Hoey nodded. _

"The races. Leopardstown, for a flutter. He used to say that-'for a flutter.' Oh," she sighed as she shifted in the sofa, "he had expressions I never heard of before. Sometimes he would have me in fits. Putting on the talk, you know. Sometimes after a little sup of drink he'd be very funny."

Mrs Hartigan seemed to catch herself. She frowned as she looked up over at Minogue.

"I'm not saying that Mr Combs was a, you know…"

"A heavy drinker?"

"Yes."

Her expression changed abruptly into a withered smile.

"I don't think he gave people a chance to know him, to like him. Talk to Joseph there and he'll tell you. He was always asking me what Mr Combs was like. People didn't know him. He could be terrible funny. Charming and gentle…"

She looked toward Hoey but her eyes did not focus. The poodle's legs twitched. It bared its teeth in sleep.

"Yes," she murmured. "A terrible ordinary man, if people only knew. Odd, certainly, but what of it? I remember him one day he had me in fits of laughing; he heard something on the radio and he turned it up loud. I came in from the kitchen to see what the commotion was and there he was, a glass of whiskey in his hand, sort of dancing around the room. Some chorus, a man's chorus from Russia. They were singing 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' in Russian. Their language, you see. He thought that was priceless. He once told me that I was a socialist but I didn't know it. But not in a nasty way, more a bit of tickling and fun. An educated man, you see. Never had to say it, you just knew it."

Hoey caught Minogue's eye.

"I'll tell you something now," Mrs Hartigan went on without prompting. "I forgot he was an Englishman half the time. Such a nice way about him when he wanted to be…"