"What does she say about Hy Coberly?"
"That he wouldn't play fair. So he went over the side with his throat cut."
"You've got that on tape?” Woody Erskine asked.
"Yes."
Woody threw a rare smile at me. “You want to tell the widow?"
* * * *
I let Woody talk to Nicole. He also told her that Hy might have had gold coins hidden somewhere. At least Nicole would know to begin looking. Early the next day I called First Sergeant Javier Torres. Before I could say anything, he announced, “The woman who sailed with Señor Coberly is Susan Jean Meadows."
"A k a Susan Jean Harlow,” I said.
"You knew?” He was crushed. “We got a match from a toothbrush only last night."
"She paid me a visit. Hy Coberly is dead. So are a couple of people in Florida's jurisdiction. Susie Jean killed them."
"Tell me."
"It's pretty complicated."
"Then fly down to Cozumel and tell me in person. The State of Quintana Roo will pay. We must clear this case."
I thought about it and had to ask, “Are you married?"
"No, Miss Trevor. And I never expect to be."
I told him I would see him tomorrow.
Copyright © 2009 John C. Boland
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Fiction: O'NELLIGAN AND THE PERFECT MAN by Michael Nethercott
"First, I will tell you the dream,” she said, her Neapolitan accent quite strong, “because I believe dreams matter, and in this one my father came to me with roses."
When Mr. O'Nelligan responded with “Yes, dreams rise from the soul,” I had to stifle a smile. My Irish friend was, as ever, shamelessly dripping with flourish and finery. Still, his sympathetic tone did have the immediate effect of easing the sternness from the young woman's face. With this change, it occurred to me that she was fairly lovely. Per her request, we were seated at a picnic table in an obscure little park on the outskirts of Scarsdale, about an hour from my office. It was early October, 1956, and the air that afternoon was more than a bit chilly. I turned up my collar as our prospective client continued.
"I dreamt this three days ago. At first I was not sure it was him because a deep fog was everywhere, but someone said, ‘Here comes Giuseppe Zampino.’ Then the fog parted a little and my father was standing there holding some roses. Not a full bouquet, just a couple in each hand. He asked, ‘Where are my sons?’ I reminded him they were back in Italy and he seemed relieved. Then he said, ‘It has not been safe here for me,’ and I told him, ‘I know Papa. I'm so sorry...’”
Here her voice broke a little, but she caught herself and pushed on. “He handed me the flowers and told me to plant them. He said they would grow into a whole field of roses. I said, ‘It doesn't work like that, Papa.’ He said, ‘Oh, but it does, Topolina—’ He often called me his ‘little mouse.’ ‘You must do it for me.’ And that's how I knew I could not let this thing rest."
"You mean the robbery?” I asked.
"I mean his murder. When my father and I entered the gallery that morning two weeks ago and saw that the painting had been stolen, he suffered a heart attack right there at my side. The police do not consider it murder, but I do. It's no different than if the thief sank a knife into my father's chest. That's why I wish to hire you gentlemen."
"Let's backtrack a bit.” I pulled out my trusty notebook. “When you called, you said your father ran an art gallery here in Scarsdale."
"Yes, yes.” Donna Zampino nodded. “He was not the owner, you understand, just the manager. But he gave his heart and soul to the place."
"Then who's the owner?"
Her face hardened again. “His name is Stuart Worley. And he is the one I believe stole the painting."
Mr. O'Nelligan smoothed his neat gray beard. “That is an interesting notion, Miss Zampino. Was the purloined painting the property of the artist or of Mr. Worley?"
"Worley had bought it from the artist, Gilmar Noll, for a very small sum. Also, he made Noll sign a contract to sell him his next twenty paintings. Twenty! All at the same low payment. Then Worley convinced people that Noll was the next da Vinci, so everyone would rush to the gallery to view Bursting Skull."
Mr. O'Nelligan cocked his head. “Bursting Skull?"
"That's the name of the stolen painting,” said Donna.
"Is it a worthy work?"
