Dutch Blue Error (7 page)

I sighed. “Maybe. Somehow it doesn’t fit, though. Well, there’s nothing we can do. Look. Will you call the Peabody Museum and tell Dopplinger he doesn’t have to meet us at The Spinnaker? Hate for him to make the trip for nothing. Save him a case of
mal de mer
.”

“Sure.” Zerk returned to his desk.

A moment later he buzzed me. “He’s left already. Now what?”

“I don’t know. Call The Spinnaker and leave him a message, I guess. Best we can do. Oh, well. I better call Ollie.”

I rang the Weston number in Belmont. “The Weston residence,” answered Edwin.

“This is Brady Coyne. Let me speak to Mr. Weston, please.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Weston can’t come to the phone, Mr. Coyne. May I take a message?”

I thought for a moment. “Tell him the transaction has been delayed,” I said. “Is Ollie all right?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Coyne. Master Weston would like a word with you.”

“Perry? Okay, then.”

A moment later I heard Perry’s voice. “Brady? How’d it go? Have you got the stamp?”

“What’s wrong with Ollie?”

“They don’t exactly know. This spinal thing, you know, it’s progressive. He’s been having a lot of pain. I mean, when my father complains about pain, you know he’s feeling it. Anyhow, the doctor was here. Wanted to hospitalize him. Fat chance of that. He did allow himself to be put to bed and sedated, which the doctor seemed to consider a medical breakthrough worthy of an article in the
New England Journal of Medicine.
I’m sure there’ll be a headline in the
Globe
tomorrow. ‘Financial Wizard Admits Pain,’ it’ll say. Subhead: ‘Weston Takes a Pill.’ So, anyhow, did you get it?”

“No.”

There was a pause. “No?”

“No. The deal didn’t happen. Sullivan never called. I’ve still got Ollie’s money in my office safe.”

Perry said, “Hm.”

“So tell Ollie that for me, will you? Tell him I’ll fill him in later. When he’s able to talk. We’ll decide what to do next.”

Perry was silent for a moment. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“I know, Perry.”

“I mean, God damn it, I’m not a kid.”

“I didn’t mean anything. Sure, we can talk about it.”

“He might not get better, you know.”

“Well, I hope he does.”

“How do you figure it, anyway? Sullivan not calling.”

“I don’t. It makes no sense.”

“So we wait.”

“I guess we wait.”

“You can’t call him?”

“I don’t know his number. Hell, I don’t even know if Sullivan’s his real name.”

“It probably isn’t, at that. Look, Brady. Himself won’t be altogether thrilled with that quarter-million sitting around losing interest. I’ll fill him in as soon as he wakes up. We’ll decide what to do next. Why don’t you call back around eight-thirty or nine? Either you can talk to him, or I will have discussed it with him. Okay?”

“Sure.” I hesitated. Ollie
had
dismissed Perry before dragging me into his vault to see the Dutch Blue Error. “I didn’t know you were this interested in the Dutch Blue Error, Perry.”

“It’s family business. I have to be.”

“Um-hm,” I murmured.

“If Sullivan calls in the meantime, let me know.”

“I will. But don’t expect it. He’s been a stickler for punctuality so far. Well, we’ll see.”

Perry and I exchanged good-byes. I tried to turn my attention to the will on my desk. My concentration was poor. I smoked several Winstons, had another cup of coffee, and studied the Boston skyline through my office window.

Around five-thirty Zerk wandered back into my office. “Need me for anything?” he asked.

“Moral support.” I waved my hand at him. “Be gone. It’s already been a long day. I can’t understand it.”

“Sullivan not calling?”

“Yeah.”

At that moment, the light on my telephone console began to flash. Zerk and I exchanged glances. I picked up the receiver, at the same time punching the button that would permit Zerk to hear both ends of the conversation.

“This is Albert Dopplinger,” said the voice. “What’s going on, anyway?” A muted hum of conversation, an occasional clink of china, and a Mantovani of violins filtered in behind Dopplinger’s voice. “I’m here. I got a message to call you.”

“I tried to reach you at the museum,” I said. “You’d left already, I guess. Our friend never called, so I was unable to complete the arrangements.”

“They’re terrible about telephone messages. I keep asking for a phone in my lab. Some problem with cables, they keep telling me. They’ve offered me half an office. On the second floor. Can you believe that? A five-minute walk from my lab. But I do need a phone. Ah, well… Will you still want me?”

