Pobenski pointed to this last feature. “That must be where the shield used to be."
"So you knew about the shield?” I asked.
"No. I mean, I only heard about it after Clarence was dead."
"I knew about the shield,” Paige said. “Nina told me about it once. Clarence had it specially made and edged with real rubies and emeralds. He brought it with him to whichever of his three homes he was staying at. I think he considered it some kind of power thing."
"Power thing?” I asked.
"Perhaps like a totem,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “A sacred object such as your American Indians kept."
"Could be,” Paige said. “Clarence certainly had an inclination toward old weapons. I think he fancied himself a kind of knight."
"A knight of stocks and bonds,” Mr. O'Nelligan mused. “Were either of you aware that Mr. Browley slept here on those nights when he was not hosting his glory tables?” What? Hadn't the old nagger just reprimanded me for that very line of inquiry?
As Pobenski shook his head, Paige said, “Yes, I knew. He spent most of his evenings here whenever he was in Greenley. Clarence had a solitary side to him."
"In addition,” Mr. O'Nelligan noted, “he might have been reluctant to leave such a valuable object as the shield unwatched at night, even in a locked building. Though, of course, on those nights when he slept in the house, there would have been no one here to see to its safekeeping."
"But on those nights he'd always release his guard dog,” Paige said. “Right at midnight like clockwork. I was at quite a few of the glory tables, and that's what always happened. Clarence had trained Ajax to stay right around the Roost."
I led the others back outside and relocked the door.
"'At midnight like clockwork.'” Mr. O'Nelligan repeated the line. “But on the night of his death, Clarence Browley summoned Ajax, albeit unsuccessfully, at around eleven forty, a good twenty minutes before midnight. This was not the norm, was it?"
"No, it wasn't,” the young woman agreed. “But remember, Clarence seemed tense when he left the house. Something was wrong."
"Maybe he saw the robbers down here,” Pobenski said.
Paige shook her head. “That couldn't be. You can't see the Roost from the house.” We looked up toward the hill. Only the peak of the house was visible.
Pobenski retrieved a travel bag from next to the stone building. “I'd like to say hello to Nina. You know, I haven't seen her since that weekend."
We made our way back toward the house and found Nina Browley seated on a stool in a small side garden. A few last rugged flowers held their color against the coming autumn, and Nina studied them as if in a deep meditation. At our approach, her head jolted up and her eyes narrowed.
"David,” she said flatly.
"Hello, Nina.” Pobenski made no effort to move closer to her. “Just caught the train up."
"Thank you for coming. Have you been talking with Mr. Plunkett?"
"He has,” I said. “He's been very obliging."
Several long moments passed before Nina spoke again. “Paige, perhaps you can run David down to the inn. I had Mrs. Leroy call ahead to book him a room. Unless you've already made accommodations, David?"
"I haven't, well, that is...” The young boxer fumbled. “I wasn't sure where..."
"I'm sure you'll have a pleasant stay there,” Nina said. “And you'll be close to Mr. Plunkett if he needs to further interview you."
With nods of farewell, Pobenski and Paige headed off. In a minute, we heard the rumble of a car winding down the driveway. Mr. O'Nelligan pulled over an empty stool and sat close to Nina, all but knee to knee. As they spoke together quietly, almost intimately, I took it as my part to just stand aside and listen.
"It seems to pain you to see that young gentleman,” Mr. O'Nelligan said.
Nina continued to appraise the flowers. “Not just him. Any of those men. When I talked to them on the phone, to ask them to come up, it somehow felt different. But now, seeing David here..."
"Yes?"
"One of them killed Clarence. Vicious! Such a vicious thing. If you had seen all the blood..."
"Of course, Mrs. Browley, of course. It must have been staggering."
"I have to tell you, Mr. O'Nelligan, I've never been a very good wife. I like to cast myself around and make everything a party. I like men. But as Clarence was dying and our eyes locked together, it felt almost like the day we married. I know that's bizarre to say, but it was like making a vow. A vow that I'd find out who did that to him. And even though I'd failed Clarence in life, maybe I wouldn't fail him now.” Her voice broke. “But I have been failing him, same as always."
Mr. O'Nelligan patted her shoulder. “You have not, madam. You brought us in to take up the hunt, didn't you? It shows grand wisdom to know when one must summon aid."
"I hope so,” Nina said almost inaudibly.
"You know, when my Eileen passed away, I took it powerful hard.” Mr. O'Nelligan turned his own eyes to the fading garden. “Like yours, my heart was weighed down by all the kindnesses I had left undone, all the gentle words I might have bestowed upon that good woman, but somehow never made the time to.” After a brief pause, he half spoke, half sang a verse,
"In a field by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears."
"Byron?” Nina guessed.
"Yeats,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Or, more accurately, an old peasant woman of Sligo, who Yeats once heard singing in the street. From a few lines, imperfectly remembered, he carved out a whole splendid poem. It just goes to show that there is gold to be found in the humblest places.” He stood. “Like in our battered hearts."
Nina looked up at him. “You're a good little Irishman."
