The Haunting Ballad (6 page)

*   *   *

THE THREE OF
us stood in the last place where Lorraine Cobble had drawn a breath. The flat roof was a tangle of chimney caps and exhaust vents, surrounded on all sides by the Village's sea of buildings. I could make out the Hudson River in the near distance. Just as Sally Joan had described, the edges of the rooftop were bordered by a sort of low wall, about two and a half feet high. Even a blind man wouldn't accidentally step off here into thin air. If Lorraine hadn't thrown herself off, then someone had definitely assisted her plunge.

A vigorous wind forced Mr. O'Nelligan and me to clamp down our hats as Sally Joan silently led us over to one edge of the roof. Staring into the alleyway below, we saw nothing but trash cans and a crate or two, but all of us were no doubt picturing the sprawled, shattered body that had lain there two weeks before.

Mr. O'Nelligan was the first of us to step away from the edge. When I eventually turned, I saw him paused in the middle of the roof, framed against the cloud-streaked sky. He stood there alone, eyes shut and lips slightly moving, and I realized that he was offering up a prayer.

And, knowing him, a vow.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

After leaving our newly minted client, we decided to track down Minnie Bornstein, the dead woman's former associate, since her shop was only a few minutes' walk from there. First, though, I wanted to talk with the detective who had investigated Lorraine's death. Of course, I could have made the call from the apartment, but I preferred not having Sally Joan's big earnest eyes trained on me as I did it.

“Well, what think you?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked as we walked on in search of a phone booth. “Based on what we've heard thus far?”

“I think I should have firmly begged off of this case, that's what I think. But no, I had to cave in like a mine shaft. My guess is we'll poke around for a couple days, learn a whole heap of nothing, and report back empty-handed. What the hell, I suppose we'll get to pocket a few bucks for our troubles.” Remembering my friend's refusal to accept compensation, I added, “At least
I
will.”

“Ah, now, I know you're not as mercenary as you make out, Lee Plunkett. Do you truly see nothing of merit in Miss Cobble's speculations?”

“What speculations? All I heard was a kid cousin's reluctance to accept her idol's suicide.”

“I'm not sure that Sally Joan quite idolized her. After all, she did acknowledge her cousin's shortcomings.”

“Yeah, well, it'd be hard not to. From my limited observation of Lorraine Cobble, I'd say she was one difficult woman.”

My partner smiled ever so slightly. “I see … a damsel who distressed.”

I hopscotched over his wit. “Anyway, the theory that she killed herself—for whatever reason, knowable or not—seems like the path of least resistance.”

“True, but what glory has ever been gained by such a path?”

I tossed up my hands. “Glory? Look here. Quests, glory, shining knights … that's all your department. Me, I'm strictly the no frills, no thrills type.”

“An uncommon description for a private detective, isn't that?”

“Uncommon, but in my case accurate.”

“Come now, lad, I know the true hero that lurks within your breast.”

“Then you know that he's real content to just stay there and not stumble out into mayhem. So what makes you so certain there's a homicide here?”

“I'm not certain at all, but I do think there's cause for exploration. I was taken by Sally Joan's depiction of her cousin as someone with a grand passion for life. A valid argument can be made that such a woman would not simply throw her life away.”

“People do impulsive things all the time—especially hot-blooded people.”

“Quite true,” my partner admitted.

“Okay then. Couldn't that be the story here?”

“It might well be. I'm merely questioning. Such is the nature of man—to ever question.”

“Then mark me down as the last of the unnatural men. There's nothing I love more than a big, fat, uncomplicated answer that I don't have to probe for.”

This got a laugh from my Irishman. “Ah, dear Lee! Ever the jester.”

“Yeah, that's me all over. Mr. Chortles of 1957.” I sighed. “All right, I did sign up for this, come what may, so bring on the parade. Complete with Civil War drummers and ghost chanters.”

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Pattinshell … She certainly makes an extraordinary claim.”

“Which your haunted Irish heart no doubt embraces.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Just for the record, I don't think we got anything at all from that one—except maybe the heebie-jeebies. Sally Joan didn't offer much more. As for evidence … well, there isn't any.”

