By Hook or By Crook

by Gorman, Ed

  After Handleman left, I pushed aside my violated breakfast. “It’s over then. So, why do I feel like things are unresolved?”

  “Because perhaps they are,” Mr. O’Nelligan said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. Since the moment I’d showed him the gems, he had offered little by way of advice or reflection, preferring, it seemed, to keep his own counsel.

  “What do you mean, ‘perhaps they are’?”

  “Oh, probably nothing.” He folded the napkin primly and set it aside. “I would just like to ponder some more.”

  “Ponder away. You have all day to do it.”

  Later I joined Mr. O’Nelligan in a short walk to a nearby newsstand. We’d just purchased the morning papers, when someone from behind called my name. I turned and saw Jojo Groom limping up the sidewalk.

  “Hey, Lee! You did it, kid!” He grabbed my hand and shook it briskly. “I just heard the lowdown. You nailed that punch jockey dead-to-rights. Emeralds, rubies ... everything on him but gold doubloons. See, this is what I was saying — always trust a Plunkett. Was I on the money or what?”

  My face reddened under the glare of undeserved praise. “Well, to be honest, Jojo, I really didn’t — ”

  He slapped my shoulder. “Don’t second guess yourself, kid! And don’t be modest. God knows your old man wasn’t. And I’ll tell you this — Buster would be proud as a peacock of you. Proud as a big stinking peacock.” Here his voice got low and solemn. “Y’know, when I heard your pop had died, they’d just renominated Eisenhower. Seemed fitting somehow. So, right there and then, I toasted the two of ‘em — Ike and Buster — ’cause they don’t make ‘em like those guys anymore...” He punctuated this by tapping my chest with his walking cane. “Guys like you, neither.”

  “Thanks, Jojo,” I had to say.

  “So, you gents heading back to Connecticut?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Okay then. Job well done, kid.” He now acknowledged Mr. O’Nelligan. “You too, buddy.”

  My cohort merely smiled.

  Jojo started away, but not before saying again, “Proud as a stinking peacock!” Just in case I didn’t get it the first time.

  • • •

  Soon after, Mr. O’Nelligan and I parted ways for the bulk of the day. He seemed to be either satisfied with the outcome of things, or indifferent, and, as best I could tell, planned to divide his time between strolling the town and visiting Captain Ahab. As for myself, I eventually drove out to talk to Nina Browley about the latest turn of events. Instead of Nina, I found Paige Simmons sitting outside under a willow tree, her natural good looks spoiled by recent tears.

  “Nina’s gone shopping with the cook,” she said. “She won’t be home for a while.”

  “I can come back later.”

  “They say it was David. He’s in jail now. But he’s not the type. Not the type at all.”

  “The police have evidence.”

  “They told Nina some of the shield gems were found in his room.”

  “It’s true.”

  “If David really did do it, why would he still be carrying them around a month later?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe he was letting things die down a little before trying to sell them.”

  “This is all wrong. David couldn’t kill a man.”

  I thought, Well, he has been known to beat them up.

  “What about you, Mr. Plunkett?” she asked. “Do you think David murdered Clarence?”

  “The evidence is hard to overlook. And when I saw Pobenski last evening, he did seem distracted about something.”

  “It was about me!” She stood and looked me in the eyes. “David and I have been fond of each other ever since we met last year. He’s a quiet, shy boy, not like the other men who come here. Yesterday afternoon, when I drove him to the inn, he told me that for him it was love. But he was worried that Nina’s suspicions about him would make me afraid to trust him.”

  “And what did you say?” I asked, feeling immensely intrusive.

  “I really didn’t know what to say just then. I told him I had to get back to Nina, but we could talk by phone later if he liked. That evening he called the house and we spoke for a few minutes.”

  “When was this?”

  “Sometime after Mr. O’Nelligan came, but a while before you showed up. I told David then that I thought I loved him, too, but that Nina’s suspicions did make me hold back from him. This really upset him, saddened him. He said he was going back to his room, and that’s when you must have seen him looking so distracted. Afterwards, I guess he went out to a bar and drank too much. And that’s when the police came and ... and...”

