The Feathery

by Bill Flynn

  After the coroner finished his work, one of his men zipped the guard’s body into a rubber bag and they lifted it up on a gurney for transport to the morgue. Riley knew the coroner, Dr. Jacob Stansfield. They’d met on many grim occasions like this one.

  "A large caliber from something like a 357 went through his heart, tore up a lung and exited, making a big hole under his left shoulder blade, Francis." Dr. Stanfield said, and then added, "the forensic people have put the bullet in an evidence box."

  "Can I take a look at the victim, Jake?"

  The coroner unzipped the body bag halfway, and the face Riley saw wasn’t just another homicide victim…It was Lem Shattuck’s face. As a rookie he’d been assigned to partner with the veteran cop, and they’d become friends. After his assignment to homicide he would meet Lem occasionally at a Knicks game, have a fast beer afterwards and talk of old times. He’d lost track of Lem since attending his retirement party and figured he’d gone to Florida as planned.

  The deep sigh from Riley was close to a sob as the coroner zipped the bag back over Lem’s face. He got it back together after a few minutes and started doing what he was there for. "Did anyone ID the shooter?" he asked Grabowski.

  "Best you talk to the manager, Mr. Gamby. He’s in his office, detective."

  Riley left the lobby and went to Gamby’s office. He found Gamby sitting at his desk trying to regroup from the horror of what had happened. He removed both hands from his face and looked up at Riley. Riley introduced himself and flashed a wallet with his detective badge attached.

  "I can’t believe it.. Jesus, Joseph and Mary! He was going to retire at the end of the month. Lem was a loyal employee and my friend, detective."

  "Mine too," Riley was quick to reply.

  Riley’s response that he was a friend of Lem confused Gamby, but he didn’t question it, and in his present state of mind any explanation by the detective seemed unimportant.

  Riley had his notebook and a pen in hand. "Tell me what happened here, Mr. Gamby."

  Gamby started to put his hands to his face again, as if he wanted to hide from the vision he was recalling. "I was supervising the packing of a golf antique and memorabilia shipment to London when what sounded like a gunshot came from the lobby. A few seconds after, a masked man rushed into the room pointing a gun at us."

  "What did the perpetrator look like?" Riley asked.

  "A male, tall and heavyset. Over six feet, and I’d guess at least two hundred pounds. A ski mask covered his face…his eyes were glassy… wore a black leather jacket."

  "What was he after, Mr. Gamby?"

  "He wanted an item he thought was in the shipment we were preparing, but it was sent to our London gallery earlier today by courier."

  "Then what?"

  "He made a threat to blow my head off if I was lying about it being sent already. He rummaged through the shipment, ripping boxes open and cursing. After not finding what he was looking for, he left and ran toward the lobby."

  "What’s the item the guy was looking for, Mr. Gamby?" .

  "The feathery."

  Riley was confused. "What the hell is a feathery?"

  "Oh, sorry. It’s a rare, antique golf ball. Quite sought after by collectors."

  Riley stared at Gamby, trying to understand how an old ball would be a reason to murder someone. After five seconds he expressed his shock in words spaced two seconds apart."A…golf…ball…Lem…Shattuck… was…killed…because…of…a…fucking…golf…ball?"

  LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

  Six hours after leaving New York, the Boeing 777 approached Heathrow through fog and drizzle. The landing jolted Mike Edwards awake, and he looked out at the dank darkness of early morning England. As a courier, Mike made many trips, but most times he didn’t know what was in the packages he carried in the leather case. This time it was different. Gamby knew Mike was an avid golfer who lined up at four in the morning to play courses like Bethpage Black and others around New York City and had told him he was delivering a valuable antique feathery golf ball and a bronze statuette of a woman golfer.