“Oh, sure. When the time comes. How can I contact you?”

“My home phone. Number’s in the book. Very few Albert Dopplingers in Cambridge.”

“Okay, then.”

“Well. Guess while I’m here I’ll have another Bloody Mary. The sea’s calm today. Wish Mr. Weston was picking up the tab, though.”

“That,” I told him, “can be arranged, I’m sure.”

I hung up and looked at Zerk. He stood and walked toward the door. “You coming?”

“Think I’ll wait around for a little,” I said.

“Still think he’s going to call?”

I shrugged.

“He won’t, you know,” said Zerk as he closed the door behind him.

And he didn’t.

Ollie wasn’t particularly upset when I talked to him Tuesday evening. He seemed preoccupied, as if he had more important things on his mind than a mere quarter-million-dollar business deal.

But when we talked again Wednesday morning, with still no word from Daniel F. X. Sullivan, Ollie seemed quite particularly upset.

“Goddamit, Brady Coyne!” I guess we wait was how he put it. “You find that son of a bitch and you stuff that money down his goddam Irish throat. I want that stamp!”

“How’m I supposed to do that, Ollie?” I said. “I don’t know his number or his address or any known acquaintances. I don’t know what he does for work or where he hangs out or where he went to school. I don’t even know his name, for God’s sake.”

“How do you
know
you don’t know his name?” said Ollie quietly.

I stopped. “Hm. Good point. I’ll get back to you.”

To Zerk I said, “Want to play private eye?”

He squinted suspiciously at me. “Say what?”

“Private detective. See if we can find our Daniel F. X. Sullivan in the phone book.”

“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered. He fixed me with a lopsided grin. “They’ll be calling me Sam Spade, eh?”

I rolled my eyes. “Thank you,” I said.

An hour later I walked out into the reception area. Zerk had his jacket thrown over the back of his chair. His tie was pulled loose and his collar hung open. He was speaking into the telephone. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Sullivan: I had no idea…. Yes, of course I’ll tell him if I see him, but…”

He shrugged and hung up the phone. I cleared my throat. Zerk turned to glower at me. I sensed briefly what opposing quarterbacks might have felt when they stood over their center calling signals and happened to glance across the line at the Tufts middle linebacker, number 48 on your program, Xerxes Garrett.

Zerk did not look happy.

“
That
Daniel F. X. Sullivan ran off with a nursery school teacher two months ago. Last heard from in Des Moines, where he used his credit card. Five kids at home, oldest nine, youngest three months.”

“Can’t say I blame the guy,” I said.

Zerk ignored me. “Two Daniel F. X. Sullivans are dead. One for several years, one was buried a week ago Saturday. Another one’s a bartender who works nights who I woke up. He wasn’t pleased. One sells maritime insurance. I spoke with his recorded voice on the answering machine. Not our man. You want me to keep going?”

“How many you got left?”

“In the Boston book? Couple of dozen, I’d say. I haven’t even dared to look at the suburban books. You really think we got the right name here?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t. But we’ve got to be sure, don’t you think?”

“I think this private investigating is boring. I think I’ll be a lawyer when I grow up instead.” He smiled at me. “I think I need some help.”

“You’re right,” I sighed. “I’ll start in the West Suburban book.”

I hung the
GONE FISHIN’
sign on the door and set to work. I flipped open the thick green directory to “Sullivan.” There were six full columns of Sullivans. Somewhere around 600 listings. I counted twenty-seven Daniel Sullivans, three Sullivan, D.’s, and four D. F. Sullivans. There were no Daniel F. X. Sullivans.

I threw the book onto the floor, got up, and walked back to Zerk. By now his necktie was on the floor and his loafers were under his chair.

“Hey, Sam Spade,” I said. “Forget it.”

His ear was snuggled to the phone. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Watch what you callin’ me, boy,” he growled. His eyes darted to the telephone. “Sh,” he said to me.

“There’s too many,” I persisted. “Forget it.”

He waved his hand at me. “Yes, Mr. Sullivan?” he said into the phone. “This
is
Daniel F. X. Sullivan of Seventeen Walnut Drive, Roxbury?” He paused. “No, Mr. Sullivan, this is
not
WHDH and I’m
not
asking you for the cash call jackpot number. The reason I’m calling is… Ah, shit. Well, that wasn’t him, either. That guy was nine hundred years old, at least. So. You’re ready to quit already? You hardly got started.”

