The Search for Joseph Tully

by William H Hallahan

  “—like spirits or hypnosis.”

  “Pete, stay away from that Grand Inquisitor. He’s a loser, something chased out of the Catholic Church with a stick. He’s an unfrocked priest—did you know that? A dim-witted crackpot heretic. Look.” Carson turned to him. “Your emotional house has to be showing some kind of strain. You just had a divorce. The house you were born in is torn down, the neighborhood you grew up in is a pile of bricks somewhere. And Goulart’s missing. In a few steps, you’ve lost your childhood, your history, your wife and your best friend. And you’re living alone and hearing things. No, God damn. You’ve got to show the strain of all that somewhere even if it’s only a tic in one eye. Anybody would wake up screaming.” He gripped Richardson’s arm. “You take a plane to Florida and lie on a beach. Brmg a girlfriend. And I’ll guarantee you all your symptoms will disappear. Provided—”

  “Provided what?”

  “Provided you stay away from that Clabber and all those ghost stories that he lifted from Boy Scout council fires.”

  Richardson shrugged.

  “Pete. You’re a victim of modern life. Period.”

  Richardson nodded and smiled wearily.

  “So help me God, if I thought there was the slightest chance that the Clabbers and the Quists were right, I’d be on my knees right now—twenty-four hours a day.”

  The two moving men got the couch past the turning in the stairs and descended with deliberateness like two mechanical men synchronized to the same rhythm. They rested the couch on the tiled floor of the lobby, and one of the men opened the door. An avalanche of freezing air filled the lobby. Crisp crystals of snow hissed as they hit the outside step.

  “Well, me for a warm tuxedo,” said Carson. “I’ve got a banquet to go to tonight. Think we’ll be snowbound? When are you moving?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Hmm. You’d better hump yourself, buddy. That’s Gri-selda’s stuff leaving. We’re moving in a couple of days. Even Clabber’s got a place. You’d better be out of here before that wrecker’s crane goes to work or it’ll slam you right over the Brooklyn Bridge, bed and all.”

  Richardson, following him upward, sighed. Carson paused and looked back at him. “Nothing on him yet? No clues?”

  Richardson shrugged. “They sent a detective around today to ask questions.”

  Carson resumed climbing. “We’ll see.” At the landing he looked into Griselda Vandermeer’s apartment. She stood near the door shoving a box with her foot.

  “Nearly done? You deserve a medal, a special award. Follow me to the trophy room.” He paused. “Free drinks. No? Sympathetic ear. No? How about a strong shoulder to cry on?” He walked closer. “The quality of men has deteriorated sadly in the last few years. If I were your boyfriend I wouldn’t have let you handle this alone. As a matter of fact, I’d handcuff you to me and never let you out of my sight.”

  Griselda smiled at him wordlessly. Her eyes went back and forth between his face and Richardson’s. Behind her, an overnight bag sat on the empty floor. From a door, an evening dress hung on a hanger.

  Carson kissed his fingertips and wiggled them at her, then banged his evening newspaper on the railing and mounted the next flight of stairs. “I’ve got to talk to Abby for a moment.” Griselda’s amused eyes followed him. Then she looked again at Richardson. “Found a place yet?”

  “No.”

  “Oh? And no news of—”

  “No. No news.” Richardson glanced around her nearly empty apartment, then clucked his tongue. “Sorry to see you go.”

  “Well. Come day. Go day. New Yorkers spend their lives moving.”

  Richardson nodded. “Ah—” He flipped a helpless hand at her. “You mind if I ask you a question?”

  Griselda stepped back a pace. “What question?”

  Richardson put a hand on an upended trunk. Then he smiled. “You look like you’re braced for the worst.”

  “Oh. No. I can’t imagine what you’re going to ask me.” “Maybe I’m going to ask you for a date.” He smiled at her. “Oh...”

  “Maybe I’m going to ask you for a date for tonight—”

  “Oh, I can’t. I have-”

  “Yes. I know what you have. But that’s not my question. I wanted to ask you about the cards the other night.”

