Death at Charity's Point (31 page)

“Sure. Sounds fine. How do we authenticate it, though?”

“Fellow by the name of Albert Dopplinger. He’s an assistant curator at the Peabody Museum, specialist in paper and wood artifacts. Paintings and books, mostly. His lab has all the latest equipment. He knows all about inks, paints, the manufacture of paper, and so forth. He’s done some work for me personally. I’ve already talked to him. He says he’ll have no problem authenticating the stamp. He’s acknowledged among philatelists as one of the preeminent experts in the area of old stamps, though he isn’t a philatelist himself. He’s got no interest in collecting things. Just likes to examine them. Which suits me fine. The last person I want involved in this is some philatelic dealer or agent. This Dopplinger, I think, we can trust to remain discreet. We’ll pay him well. And he knows he can count on a tidy little sidelight moonlighting for me.”

“That sounds easy enough,” I said. “What else?”

“Well, there is one little problem,” said Ollie. He sipped his brandy. I waited for him to continue.

“You sure you won’t play chess?” he said after a moment. “Most instructive game.”

“C’mon, Ollie. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is this. Dopplinger says that in order for him to authenticate the duplicate Dutch Blue Error he’ll need to have the original for comparison. You’ll have to bring my stamp with you. You appreciate what that means, don’t you?”

I lifted my eyebrows. “It means,” I said, “that I’ll be carrying the equivalent of a million dollars in cash.”

“Or close to it. Yes. Of course, the stamp without the papers isn’t worth that much, and those I’ll keep in my vault. Still, if that stamp gets into the wrong hands…”

“It’ll cost you a fortune to get it back. I understand. That’s a heavy responsibility, Ollie.”

“I pay you heavy fees. Are you licensed?”

“Huh?”

“Licensed. To carry.”

Perry, who had remained standing, and who appeared not to be paying any attention to our discussion, suddenly blurted, “Oh, Jesus Christ!”

I glanced at Perry, then at Ollie. “Oh. You mean a gun. Sure. But do you think…?”

“Absolutely. You carry my stamp, you carry a gun. And make sure our friend knows you have it.”

Perry rolled his eyes. I shrugged, then nodded. We sat back to wait for the phone to ring. Perry pretended to study the rows of books. I fired up a Winston. Ollie cradled his nearly empty brandy glass in both of his hands on his stomach as he slouched in his big chair. His eyes were closed. He looked very old. His skin had taken on that transparent, waxy cast of the terminally ill. Ollie Weston, with his eyes closed and his hands folded across his stomach, looked like a corpse.

“Get his name,” Ollie said suddenly, his eyes still closed.

“Huh?”

“When he calls. Get his name, if you can. I’d like to check up on him.”

“Okay.” I glanced at my watch. It read 8:58. I looked at the telephone, willing it to ring. When it did, precisely two minutes later, I jumped as if I had been stabbed.

Ollie picked up the receiver after the third ring, said “Yes?” listened a moment, then said, “I’m putting you on to Mr. Coyne, my attorney.” Then he handed the phone to me.

“This is Brady Coyne,” I said. “With whom am I speaking?”

“Never mind that, Mr. Coyne. Are you prepared to do business with me?”

“Not over the phone I’m not. Would you please identify yourself?”

“Not yet.” The man’s voice was devoid of inflection, as near as I could tell. It was deep, well modulated, and sounded cultivated. An educated person, I thought, and an older man, nearer Ollie’s age than mine. “You want to meet me, then,” he continued. “All right. Listen carefully. Tomorrow afternoon at three. Do you know the Wursthaus?”

“In Harvard Square. Yes, I know it.”

“Awful food, I’m sure you’ll agree. Take a booth by yourself. Order a bottle of Beck’s. Put a briefcase on the table. Wear a red necktie. I’ll find you.”

“Three o’clock at the Wursthaus. Bottle of Beck’s, brief case on the table, red necktie. Okay,” I said. “Now, may I please know who this is?”

“In due time, Mr. Coyne,” the voice answered. “And I trust you’re not planning anything fancy.”

“Fancy?”

“I intend to be very cautious about this, you see. I hold all the cards, don’t you agree?”

“Look, mister. I’m an attorney. I’m helping my client consummate a business deal. That’s all. Mr. Weston is an upstanding and honorable…”

“When there’s a quarter-million dollars at stake, nobody’s upstanding or honorable,” he interrupted. “Tomorrow at three, then.”

“How will I recognize you?”

“When I sit down with you, that will be me. If I turn out to be a lady, it’s not me.”

“May I please have your name?”

“See you at the Wursthaus.” There was a click at the other end of the line.

Ollie was staring at me as I hung up the phone. “So what’s his name?”

“He wouldn’t give it to me.”

“Jesus, Brady. The one thing I ask you to do is get his name. You should have gotten his name.”

“Easy for you to say,” I said. “You don’t have to get up in the morning.”

Ollie said he didn’t get it. Perry, leaning back against the bookshelves, smiled as if he did.

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The Dutch Blue Error
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DR. ALBERT SAUBERMANN SHARED
his expertise with me with infinite patience and plain language. Any technical errors here are mine, not his.

I leaned shamelessly on Rick Boyer and Betsy Rapoport throughout the project—for their instinct for my story, for their unerring eye for the cliché and the dull, and for their spiritual sustenance.

Thanks, guys.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1984 by William G. Tapply

Cover design by Kathleen Lynch

978-1-4804-2743-3

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