  Mike had read an article in a golf magazine about feathery golf balls. It explained that the USGA at Golf House in New Jersey ran a test on an ancient feathery ball comparing it to a modern one. They’d used a robotic driver at the same swing speed of 100 miles per hour for each drive. The result was that the feathery, made in the nineteenth century, was driven 178 yards compared to a distance of 240 yards for the modern ball. Mike was surprised that a golf ball filled with feathers and covered with leather could be driven only 62 yards less than a modern, high-tech golf ball. He would’ve liked to take a peek at the feathery, but the leather case was locked and sealed.

  Mike presented the paperwork relating to the feathery and the bronze to a customs agent. When the antiques cleared, he proceeded to the terminal concourse where he handed the leather case to Bernard Brooks, an employee of Covington Gallery, who held a sign that read: MR. EDWARDS.The hand-off to Brooks completed Mike’s courier task. In two hours he would be on a flight for his return to New York.

  Two men lurking nearby watched the leather case change hands from Edwards to Brooks. They’d been tipped off on the arrival details of the feathery, and after observing the exchange they followed Brooks to the garage parking lot, virtually deserted in the early morning hour. When they caught up to Brooks, one of them grabbed the leather case and ran, while the other pulled a gun out of his jacket and aimed it at Brooks’ chest. He fired just as Brooks brought up a kung fu kick at the gun. The gun was knocked out of the guy’s hand, and it slithered across the cement floor, coming to rest under a parked car. The bullet smashed into Brooks’ left shoulder, instead of his chest where it was aimed.

  As Brooks lay injured on the garage floor, his assailant rushed to retrieve the gun. Just then the getaway car screeched to a stop, and the driver opened the passenger door frantically beckoning for his partner to get in. After he picked up the gun, the shooter ran to the car, and barely made it there before tires squealed a fast lurch toward the exit.

  Brooks reached for his cell phone and touched the emergency numbers. He was able to ask for help and give his location before slipping into darkness.

  An hour after Edwards’ flight landed, Scott and Matt arrived at Heathrow. They retrieved their luggage and Scott’s clubs, cleared customs and took a taxi to their hotel, not knowing one man was dead and another seriously wounded because of Scott’s feathery and bronze statuette.

  Shortly after they checked into the hotel, Scott left for the Covington Gallery to meet Sarah Covington. Matt planned to spend the morning strolling around London.

  After a twenty-minute drive through the streets of London, Scott exited the taxi in front of a building made of granite and covered with ivy vines. He walked along the cobblestone pathway and up five pink marble steps. He opened a solid oak door and entered the Covington Gallery’s foyer.

  The receptionist picked up a phone and called Sarah Covington. After a few minutes she came down a corridor toward Scott. He’d expected an older lady and was surprised by her youth and beauty. Her ash blond hair was pulled back, with a few tendrils touching each side of her face. She walked up to him, held out her hand and grasped Scott’s hand firmly. She didn’t release it right away, and her green eyes looked into his with concern.

  "Scott, I’ve just received some dreadful news." She told him about the killing at her New York gallery and the robbery and shooting at Heathrow.

  Scott stood still with a blank expression on his face while the loss of the feathery and the bronze registered. But the killing of one person and the wounding of another over his golf antiques was much more difficult to grasp.

  "Chief Inspector Bradshaw of Scotland Yard notified me of both events. He’s in my office now. He has informed me that a homicide detective from New York City will arrive in London this evening. They suspect a link between the shootings here and in New York."

  She led him down the hall to an office furnished wi
th a large mahogany desk, a brown leather couch and two matching chairs. Chief Inspector Bradshaw sat in one of the chairs, and when they entered, Bradshaw’s attention was on the floor-to-ceiling display cabinets covering the four walls. Three were filled with plaques and trophies with the name Sarah Covington embossed on each. The other cabinet featured old photos of St. Andrews and golf antiques and memorabilia that originated from there.

  The chief inspector rose when they entered the room. "I’ve been admiring your many trophies," he said, "and I’m most interested in the Saint Andrews collection, Ms. Covington."