  She couldn’t bring herself to finish. Unsure of what solace I could give, I blathered something inane about it all working out and took my leave.

  • • •

  Hours later, when Mr. O’Nelligan and I regrouped, he informed me that we were going to the movies. What’s more, we had to drive two whole towns away to enjoy the diversions of the silver screen. Then, to top it all off, he refused to say what film he intended us to see. He just treated me to an infuriating little smile and suggested I have faith.

  The ride there found Mr. O’Nelligan back in his patented pondering mode. He stroked his beard, listened to the radio and kept largely silent. At one point, perhaps feeling the need to explain his aloofness, he offered a brief tale.

  “I once knew a seamstress who barely spoke to her customers. She’d listen to your needs and accept your garments, but shunned all verbosity. Cleverest seamstress in the town, but quiet as a chapel. One night, the local postmistress pried her with a pint or three of stout and asked about the silence. The seamstress then confessed her belief that if she were to give herself to chatter, her needles would lose their sense of direction. So there you have it.”

  Yes, there I had it, whatever it was.

  The movie, I soon learned, was a Western called Sagebrush Ambush and starred none other than Tom Durker.

  “This was the nearest theater showing one of his pictures,” Mr. O’Nelligan explained as the houselights dimmed.

  The sagebrush looked authentic and the ambush was daring enough, but the acting lay flat as a prairie. Tom Durker obviously hadn’t achieved B-picture stardom due to any thespian abilities. What he did have going for him was a deep voice, strong jaw, and moody eyes that seemed always half shut.

  The nighttime drive back to Greenley resembled the earlier ride, except that my passenger seemed even more intensely lost in thought. When we pulled into town, he requested that I bring us once more to the Browley home. I didn’t even bother to ask why. I’d barely parked the car when my companion pushed himself out and hurried to the door, a man on a mission. Nina Browley appeared, again in the kimono, and ushered us into the hallway.

  Her present demeanor was fairly reserved. “Everyone else has retired, and I’m really not up for entertainment. Though I do appreciate you helping to bring the situation to a close.”

  “You’re satisfied with Detective Handleman’s conclusions?” asked Mr. O’Nelligan.

  Nina tossed up her hands. “I suppose I must be. After all, David was caught with the goods. Isn’t that how you put it — ’caught with the goods’?”

  “It occurs to me that we’ve never seen a picture of your husband,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Could you possibly produce one?”

  Nina left briefly and returned with a small framed photograph. In it, a slender, handsome man with a Clark Gable mustache smiled out at the world.

  For good measure, he sported one of his beloved swords.

  Mr. O’Nelligan thanked her, then turned to me. “Lee, I’d like you to walk around the building to the kitchen window. Mrs. Brow-ley, is the outside light there on? The one that was on the night of your husband’s passing?’

  “It is. But why do you — ”

  “All in good time, Madam. Now, Lee, I’ll go place myself inside the kitchen. When you arrive at the window, tap on it, then run off in the direction of
the Roost. Go about partway, then come back. We don’t have a full moon like that night, but we’ll just have to make do. Oh wait! Take this with you.” He reached down to an umbrella stand near the door, and slid from it a long, narrow sword that I hadn’t before noticed. “Mrs. Browley, would this be the very weapon that Mr. Browley bore on that night?”

  Nina looked a little pale. “Yes, it’s the rapier. The police returned it awhile ago. I just placed it back there.”

  “Very well.” Mr. O’Nelligan said, passing me the blade. “Now onwards, man, onwards.”

  I stepped out into the autumn night. An aggressive wind had come up and made itself known in the treetops beyond the lawn. I eased my way along the side of the house, feeling the heft of the sword in my hand. I found myself very aware that, in this manner, Clarence Browley had spent the final minutes of his life. Reaching the kitchen window, I raised the blade and tapped. Mr. O’Nelligan’s face appeared immediately, just inches from the pane. Unexpectedly, this sent a shiver through me. As instructed, I then turned and ran towards the hill, soon leaving the influence of the outside light.