  “Ummm. I was afraid that’s what it was.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Oh. It wasn’t anything. Look, I do those cards for entertainment. I should have left all the dark cards out of the deck, but—well, Albert Clabber told me that Mrs. Quist collects old tarot decks and—well, that’s how it was.”

  “I understand. What did you see in the cards?”

  “Oh, do I have to tell you? As I said—”

  “I know. But I’d like to know what you saw. Mrs. Quist’s face went white. What was it?”

  “You don’t want to know. It isn’t a valid reading.”

  “Yes, Griselda. I want to know. What did you see?" She lowered her eyes. “Assassination."

  “Oh." He paused. “Whose?"

  “Yours."

  8

  He found the phone number in the book and dialed it. A police telephone operator answered it on the first ring.

  “Detective Navarre, please.”

  There was a pause. “What name?"

  “Navarre.”

  “Navarre?”

  “Yes. Navarre. Abel Navarre."

  “Abel Navarre?”

  “Yes, operator. Abel Navarre."

  “Just one moment, please.” The operator clicked off. Richardson sat, holding the phone, waiting and telling himself he wasn’t thinking about the tarot deck. What difference did it make that he had no brain tumor if he was slated for assassination?

  The telephone clicked. “This is Detective Tomey."

  “Oh, I want Detective Navarre."

  “Abel Navarre?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “My name’s Richardson. I’m calling in reference to the Gou-lart case.”

  “What’s your first name?”

  “Pete. Peter. Why? Isn’t he there?”

  “Ahhhhhh, ummmmm. Mr. Richardson. Would you describe Detective Navarre for me?”

  “Describe? Sure. Why?”

  “I’ll tell you in just a moment.”

  “Well, he’s big. Massive. Over six feet. Maybe six-three or -four. Runs maybe two twenty-five, two thirty. A touch of gray at the temples. Broad flat face. Deep brown eyes. Very thick neck. Flat nose.”

  “That fits. Light-colored hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Noticeably large hands and very heavy legs?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. When did you see him last?”

  “This morning. Right here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can I talk to him now?”

  “Mr.—ah—Richardson. Are you pulling my leg?”

  “No. What’s going on?”

  Detective Tomey sighed audibly over the phone. “Mr. Richardson. Detective Abel Navarre was killed by a bank bandit in lower Manhattan with one shot through the heart. I know. I was there. And it happened twenty -two years ago.”

  9

  A few minutes later the rear door on the moving van slammed, and Griselda Vandermeer’s goods and chattels rolled away in the van in darkness. The road was empty and filling with snow.

  Now four apartments were empty...

  Chapter The Sixth

  1

  He dreaded the thought of bed.

  He knew he'd lie in the darkness, wide-eyed, listening for the slightest sound. Sleep would come in short spans, never deep. Wakefulness would return with the familiar knot of fear.

  Richardson stood by his bedroom window in darkness watching the snow falling into the zones of light of the street lamps.

  The falling snow had a lulling effect on him. He put a lamp on in the living room, then went to bed and lay there listening to the crystals of snow tapping o
n his window.

  Somewhere between sleep and consciousness he found himself on a high iron picket fence, holding onto the bars and standing on a metal crosspiece. It was many stories high, ten —twelve, or more. Below him were the rows of other fences, with menacing lines of spikes.

  He sat up in bed. The image was as compelling, as convincing as the soaring dizziness of fever. He walked to the window and looked out. The wind had shifted more to the west and was blowing the snow in puffs across the quadrangle.

  Richardson returned to his bed and lay down. He was awake, yet he was on the fence again. He was afraid of the fence, afraid of the waiting spikes below him, afraid of the height. The fence could fall and cast him down to the spikes. His body would be tom to pulp, bouncing off one row of spikes, tumbling to another, impaled and bouncing and tumbling down down down. He felt gouts of meat tom from his limbs.

