by Gorman, Ed
“Don’t sweat it, Lee. I’ve moved around. Not so easy to track down. I’m up in Massachusetts now. But listen, I’ve got a case for you. I was thinking it was Buster I’d be tossing it to, but anyway ... It’s right up your alley. Murder.”
I should go on record as saying that a murder case was nowhere even remotely near my particular alley. Sure, back when Buster was at the helm, that caliber of job might have meant a nice paycheck for Plunkett and Son; but in my tenure, it was a struggle just to handle the infidelity and missing object cases. Dad had taken me on to give direction to my drifting life, but, within sixteen months, had died over a bowl of stew, leaving me to fumble on. Truth be told, in the year since my father’s death, I hadn’t done much to champion the family business.
“Murder’s a little out of my league,” I told Jojo.
“Look, kid, I’ll level with you. If I’d known your pop wasn’t around to take this on, I maybe wouldn’t have called. But listen, you’re Buster’s boy, right? Your pop was a damned bloodhound. A bloodhound! And you got his fixings.”
Jojo hadn’t seen me since I was about seventeen, so his appraisal of my “fixings” didn’t carry much weight.
He hurried on, “The expired gent was one Clarence Browley, age thirty-five, well-to-do, bludgeoned. That happened nearly a month ago and the local cops have pretty much crapped out on solving this thing. I was kind of pally with Browley and his wife, and she’s looking to hire her own investigator. I told her, you want the best, get Plunkett and Son.”
I sighed. “Unfortunately, only the ‘son’ part of that is still available. Why don’t you follow up on this yourself?”
“Me?” Jojo snorted. “I’ve been out of the business since ’37. Almost two decades, we’re talking. Still got a bullet in my leg as a reminder. I just hawk insurance now. For this mess, a pro’s needed. And I’ll take a Plunkett, junior or senior, any day of the week. Here’s the info...”
Jojo offered a few more details before I interrupted and told him I’d have to think things over. I took his number and rang off, then spent a half hour polishing my glasses.
• • •
That evening, while slurping linguini with my fiancée Audrey at a local restaurant, I laid out the deal and sought her council.
“Are you nuts, Lee?” She tossed down her fork. “You didn’t snap that case up? A rich man’s widow wants to hire you and you don’t leap at the offer?”
“But it’s a murder.”
“A wealthy murder! This is what we’ve been hoping for, isn’t it? This kind of break? With a nice chunk of money, we could finally just do it. Get married, find some swell little place. We could — ” She stopped herself abruptly and stared down at the mound of pasta. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I sound like a...”
“Gold-digger?” The word just leapt out.
Audrey smiled without mirth. “Not the word I would have chosen, but, sure, gold-digger will do. Thanks, Lee, for identifying me so succinctly.”
“I didn’t mean ... I only meant...” Oh, it was no use.
She sighed. “It’s just that we’ve waited so long.”
Undeniably, our engagement seemed to be a long-term proposition. We’d pledged ourselves to wed in the spring of ’54, just after I’d joined Dad’s business and things were looking rosy. Now here it was early autumn 1956 and the deed was yet undone. There always seemed to be one obstacle or another to keep us from walking the aisle, be it money, timing or bickering. Audrey was twenty-eight now, understandably eager to get the show on the road.
I took her hand. “I’m not my father. He was born for tackling murder and mayhem. I was born to take notes.”
“Your dad always said you took a mean note.”
“Yes, it was a real source of pride to him, I’m sure. Anyway, without him, I just don’t think I have the tools to take on a murder.”
“What if ... you had a cohort?”
“Cohort?”
“Someone to accompany you and bounce ideas off of.”
“You mean you?’
Audrey laughed. “Lord no! I’m quite content selling doorknobs and undergarments at the five-and-dime. I was thinking, actually, of someone we both know. Someone bearded with a brogue and stacks of old books.”
“Not Mr. O’Nelligan.”
She squeezed my hand. “Yes. Mr. O’Nelligan.”