"Actually, it's a...” The young woman paused, seeking the right word. Her lips started in on an “m” sound, and I thought she was going for “masterpiece.” I was wrong. “Mess,” she said. “It's a terrible mess, if you ask me. But it is considered modern art."
"Oh, right, modern art.” There was concern in my friend's voice. “Ah, well..."
"So, now Worley is set up to sell twenty more paintings at a very high dollar. That is, once Gilmar Noll creates them. It is a profitable business, you see?"
"We do see,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “But what would Mr. Worley's motive be for stealing a painting he already owns?"
"One reason is the insurance,” Donna said. “Worley insured Bursting Skull for quite a high amount. But there's a more important reason. You would have to know Stuart Worley to understand. He is in love with his own abilities. He sees himself as the perfect man."
"How so?” I asked.
"Everything is correct about him—the way he dresses, the way he acts in the world, his success as a businessman. All these things. Even his smile. I once heard him lecture my father on the proper way to do it, how exactly the lips should turn up. The man is horrible."
I offered my own flawed smile. “He sounds it. But still, what makes you so sure he's the thief?"
"Because it was the perfect crime,” Donna Zampino said. “The exact timing, the way the electric alarms were found disconnected just right, the fact that there is no evidence. Even my father's death. When Worley bought the gallery two years ago, the first owners made it part of the deal to keep my father on as proprietor. But Worley never liked him. With an expensive painting stolen, Worley could have a reason to blame my father and fire him. As it turned out, it went even better for Worley—Papa died. So, do you see? The perfect man, the perfect crime."
"It's a compelling concept,” Mr. O'Nelligan mused. “Perfection, I mean. Aristotle, that venerable old Greek, provides a threefold definition. He claims that for a thing to be perfect it must be complete unto itself, be beyond betterment, and must have attained its purpose."
I wanted to caution him, Let's keep things in the current century, okay? but held my tongue. You didn't want to get in the way when Mr. O'Nelligan was strutting his scholarship.
He went on. “I would much like to meet a man who could boast those attributes. Such a man, if criminally inclined, would, as they say, give one a run for his money."
"He's a lousy rotten bastard,” Donna declared. Her English was really pretty solid. “And my father was such a good man. Ask anyone. They will tell you, Giuseppe Zampino was a good man. After my mother died, he brought me to America so he could make a nice life for us. Look, I have a photograph of him."
From her purse, she brought out a small picture of a balding, round-faced man, probably in his late sixties, with soft eyes and a gentle smile.
"Seven years here, working hard,” his daughter said. “He loved this place. He loved President Eisenhower and western movies and the New York Yankees. You know, they're in the World Series this week. Papa was so looking forward to..."
She stopped and stared off for several moments, then fixed me with a compelling look. I blinked awkwardly behind my oversized spectacles, feeling a bit like an ensnared fly. Finally she said, “You will take my case, Mr. Plunkett?” Though she posed it as a question, I had the distinct impression that she was issuing an order.
* * * *
After gathering a few more facts, Mr. O'Nelligan and I climbed into my baby blue Nash Rambler and took to the road.
"She seems set on this Stuart Worley idea,” I said. “Maybe a little too set.
"
"Perhaps,” Mr. O'Nelligan agreed. “But still, we should pursue her speculations. After all, we have tied Miss Zampino's scarf to our wrist, so to speak, and now go to joust in her name."
"Sure. Yep."
What else could I say? When that old Irishman started spinning out words like a mad weaver, it was all a fellow could do to duck and dodge. Though I was the one with the actual P.I.'s license, Mr. O'Nelligan had become an unofficial partner of sorts and, I must confess, the one with the true deductive chops. I'd inherited Plunkett and Son Investigators from my late father, a bona fide tough guy nicknamed Buster, but it wasn't until Mr. O'Nelligan came aboard that I chalked up any real success. Annoyingly, the man wouldn't accept a dime of payment for his labor.
He continued with his reverie. “Even more enticing is the fact that we've been commissioned by her father's ghost. Rather Shakespearian, no?"
"No is right! I don't work for ghosts. Besides, it was only a dream she had."
"Never underestimate dreams, Lee Plunkett. Do you know what Yeats has to say about them?"
