Dutch Blue Error (22 page)

She turned to face me. Her eyes were swollen.

“It’s too complicated,” she said.

“Try me.”

She shook her head and looked away again. “I’m still married, you know,” she said.

“You’re separated.”

“Please don’t,” she said softly. “Just don’t say anything.”

“H
E’S AN INGRATE AND
a twerp and I don’t want him to have my money!”

Dr. Douglas Segrue ran his forefinger across his prim little gray mustache and peered at me through his wire-rimmed spectacles. Fathers, I thought, seemed fated to disapprove of their sons sooner or later. I thought of Billy and Joey and wondered what was in store for me. Ollie Weston’s assessment of his son, Perry, rang in my ears. “He’s neither particularly bright nor particularly brave,” he had said.

Fathers and daughters seemed to have it better. I was reminded of the businesslike handshake Deborah Martinelli had granted me the previous day when I dropped her off after our Cape Cod weekend. Deborah and Francis Shaughnessey did not seem to have had father-son type issues between them.

“I want you to give it some more thought, Doug,” I said to my client.

He leaned his elbows on my desk. “It’s my money, Brady. I can do whatever I want with it. If I want to disown my son, I will. And you are my lawyer, and you can do it for me.”

“In the first place,” I said patiently, “Dave isn’t a twerp. He’s thirty-seven years old, he’s a splendid doctor, and if he wants to devote his career to a clinic in Panama, that seems to me a fine thing. And he’s not an ingrate. He’s very proud of you.”

“If he were proud of me, and if he weren’t a twerp, he’d be taking over my practice,” muttered Segrue, “instead of wasting his time with jungle savages.”

“Panama City isn’t a jungle. Anyway, the courts…”

“This is all legal. I’m of sound mind.”

I cocked an eyebrow at him.

“God damn it, Brady, I
am
of sound mind.” He ran the palm of his hand across the board-flat top of his crew cut. “Are you saying I’m not of sound mind?”

“I’m saying this is dumb, and it raises the logical question. Look. If Beth were alive, do you think she’d approve?”

He shrugged away the memory of his wife. “David was the plum of Beth’s eye. David could do no wrong.”

I glanced at my watch. Dr. Segrue had already overstayed his appointment. He caught my look and pushed himself away from my desk. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll think about it some more. I’m not going to die tonight. But I know what I want. There are plenty of lawyers in this town, you know.”

I stood up and walked around the desk. I touched his elbow. “Plenty of good ones, too, Doug. They’ll do just what you ask them. Never question your impeccable judgment. For example, they would have settled that malpractice suit out of court, just like you wanted, and it would’ve only cost you a hundred grand.”

“Yeah, well you were right about that one,” he said. “This is different.”

I steered him toward the door. “Make an appointment with Mr. Garrett to see me next week, Doug. If you’re still thinking this way, we’ll put some things on paper. Fair enough?”

“Okay,” he mumbled.

“Just do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Talk to Dave.”

“What do you want me to say to him?”

“Ask him if he cares what you do with your money.”

Segrue blinked at me for a minute, then grinned. “I’ll wager the little twerp could care less.”

I smiled and opened the door for him. “I’ll wager he’ll have some interesting ideas on the disposition of your estate,” I said.

We shook hands, and Segrue left, muttering, “Jungle clinics! Damn little twerp.”

In my outer office Zerk was pounding furiously on the typewriter. Seated on the sofa across from him, magazines opened on their laps, were detectives Kirk and Stone. Their heads swiveled in unison to follow Doug Segrue out the door, then rotated back to look at me.

“Gentlemen,” I said.

They both stood up. “Got a minute?” said Kirk.

I jerked my head toward my office. “Come on in.” The tempo of Zerk’s typing seemed to increase as the two detectives followed me in. We sat around the coffee table in the corner of my office.

“Did Zerk offer you coffee?”

“He didn’t offer us the time of day,” growled Stone. “Told us you were busy.”

“I was,” I said. “Want some?”

Leo Kirk shook his head. “Thought you’d like to know. Mr. Schwartz isn’t our man.”

“Oh?”

“He was in New York the night Francis Shaughnessey was killed. His gun is not the one that shot Albert Dopplinger.”

I raised my eyebrows. “But he was there. He admitted that. He chloroformed me.”