  He decided to pretend to climb to the bottom. He reached one foot down to a crosspiece. Then the other. Now, he slipped his hands down the square rods of the descenders. Another step down to another crosspiece. Foot after foot, hand after hand, he descended. Eventually, his feet touched the roadway —a roadway with deeply worn stones. Ancient worn black stones. Same as before.

  He awoke a half hour later. Wide-eyed. Alert. Listening. No. No sound. He hadn’t heard a sound. He got up and looked out at the snow. It was swirling now. The flakes were thicker. The white ground cover obliterated topographic detail. The wrecker wore a thin coating of white on its cabin and on its caterpillar tracks.

  Richardson walked into the living room. The lone light was still burning. He returned to his bed.

  The fence appeared again. He was on it again. It was tower-ingly high again. He could not shake the illusion. He must climb down again, down to sleep. A wean7 business: he put down a foot to the next lowest crosspiece. Then another. Hands slipped carefully down the square from descenders. Another step down. More hand sliding. Down. Down. Down. A step at a time until he touched the ground—the same worn and rutted roadway. Where?

  He slept.

  He awoke. It was after three a.m. He stood up and walked into the living room. In the single light, the room remained unchanged. He looked out at the snowstorm.

  The fall had nearly ended. The wind was stronger, rolling directly out of the northwest. The front had passed through, and soon the clouds would be blown out to sea, and the stars would appear.

  Richardson was exhausted. Tormented. He felt leaden in every limb. Sleep. Unbroken sleep. Sleep without fear. He returned to his bed.

  He lay back on the bed and pressed his face into the crook of his arm.

  In the name of God, be he Beelzebub or a butterfly, set my adversary in plain view before me.

  The fence appeared again. Yet again. He lay awake, face in arm crook, and began the descent for the third time. The height seemed lower this time and he made good progress, sensing the growing closeness of the roadway. He looked down finally and saw the road twenty feet below him.

  On it stood a man.

  Richardson got up quickly and walked into the living room.

  A monk. He’d seen him clearly. He stood, arms folded, head canted back, staring at Richardson, watching him climb. His face was a dark shadow in a peaked cowl.

  He was a large man. Was it Goulart? Navarre, twenty-two years dead? A stranger? Who?

  Richardson got a blanket off the bed and, his body wrapped in it, sat in a living room chair and stared out at the white world and the massive black shadows of broken clouds moving rapidly across the sky.

  Between them he could see bright stars.

  2

  Willow left the New Jersey Turnpike at Interchange 4 and followed Route 38 to Camden.

  The snowplow and salt had reduced the snow in the roadway to puddles. Car tires churned up a mist of dirty brown water and Willow drove with his windshield wipers going.

  He parked in downtown Camden and looked around with dismay. The major hotel, the Walt Whitman, was boarded up. Whole blocks of old tenements had been torn down, and snow covered the empty lots. Abandoned cars, dead weed stalks and empty stores and offices were everywhere apparent.

  Old weathered campaign posters proclaimed: “If Major Coxon Was Mayor, These Boards Would Be Down.” Willow wondered if Coxon won.

  The count)’ courthouse was a high granite-block building, with wide granite steps leading to the entrance. He went through the revolving doer and followed the trail of water and snow-melt to the banks of elevators. Men stood about in groups. Their roles were obvious: politicians, county civil servants, lawyers, jurors, defendants, witnesses, policemen, detectives, and clutches of poor people strolling doubtfully down long corridors with limp pieces of official paper in their hands, seeking various bureaus.

  “Probate Records,” he said to the elevator starter.

  “Room 100, right around the comer there.”

  Willow walked around the comer and found the door to Room 100: Passports, Identity Cards, Count)- Records.

  “Good morning,” he said to the middle-aged woman behind the counter. “I’m interested in a probate package for the years 1800 to 1810 or thereabouts.”

  The woman shook her head slowly.

  “You mean those records don’t exist?”

  She nodded her head. “They exist, so far as I know', but not here.”

  “Oh. Isn't this the county records office?”