I sure didn't. But I'd bet a limb Mr. O'Nelligan did. If there was one personage he held above all others it was the Celtic bard William Butler Yeats, whom he could quote ad infinitum. (Toss in e pluribus unum and you've got the full extent of my Latin.)
Mr. O'Nelligan let me have it:
"I, being poor, have only my dreams
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."*
*from “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven,” William Butler Yeats, 1899
"Okay,” I promised. “I'll do that."
"Ah, you can't fool me, lad. I know you have more poetry in your soul than you let on."
At thirty-one, I believed my “lad” days were snugly behind me, but I didn't complain. “Prepared to meet the perfect man, Mr. O'Nelligan?"
My friend took almost a full minute to reply. “Traditional Japanese builders, upon the completion of a house, will take an axe and gouge out a small piece from the timber. Can you imagine why?"
"I'm not the imaginative type."
"I'll tell you then. They make the gouge to acknowledge the innate imperfection of all things."
"Intriguing. But we shouldn't take an axe to Stuart Worley, right?"
Mr. O'Nelligan chuckled lightly. “Right. Some restraint on that front would be commendable."
* * * *
Stepping into Worley's Gallery of the Arts, we encountered a short, blocky man with a good suit and a bad disposition. There appeared to be very little flawless or refined about this particular specimen.
"Stuart Worley?” I asked.
"No, I'm Piker.” Every word seemed to be a grunt. “Mr. Worley's in the back."
"We'll seek him directly,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “But, if I may query, what is your avocation here?"
Piker eyed my friend like he wanted to punch him in the brogue. “What's my what?"
"Your job here,” I interpreted.
"I watch over the place."
"You've taken Giuseppe Zampino's position?"
"Yeah, more or less. But you better believe no paintings are sneaking out of here when I'm on deck. Who are you guys?"
"Private investigators,” I said.
That answer didn't make him any cheerier. “I'll get Mr. Worley. Don't touch nothing.” He vanished through a side door.
"Not the most suave of curators,” Mr. O'Nelligan noted.
The gallery, which was empty except for ourselves, encompassed four rooms and several nooks and niches. The paintings and sculptures seemed pleasant enough, though my artistic standards are admittedly rock bottom. We'd barely had time to glance about when Piker returned and ushered us into a small, handsome office. He deposited us, then exited. There, staring up at us from behind a large mahogany desk, sat the gallery's owner. Now, clearly, here was the real deal in terms of polished humanity. Stuart Worley was thirtyish, slender but substantial, with a strong jaw, wavy blond hair, and dark eyes. He fit impressively into a striped gray suit, and his purple tie and breast handkerchief lent him a dash of royalty.
"Gentlemen.” His voice was deep, but not gravelly; his intonation genteel without being delicate. In a word, perfect. “You've come on some inquiry?"
I noticed he didn't offer us seats. Briefly, I explained Donna Zampino's commission without going into the fact that Worley himself was her chief suspect.
He smiled magnanimously. “Donna is a lovely young woman. Quite intelligent, too, considering her background. But I'm afraid she suffers from—how shall I put this?—the romantic excesses of her race. She no doubt imagines all manner of high melodrama surrounding the theft of the painting. Intrigue befitting the most tempestuous of Italian operas."
There was no denying it—this character could wield a word. Painfully aware of my limitations, I turned to Mr. O'Nelligan, who caught my eye and gave the subtlest of nods. In my head, I cried out, Sic ‘em, boyo, sic ‘em!
"Miss Zampino is of solid disposition,” my colleague began. “She is unlikely to confuse reality for either the jests of Rigoletto or the torments of La Traviata. In the wake of her father's death, it's understandable that she would seek answers and resolution. Towards that end, Mr. Plunkett and I have been activated. Our client believes that the police have not been exhaustive in their probe."
Worley appraised my friend for a long moment. What he saw before him was a trim, whiskered man in his sixties, dapper in vest, tie, and tweed jacket, and keen of eye. Worley glanced my way, took in my 4F physique and saucer-sized glasses, and promptly returned his gaze to Mr. O'Nelligan. It was obvious who his natural nemesis was.
