Grey Lady

by Paul Kemprecos

“Not soon enough! The morrow.”

  “Is that what the charts tell you, sir?”

  “The charts have served their purpose. We are entering the devil’s den. Today I gammed with the captains of the Rachel and the Delight, two Nantucket ships that only days before had lost good men to the unholy wrath of the white whale. I will avenge them as well with this very hand, Starbuck. Will ye stand fast with me in the boat?”

  “Aye, Captain. I’ll be there.”

  “Good!”

  He stood, pushed the chair back and raised his arm in the air, his fingers balled as if clutching something.

  “The lance that will end his days has been tempered by blood and lightning. I will place the point in that hot place behind the fin where the white whale most feels his accursed life.”

  His words rang like hammer blows on steel.

  “And once that is done, Captain, what then?” I said.

  A manic grin came to his lips.

  “Art thou mad, Starbuck? The white whale will be dead.”

  “And once Moby Dick is dead, will that be the end of it, Captain Ahab?”

  “Aye, Starbuck. The white whale is gone to the hell that spawned it. I am done.”

  Daggett was starting to annoy me. Since arriving on Nantucket I had been shot at, pushed around, lied to, growled at by attack dogs and stalked. Daggett on the other hand, gets himself into hot water, then retreats into the protective bubble of his fictional personality. I wasn’t sure at this point whether he was truly crazy or whether he had simply found a clever way to escape life’s slings and arrows. Either way, I resented it.

  I wished I had the Moby Dick paperback so I could shove the book in his face and say that I was onto him and to stop using Melville and Ishmael and Stubbs, and yes, good old Starbuck as shields while the rest of us poor slobs had to deal with everything life threw at us. But I didn’t. Because there was always the possibility that he was temporarily insane, and if I tried to drag him back to reality, it would send him over the abyss.

  Instead, I spoke softly and said, “But what of the Pequod and the crew? What of me? Are we doomed to become rotting corpses sailing a ship of the damned for all time?”

  “If need be. It will be out of my hands.”

  I had the feeling that I was losing Daggett. That he would drift off into the safety of his madness and wither away until he was beyond reach of anyone. Daggett was at the center of a whirling vortex. I wasn’t about to let him drag me and others down with him. His mania seemed to be peaking. I had no idea what might happen when he at last confronted the white whale in his fevered brain. Would the shock suddenly snap him back to the present, or would he be drawn further into his madness, never to emerge?

  Speaking firmly, I said, “It’s not for you alone to say, Captain.”

  He glowered at me. “You think me mad, Starbuck, but it’s your brains that are addled. This ship is my kingdom, the crew my loyal knights and serfs. I care not for the mindless prattling from the fo’c’sle.”

  “But there others who do care, Captain. Your granddaughter, Lisa. Your sweetheart, Lillian. They’ll be at the water’s edge waiting for the first sight of the Pequod’s sails.”

  “I know not—”

  “They want your voyage to end. They want you to walk the cobblestones of Nantucket again. To sit and gam with other whaling captains. To end your days at sea forever. They miss you, Captain.”

  The heat went out of his eyes. “I miss them, too. Dear God, I miss them, too.”

  “Then come home now, sir. They’re waiting.”

  His face contorted, as if he were going through a fierce internal struggle, then his features hardened and his voice grew icy.

  “My time will come, but first there must be blood.”

  It’s not easy playing at being Sigmund Freud, especially when your skills of psychoanalysis are non-existent. What I did have was something no professional shrink, even a legitimate one, would ever have. Daggett thought I was Starbuck. As his first mate, I could reach him in a primal level. He had responded when I mentioned the names of his granddaughter and sweetheart. It wasn’t much, but it was a crack in his Ahab façade.

  I said, “Excuse me, Captain, but I must tend to my duties.”

  “Aye, Starbuck. Tend away. And I must prepare for the glorious hour.”

  “You do that, Captain.”

  He rose slowly from the table, placed the hat on his head and walked back to the window. He stared through the glass without speaking. I picked up the tray and bowl and edged out of the room.

  Lisa had come home and was in the kitchen alone. She was scooping the bottom out of a soup bowl. I sat across from her.

  “I see you’ve been recruited as a soup tester, too.”

  “You’ve already had some? It’s heavenly, isn’t it? I could finish off the whole pot.”

  “Better not. Mrs. Gomes made it for your grandfather. I took him some and he practically ate the bowl, too.”

  “Thank you for doing that.”

  “How did your airport meeting go?”

  “Good. I got a substantial contribution. It was hard keeping my mind on the conversation. I kept thinking about the prisoner out on Mayhew Point.”

  “You can relax a little. I got in touch with Flagg. He’s offered to help.”

  “That’s a relief. It’s difficult enough dealing with Gramps and his problems. How is he doing?”

  “Hard to tell, Lisa. Tomorrow may be a turning point.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  I told her about my conversation with her grandfather. “I was going to use tough love on the old guy, Lisa. I thought if I accused him of scamming everybody, it would snap him out of whatever spell he’s under and bring him back to life.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You think he’s been pretending all this time?”