“He admits he was there, yes. Says Dopplinger called him.”

“Just like he supposedly called you,” added Stone.

“Matter of fact,” continued Kirk, “he said he saw you standing over his body.”

“You knew that,” I said. “Listen. What are you implying?”

“It’s pretty obvious,” said Stone.

“Nothing,” said Kirk quickly. “I’m not implying anything. Just that this Schwartz seems as clean as you, and we’re back to square one on this thing. The Dopplinger case belongs to Cambridge, anyway. And we’re certain Schwartz had nothing to do with the Shaughnessey thing—which
is
our problem.”

“And that boy out there,” said Stone, “ain’t off the hook.”

“Now, listen…”

“Relax,” said Kirk. “I just wanted you to know, since you are, er, involved in this.”

I thought for a minute. “What about his pulling a gun on me? Doesn’t that signify something?”

“Did he
pull
a gun on you?”

“He had it in his pocket. He forced me into the elevator.”

“Did you see the gun?”

“Well, sure.”

“I mean before your friend hit him.”

“I saw it in his pocket.”

“He wanted to prosecute your friend,” said Stone. “For assault.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“We talked him out of it,” said Kirk.

“
You
talked him out of it,” said Stone.

“This guy,” I said, “chloroformed me. He broke into Deborah Martinelli’s house. Are you saying you’re letting him off scot-free?”

“Look, Mr. Coyne,” said Kirk. “Schwartz admitted none of that to us. He said he went to Dopplinger’s lab when he was invited, peeked in the open door, saw you standing over the body, turned around and left. Matter of fact, he was the one who called it in. Apologized profusely for not leaving his name or sticking around. He said he was walking to your apartment with you when he was struck from behind. He had a weapon in his pocket, he admitted. He has a license. He deals in valuable objects. As for Mrs. Martinelli’s house, that is matter for the Carlisle police. I have communicated with them. They didn’t seem particularly inclined to pursue it, inasmuch as nothing was stolen and nobody was harmed.”

“And he was in New York when Shaughnessey was murdered.”

“Yes.”

“But he came to the funeral.”

Kirk nodded. “Sure. I saw him there myself. He said Shaughnessey had been a client of his. Schwartz deals in art objects. Buys in Europe, mostly, sells in the United States. Has offices in New York and Boston. He’s well placed in the business of importing valuable collectibles.”

“So what the hell did he want with me?” I said.

Kirk shrugged, “I’m not sure. He said he knew you were interested in that stamp. Said he felt that the two of you might put your heads together. That’s how he put it. He seemed surprised that you claimed to feel threatened.”

“He was poking me with the goddam gun,” I said.

“According to him, he asked if you could talk, you shrugged and said you were tired, and he went up the elevator with you and you didn’t tell him not to. Then Mr. Garrett snuck up on him and cold-cocked him.”

“That,” I said, more loudly than was necessary, “is
not
the way it happened.”

Kirk sighed. “You want to press charges?”

I looked at the two detectives. Stone was grinning at me. “No,” I said. “I guess not. Tell Schwartz I would like to talk to him, though, would you?”

“Can’t do that,” said Kirk.

“Why not?”

“Schwartz went back to New York.”

“You’re lucky he’s not pressing charges against your boy out there,” added Stone.

They stood up. I took Kirk’s hand. Stone didn’t offer his, nor did I to him. “Sorry this didn’t pan out,” said Kirk.

“He’s lying, you know,” I said.

Kirk nodded. “He’s lying about some of it, I’m sure. But he didn’t murder Shaughnessey, and his gun didn’t kill Dopplinger, and we’ve got nothing on him. But don’t be discouraged. Something’ll turn up.”

“We’ve already got a good suspect,” said Stone, his fat jowls purred in a smile.

“Zerk didn’t do anything, and you know it.”

When they left, Zerk stopped typing and swiveled in his chair to glower at me. I summarized what they had told me. The creases of his frown deepened as he heard the story. When I finished, he said, “Yeah. That figures.”

“Well,” I said, “he
didn’t
murder anybody.”

“He could’ve shot Dopplinger with a different gun.”

“So could you or I. Or anyone else.”

Zerk snorted and turned his back on me. His typewriter resumed its rapid-fire clacking. I shrugged and returned to my office.

It was several hours later that same Monday afternoon when Zerk buzzed me.

