by Gorman, Ed
“You’re a friend of Mrs. Browley’s?” I asked.
“I am. My name’s Paige Simmons, since you’re taking notes.”
“Were you here the night Mr. Browley died?’
“Yes. I was staying over. We all were, but I think Nina would be the first to tell you that I’d make a lousy suspect.”
“These are just preliminary notes.”
She smiled gently. “I don’t mean to be defensive. It’s just that the police detectives before you were so harsh. Anyway, I guess I’m what they call an ‘aspiring actress.’ More aspiring than actress, I’m afraid. I know the Browleys in Manhattan. They come here to Greenley in the summer and have people up on the weekends.”
Nina Browley now entered, a cup in her hand, and seated herself besides Paige. “This is my second dose. I downed the first one, and I’m already feeling steadier.”
I had to admit she seemed a bit more sedate.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she went on. “I told everyone that I was going to pay for the best investigator out there. The absolute very best. I had some prospects lined up, but then Jojo told me, Get Plunkett. Plunkett’s the one.”
Swell. “Mrs. Browley, please tell us about that night.”
She took a long sip of soother and began. “It was about a month ago, August 18, a Saturday. Clarence liked to have these dinner gatherings. He called them his ‘glory tables’ where men of a certain ilk would be invited.”
“Men of daring, you might say?”
“Yes, well put. We had three ‘men of daring’ that night: a fighter pilot, a boxing champ, and a gunslinger.”
“A gunslinger?”
“I’m being cavalier. It was Tom Durker, the film actor.”
“The one from the Westerns?”
“Yes. Of course, Tom’s brand of daring exists chiefly on the movie screen. Still, he does personify American ruggedness. And he’s passably handsome.”
“Very handsome!” Paige amended. “And such steely eyes.”
“They’re not steely, Paige dear, just narrow,” Nina said.
I pushed on. “And the other men?”
“There’s Captain Webster Sands. He was a pilot in the big war, leading missions over Berlin and such. Quite the ace. And then there’s Polecat Pobenski.”
“What’s a Polecat Pobenski?”
“David Pobenski, up-and-coming middleweight fighter. Or was, I should say. He was slated to go to the Olympics in Australia as part of the U.S. boxing team, but he injured his hand. The doctors don’t think it will ever mend right.”
“No spouses accompanied any of them?”
“David’s not married. Captain Sands is divorced, and Tom Durker has a nice little wife who he left back home.”
“Any other guests?”
“Just those three,” Nina said. “And Paige here to help keep me from sinking in all that maleness. Right now, Durker’s off in Hollywood, tied up making a new movie, but I’ve asked the other two to meet you tomorrow. Pobenski’s taking the train up from New Jersey and Captain Sands will be flying in from Philadelphia.”
“So only you six were in the house that evening?”
“Well, of course, we had our cook, Mrs. Leroy, who we bring up from the city. And two local girls, the Daley Sisters, to help serve.”
“So, that evening...”
“We had cocktails, followed by dinner around nine thirty. Then everyone split up into smaller groups for cards and conversation. At about twenty minutes of twelve, several of us saw Clarence leave the house, carrying one of his swords. He was in an agitated state, but no one knew why.”
“His swords?”
“Yes, my husband was a great one for swords. And battle axes. And paintings of warriors and Vikings. Most of that stuff is back in Manhattan, but some of it has found its way here.” Nina indicated a pair of crossed daggers on the wall behind me. “So, as Clarence was heading out, he called for Ajax, but Ajax was sleeping somewhere.”
My pages were filling up fast. “Ajax?”
“Our German Shepherd. I left him home this trip”
Mr. O’Nelligan perked up. “Aha! Ajax! Named for the hero of The Iliad. Homer describes him as being of colossal stature.”
Nina shrugged. “Well, he is a big dog.”
A woman in an apron entered the room, carrying a coffeepot. She was firmly into her fifties, slim but solid, with a no-nonsense air. “More soother, Mrs. Browley?”
“Yes, it’s doing wonders.” Nina extended her mug for a refill. “Mrs. Leroy, this is Mr. Plunkett. He’s come to solve things. Isn’t that comforting?”