  “It crossed my mind. Maybe because Rosen is a jerk and I didn’t trust his conclusion that Gramps is out of his mind. I told you when you hired me that I wouldn’t bend the facts to suit the needs of my client. It’s whatever it is.”

  “And what is it?”

  “We won’t know the truth until your grandfather comes out of his Ahab spell.”

  She gave me a bleak smile. “Then that’s it. Gramps goes to court, they find him crazy and put him away forever.”

  “Not necessarily. Dr. Socarides may be rough around the edges, but he gets results.”

  I told her about Daggett’s reaction when I mentioned her name and Lillian’s. She reached across the table and grabbed my hand in hers.

  “Sorry for doubting you. That gives me so much hope. Maybe he can come out of it.”

  “It will raise new problems if he becomes lucid before his trial. He won’t be able to use the insanity defense, which means there may be a prison cell in his future.”

  She squeezed my hand until it hurt. “He would die in prison, Soc.”

  “Then let’s keep him out of prison. Dr. Rosen is convinced that Henry will never recover. Maybe you can use his questionable diagnosis to help Gramps. Tell Rosen that your grandfather seems to be reaching a crisis. That he’s starting to remember things. And that it wouldn’t help if Henry had a meltdown in the courtroom. Ask him to back you up when you tell the D.A. that you want a trial postponement.”

  “You think it will work?”

  “Maybe.” I paused, then said, “There’s one other thing. I think it’s time you visited your grandfather and talked to him as a person, not as a specter.”

  “Dr. Rosen says if I did it will drive him over the cliff.”

  “Do you trust Rosen?”

  “No. I don’t. Okay, I’ll go see my grandfather, but I’m not sure how he’ll react.”

  “What do you have to lose?”

  “Not much
, unfortunately.” I was a little sad when she released her warm grip. “Thanks for everything, Soc. Will you be here when I’m done seeing him?”

  “Probably not. I’ve got to check my telephone messages, then get back into town to do an errand. How about dinner later on?”

  Lisa said that would be fine and we arranged to meet at a restaurant she suggested. As I walked back to the apartment, I worried that I had given Lisa bad advice. Working as a detective in Boston and later on my own, sometimes I acted like an amateur shrink. A practical knowledge of human behavior can help when you’re trying to get information out of someone. But I had never met anyone as crazy as Daggett.

  The red light was blinking on the telephone. I retrieved the messages. My mother had called to ask how things were working out with Alex. And there was a call from my cousin saying that Malloy had called his daughter a few weeks ago, said he was going hiking in Nepal, and might be out of telephone range for a while. How convenient.

  I had a few hours before Flagg’s return so I called Sutcliffe and said I had something I wanted to show him. He said he’d be at the whaling museum, but would meet me at a nearby bar. On the drive into town, I pictured the surprise on his face when I showed him the scrimshaw photos that implicated Swain as a murderer. Silly me. I’d forgotten that the Little Grey Lady of the Sea is never predictable. As I would soon find out, she had more than one secret hidden in the thick folds of her foggy skirt.

  CHAPTER 28

  Sutcliffe was waiting for me at the Brotherhood of Thieves. It was the quiet time in between lunch and dinner, so we were the only people at the bar. We shook hands and I set the envelope in front of him without saying what was in it. We ordered a couple of beers and made small talk. Between sips, Sutcliffe kept glancing at the envelope. Finally, his curiosity got the best of him.

  He tapped the envelope with his forefinger. “Is this for me?”

  “Depends on whether or not you buy me another beer.”

  “No-brainer,” he said.

  He signaled the bartender, then undid the clasp and slid the photos out. He was familiar with Coffin scrimshaw and knew right away what he was looking at. He examined each image, his eyes widening.

  “Holy crap, Soc! This is a scrimshaw record of the sinking of the Moshup and the aftermath.”

  “That’s not all it is. Take a very close look at the panels.”

  He studied the carved scenes that showed the hunt for the whale, the overturned whaleboats and the whale’s attack on the ship. He brought the photos close to his face when he came to the panels that depicted what happened after the ship went under and the crew set off in the whaleboats. I heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “Find something?” I said in an off-handed voice.

  “Oh yeah. And don’t you know it.” He placed his forefinger on the panel detailing the dice throw, then slid it over to the scenes of the killing and the grisly aftermath. His finger stopped on the image of the two survivors gnawing on the bones of their fellow crewman. “This shows what really happened in that whaleboat. That lying sonofabitch Swain was the killer.”

  “If you can believe Coffin.”

  “I believe him. The sly old bastard Obed must have known Swain would try to frame him for the murder. So he told the story the best way that he could, with his art.”

  “Which would explain why Swain scoffed up the entire scrimshaw collection when Coffin died. He had covered up his crime the first time, when he persuaded Coffin to go along with the phony story about Daggett killing himself. Again, when he wrote the journal implicating Coffin. And a third time when he acquired the incriminating evidence.”

  “A cover-up of the cover-up of the cover-up. Where did you get this stuff?”

  I took him along the trail that I had followed to New Bedford, my talk with Mandel and how that discussion led to the meeting with Warner.

