AHMM, December 2009 (10 page)

"That pretty boy gets my goat,” I grumbled.

"I assume you're referring to Mr. Worley because Mr. Piker roughly resembles a sack of root crops. Well, at least we've acquired the day's news.” He began to leaf through the paper.

I pulled out the alarm company's business card and checked the address again. “I don't know where this is. We'll have to ask around for directions."

"Aha!” Mr. O'Nelligan slapped the newspaper. “This might be it! This might very well be it. Perhaps we don't need to visit the esteemed Dunkle Brothers after all. Pull over for a moment."

I complied. “What's up?"

He climbed out of the car. “I need a little stroll. Just to mull things over. Wait for me, won't you?"

Well aware that Mr. O'Nelligan did his very best mulling while strolling, I nodded and waited. I looked over the page of the New York
Daily News
that my friend had been reading. It offered an account of last night's baseball contest with the lead line, The unperfect man pitched a perfect game yesterday. This alluded to the fact that Don Larsen was not only an erratic ballplayer, but also a noted carouser. I went through the full article, unsuccessfully trying to determine what had inspired Mr. O'Nelligan's enthusiasm.

I'd known the old Irishman to go ambling for a good two hour chunk, so I was grateful when he returned after only twenty minutes. He smiled gently and informed me that he had found a telephone booth and placed two calls—one to Donna Zampino, the other to the local police. I was given driving instructions but no real information beyond that. Such was Mr. O'Nelligan's way. We drove on as Elvis Presley's voice rose from the radio, admonishing us not to be cruel to a heart that's true.

A half hour later, Mr. O'Nelligan, Donna, and I were standing in Gilmar Noll's studio.

Maxine was in fine form. “Why the hell do you guys keep showing up to pester us? This isn't a bus stop, y'know. And who's your little dolly here?"

Donna Zampino looked like she was about to slug the other woman right there and then. I rested a restraining hand on her shoulder. Noll was leaning in a corner, seemingly uninterested in our presence.

"Please bear with us,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “We're here to offer a solution to the theft of Mr. Noll's painting."

This got Noll's attention. “Really? You've found it?"

"Has Worley confessed?” Donna asked.

Maxine jumped in. “It should come back to Gilmar, right? After all, it was his to begin with. And if Worley—"

"Please!” Like a cop conducting traffic, Mr. O'Nelligan held up one hand. “With Mr. Plunkett's assent, I will lay out the conclusions of our investigation."

He looked at me and I nodded, fully realizing that any forthcoming conclusions were to his credit and not mine.

Mr. O'Nelligan smoothed his vest and commenced. “If this case of ours has a theme, it would be
perfection
. While recruiting us, Miss Zampino stated her belief that Stuart Worley, who presents himself as the perfect man, had himself stolen the painting from his own gallery. She felt that a perfect man was quite capable of executing a perfect theft. As Miss Zampino is our client, we approached things from that perspective.

"We found that Mr. Worley is indeed an outwardly refined individual. As to whether that refinement has trickled down into his soul, well, such a determination belongs to the angels. I myself harbor doubts. Nonetheless, Worley does come off as rather spiffy. Now, as to the stolen painting, at first glance it might seem odd that a man of lofty tastes would champion a work of such ... limitations."

Noll stirred in his corner. “What did you say?"

Mr. O'Nelligan pressed on. “Mr. Worley admitted to us that he purchased
Bursting Skull
with the intention of inflating its worth. He was under no illusion as to the artistry of the work. In fact, scarcely anyone directly involved with the case believed that the painting possessed any true merit. Not Worley. Not Miss Zampino or her father. Not even Mr. Noll's paramour.” Maxine tried to interrupt, but Mr. O'Nelligan's traffic-halting palm rose once again. “Let me say that sometimes inspiration comes from unexpected sources. An hour ago, a newspaper flung uncharitably at Lee Plunkett here yielded up an illuminating phrase. An article describing last night's ball game started with the declaration, ‘The unperfect man pitched a perfect game yesterday.’”

"Isn't the correct word
im
perfect?” Donna Zampino asked.