The cook appraised me with one glance. “Yes, ma’am. Comforting.” She clearly was not dazzled by my potential.
“Oh, and that’s Mr. O’Nelligan,” Nina said. “He’s a Scotsman.”
“Please, it’s Irish!” the wronged Hibernian pleaded. “I’m an Irishman from scalp to soles.”
Our hostess smiled innocently. “Would anyone else like some soother? You don’t have to be pickled to enjoy it.”
We all declined, and the cook exited.
“Anyway, Clarence went out alone,” Nina said. “At twelve, I led everyone in a raid on the refrigerator. Midnight snacks, you know. It was then, just after we entered the kitchen, that Tom Durker saw my husband outside the window. Clarence was tapping with his sword, though as soon as he was seen, he hurried away. Tom asked if we should go find him, but I said ‘don’t bother.’ I figured if Clarence wanted to play games, then let him. About ten minutes later, I changed my mind, grabbed a flashlight and went by myself to look for him.”
“No one offered to join you?” I asked.
“Some nice Merlot had just been opened, so everyone was distracted. And, of course, I never would have imagined anything dangerous...” She trailed off and lowered her eyes.
“Please, go on,” I coached.
She continued in a more subdued manner. “I walked down to the Roost, Clarence’s getaway place, thinking that’s where he’d probably gone. It’s the little building on our property just over the hill. It’s not so far, but you can’t see it from the house. I found him there sprawled on his back, just outside the open door. His sword lay under him, just useless. His forehead was all blood.” She touched her own forehead in a gesture that I frankly found chilling. “And, though I didn’t know it at the time, the back of his head was ... well, the blow had...”
Paige reached over and took her friend’s hand. “She’s had to tell this so many times, over and over again, for the police.”
“But Mr. Plunkett needs to hear it,” Nina said. “Clarence had been struck twice on the head. Once in front, once in back. Hard. The weapon was never found. I knelt down and tried to cradle him. I asked who did this to him, but I couldn’t make out what he said. Then he raised his hand and pointed up here. You have to understand, it took his last spark of life to do it. He pointed and I asked if it was someone from the house. Then he said it. Clearly. He said, ‘Yes.’ A minute later, he was gone. I cried out for help and people came soon after.”
Her narrative conveyed, Nina Browley now seemed to deflate. The alcohol and the emotion — and perhaps the paprika-laced soother — had combined to bring her to a state of exhaustion.
“That’s the gist of it, Mr. Plunkett,” she said heavily. “If there’s anything else, perhaps tomorrow...”
“Certainly. We’ll be staying for the next few days at the Green-ley Inn. We’ll come by to see you again tomorrow morning, say ten o’clock?”
Nina waved a hand at us, presumably in assent. Her eyes slid closed and she spoke as if to herself, “The police say it was just some unknown robber. That no one from the house could have done it. But Clarence said yes. He said yes.”
Paige led us back to the front door. “Nina’s a fun, energetic person, but she can be pretty up-and-down, even at the best of times. This ordeal has just pushed her to the brink. She’s been wound up all afternoon about your coming and, unfortunately, got herself snockered.”
/>
“We understand,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Just one more question before we part, Miss Simmons. Why do the police believe it’s impossible for someone from the house to have killed Mr. Browley?”
“Because we were all together in the kitchen during that fifteen-minute period when he was attacked.”
“Fifteen minutes?” I asked.
“Yes,” Paige said. “The time between when Clarence was seen at the kitchen window up to when Nina found him by the Roost. It was only fifteen minutes. But I suppose that’s enough time to kill somebody, isn’t it?”
Four
On the drive to the inn, we talked things over.
“What do you make of our Mrs. Browley?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.
“Seems like a living rolling coaster.”
“Ah! You do have a touch of the poet in you, Lee. Of course, what we observed must be seen in the light of her situation. The murder of one’s spouse would be a devastating thing. And, too, she was in the grip of strong drink.”
“Sure, but Paige said it was par for the course, didn’t she?”