Two
In Thelmont, our modest Connecticut town, in a little pine-crowded house three doors down from Audrey’s parents, dwelt one Mr. O’Nelligan.
Now in his sixties, he’d emigrated from Ireland to New York with his wife twelve years before. His colorfully muddled history featured a string of professions including train conductor, schoolteacher, bricklayer, actor, and door-to-door salesman. Also, Mr. O’Nelligan had fought in his homeland’s civil war back in the ’20s, though this seemed to be an episode he preferred to forget. When his wife died two years back, he left New York for Thelmont and retired himself into a life of books and conversation. Audrey and he became fast friends. I, on the other hand, on the three or four times that I’d met him, always found him kind of an odd duck.
“He’s a man of action,” my fiancé insisted as we approached Mr. O’Nelligan’s door the morning after our linguini dialogue. “Remember I told you about that scar?”
I did. Once, when Audrey had asked him why he wore a beard in these modern times, the old Irishman had muttered something about a knife scar and changed the subject.
“Maybe in his youth he was a man of action,” I said. “These days, he’s a man of musty books.”
Audrey rang the doorbell. “Be open-minded, Lee.”
“Aren’t I always?”
She didn’t have to answer that, because just then a muffled voice within called out to us, “Enter, ye early revelers!”
This was exactly the sort of weird flourish that always made me uneasy with the old guy. I whispered to Audrey, “This is my cohort?”
We entered into Mr. O’Nelligan’s book-jammed front room. These early days of autumn were brisk ones, and the fireplace blazed lively. Close to the hearth, sunk in a massive armchair, sat our slender host, a book on his lap and a calm smile on his lips. I had never seen him when he was not decked out in a vest and tie; today was no exception.
“Many welcomes, Audrey,” he said in his Irish lilt. “And so good to see your young man again.”
His face was admittedly a pleasant one, with deep soft eyes and a high balding forehead. I made a quick study of his beard for any sign of old blade wounds, but the trimmed gray camouflage hid all.
We were gestured into chairs. A teapot and cups had been arranged on the coffee table, and Mr. O’Nelligan set his book aside and began to serve us.
“What are you reading today?” asked Audrey.
“Moby Dick. I’m facing the perils of the open main.”
“You’re so well-read, I would have thought you’d have already chalked that one up.”
Mr. O’Nelligan finished pouring. “Oh, but I have, Audrey. Thrice! This is my forth voyage upon the Pequod, and Captain Ahab is as feisty as ever. A good book always yields new riches. Now then, when you rang up, you said something about a proposition, yes?”
“I did,” Audrey said. “It’s a situation Lee has been asked to look into.”
“A situation?”
“Yes, a problem...” She was easing into this.
Mr. O’Nelligan took up his teacup. “And what style of problem are we speaking of?”
“Murder!” I spit the word out, surprised at my own vigor. “Murder and bludgeoning.”
Mr. O’Nelligan paused mid-sip. “Well now, that’s an honest answer.”
“A man was killed a month ago,” I said. “Up in Greenley, Massachusetts. His wife thinks that someone among their houseguests did it, but the facts don’t line up. That’s all I know so far.”
“He was a wealthy man,” Audrey added. “So there would certainly be compensation if you helped Lee.”
“I’m beyond compensa
tion, my dear. But help Lee how?”
“You have a good mind on you, Mr. O’Nelligan,” Audrey said. “You could go and assist Lee in his investigation.”
Our host’s eyes widened and he turned towards me. “You favor such an arrangement, young sir?”
“Yes,” I said, not sure that I meant it.
Mr. O’Nelligan sipped his tea for a while before continuing. “By way of reply, I’ll quote, as I oft do, William Butler Yeats, the greatest of Irish bards.”
He closed his eyes and recited, as if in a trance,
“I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And that means...?”
“It means that one must heed the call of life.” Mr. O’Nelligan placed down his cup and met my eyes. “Command me as you will.”
• • •
Mr. O’Nelligan and I sat silently for the first twenty miles of the two hour drive to Greenley, in mutual awkwardness, before he broke the ice.
“This man we’re to meet, he’s an old comrade of your da’s, you say?”