  “Yes. But not for those years.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, Camden Count)- wasn’t formed until 1844. You see, originally Camden was part of Gloucester Count)-, and Gloucester City was the county seat.”

  “Oh, I see; records for 181c are in Gloucester City.”

  The woman shook her head again. “Wrong. You see, Gloucester City had a bunch of ramshackle old buildings that burned dow-n one night. They moved the county activities to Woodbury. Then in the 1830s they chopped Gloucester County in half again and created Camden County.”

  Willow listened attentively, patiently. At last he nodded. “The probate records, such as they are, are located in Wood-bur)’, which is now the count)’ seat for Gloucester County.” “Such as they are,” she said, nodding.

  “How far is Woodbury?”

  “Straight out Route 7c to Route 295 and head south. You can’t miss it. Maybe fifteen miles.”

  Woodbury had the glow of health about it. The main street, Kings Highway, was crowded with stores. There were no vacancies, no boarded windows, no litter, no sense of despair or bumed-out terrain.

  The woman in the county records office was very helpful. The Index of Administrations and Estates was alphabetical, cross-referenced by year to the ledgers.

  “Would this be your man?” she asked.

  Willow looked at the entry. Algernon Tully. Died August 3, 1807.

  “Hmmm. Yes. That could be him. Did he leave a will?”

  The woman looked at the entry and nodded. “Let’s see.” She turned, her eyes searching the shelved volumes. She pulled one out and lifted it to a desk. She opened it, leafed through several pages, then turned it to him. “Call me if you need me.”

  “Thank you.” Willow glanced quickly through the familiar papers. Executor was a lawyer. Heir was one Eric Lermonx. Willow glanced at the letters testamentary, the bond, the inventory and appraisement, notice to creditors (there apparently were none) and decree of distribution. Eric Lermonx had gotten it all.

  Willow settled back and read the will slowly. Algernon Tully declares himself to be the husband of the late Annie Coffee Tully, the son of Joseph Tully, London wine merchant, and avers he is of sound mind at the time of drafting the will and testament.

  Tully was a plainspoken man, apparently. In the second paragraph he listed his property—several houses, a warehouse for wines and spirits, several parcels of land, some household furnishings, some books, and a fluctuating supply of dollars.

  The third paragraph states flatly that he wants his daughter, Margaret, to have everything. If
she predeceases him, Tully wants everything to go to Eric Lermonx.

  Willow frowned, then returned to the index. He found no probate record for Mrs. Tully or for daughter Margaret. Suppose Margaret had married—her probate record wouldn’t be under her maiden name. She must have died before her father did, because Lermonx, the alternate name, received the estate.

  Willow sat down. How would he find Margaret’s death records and marriage—if there was one? And who was Lermonx?

  He got up and walked into the clerk’s office. “Vital records?” he asked.

  “They’re in the custody of each community on a local basis.”

  “So the death or marriage records for someone born in Camden-”

  “—would be in Camden.”

  Willow nodded and exited. Back up Route 295 to Route 130 to Route 70 to Camden.

  Willow had a feeling he was going to have to get some help.

  4

  The city clerk was patient and helpful. There was no birth or death or marriage record for Margaret Tully.

  “Church registers may help,” she said. “Do you know what religion she was?”

  “Oh my,” sighed Willow.

  “Look,” said the clerk. “Why don’t you consult Judge Cooper?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s a retired judge of the state court of appeals. He’s a genealogist and a local historian and—what’s the word?—antiquarian book collector. I know a few years ago he gathered all the early church records in two or three counties and made copies of them. And he indexed them too. I think he got a grant from the New Jersey Historical Society and hired some law students to do the work. Anyway, he knows more about early Jersey history than anyone else around here.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “In Haddonfield. You know where that is?”

  “Uh—give me a push.”

  “Okay. You go out Route 70. Know where that is?”

  “I’m getting to know it very well.”

  “Follow it to the Garden State Race Track Circle. Take the righthand road and follow it a couple of miles and you’re there.”