“And what do you make of Miss Paige Simmons?”
“She seems like a nice sincere girl.”
“But an actress.”
“Can’t an actress be a nice girl?” I asked.
“Certainly. I have known several virtuous ingénues from my own time before the footlights.”
“That’s right, you were an actor yourself.”
“For a short spell. But, unfortunately, my parts in New York were mostly of the ‘stage Irish’ variety. Deplorable caricatures dripping whiskey and sentimentality. I had to utter the phrase “saints preserve us’ so many times, I nearly choked.”
I laughed. “Well, you’re safe from the footlights now.”
“I am. But what I meant to convey is that Miss Simmons is by vocation an actress and, thus, presumably capable of putting on a façade.”
“So you think she isn’t so nice and sincere?”
“I don’t mean that. I was merely saying that we should be nimble in our interpretations.”
I decided to come clean. “You see, Mr. O’Nelligan, that’s my problem — I’m not all that nimble. The deduction part of things is where I fall flat. I can take down the facts, all neat and legible, but as far as interpreting them, well ... I’m no Buster.”
“Nor should you be! You’re your own man, Lee Plunkett. And ‘neat and legible’ is a fine place to start things out. By all means, herd in those facts. Then peer at them in the light of reason and see what rises to the surface. But may I make a suggestion?” Mr. O’Nelligan smoothed his beard. “It’s about your notebook...”
“What? I told you, note taking is my one discernable skill.”
“Of course, but the way you bury your face in it...”
“So, no notebook?”
“I’m not saying that, boyo. You just might want to pop your head up from it occasionally. Don’t let it separate you from the humanity of those you’re interviewing. As the expression goes, you want to see what ‘makes them tick.’”
“Duly noted.”
“Aha! Clever.”
“And may I make a suggestion? I noticed you didn’t ask many questions back there.”
“I didn’t think it was my place to. My instructions were to ‘assist.’ I don’t wish to be treading on your toes.”
“My toes can take it. Anyway, I’d be happy if you were to ask these people whatever you think needs asking.”
“As you wish, Lee. From here on out, my queries will gallop free.”
• • •
We checked into the Greenley Inn and went upstairs to find our rooms. There, blocking the hallway, stood a behemoth in a crumpled trench coat, with no love for us in his eyes.
“Which of you is Plunkett?”
“He is,” Mr. O’Nelligan was quick to say.
“I’m Handleman.” He had a good half foot on me and used every inch of it to intimidate. “I’m heading up the Browley investigation. Or at least I was. Seems like you’re the new golden boy who’s here to crack the case.”
“I’m not golden,” I said stupidly.
Beneath the low brim of his hat, Handleman’s eyes turned to bullets. “Don’t screw with me. You ask around. Anyone’ll tell you, don’t screw with Handleman. I was born a little crazy, and I like it that way. Here, take this...”
His hand darted into his coat pocket, and I fairly leapt back, bracing for the sight of a gun muzzle.
“Jumpy little bastard. What’s your problem?” The hand slid out and pushed an envelope in my face. “My chief told me I had to give you this. Goddamn typical. The Browley woman squawks to the mayor, so he leans on the department to pass our info to some punk private dick.”
“You’re sharing your files with us?”
“Fat chance,” Handleman said. “I only coughed up what I had to, but you should be kissing my size fourteens for even giving you this much. If you’ve got half a brain, you’ll realize this was a robbery gone ugly, nothing more. Browley stumbles on the thief or thieves, they get spooked, crack open his skull and vamoose with the shield. Plain as vanilla.”
“Shield? What shield?”
“Beautiful! Golden boy hasn’t done his homework. The gem-studded shield that Browley kept in his ‘roost,’ that outbuilding of his. When his wife gets there, Browley’s sprawled at the door and the shield is missing — a heist, plain as goddamn vanilla. The wife thinks the theft was just a cover-up for something else, but she’s nutty as they come. The thieves will foul up eventually, leave a trail, and I’ll collar them. That’s how it works. Get it, nimrod?”