  "Oh, thank you. It’s only a small part of my private collection. I’ve a room full of many other golf collectibles. And most are from nineteenth century Saint Andrews."

  She introduced Bradshaw to Scott. The distinguished gentleman was wearing a brown tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches. He came toward Scott. His thinning hair was cut short and had the same whiteness as his closely cropped beard. Scott thought Bradshaw fit Sherlock Holmes’ description, even without the double-billed cap and curved clay pipe. They shook hands.

  "Well, Mr. Beckman, your loss must be a dastardly blow."

  "It is. But the killing in New York and shooting here are the worst part. How’s the guy that got shot at Heathrow doing?"

  "Mr. Brooks is in the hospital recovering. He’s a tough army veteran, and his being an expert in hand-to-hand combat saved his life." Bradshaw continued, "I’m eager to interview him tomorrow since he should give me a fair description of the shooter and his accomplice."

  "Who was killed at the Covington Gallery in New York?" Scott asked anxiously, "I know some of the people there."

  "The guard, Lem Shattuck," Sarah answered.

  Scott’s hand went over his eyes. "Oh no, not him! I met the guy there. He was a retired cop trying to earn enough dough to retire in Florida and play golf. He wanted my autograph…Shit!"

  "I knew him also," Sarah said. "I’m deeply saddened."

  Scott took time to recover from learning about Lem Shattuck’s death. "Any idea who did it?"

  Bradshaw told Scott what he knew so far. "A Detective Riley from the New York City Police Department Homicide Division is investigating the murder and attempted robbery there. He’s been told of the shooting at Heathrow. Mr. Gamby of Covington, New York informed him that a person by the name of Mario Carrabba was keenly interested in purchasing the feathery. Is that correct, Mr. Beckman?"

  "Yes, I met with Carrabba before I contacted Covington Gallery."

  "Would you please tell me about your meeting with Carrabba?"

  Scott told Bradshaw about the low-ball offer for the golf antiques from Carrabba, the pressure from his so-called chauffeur, Rocco, and the disappointment Carrabba expressed during the phone call to tell him of his decision to auction the feathery with Covington.

  "Detective Riley has interviewed Mr. Carrabba, and he’ll brief me on that meeting when he gets here this evening, Mr. Beckman."

  Scott got up from his chair to look at a painting of St. Andrews. It was a diversion to collect his thoughts. He sat back down and said, "I’m having trouble understanding the frenzy over the feathery ball. Two people being shot over it and the robbery. It just seems like a stretch."

  "Mr. Beckman, I’ve seen this type of collector obsession create undue furor over a rare antique or work of art," Bradshaw said.

  Scott accepted that statement coming from the chief inspector’s experience, but something else about the robbery bothered him, and he voiced it. "Once they stole the feathery, wouldn’t it be hot? I mean, they couldn’t show it to anyone or put it on public display without getting caught and going to jail. I don’t get it. Why would…?"

  Bradshaw interrupted him. "It’s not the nature of this type of beast to display their illicit booty. Our profiling of those who’ve stolen rare and valuable art or antiques shows they do it for self-gratification. They seldom flaunt their precious possession in front of others."

  "So I wouldn’t expect to see my feathery on TV’s Antique Road Show?" Scott jibed.

  Bradshaw chuckled. "No way. The culprit would just gloat over the fact he or she alone has possession of it."

  Scott’s arms went out, and the palms of his hands opened. This gesture toward Bradshaw asked for more of an explanation. "It just seems hard to believe murder would be involved."

  "Not really, Mr. Beckman. It boils down to greed and possessiveness by a collector. They don’t want anyone else to obtain what they’ve set their sights on."

  Sarah reinforced Bradshaw’s reasoning by saying, "Yes, I’ve experienced bitter competition during auctions, but murder does seem like an extremely exaggerated reaction."