Mr. O'Nelligan smiled. “Well asked. Actually, either word is proper. But to continue, the concept implied in that sentence immediately seized me. Up to this point, we had been considering the possibility of a ‘perfect’ man successfully executing the theft. We were now presented with a converse concept—that of an imperfect man achieving the perfect heist. This brought to mind someone who could be considered the antithesis of Mr. Worley. An individual who has just in the last twenty-four hours been described as quirky, flawed, a funny duck, and—by his own lover—'the most defective man I know.’ This also happens to be the one person directly connected with the stolen painting who sincerely holds it in high esteem. So, Mr. Noll, why don't you relate for everyone how you broke into the gallery?"

Gilmar Noll widened his eyes. “Me? Why would you—"

"There's no point in feigning innocence,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “I know how everything was accomplished, but I think it best if we heard it from your own lips. Glance out your window, if you will, sir. You'll notice two rather sizable men leaning against a car. These are police detectives who, at my summons, will soon be coming up to search your apartment."

Noll looked out the window, as did I. There they were, a beefy pair indeed. I'd noticed them as we entered but thought nothing of it. So this was the result of my friend's phone call.

Noll turned away from the window and stared at Mr. O'Nelligan for half a minute before answering. “It was fairly easy really, once I decided to do it. Old Zampino was used to me stopping in at the gallery. One afternoon, I told him I was worried that someone might steal my painting. That's when he showed me how the alarm worked, how it went on—and off. I pretended to be distracted and barely interested. That way he wouldn't suspect anything later. Actually, I was paying very close attention."

Mr. O'Nelligan nodded. “Exactly. But don't forget to tell about the key."

"That was a little more difficult,” Noll said. “I'd noticed that Zampino would sometimes take out his keys for some task or other, then place them down on a display case while he puttered around. So I took to carrying a small tin of clay in my pocket for just the right moment. I'd seen it done in a movie. One day, when the old man's back was turned, I got a mold of the front door keys."

"I don't believe it!” Maxine's eyes were opened to the maximum. “You can barely figure out how to use a can opener, never mind planning something like this."

Noll shrugged. “Well, it's true. After I had replicas made, I went back to the gallery a little before closing time and left when Zampino did. As I was going out, I quickly switched off the alarm. Then I came back later, unlocked the door, took my painting, and turned the alarm back on before leaving."

"Just as we surmised,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Now, if you would please produce the painting."

"But it's mine. Mine!” Noll's mouth twisted into a foolish pout.

Mr. O'Nelligan spoke as if addressing a toddler. “It would save us all some trouble if you produced the painting straightaway. Can you do that for us, Gilmar?"

Noll pressed his fingers to his eyes as if suppressing a headache. After a moment, he stepped into a side room and returned holding a large canvas. The photograph we'd seen earlier had been bad enough, but to behold
Bursting Skull
in all its sputtering glory was almost too much to take.

"It was under the bed,” Noll said.

Maxine looked appalled. “We were sleeping over it all along? You stupid creep!"

With a robust scream, she grabbed an empty wine bottle off a table and flung it at Noll's head. He narrowly dodged it, dropping his painting in the effort. The bottle struck the window pane and exploded the glass.

Mr. O'Nelligan glanced out the window. “Well, that certainly got the attention of the constabulary. They're on the way up."

Noll stared down at his creation, not bothering to retrieve it. “I had to have it back. We belong to each other."

Donna Zampino now stepped forward. “You took my father's life."

Noll shook his head. “I only took my painting."

"No. You took his life. His heart gave out because of his sense of responsibility. If not for you, my father would be alive."

She pressed in on Noll and raised her hands. No one else moved. For a moment I wasn't sure if she was going to strike him, strangle him, or tear into his eyes with her long fingernails. Instead, she did something far more unsettling. She took his head in her hands and, drawing it down to her lips, kissed his brow.

She said softly, “May my father forgive you."

This had an effect no less jolting than had she struck him outright. The failed artist shuddered and groaned and quickly pulled away from the woman. An insistent rapping now came from the hallway. Noll turned toward the sound and extended his arms, wrists upturned in anticipation of handcuffs. It was a gesture both theatric and pathetic.

Maxine wrinkled her nose. “What a sap I've been. What a big, dumb sap."

Then she sashayed off to answer the door.

With one thing and another, it wasn't until the next evening that Mr. O'Nelligan and I were able to sit together in my office and debrief.