“I didn’t get started at all,” I said. “It’s too much. There’s too many of them.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Yeah. Forget it. We’ve got other clients to worry about.”

He shrugged. “Suits me. Can I pretend to be a secretary for a while, now?”

The following morning when I got to the office, Zerk was at his desk looking at Sunday’s box scores in the
Globe.
He grunted at me and I grunted at him. I went over and set the coffee to brewing. It was my turn.

“Anything on the machine this morning?” I said.

“It’s only eight-thirty; I don’t start working until nine. Hurry up with that coffee, will you?”

“You could’ve put it on yourself when you got in.”

“Your turn.”

“You can wait, then.”

“See where Rice went three for four yesterday,” said Zerk. “They lose again?”

“Stanley blew a two-run lead. It’s September. They’re dead.”

I went into my office, lit a Winston, and moved manila folders around on my desk. I sat down, got up, looked out the window at the morning smog, and went out to check the coffee. It was still burbling. I went back to my desk.

A moment later Zerk barged in, holding the
Globe
in both of his hands and shaking it at me.

“Take a look at this,” he said.

He spread the obituary page out on top of my desk. I looked.

“You’re too young to be checking the obits,” I said. “I want my coffee.”

“Here,” he said. His finger pointed at a picture of a man’s face. Under the picture was the caption, “Francis Xavier Shaughnessey, 1968 photo.”

“So? Friend of yours?”

“Take a close look.”

I did. Then I bent and looked again.

“I’ll be damned,” I breathed. “Daniel F. X. Sullivan. That what you think?”

“Gotta be. He was younger in this picture. But you can’t mistake that nose.”

I shifted my attention to the brief obituary. The headline read, “Francis Xavier Shaughnessey, 66. Former auditor for Commonwealth.” I read on:

Francis Xavier Shaughnessey, an official in the State Auditor’s Office before his retirement in 1978, died suddenly in his home in Boston last Monday evening. He was 66.

Mr. Shaughnessey, a native Bostonian, attended Dorchester High School and graduated from Northeastern University. He served during World War II in the European Theater of Operations, where he earned two Purple Hearts. He received a field promotion to the rank of Captain during Operation Overlord.

After the war Mr. Shaughnessey was the European field representative for the Gulf Oil Company. Poor health forced him to return to Boston, where he began work in the Auditor’s office. He retired in 1978.

Mr. Shaughnessey leaves his daughter, Deborah Ann Martinelli, and a sister, Elizabeth Shaughnessey Monroe.

A funeral Mass will be said Wednesday at 10:00 a.m. at the Church of the Sacred Heart, Dorchester.

I glanced at Shaughnessey’s listing under the Death Notices, and saw that visiting hours would be held from two to four and seven to nine on Monday and Tuesday at the Michael P. O’Reilly Funeral Home in Dorchester.

Zerk had been reading over my shoulder. I looked up at him. “Guess I’ll be going to a wake this evening,” I said. “You notice something here?” said Zerk, pointing to the newspaper.

“What’s that?”

“It says he died last Monday. That explains why he wasn’t at our little rendezvous.”

“He was otherwise occupied, it seems,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Wonder why they waited a whole week before putting in the death notice. And why wait nine days before having the funeral?”

“White folks sho’ does funny things sometimes.”

“Somehow I don’t think that adequately explains it,” I said.

I
FOUND THE MICHAEL P. O’REILLY
Funeral Home halfway down a pleasant, tree-lined residential street somewhere in Dorchester. It was a big Victorian house needing some paint. But the lawn grew lush and green, and the big maple out front glowed brilliant orange in its autumn plumage, and from the outside it seemed a pleasant enough place for gazing at dead bodies, pondering mortality, and murmuring sympathetic inanities to the bereaved.

I parked out back. There were a dozen or so other cars in the lot, a couple wearing official state license plates. I stepped out of my BMW and walked around to the front door.

A dark-suited young man stood by the guest book in the foyer. He held my eye for a moment, then dipped his head in solemn greeting.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Won’t you sign the book?”

I felt his eyes on me as I bent to scribble my name. I glanced at the signatures of those who had preceded me, but recognized none of the names. When I looked up, I realized the man had been watching me by the way his eyes slid away from my face.