  The chief inspector tried to strengthen his point. "Consider the millions of pounds sterling or dollars some of the famous paintings by an artist like van Gogh have sold for at auction. If one of those paintings were eliminated from the auction at the last minute…well, you can imagine the frustration on the part of those with the original intent of obtaining it at any cost." The chief inspector paused for a moment before asking, "Why did you decide not to auction your feathery, Mr. Beckman?"

  "Please call me Scott, sir. A teaching pro who was my mentor, Sandy McNair, left the feathery to me. He had no relatives when he died. Sandy helped me get through some tough times when I was a kid and taught me golf. His ancestors from Saint Andrews passed down the feathery to him, and I thought he’d want me to hold on to it. At first, I was reluctant to auction the feathery, but I needed money to stay on tour. After I started making cuts and earning prize money I decided to keep the ball."

  The chief inspector wanted more detail. He asked Scott pointed questions about his trouble as a teen, the origin of the feathery in St. Andrews, Sandy McNair’s ownership and the record round by Hugh McNair on the Old Course. His queries might have come from his interest in golf antiques and memorabilia more than to seek more background relating to the case at hand. A barrage of questions kept coming from Bradshaw.

  After she checked the time on her wrist watch, Sarah Covington interrupted Bradshaw’s request for more detail. "The McNair Journal, as part of Scott’s collection, has an article written by a English newspaper reporter that tells of the record round, and more about the feathery." She looked at Scott. "If it’s all right with you I can give the journal to the chief inspector for his review."

  "Sure, if it helps his case, I’m all for it," Scott said.

  Sarah left her office for a couple of minutes and returned with the McNair Journal. She handed it to Bradshaw. "I must caution you, Chief Inspector, this is a very valuable document."

  "Why wasn’t it sent with the feathery and the bronze?" Scott asked.

  "Fortunately, Gamby, failed to send the journal with that same courier. When he informed me, I instructed him to send it with another courier straight away, and it arrived here a couple of hours ago."

  Bradshaw put the journal in his briefcase. "Not to worry, Ms. Covington, I’m quite adept at taking good care of evidence, so this journal will be safe with me. "A collector who’s determined to bid whatever it takes to obtain the feathery might still be driven by his or her obsession to possess it regardless of it being removed from the auction. That could be the motive for murder and robbery."

  "How many collectors responded to the auction notice?" Scott asked.

  Bradshaw looked toward Sarah Covington, who picked up a file folder from her desk.

  After counting the names, she said. "There would’ve been twenty attending here in London and another ten tuned in to the closed-circuit presentation elsewhere ready to bid by phone. Many of those are just the curious. But according to past experience, only four of the collectors most interested in Saint Andrews golf antiques would be in the bidding competition at the end."

  She handed the list of thirty names and addresses to Bradshaw. The four names she’d selected as the most interested collectors were underlined. In that group, there was a line drawn under the name Mario Carrabba.


  Bradshaw scanned it quickly and cast his gaze toward a cabinet filled with Sarah’s St. Andrews antiques. He grinned while saying, "Should I include you on this list, Ms. Covington?"

  "In point of fact, Chief Inspector, I am keenly interested in the feathery, as well, but certainly not toward committing robbery and murder…really, sir!"

  His smile faded as he changed the subject. "Ms. Covington, do you have any photographs of the feathery and the bronze statuette of the lady golfer?"

  She opened the file folder again and handed him two color photos showing both antiques. "These were taken by our manager, Mr. Gamby, in New York before the shipment left."

  Chief Inspector Bradshaw put the photos and the list of the collectors who planned to attend the auction in his briefcase. He got up to leave and made a slight bow to Sarah. "I’m off to a meeting in an hour with Detective Riley of the New York City Police Department." He shook Scott’s hand. "Ms. Covington tells me you’re scheduled to play in the Open. My very best wishes for your success there. Scotland Yard will do its best to recover your feathery and bronze lady golfer, and I look forward to apprehending those who acted so violently to possess them. I’ll keep you informed of our progress. Are you staying at the Turnberry Hotel during the Open?"