"How did you figure out how Noll did it?” I asked.

"I didn't."

"Pardon?"

"Motivewise, Gilmar Noll had risen in my mind as a likely candidate for the theft, but frankly, I feared he was too inept to fit the bill.” Mr. O'Nelligan paused a moment to stroke his beard. “Then when I saw that newspaper article, I took it as a sign, of sorts, that my theory was correct. Sometimes an unperfect man
can
conjure up a perfect outcome. In truth, though, I wasn't at all positive how Noll enacted the theft. When we confronted him, I simply played the part of a confident interrogator and fooled the fellow into revealing all."

This really delighted me. “You conniving old thespian!"

He gave a little nod. “Thank you. Although, in the end, some might see the resolution of this case as itself imperfect. It was, after all, born of a dream, a ball game, and a bluff. Deduction took a back seat to intuition."

"Whatever works. We did our job—or, rather, you did our job—and we'll be paid for it. Surely, you're going to accept compensation for this one."

"Surely, I am not,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “I'm just grateful for the chance to exercise my aging cerebrum. However, if you wish to stake me to a repast this evening, washed down by a pot of strong tea, well, I would probably acquiesce to that."

"Three or four repasts,” I insisted. “And a barrel of tea."

"Moderation, Lee Plunkett. Always steer towards moderation."

The phone rang.

An excited Italian accent greeted me. “Did you hear? The Yankees won the World Series today! My father must be so happy."

For a fleeting moment, I pictured Giuseppe Zampino atop some very high bleachers, the mists of heaven swirling about him. He had a rose in one hand and a bag of peanuts in the other.

"That's great,” I said. “Look, I'm sorry the case didn't work out the way you expected. Stuart Worley wasn't the guilty party, after all. Plus, he'll get the painting back once it's not needed for evidence."

"So it goes.” Donna sounded downright philosophical. “I wanted the truth and that's what you gave me. But wait! Here's something even more beautiful. I just found out that Worley never did get to see the perfect game on Monday. His tire blew out on a back road somewhere and he wasn't able to find a tow truck until too late. He never made it to the stadium!"

I laughed. “Come to think of it, Worley did seem touchy when I mentioned the game yesterday. Poor little rich guy."

She asked to talk to Mr. O'Nelligan. I passed him the phone. He listened for a while, offering an occasional “I see” or “of course.” After several minutes, he said, “You're very welcome. Good-bye ... Topolina."

He hung up and we sat together quietly. After a spell, we both rose and gathered up our coats and hats.

"Now let's away to close of day,” my friend said softly.

"Yeats?” I guessed.

The Irishman sighed. “No. Merely O'Nelligan."

Copyright © 2009 Michael Nethercott

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One minor casualty of the fall of the Berlin Wall and the breakup of the USSR was, for a time, the spy novel, so long a staple of the Cold War. As novelist Joseph Finder wrote in a November 2001
New York Times
article, “After the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, it seemed that even before the dust had settled the obituary of the spy novel was being written. With the end of the Evil Empire, spies seemed obsolete, and so did the labyrinthine narrative of the intelligence operative, with its tradecraft, safe houses, moles and dead drops."

But as several recent novels show, the rise of Vladimir Putin and the emergence of the FSB (formerly the KGB) as a major force in modern Russia have given new life to the supposedly moribund spy novel. Three new books illustrate the strength and diversity of the resurgent genre with a British agent in Russia, a Russian agent in the United States, and an American detective in both London and Moscow. In each book, chillingly realistic shadow operations and politically driven violence provide grave insights into the Cold War's continuing repercussions.

Alex Dryden's debut, red to black (Ecco, $25.99), delivers a serious warning in the guise of fiction. The pseudonymous journalist delves into the machinations of the FSB and its KGB predecessors with eerie, convincing details. Dryden has spent more than 15 years as a freelance journalist covering events in Russia and was also involved in security and intelligence matters. That work provided him with firsthand experience and a healthy appreciation for the dangers of presenting his views in a nonfiction format. In a publicity letter written for this book, Dryden notes that “since Putin became head of the FSB(KGB) in 1998, over sixty journalists have been murdered in Russia, and thirty politicians.” For this and other reasons, Dryden decided fiction was his best approach to writing about Putin's Russia.