, and distracted. She had something on her mind, that’s for sure. First night, instead of staying home here with her ma and pa like she hadn’t done in ten years, she went out to the pubs, like some day laborer or strumpet. I don’t know what the world’s coming to. When I was a lad, women stayed at home where they belonged. And they got married and had children. I don’t know.” The old man rocked his head from side to side. “I’ve always said the drink is the curse of Ireland, something gutter snipes and desperadoes use for blood.” McGarr was just pouring himself another small glass. The old man added, “Begging your pardon, sir.”
    McGarr asked, “Did your daughter have a drinking problem?”
    “Oh, God no. At least I would say that she didn’t. I mean, I wouldn’t rightly know. But every night she went out, Aggie and me waited up for her. Not once could I even tell she had had a drop. She wasn’t tired or groggy. Several times we stayed up until dawn.” Yet again he turned and looked at his daughter’s picture on the mantel and then bit his lip. “I knew there wassomething in the wind. She wasn’t acting like that because she wanted to. I don’t care how many years she spent in New York. I know my May. It’s the upbringing that counts.” His hand jumped to his face. Not knowing what to do with it, he scratched his forehead.
    McGarr took out his wallet and removed May Quirk’s $27,000. He reached over and placed the crisp bills on the table beside Quirk. “That’s your daughter’s money, Mr. Quirk.”
    O’Malley glanced at McGarr. Officially, the money was evidence which should have been held until it was ascertained that May Quirk did indeed own it. But McGarr wasn’t about to go by