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He was concentrating on the car and the girl in the front seat.
    There was another car behind the MG, a long black limousine with an official plate, a Mercedes.
    “T. D.?” O’Shaughnessy asked. He was farther back in the shadows of the entry door, leaning against the cool wall.
    The light in the courtyard, the first of two that the buildings of Dublin Castle formed, was hazy and blue, and Ward had to squint.
    He nodded. “Cigarette?”
    O’Shaughnessy only looked down at the package of Disc Bleus. “When d’you take that up?”
    Ward shrugged. Nicely, he thought, the fat white cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, the jacket over his shoulders.
    “And that suit.” O’Shaughnessy glanced up and away, over the slate roofs of the buildings.
    “What about the suit?”
    O’Shaughnessy, whether in uniform or civilian clothes, was always nattily attired, but as in everything else his taste was conservative. He only shook his head.
    “Well?” Ward demanded, taking in the other man’s light-gray homburg and two-button suit made of—was it linen?—the darker gray tie and the black, woven-leather shoes.
    The limousine pulled up to the entry. The chauffeur got out to open the rear door.
    “Murray,” said O’Shaughnessy, squaring his shoulders and clasping his hands behind his back.
    “No, no—what about the suit, Liam? I’m interested.”
    Out of the corner of his eye Ward saw the Caughey girl getting out of the little car, and he turned his attention to her: thin legs, white and birdlike, a black-gloved hand on the yellow enamel, then a flounced hat, black as well. She was taller than Murray but taller than Ward too, and her gait was rangy and…was it athletic? Yes. She used her shoulders, twisting them a bit forward with each step. And her face was masked, it seemed, in the first movement of a smile, as though she had practiced the expression in a mirror and decided it was best and would get her through the day. But she hadn’t been able to conceal the crying. Her eyes were ringed and she looked tired.
    “Well—since you asked—it isn’t fit for a pimp, much less for a policeman. And if you’ve got hair on your chest…” O’Shaughnessy was staring down at the Mercedes, the door of which was open. Inside a fat, older man with a florid complexion and a bulbous nose was speaking into a telephone, haranguing whoever it was on the other end. His hair was a mass of silver waves that flowed to curls at the back of his head. He was wearing a pin-striped suit. “…that’s your business,” O’Shaughnessy continued, “and should be kept to yourself.”
    “Well, I’ll be…” Ward exhaled a puff of blue smoke.
    McGarr had appeared in the entryway.
    “…flogged. Where the hell have you been all your life, Liam—Galway?” O’Shaughnessy was in fact from Galway. “Times have changed.”
    “They have?”
    McGarr stood there, regarding them, a thin package under his arm.
    Ward didn’t see O’Shaughnessy wink to McGarr as the tall man turned to him. “You mean—dirt is in? You’ve got egg on your lapel, Inspector.”
    When Ward glanced down, O’Shaughnessy snatched the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it out on the stone floor. He then placed his massive hands on Ward’s shoulders and turned him around, pulling the jacket off. “Now stick your arms in this and keep your mouth shut. Be yourself. She’ll like you a lot more for it.”
    He turned Ward back around and reached for the lowest open button on the shirt, which he fastened. He then put his hand inside the jacket and pulled out the packet of cigarettes. “Smoking is a dirty habit. Once you start it you can’t stop, and there’s no satisfying the devil in your throat. Ask him.” He meant McGarr, to whom he handed the smokes.
    “But you smoke yourself.”
    “And I wish I didn’t.” O’Shaughnessy stepped past him, out into the sunlight of the entry.
    “Jesus, I should’ve joined the army,” he said to McGarr, who