“There's the letter.”

“Sure, the one that can't be found,” I said. “Not much help, is it? Besides, the fact that Lorraine Cobble had a meeting that morning might have nothing to do with her death twelve or thirteen hours later.”

“It might or it might not. Now, in addition to that letter, there's also a second significant piece of correspondence. The one that does not exist.”

“By that you mean…”

“I mean a suicide note. Or, more specifically, the lack of one. Frequently, in cases of self-inflicted death, the deceased has left a note stating reasons, regrets, or apologies.”

“Frequently, but not always. Certainly not when the suicide was spur of the moment.”

“Quite true.”

I stopped in my tracks and caught my companion by the elbow. “Then what are we arguing about?”

Mr. O'Nelligan raised his eyebrows. “Is it arguing we're engaged in? I see it more as healthy discourse.”

Glancing across the street, I noticed a drugstore—a good bet for finding a telephone. “Let's go get the official lowdown on all this. That is, if the local Dick Tracy's in a sharing mood.”

A minute later, wedged in the store's phone booth, I consulted Sally Joan's list and dialed up the police station. “Is Detective Wilton in?”

The cop at the desk shouted out, “Is Smack Wilton here? Anybody seen Smack?”

Smack?
Why did that ring a bell?

Soon a hoarse, impatient voice came on. “Wilton here. Who's this?”

I gave him my name, profession, and home base.

“Plunkett?” Wilton's voice lifted slightly. “From Thelmont? Wait, are you related to Buster Plunkett?”

“He was my father.”

“Goddammit!” he responded merrily. “Sonuvabitch was a pal of mine. We were flatfoots together back in Hartford before he decided to go solo. Had the right idea, your old man. Shoulda become a private dick myself, but I ended up down here with the dope fiends and bureaucrats. Remember me, kid? Smack Wilton?”

“Definitely,” I said, by which I meant
not really
. After all, my father had a small legion of cronies with names like Lefty and Loopy and Bazooka and—sure, why not—Smack. Judging by his sandpaper growl, I imagined Wilton to be one of the big sloppy palookas that Dad so delighted in.

He plunged on. “Yeah, I used to come over to Thelmont sometimes for Buster's poker games. Remember those?”

“Sure do.” In truth, I'd tried to forget those drunken, deafening, borderline violent soirees that Dad had hosted in the years following my mother's death.

“I remember you, too, kid. You were a scrawny little runt. Beefed up, have you?”

“Not so you'd notice. Listen, Detective Wilton—”

“Make it Smack. You and I go back a ways.”

“Smack … I've been hired by Lorraine Cobble's cousin to look into her death. She suspects foul play.”

“Cobble, oh yeah. The dame who went skydiving without a parachute, right?”

Jesus. “Yes, that's the one.”

“Listen, pal, there's nothing there.”

“Probably not, but her cousin—”

“Yeah, I remember the cousin,” Smack said. “Cute little number, sweet disposition and all, but she just couldn't accept the facts. Believe me, there wasn't a damn thing that pointed to anything murky. Seems the Cobble dame just decided it was
arrivederci
time and took the leap. Not unusual with these artsy types down here. They're all so goddamn high-strung and mopey, with their poetry and black clothes and depressing songs. Christ! You want songs? Listen to some Glenn Miller, for God's sake. Put on a little ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo' and you won't be wanting to fling your ass off a roof.”

Clearly, the man was a philosopher. I let Smack ramble on for a minute about music and mental health, then asked him what ground he'd covered in his investigation.

“We talked to the neighbors, which was a bust,” he told me. “A number of them were away when she made her big exit, including the ones on her floor. Those tenants still in the building that night didn't notice a thing. I even went down to that coffeehouse where she used to hang out. Again, nobody there had much to give. How she spent her day? Who saw her last? Had anybody threatened her? Nobody I talked to had a clue.”

“Or they did and weren't saying.”

“Yeah, well, I don't think that's the case here.”

“How about alibis?”