  Though my assignment only required me to go partway to the Roost, something compelled me to continue on. Pressing forward into the darkness, my run slowed to an urgent walk, and I tried to trust my feet like Mr. O’Nelligan. As I drew closer to the outbuilding, I, in a sense, became Browley, being pulled seductively towards violence and death. Fear pressed on my chest, and I tightened my hold on the sword. The wind around me had become enraged, filling the world with a high, lamenting moan. I reached the Roost and placed my free hand against the cold stone of the outer wall.

  Then someone, something, appeared next to me. I cried out and raised the sword, as what felt like a knot of iron slammed into my jaw. Through the power of the blow, my head bounced back against the stone wall, and the sword fell from my hand. I crumpled to the ground. Lying where Clarence Browley once had, I rolled over on my back. Somehow, my glasses had remained on, but, as I attempted to focus my vision, a strong light blinded me. I heard someone curse, and, seconds later, the light shifted slightly away. For one passing moment, just before my eyes rolled back in my head, I caught a glimpse of my attacker staring down at me. It was Polecat Pobenski.

  Ten

  I didn’t regain consciousness until sometime the next morning, when I opened my eyes to find that Pobenski’s face had been replaced by a far more welcomed one — Audrey’s. She stroked my hair and told me that everything would be fine; I smiled, believing it would be. Then I passed out again. Over the next few hours, I’d slip in and out of my senses, occasionally noting my surroundings. I gathered that I was in a hospital room as various humans came and went: here a nurse; there a doctor; here a Mr. O’Nelligan. Once, Handleman even showed up, looking down at me in either pity or disdain. Throughout it all, Audrey seemed to be the one constant, and I found that greatly comforting.

  Finally, a thick, dark cloud lifted, and I came back for good. I felt weak, but my brain appeared to have regained its standing in the world.

  “I love you, Audrey,” was the first thing I remember saying.

  “Me, too,” was her answer. She squeezed my hand and her eyes teared up. Darned if mine didn’t, too.

  The next thing I said was, “Pobenski hit me.”

  “We know.” Mr. O’Nelligan now came into my line of vision. “You told me when I found you. It was all you said before you blinked away again.”

  “Pobenski was supposed to be in custody.”

  “He was, but he escaped last night due to an inefficient jailor. But rest up, Lee. There’s much a’ brewing right now. I’ve taken the liberty of pursuing matters in your absence, and tonight we’ve a little get-together that should be memorable. If the doctors think it practical, you’ll be there in person, like Lazarus yanked triumphantly from the grave.”

  “I don’t feel triumphant. Just glad to not be comatose.”

  “I’ll see you tonight then, lad. Seven o’clock at Mrs. Browley’s.”

  Mr. O’Nelligan hurried off and I turned back to Audrey. “I’m hungry.”

  “That’s a good sign.”

  “Got a bit of a headache, too.” I gingerly touched my skull and found it to be bandaged.

  “You’re lucky to be alive, Lee, after being hit so hard. When Mr. O’Nelligan called me, well ... I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “What? You think I’d stay home and twiddle my thumbs while my fiancé’s lying unconscious?”

  “No, I guess not.” I made a mental note to finally marry this girl.

  • • •

  That night’s gathering commenced in the Browley kitchen where Mr. O’Nelligan had asked us to convene. Audrey and I sat at the table with Nina and Paige Simmons (who couldn’t seem to look me in the eye.) Webster Sands leaned against a counter, puffing on a thick cigar, while Mrs. Leroy passed among us offering snacks. Most surprisingly, over near the window, stood a man I recognized as Tom Durker.

  Like a maestro stepping before his orchestra, Mr. O’Nelligan entered the room and started things off. “Thank you all for your indulgence. I especially wish to acknowledge Mr. Durker for flying all the way from California on such short notice. A long trek, to be sure.”

  “A very long one,” Durker concurred.

  “And it goes without saying, that everyone is pleased to see Mr. Lee Plunkett here safely among us after his encounter last evening.”

  All eyes turned to me, and I did feel a little like a revived corpse.