I picked up my phone. “What is it?”

“Phone call. Long distance. Guess who?”

“I’m not in the mood for games, Zerk. Who is it?”

“Our friend. Schwartz.”

“Well, okay,” I said slowly. “Why don’t you listen in?”

“Will do.”

I heard a click. “Mr. Schwartz,” I said.

“Mr. Coyne,” he said. “We have some unfinished business.”

“We do?”

“We do. The gendarmes have released me from their clutches. An unfortunate misunderstanding. But I bear you no grudge.” He paused. “Now, then. I have concluded that you do not possess the duplicate Dutch Blue Error, nor does Mrs. Martinelli, and you don’t know where it is. Am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then my apologies for my discourtesy last Thursday.”

“Okay.”

“And I accept any apologies you might care to extend with regard to your friend’s treatment of me.”

I said nothing.

“I apologize also for the unfortunate necessity of rendering you comatose in Mr. Dopplinger’s laboratory, as well. Naturally, I assumed you had murdered the poor man. When I subsequently found no weapon, I admit I was puzzled. I did, in any case, require the opportunity to search your person as well as Mr. Dopplinger’s.”

“For the stamp.”

“For the stamp, yes. And, failing that, for Mr. Dopplinger’s notebook. Neither of which I found, of course.”

“So you called to apologize. Well, thanks.”

I heard him chuckle. “I didn’t call to apologize. That was gratuitous. I called to share some information with you. Information that could enable you to find the stamp.”

“And if I do, I might do business with you,” I said.

“Ah, Mr. Coyne. You do not disappoint me.”

“If I find the stamp, I sell it to you. Is that it?”

“Let us say, you’ll allow me the opportunity to make the first offer.”

“If I find the stamp, Mr. Schwartz, it won’t be mine to offer for sale.”

“Ah, quite so. That, of course, is entirely up to you. It belongs, as patrimony, to Mrs. Martinelli. Perhaps you would suggest to her how she might profitably dispose of the item, then.”

I thought for a minute. “I suppose,” I said slowly, “that could be done. Provided I find the stamp.”

“Consider what I tell you,” said Schwartz. I heard him sigh deeply. “My, ah, interest in the so-called Dutch Blue Error goes back well before the events in Paris and San Juan in 1967 of which I am about to speak. My involvement has not been altogether, shall we say, ethical. I have not, on the other hand, participated in homicide, which is considerably more than can be said for other players in the drama of the Blue Error. I want you to understand that. I have killed no one, nor have I abetted anyone who has. Nevertheless, several men have died. The first was an innocent Parisian purchasing agent named Guillaume Lundi…”

As Schwartz talked I jotted notes onto a yellow legal pad. He talked for fifteen minutes or more in that precise diction of his. My mind swirled with possibilities. I underlined several words on my notepad, drew arrows from this point to that, punctuated some of Schwartz’s bits of information with question marks and exclamation points.

“So that,” he said finally, “is how Francis Shaughnessey and I came to know each other. My role in the entire matter has not been completely honorable, of course. On the other hand, I have given value for value. As things presently stand, my unique knowledge that your Mr. Weston possesses the original stamp has lost its marketability. Hence I come to you.”

“I’ll have to give it some thought,” I said cautiously.

I heard Schwartz chuckle. “A devilish puzzle, I grant you. I trust I have helped you to sort out some of the pieces.”

“Perhaps.”

“Good day, then, Mr. Coyne. Please call me should there be some business for us to transact.”

He gave me his phone number in New York and hung up. After I heard the click I said into the phone, “You still there?”

“Yup,” said Zerk.

“What’d you think?”

“Wow!”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought, too. Look. Hold any calls. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

I replaced the telephone and studied the several pages of notes I had taken. Charlie McDevitt had advised me to presume some lies. Suddenly I had more candidates than I knew what to do with.

I sucked on Winstons, outlined scenarios, and after an hour I dropped my pencil onto my desk, pushed myself back, and whispered, “Of course!”

I rang Ollie Weston’s number. Perry answered.

“It’s Brady Coyne,” I said.

“Oh. Hi.”

“I’d like to see your father this evening,” I said. “Any problem with that?”

“He doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Good. And Perry?”

“Yes?”

“Can you be there, too?”

After a hesitation, he said, “Me?”