“Jojo and my father were police detectives together in Hartford. Dad was a bit older than him. More experience and more exploits.”
“Ah yes,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Audrey’s told me a little about your da’s shenanigans. Nabbed a few villains in his day, I understand.”
“He helped haul in the Reeper Brothers. And Ugly Joe Hully.”
“They sound fierce.”
“And he almost got King Carroway. Jojo and my father were part of the team on Carroway’s trail. They’d staked out his wife at a boarding house for nearly a week. On the day they ambushed the gang, Dad was out with a flu. It turned out to be an old-time, no-holdsbarred shootout. When the smoke cleared, Jojo was badly wounded, Carroway and two other crooks were dead, and the wife had escaped on a bicycle in the nude.”
Mr. O’Nelligan took note. “A bicycle in the nude?”
“Yeah. Obviously quite the headline grabber. It was also the biggest regret of my father’s life — the fact that he missed out on all that.”
“Although, had he been there, he might have shared his friend’s fate.”
“That’s right,” I said. “For Jojo, it was the end of his career. A few years later, a heart attack led Dad to leave the force and move us to Thelmont to set himself up as a PI. He figured it was a good location, partway between Hartford and New York.”
“And he figured being a private investigator would be a healthier lot?”
“I suppose,” I said. “Though another heart attack finally took him down.”
“And then you stepped into your father’s shoes.”
Not by a long shot, I thought to myself.
We lapsed into silence again. Eventually, I turned on the radio and “Heartbreak Hotel” filled the car.
Mr. O’Nelligan came alive. “Ah, I know this singer! It’s Emmet Presley.”
“Elvis,” I corrected. “Elvis Presley.”
“Yes, that’s it. I saw him on the Ed Sullivan Show last week. The lad is teeming with energy. Just teeming.”
“That music doesn’t do much for me. Too twitchy.”
“Twitchy? A young man like yourself should be open to such twitchiness.”
“I’m thirty-one,” I felt compelled to explain.
“Exactly. A young man poised on the pulse of life. By all means, twitch!”
We continued northward as Elvis moaned on about losing his baby and finding a place called Lonely Street.
• • •
As planned, Jojo Groom met us at a little diner on the edge of Green-ley. He was pretty much as I remembered him — slim and tall, with dark, slicked-back hair (now winged with gray) and a narrow mustache. He was somewhere in his mid-fifties. Leaning on a walking cane, he limped over to our booth. The hobbled leg served as an unsettling testament to the dangers of detective work — and of facing down murderers.
“Lee, how’s it going, kid?” He shook my hand, then Mr. O’Nelligan’s. “And this must be the partner you mentioned.”
Mr. O’Nelligan smiled. “I am actually more of an adjutant. Sancho Panza to Mr. Plunkett’s Quixote, if you will.”
“That’s swell,” said Groom without comprehension. He slid in next to my “Sancho” and stared across at me for a few long seconds. I assumed I was being measured against his robust memory of Buster ... and coming up yards short.
After reminding me once again what a bull my pop was, Jojo kicked things off. “Okay, not that I know the whole beanhill here, but I’ll give you what I got. Our boy Clarence Browley was plenty well off...”
“Hold on.” I pulled out my notepad and started scribbling.
“Stocks and bonds, that kind of action. One of his spare homes is here in Greenley. Nothing too lavish, but fancy enough. He and his wife would spend most of the summer here. Browley liked to throw these dinner parties — small, special-invite deals — and bring in certain types. Tough guys, y’know?”
“Thugs?” I asked.
“Nah. Manly guys. Daring guys. You know, guys who were...” Groom searched for a word, “Accomplished. For example, at one party, I ended up breaking bread with a mountain climber, a big game hunter and a matador. Adventurous guys, see?”
I nodded. “So Browley chose you as one of his ‘manly types’?”
Jojo suddenly looked shy. “Oh, you know, on account of my earlier escapades.”
“Well, you did take a bullet from King Carroway.”