  Mr. O’Nelligan continued. “As Lee has been hindered by his injuries, I will, with his permission, speak on behalf of our investigation.” He looked to me for confirmation; I gave a little nod. “Very well then. I’ll try to present the facts of the case as delicately as possible, but with the understanding that the search for truth must be unflinching.”

  The man’s time upon the stage had obviously served him well. He proceeded with poise and flourish. “Presently, I’ve been enjoying a rereading of Moby Dick and have found parallels between that superb tome and our investigation. In Melville’s novel, as Ahab pursues the white whale, the narrative offers many side trips — forays into biology, philosophy, etymology, et cetera — before arriving at the climax. But all these diversions ultimately serve the narrative. Likewise, as we sought the truth of Clarence Browley’s murder, we’ve had to take various side trips, which, while not directly leading to the resolution, nonetheless helped us see the grander picture.”

  Captain Sands discharged a hefty smoke ring. “We didn’t come for a literature lecture. Can’t we keep this brief?”

  Nonplussed, Mr. O’Nelligan pressed on. “In Ahab’s tale, it is his nemesis who finally prevails. Hopefully, our outcome here will turn out differently. Now, the kitchen in which we presently congregate is, in many ways, the heart of our story. It is here that Clarence Brow-ley was viewed at the window, an event of great significance to our case. Let us lay out three assumed facts. Fact one: Tom Durker saw Clarence at the window at roughly five minutes after midnight.”

  Durker spoke up. “Saw him and heard him. He was tapping with that sword of his, and then scooted off when he caught sight of me.”

  “Yes, that has always been your testimony,” said Mr. O’Nelligan. “Fact two: when Mrs. Browley discovered her dying husband at 12:20, he indicated to her that someone in the house was his assailant. These first two facts combine to limit the possible attack time to a fifteen minute interval. And fact three: during those fifteen minutes, everyone who’d been at the house that night was assembled here in the kitchen. Everyone, that is, except for three people — two being the Daley Sisters, who left by eleven thirty in a car filled with relations — and one other, who had arrived five minutes late to the kitchen. The same man who last night struck down Lee Plunkett.”

  Paige Simmons let out a pitiful groan. “David can’t have done these things. It’s just not in him.”

  “I disagree,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. �
��And, yet, I also agree.”

  I now threw in my two cents. “It was Pobenski! No question it was Pobenski who hit me.”

  “That part is undeniably true,” my cohort conceded. “But it was the action not of a murderer returning to the scene of his crime, but, rather, of a fugitive, desperate and falsely accused, who was startled in the darkness.”

  Paige nearly jumped out of her seat. “Yes! You believe he’s innocent.”

  “I do not believe,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “I know. Pobenski is innocent. Innocent, but foolish, for had he simply remained in custody, the probings of Plunkett and Son would have inevitably freed him. Am I wrong in surmising, Miss Simmons, that you know young Polecat’s present whereabouts?”

  Paige lowered her eyes. “I ... I do. He left a note in my car.”

  “I’m not shocked to learn that. No doubt, he came here last night in an attempt to assure you of his blamelessness. When we are done here, you may contact him and tell him to present himself. Of course, he’ll still have to clear things with the authorities — and with the man he knocked out.”

  Again, all eyes enwrapped me, most imploringly, Paige’s. I said, “If he’s innocent, I’ll let things slide.”

  “But, wait now.” Nina Browley seemed confused (and she was not alone.) “What about the gemstones? David had them in his room.”

  “They were placed there by another party.” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Someone found the opportunity to enter the inn, pick Pobenski’s lock and scatter the gems. Someone who wished to bring this investigation to a premature end. But, let us return to our trio of facts. I say that all three cannot be mutually true. The third fact — that everyone had gathered in the kitchen — is undeniably true. Everyone is everyone else’s alibi, so to speak. I will also insist that, despite police assertions, not even an athletic youth like David Pobenski could have raced to and from the Roost and committed murder in those few minutes before he joined the others. Thus, for all practical purposes, we can place him fully with his companions during that quarter hour.”

  “Yes!” Paige cried out again, clearly pleased with David’s ongoing exoneration.