“Speaking of which,” Zou Zou said, reaching into her purse and bringing out a piece of paper. “There was a telegram waiting for me from my friend in London last night. He’s given me the name of the man he says is the best barrister in Dublin. Sir Grenville Hobbes. That sounds distinguished enough, don’t you think? We should go and see him right away.”

“Do you think we should do that before we go to the embassy and drop off the reel of film and the fingerprints?” Darcy asked. “He may not be there.”

“He will be there,” Zou Zou said with conviction, “because I telephoned him and told him that my friend Roddy was sending me to him on a matter of great urgency.” She checked her wristwatch. “So you see we have time to do both. Embassy first. The sooner we have those fingerprints sent to America the better.”

And she strode ahead of us toward the front entrance where several bellboys fought for the privilege of opening the door for her.

Chapter 29

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 5

IN DUBLIN AND HOPE AT LAST.

We meet a splendid barrister.

“I can’t wait to hear what they’ve been doing at the embassy,” Zou Zou said as we stepped out of the warmth of the Shelbourne into the blustery cold of St. Stephen’s Green. “Perhaps they’ll already have identified our Mr. Roach.” She raised a hand to clamp her adorable little hat to her head in the strong wind and with the other clasped her mink around her. “How exciting. This really is positively thrilling, Darcy. Thank you for drawing me away from dreary London.”

“I hardly arranged this for your enjoyment, Alexandra,” Darcy shouted back over the wind.

She hurried to catch up with him. “I know that, my darling. But I can’t help finding it thrilling. I feel just like Hercule Poirot. Do you ever read mystery novels? So clever.”

We retrieved the Rolls and drove along the river back to Phoenix Park and the embassy. The promised rain had not yet reached us but the wind was buffeting the bare trees and tossing around the seagulls as they flew overhead. We parked the car close to the door and made a dash inside without getting blown away. The same lanky young man was at the reception desk. He rose this time as we came in.

“Good morning,” Darcy said. “My name is O’Mara. We were here yesterday, about the Timothy Roach murder, and we have brought more pertinent information. Was it the ambassador himself we were speaking with yesterday?”

“It was.” The young man came around the desk. “However, the ambassador is otherwise occupied today and I’d be pleased to help you.”

“Oh, I really don’t think . . .” Darcy began. “Maybe we should come back at another time?”

“If I could just have a word, Mr. O’Mara?” the man said. “If you’d care to step this way.”