Father Sean Doyle was sitting quietly in his lodgings, working on the sermon for next Sunday. His housekeeper had only just cleared the tea things, when the phone rang. It was Andy Murphy.
“Is that you, Father?” enquired Andy.
“It is indeed, Andy,” replied Fr Doyle. “How can I be helping you this fine afternoon?”
“You will have heard about Martin, Father?” asked Murphy. McFosters was one of Doyle’s more important and influential parishioners. And he’d disappeared.
“Indeed I have,” replied Doyle. “Is there any news of the man?”
“None at all, Father. It’s all very strange.”
“Let’s pray he’ll turn up unharmed,” replied Fr. Doyle. “I’m sure the good Lord will look after the man.”
“The reason I’m ringing,” went on Murphy, “is to tell you that someone seems to be looking after our funds, Father. Looking after them rather too well, if you ask me.”
Doyle sat forward.
“What is it you’re saying, Andy?” he asked.
“I’m saying that someone seems to have their hand in our till, Father.” replied Murphy, “And what with you being our Treasurer and all, I thought I’d see what you knew about it.”
“This is all news to me, Andy. Tell me what you’ve heard.”
Andy Murphy was McFosters’ Chief of Staff. What he didn't know about what was going on within Sinn Fein and the IRA wasn’t usually worth knowing. Except that they left Fr. Doyle to run the organisations’ finances, and had done for years. Having a well-loved and trusted parish priest as IRA Treasurer had always seemed a brilliant idea. Nobody would ever suspect Sean Doyle of any involvement whatsoever.
“Before he went to the airport,” reported Murphy, “Martin told me that there had been some problem with the Manhattan State Bank account, and he asked me to do a bit of probing while he was away.”
“I wonder why he didn’t ask me,” pondered Doyle. “I’ll check on it right away.”
“There’s nothing to check on,” said Murphy. “As far as I can discover, the account has been closed and the money has gone. Every last penny of it.”
“But that’s not possible. Surely to God Martin didn't empty it himself before he disappeared?”
“It would explain his disappearance, I suppose, but could he have done it without you knowing, Father?”
“Well, yes. I suppose he could. He had access to the account, as I do.”
“So you could have done it yourself?”
Doyle laughed.
“I know this is a serious problem, Andy my boy, but what would a man of the cloth like me be doing with a million quid or so? Now be reasonable. There has to be a better explanation. Martin wouldn’t do a thing like that, either, any more than you or I. Leave me to have a word with the Bank, and I’ll let you know what I can discover. And you be sure to let me know if you ever hear a word about dear brother Martin.”
Father Sean Doyle was both puzzled and worried at the end of his conversation with Murphy. He wondered what to do for the best. Contacting Bill Clayton now would not be a good idea, he was sure of that.