“Four bullets, and one’s still in me.” He glanced down at his leg. “Anyway, Browley finally figured out I’m less of a lawman and more of an insurance hawker these days, ’cause after a couple invites he stopped having me over. But still, his wife Nina’s a nice, fun dame and when I ran into her recently, I said I’d try to round up some help. That’s where you come in.”
I looked up from my notes. “So, Browley was killed at one of these dinner parties?”
“Yeah, well, outside the house,” Jojo said. “Apparently, someone brained him with something heavy. But look, like I told you, I’ve been out of that circuit for a while now. I’m going to put you onto Nina Browley herself. That’s who’s Hancocking your paycheck, and she knows all the lowdown. I’ll introduce you, then get out of your hair. “
Mr. O’Nelligan now joined in. “Would it be advantageous for us to contact the local constabulary?”
“You mean talk to the cops?” Jojo shook his head. “I’ll give it to you straight, the local boys aren’t too delighted about Nina bringing in hired guns.”
“Wait. We don’t — ” I wanted to declare that Mr. O’Nelligan and I carried no guns, but Groom cut me off.
“And stay clear of Handleman, their chief snooper. Nina says he’s particularly nasty.” Jojo clapped his hands. “Okay, gents, ready to rocket?”
Can’t say that I was.
Three
Nina Browley met us at the door in a Japanese kimono, a large cocktail in one hand and a machete in the other. Some people certainly know how to make a first impression.
“My detective!” she cried out tipsily. She looked to be halfway through her thirties, blond, with a nice face presently distorted by alcohol. “You are my detective aren’t you?”
Without waiting for an answer, she put the drink and the weapon down on a hallway table and pulled Mr. O’Nelligan inside.
“Sorry for the machete,” she raced on. “It belonged to my husband. I was out back in the garden attacking the weeds. You need to be thorough, don’t you? Weeds are evil. Evil! Clarence always said so. I’m an idiot with gardens, but Clarence was clever and now you’re here to avenge him.”
“Begging your pardon, madam,” said Mr. O’Nelligan, “but I’m not the detective. Mr. Plunkett here is your man.”
I entered the hallway with Jojo Groo
m. Nina looked me over and turned to Jojo. “But the other one is much more distinguished. And he’s English like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Irish!” said Mr. O’Nelligan. “I’m solidly Irish, madam.”
Groom, true to his word, made brief introductions and promptly left. We stood alone now with the swaying Mrs. Browley.
“This is the last chance for Clarence, don’t you see?” She began to cry. “The police have given up. Somebody killed my husband and is getting away with it...”
She gave way now to trembling sobs. I was completely at a loss on how to proceed when another woman entered the hallway and put her arms around Mrs. Browley. This one was younger, probably in her twenties, very petit with wavy brown hair.
“There now, Nina,” she comforted. “I know it’s hard. Everyone knows it’s terribly hard.”
Her presence had a calming effect and Nina, after several deep sighs, stifled her crying.
“Let’s all go sit in the living room,” Nina said softly. “And I’ll tell you everything.”
I was hesitant. “Well, perhaps now’s not the most convenient — ”
“No, I’ll be fine. You’re thinking I’m too blitzed, but I’ll fix myself, you’ll see. Paige, bring them inside. I’m going to order up one of my soothers. It’s a special concoction — orange juice, paprika and coffee. It always straightens me out.”
Nina moved off in one direction as the girl called Paige led us in another. The living room we settled into was, like the exterior of the house, pretty much as Jojo had described it — not too lavish, but fancy enough. An Oriental rug, plush sofas, and shelves filled with crystal ornaments gave the space style.
The young woman sat across from us. “Please don’t judge Nina too harshly. After all, she’s been through so much.”
“Without question,” agreed Mr. O’Nelligan. “To have her husband so cruelly slain must be a great hardship.”
Paige nodded. “All month I’ve tried to get her to stay down in the city, but she keeps coming back up here. She says she needs to find answers. Of course, I understand. Clarence died in her arms, you know.”
No, we didn’t know. There was little, in fact, that we did know about this case. I got out my notepad.