Robert Walker - Titanic 2012

“Brought you Pinky’s on and fired him, haven’t they?” asked Thomas.

“I’ve no clue! Likely left his post for a dram at the nearest pub.”

Two other Pinkerton agents sporting long guns materialized at the railing beside Tuttle. “Can’t trust Black Irish or any Paddy for that matter!” said a second agent from on high.

A third added, “It’s why we’ve been called on in the first place!”

“You take that back!” shouted Thomas, shaking a fist at Tuttle and the others. “My Uncle Fiore is not a Black Irish; fact is he’s French mostly, and he’s never left his post unattended! Takes it serious, he does!”

“We’ve reason to believe he’s aboard, Agent Tuttle,” added Declan.

“Not ’board Titanic , he isn’t,” shot back Tuttle from on high. “We can see everything and everyone coming and going from up here.”

“Then you must’ave seen the old watchman leave for his rounds—which direction did he go in?” pleaded Declan. “He could be hurt. Tell us which way’d he go so we might locate him.”

“Save your breath. He’s not the least bit interested, the bastard.” Thomas pulled his best friend away and the moment their backs were to Tuttle, the agent shouted for them to hold on, making them turn and again crane their necks to the light of the lantern far above.

“Hold on,” repeated Tuttle. “The watchman staggered off hours ago complaining of having gotten hold of some bad oysters, he said. Sick as a dog, he was, all bent over.”

“We’ll take his watch to the house for him then,” Thomas told Declan, the watch reflecting the lantern light even from this distance.

But on arriving at this witching hour to the Fiore home, they learned he’d never come home, and soon the hours brought on daylight and still no sign of Anton. It was then that they’d gone to the Belfast Police who so far as Declan could tell offered little hope and less help. Thomas pleaded until they turned him over to the Chief of Constables but to no avail so far as Declan could tell.

However, Thomas came out of the police department stationhouse with having been told of an eccentric American who’d come to Belfast to set up shop as a private detective. Someone had taken pity on Thomas, apparently, and had told him he might be in need of this man’s services.

After discussing the matter and finally getting Thomas’ aunt to take some laudanum and get some sleep, they’d gone searching for this man rumored to get results, this American-Irish named Alastair Wyland.

And now they’d found him this April afternoon at a card game with several rough-looking characters here inside the Red Lion Public House.

“Three,” said one man with a scar across his left eye, asking for more cards.

“Two,” announced another—a fellow with missing fingers on one hand.

The one who most resembled the description the boys had of a Mr. Alastair Wyland, a well-dressed dapper fellow with watch fob and wolf’s head cane, called for one card which precipitated a bit of banter and laughter.

The dealer, a man who looked as old as wood and as hairy as an Irish wolfhound laughed heartily and said, “So… going for an inside straight, eh? Hehehehe… it never works, son.”

“It is worth it just to hear you call me son,” replied Wyland, whipping the single discard at the old man. Wyland, frayed, grey scruffy beard and all, appeared in his early sixties if not older. Most assuredly, rough cut wrinkles spoke of years of experience with worry.

“Mind those long shots,” added the dealer. “You Americans. Risk-takers you are!”

“You are Mr. Wyland?” asked Declan, now standing over the poker table, making the four men nervous. In fact, it appeared everyone sitting here had fragile nerves and itchy fingers.

Wyland was more nervous than any of them, Declan decided, but he covered it well as a good poker player must. Wyland didn’t look up as the others had, instead sizing Declan up from the shadow thrown across the cards. “You’re in my light,” was all that Wyland said to Declan’s shadow.

Declan could see that Wyland was not looking for an inside straight but rather held two pairs. Sixes and eights.

Thomas, beside Declan repeated the question. “Are you Wyland or not?”

“Who might be asking?” the heavyset, well-dressed detective asked.

“We’re wanting to hire you. To find my friend’s uncle who’s gone missing.” Declan nudged Thomas to speak up on the matter, but before Thomas could go into it, one of the men at the poker table said, “It’s them two miners that disappeared, eh? Who’re you lads to O’Toole and McAffey?”

“What two miners?” asked Declan.

Thomas said to Wyland, “My Uncle Anton’s the watchman at Harland and Wolf—the shipyards.”

“Declan put in. “We were supposed to meet him at midnight last eve.”

“But he didn’t show up,” Wyland said, bored, “and he never came home neither. Wife’s worried sick—they’d had a row.”

“All true but how did you know?” asked Declan, eyes wide.

“Hear it every day sittin’ here, son.”

This made all the card players break into laughter.

“Look, this is no joke!” Thomas shouted, drawing Wyland’s eye. “We’re all sick with worry.”

Wyland looked around the table. “Three men missing just like that, all yesterday? Sounds like they found a keg, eh lads?”

Again everyone at the table laughed, one slapping hard against the wood, all except for one man, the old dealer. “Tim McAffey and Francis O’Toole are not the sort to up and disappear, keg or no keg. They are good men, both—stalwart miners! And no one’s more reliable than that big watchman, Fiore.”

“Like yourself McClain, I’m sure,” replied Wyland who looked at his pocket watch and saw that it was just past five, and that he’d been here too long. “Let’s finish the hand, shall we, lads? Then its time I find a meal.”

“Will you take our case?” asked Thomas, displaying fifty-dollars in bills. “It’s all I could collect, but I can get more.”

“One thing at a time.” Wyland continued with his game and his drink, and when the cards were laid out, everyone but Wyland groaned. The detective, known to have left America for Belfast, raked in his winnings. Rumors circulated about the man; why would anyone migrate to Ireland from America? It was not done except for the other way round. He was a secretive man, and in Ireland for fifteen years—the last three in Belfast—or so it was said. Most seriously, no one knew exactly where in America he’d migrated from, but it had been a number of years now that he enjoyed a reputation of getting things done here at street level.

Others said he did so with an iron fist and a swift gun. That and the fact he’d become a fixture in the neighborhood with connections to both police and lowlifes. This made him the right man to locate Anton Fiore as the local authorities had shown little interest in the missing man.

As Wyland now basked in his winnings, Thomas Coogan informed Wyland, “We wanted a real detective—a Pinkerton agent—but we couldn’t afford one.”

“Well now I’m no Pinky and never’ve been one,” replied Wyland, scooping up the last of his coins. “So you’re stuck with me is it?” Wyland stood and stuffed his pockets with his winnings, smoke encircling his head from a pipe he’d taken the time to relight. “I warrant it’s no coincidence your uncle, young man, has disappeared alongside these two miners. Who can tell me where the miners were last seen, and where they take their secret meetings these days.”

“I-I dunno nothing ’bout’ no secret meetings, but I’ll take you to the last place anyone saw McAffey and O’Toole,” said Missing Fingers.