Mr. O’Nelligan stepped forward. “There’s no need for animosity here, sir. Can we not consider ourselves colleagues in this venture?”
“Who the hell are you? His goddamned leprechaun?” Handle-man shoved past us and pounded down the stairs.
Mr. O’Nelligan shook his head. “A sour man, that one. A pitifully sour man.”
• • •
Over supper in the inn’s near-empty dining room, we perused Handleman’s notes. As promised, they were minimal, mostly confirming the timeline that Nina had already given us — including the significant quarter hour between 12:05 and 12:20 when the victim was unaccounted for. During that interval, all the other persons of the house were gathered together in the kitchen; the exception being the two young serving girls, who had left just before eleven thirty and were immediately picked up by a carload of relatives.
The only gap in timing concerned Pobenski, the boxer. He had come to the kitchen like the others, but about five minutes later. That is, five minutes after Browley had been seen at the window. Was that enough time to hurry down to the Roost, dispatch Brow-ley, steal the shield, and make it back to the kitchen? The police thought it unlikely, and it was hard to argue otherwise.
We were just finishing up some homey cherry pie, when a man in a brown leather jacket strode into the room and made a beeline for our table. “Which of you is Lee Plunkett?”
Not again. This time I offered myself directly, “I’m Plunkett.”
“All right.” He dragged a chair over and dropped into it. “I’m Sands.”
“Captain Webster Sands?”
“My reputation precedes me.” He pulled out a cigar and fired it up. His lean, lined face marked him as a man of roughly forty, but his blond curls suggested the word boyish.
“Mrs. Browley told us you were due tomorrow.”
He spoke briskly, “Yes, well, I finished some business I had and flew myself up early. I like making a landing at sunset. It’s peaceable. Just caught a cab here from the air field.”
“Have you contacted Mrs. Browley yet?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.
“Who’s this?” Sands wanted to know. Thankfully, this time there was no mention of leprechauns.
I introduced my companion and repeated his question.
“I’ll call Nina tomorrow,” Sands said. “I grabbed a room here, and I just want to settle in. I�
�m bushed.”
“You’re not staying at the Browley residence?” I asked.
Captain Sands blew out a stream of smoke. “Hell, no. Nina doesn’t want anyone who was at that party lurking in her house at night.”
“Why not?”
“Hasn’t she told you? She thinks one of us beat Clarence to death.”
“What would make her believe — ”
Sands shoved back his chair and shot to his feet. “That’s it for tonight. I told you I’m bushed. Just stopped over to let you know I’m around.”
“We’ll need to speak soon,” I said.
“Listen, I’ll tell you straight up, I’m only here as a courtesy to Nina. I answered all the cops’ questions last month and didn’t much like it. Those goons were pretty damned arrogant. We can talk tomorrow, but on my terms. Take Route 2 west out of town for about seven miles. Little yellow building on your left.” He turned and marched off, calling over his shoulder, “Be there at 1:00 PM.”
“Abrupt fellow,” Mr. O’Nelligan observed.
“And one used to getting his way, I suspect.”
“Our dramatis personae are proving to be quite piquant, wouldn’t you say?”
I took a last bite of cherry pie. “If I knew what that meant, I’d probably say yes.”
Five
That next morning, we drove onto the Browley grounds at ten o’clock, ascending, as we had the day before, the long, winding driveway to the house. We were greeted at the door by Mrs. Leroy, though greet might be too strong a word.
“Is Mrs. Browley up?” I asked.
“Up and out,” the cook said brusquely. “She took Miss Simmons off to town an hour ago for breakfast. Why she did that, I couldn’t say. My breakfasts are always hardy.”
“That goes without saying, madam.” Mr. O’Nelligan trotted out his best Irish lilt. “You have the air of a woman who runs a formidable kitchen.”
The effect of this compliment was immediate. Mrs. Leroy’s face softened into something akin to handsomeness, and a thin, but welcoming smile touched her lips. “Well, do come in and sit.”
Mr. O’Nelligan proffered his own charming smile. “Actually, good lady, may we, by chance, see your work domain?”
“Why, of course.”