  “Forget all those jokes I made about Sherlock and Nick Charles. You’re better than either one of them.”

  “Thanks. It was something any red-blooded, Greek-American detective could have done with a little perseverance and lots of luck.”

  “Luck? Like hell. I’ve been digging around in this stuff like a pregnant pig, but I never found any truffles.”

  “Not sure I like the pregnant pig analogy, but I agree that this is a rare find.”

  “And it’s going to make an even bigger book, thanks to you.”

  “In good time,” I said, shoving the photos back into the envelope.

  Sutcliffe looked like a kid who’d been told to hand over his lollipop. “All the actors in this play have been dead for a hundred and fifty years,” he pleaded. “Nobody’s going to get hurt. Not even Swain.”

  “Someone’s already been hurt,” I said. “Remember Ab Coffin?”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right. Damn!” His face crumpled in a mask of disappointment. “Okay then,” he said with a deep sigh. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Let’s start with the premise that the evidence of Swain’s guilt was what got Coffin excited. He sees an opportunity to set the record straight about his ancestor. He tries to acquire the evidence, but Warner says no-go. Collection has to be sold as a whole, although he’d entertain an expensive compromise. Coffin finds the money to essentially rent the piece. He plans to show it to Daggett as a way to persuade him to buy it for the museum. Something goes wrong. Coffin ends up dead. Daggett’s in Moby Dick land. The piece is missing.”

  “That’s a pretty good summary. But what went wrong. And why would Daggett kill Coffin?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe Daggett was still being stubborn about the acquisition. Coffin won’t take no for an answer. He gets physical. In self defense, Daggett grabs the boarding knife off the wall and skewers Coffin.”

  “Do you really believe in that scenario?”

  “Hell, no. It’s ridiculous. But it’s a story the prosecution will tell the jury.”

  Sutcliffe slurped his beer. “Doesn’t make sense. Daggett’s a Nantucket history buff, too. He would have seen the value of the piece to set the record straight. It would have made great publicity for the museum and a hell of a tourist draw. What a story, man!”

  “So why didn’t that happen? Why didn’t they join forces to persuade the board of directors that this was a major find?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because someone didn’t want the record set straight,” I said. “Let’s assume there was a third person at the meeting.”

  “Interesting theory. Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “Put that question aside for now. Picture this. Coffin and Daggett both believe the scrimshaw should be made public. They set up a meeting. Coffin gets there first. The third person is waiting, and kills him. When Daggett shows up, Number Three whacks Daggett with the pommel of the knife. He wipes down the knife, puts it in Daggett’s hands and exits the scene of the crime.”

  “How does Number Three get into the museum?”

  “Good question. I don’t know, so let’s stay with what we do know for now.”

  “Okay. The cops got a phone tip about the murder. Number Three again?”

  I nodded. “Unfortunately, Daggett regains consciousness before the police show up. He sees Coffin’s body, and the knife in his hands. Figures maybe he killed his friend. He makes it to his car and tries to drive home, but instead stops at the Serengeti, a place that is near and dear. The blow on the head, the shock of finding his pal dead, the possibility that he is responsible, send him over the edge. He takes refuge in his Ahab persona.”

  “Not bad,” Sutcliffe said.

  “There’s another possibility. The bad guy knocks Daggett out and transports him to the Serengeti.”

  “More complicated, but possible. Can you prove any of these theories?”

  “Nope. But I’m ope
n to suggestions.”

  Sutcliffe drifted off thought, but only for a moment. “Maybe we should get it straight from the horse’s mouth. Let’s take a walk.”

  Sutcliffe paid for the beers and we emerged from the dim bar into the summer sunlight. I thought Sutcliffe was taking me back to his house. Instead, we walked along a narrow lane lined with antique houses and followed Sparks Avenue to an old cemetery at the edge of town.

  Sutcliffe climbed over a split-rail fence and I followed him into the burying ground.

  “They used to call this the Old South Cemetery,” he said. “Nothing but pasture land back in the 1700s, but as you can see, the town has expanded this way. Fifteen or so sea captains are planted here.”

  We walked by a row of headstones. “There’s a Mayhew. Lillian’s family,” I said.

  “Check out the date. Mayhews go back to the 1700s. There’s Susan Veeder, who went on a five-year whaling voyage on her husband’s ship, and gave birth to a little girl in Chile. The child died in Tahiti. They didn’t want to leave her body so they brought it back in a sealed coffin and buried her here in the family plot.”

  I read the inscription on the headstone. “Sad story,” I said.

  “But not untypical. Nantucketers sailed around the globe to places most Americans never dreamed existed. But they wanted their remains back on the island. One guy ended up in Salt Lake and before he died, he directed that his heart be taken from his dead body and buried here.” We tromped down another row of stones. Sutcliffe stopped and said, “This is what I wanted to show you.”

  His finger pointed to a headstone of red marble that was at least twice as big as the markers around it. The top of the stone was arched, rather than horizontal, which allowed space for a carving of whaleboats attacking a whale. There was no date on the face of the stone, only a single word. Swain. The stone was enclosed within a granite brick border a couple of inches high.

  “Any connection to our friend from the Moshup?” I asked.