"Your accent marks you as a son of Erin,” Worley said. “It's quite expected that you should feel an affinity for your fellow immigrants."
"Affinity alone does not propel me,” Mr. O'Nelligan countered. “The hunt for truth proffers its own rewards. Now, how did your relationship with Mr. Zampino stand?"
"Relationship? We had no relationship. His was my employee."
"But not of your own volition, we understand."
"Correct. The previous owners made it a stipulation that I retain Zampino."
"You disliked him?"
Worley flicked his hand dismissively. “Sir, believe me, I don't waste my energies on likes or dislikes. To be honest, I found the man inoffensive, but not as poised as I would have wished. Certainly, he tried to look the part of a cultured person, but, well, never quite succeeded."
I jumped in. “What about his replacement—Piker? He doesn't exactly ooze culture."
Worley sighed softly. “Agreed. But after the theft, I felt a more rugged individual was required on the premises, at least for the time being. Piker serves my present needs, and I can bring in a more well-rounded manager down the line."
"Very practical,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Will you do us the courtesy of showing us where the stolen painting was set?"
"No harm in that. Come."
Worley rose and led us back into the gallery. A few patrons were now strolling about, and Piker was keeping an eye on them. We paused before a small, empty alcove and Worley gestured theatrically. “Behold ... nothing."
"Why haven't you hung another painting here?” I asked. “It's been two weeks, hasn't it?"
"I've been waiting on the artist, Noll, to provide a new work. A quirky individual, indeed. Unfortunately for me, he seems to be at some sort of creative impasse."
"You paid a pretty penny for that canvas,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Does its loss not distress you?"
Worley offered one of his impeccable smiles. “You must understand, gentlemen, that my personal economy rests on no single painting—in fact, on no single enterprise. This gallery is only one of my many investments."
Mr. O'Nelligan smiled back. “Ah, yes. Many irons in the fire."
"Many,” Worley concurred, his lips upturned just right.
I interrupted this battle of ingenuous grins. “You obviousl
y enjoy the finer things in life, Mr. Worley."
"Guilty as charged. But I do seek out the occasional plebian entertainment. For example, I have tickets for today's World Series game. You're lucky to have caught me when you did."
"You're a Yankees fan?"
"Why not? I like Mickey Mantle. I respect winners."
"Who'll be accompanying you?"
"How is that even remotely your business?"
"Just a friendly inquiry,” I said.
"It's a beautiful woman,” he responded. “I just haven't chosen which one yet."
I let that pass and shifted gears. “We were told that the gallery was protected by an electronic alarm system."
"Was and is. A very modern one, in fact. But some unknown rogue apparently breached it. Unless...” Worley gave a little shrug.
"Unless what?” I asked.
"Well, it's indelicate to malign the dead, but only two people were in possession of the keys here and knew how to deactivate the alarms. I was one."
I saw where this was going. “And the other was Giuseppe Zampino."
Worley bowed slightly. “Why, you are detectives, aren't you?"
I very much wanted to cram his sarcasm right down that smooth gullet of his, but I wasn't the cramming kind.
Mr. O'Nelligan returned to the joust. “Yes, logic is our passion. But, tell us, sir, if Mr. Zampino had taken the painting, why then would he have succumbed to a heart attack the morning after the theft? There would have been no moment of shock to precipitate such a reaction."
"You want me to lay this all out for you?” Worley allowed himself to look put out. “Very well then, I'll play. Let's assume that the Italian had indeed stolen the painting. I surmise that when he returned to the scene of the crime, the magnitude of his deed overtook him and his vulnerable heart gave out. He was, after all, a man of advanced years. Older, perhaps, than even this gentleman.” He nodded toward my comrade.
Mr. O'Nelligan nimbly sidestepped the thrust. “I'm inclined to think of my own heart not as vulnerable, but venerable."
I wasn't sure whether to groan or yell touché. I said, “Have you passed your theory on to the police?"
"My theory? I was simply speculating here for your benefit.” Worley adjusted his elegant tie. “Besides, I try to stay above the fray. My insurance has compensated me. I prefer to just move on."
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