“Nobody seemed to know where anybody else was the night she died. It was a Sunday, and seems like everybody was off on their lonesome. That would've been a headache if I thought there was something that needed alibiing, but this was a clean open-and-shut deal.”

“There was a letter, right? Something about a morning meeting?”

“Yeah, but she didn't die in the morning. She jumped well after dark. Like I told you, there's nothing to uncover. By all accounts, Lorraine Cobble was a real firebrand—had a temper and knew how to use it. I just figure, in the end, her temper imploded.”

“There's been no hint of why she'd want to commit suicide?”

Smack huffed. “Like I say, these Village types are an oddball lot. Who the hell knows why they do what they do? The silly damned broad has a great big woe-is-me moment, scampers up to the rooftop, and does a swan dive. End of story.”

Suddenly I felt very uneasy. Wilton's harsh flippancy had made me ashamed of my own. This was, after all, a human being we were talking about, not an inconvenience or a passing, snide anecdote. No one deserved to end up as a broken rag doll sprawled among the trash. As to the official inquiry into her death, it seemed to have been limply conducted at best. I was about to say as much but held my tongue. Smack might be someone I'd want in my corner one day.

I tried to sound casual. “Well, guess I'll just poke around town a little, seeing as I'm already on the time clock.”

“Sure, kid. I don't begrudge you making a few bucks on this thing, but I just wanted to give you the heads-up. It's a fool's errand, plain and simple.”

“Understood,” said I, the fool. “Can I get in touch with you if anything comes up?”

Over the line, I could almost hear Smack shrug. “Sure, why not. Hey, it's nice to see you've taken up your dad's business. I sure liked that sonuvabitch. I know Buster died a couple years back, but never heard how. Was it on the job? Did he go down swinging?”

“No, he died over a bowl of beef stew. Heart attack.”

“Aw, that's too bad. Tough old bastard shoulda gone down in a hail of goddamn bullets.”

With that tender image, I said good-bye and rang off. Stepping out from the phone booth, I found Mr. O'Nelligan standing at a magazine rack, reading one of the periodicals. Was he perusing some highbrow literary journal? Looking over his shoulder, I saw that the periodical in question was a copy of
Detective Comics,
its glossy cover adorned with a picture of Batman surrounded by boomerangs, or, more specifically, “The 100 Batarangs of Batman!”

“That's not
Moby-Dick
,” I observed.

My colleague continued reading. “True, but it does possess all the elements of high adventure. Not to mention mythology.”

It wasn't the first time I'd seen the old scholar engrossed in a comic. In fact, Audrey would regularly set aside a stack of them for him down at the five-and-dime. While my fiancée saw my penchant for pulp novels as juvenile, she found Mr. O'Nelligan's funny-book fixation downright charming. Not fair at all.

“I feel I should point out,” I said, “that just because it's called
Detective Comics
doesn't mean it offers practical sleuthing tips.”

“I'm aware of that. A little recreational reading helps keep the brain limber between bouts of high activity.”

Mr. O'Nelligan paused in his limbering while I gave a quick rundown of my conversation with Smack.

“Not very helpful, was he now?” my partner noted. “Well, don't be dispirited. We'll just have to do better than the local gendarmerie, won't we?”

“Hey, Pops!” From behind the store counter, the big, grumpy proprietor wagged a cigar at us. “Looks like you already read half that thing. How 'bout you buy it?”

Calmly, Mr. O'Nelligan closed the comic book, marched over to the counter, and plunked down a dime. “I'll hereby enact the purchase.”

The big guy grunted and scooped up his bounty. “Kinda old for superheroes, ain't ya?”

My partner took a deep breath and intoned:

“I am of a healthy long-lived race,

and our minds improve with age.”

That drew a confounded gape from the proprietor.

“William Butler Yeats,” Mr. O'Nelligan added as, purchase in hand, he led us from the store.

Back outside, I asked, “You're not going to conduct interviews while clutching Batman and Robin, are you?”

Just then, from around a corner, appeared a scruffy little fellow of perhaps ten, a shoeshine box tucked under one arm. Without missing a beat, Mr. O'Nelligan pressed the comic into the boy's free hand.