"Exactly!” said Mr. O'Nelligan.
As we drove to our meeting with Captain Sands, I wondered aloud if we shouldn't have spent more time at the Browley home.
"We can always return there,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “I think we did well in treading lightly with the woman."
It was Mr. O'Nelligan, and not I, who had done all the light treading. I had to admit, the old eccentric had the common touch.
"We're doing well, Lee. Thus far, we have made contact with all the principals of the case, excepting our western star, Mr. Durker."
"Who's unfortunately on a whole other coast,” I said. “So, tell me, from the trio of male guests that night, how many do you imagine Nina Browley slept with?"
"Come now! Must you wallow in coarse words?"
"What words would you want me to use?"
"Well, dalliance, for one. You could have referred to her dalliances."
"For God's sake, just yesterday you advised me to twitch like a rock-and-roller, and now you're badgering me with your Celtic decorum. You've got me reeling."
"Life's not always a steady deck,” Mr. O'Nelligan counseled. “In answer to your crudely wrought question, it could be that any, all, or none of those three men have known Nina Browley's affections. But if one had, it might well have led to conflict between that man and Mr. Browley."
"Perhaps a fatal conflict,” I added. “But the piece that confuses me is why would Browley have kept beckoning males to his home if he knew of his wife's appetites."
"Perchance he was blithely unaware. Or conversely, he might have been very aware, but chose not to let that derail his dinner gatherings. Seen in that light, his uncustomary sleeping in the main house during those nights might have been to ensure his wife's fidelity. Or, yet another theory, he might have been that particular brand of man who takes pleasure in his wife's unfaithfulness."
Now it was I who was a little shocked. “A cuckold by choice?"
"Merely one explanation. Another being that Browley preferred the company of men, in the style of Oscar Wilde, and that he cared little if his wife
strayed—as long as it wasn't under his own roof. These are cosmopolitan people we're dealing with, and we must be cosmopolitan in our speculations."
"Cosmopolitan, but not coarse. Got it."
My companion chuckled. “Now you're learning, Lee Plunkett! We'll have you finely polished in no time."
* * * *
7.
I had no idea that an hour later I'd be plunging through the wild blue yonder. Struggling to control my heaving stomach, I gripped the cockpit of Captain Sands's plane and made every effort to blaspheme our pilot. Unfortunately, no words could free themselves from my gritted teeth.
As it turned out, the little yellow building where we rendezvoused stood on the edge of a landing field where Sands's Apache twin-engined aircraft waited to deliver us skyward. This, then, was what Sands meant when he stated that he would only talk to us on his terms. Soon after we were in the air, he began amusing himself by putting us through a series of sharp swoops and spins. If these maneuvers were meant to separate the men from the boys, well, then I was more than willing to trade in my trousers for knee britches and call it a day.
From behind me, Mr. O'Nelligan, who seemed less affected by these acrobatics, came to my defense. “Captain Sands!” He raised his voice over the din of the plane. “You've put Mr. Plunkett in some distress. Please ease up."
"Just trying to give you gentlemen a little excitement."
"So we see,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “But a murder case is all the excitement we presently require."
Sands leveled the plane, and my heart dislodged itself from my throat.
I turned on the smug aviator. “What the hell do you—"
"Ah, Captain.” Mr. O'Nelligan jumped in to avert a fracas. “I see you are an admirer of President Eisenhower.” He had taken note of the half dozen i like ike pins that ornamented the cockpit.
"Sure am. No question he'll win reelection come November.” Sands smiled to himself. “The way I see it, it was pretty much Ike and I who beat the Nazis."
Just how conceited was this guy? Wanting to hasten our time together, I got down to business. “What happened the night Clarence Browley died?"
"I'll make it short and sweet. I picked up Tom Durker in New York and flew him here. I'd been at a few of Browley's dinners before, but it was Durker's first time."
"But you knew Durker?"
"Never met him before. I just flew him up as a favor to the Browleys. So, we get to the house. Drinks. Talk. Polecat shows up at some point. More drinks. Eat. After dinner, I end up with Browley and Durker in the den shooting the bull. Durker's telling about some picture where he portrayed an Indian scout. Browley says, hey, he has a genuine Comanche war lance up in the attic, so he goes to fetch it."
"There's an attic?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.
"Apparently. Durker and I wait in the den. After a few minutes, we hear Browley calling for the dog. I step out in the hall and see Browley just as he's opening the front door. Seems he gave up on the war lance, but he grabs a sword, a rapier, out of the umbrella stand—there were always weapons just lying about—and he heads outside. I go back and joke to Durker that Browley has a blade and is probably off hunting dragons. Anyway, that's the last time I saw Clarence Browley alive."
I asked Sands about Browley.
"Clarence wasn't too bad. Hail-well-met sort, though somewhat strange."
"How so?"
"Tried a little too hard to impress. Made a bunch of cash fairly quickly and wanted to be a big man and flaunt things around. Like the swords and spears. And like that shield of his. Never saw it myself, but I heard about it. On the other hand, he kept his cards pretty close to the vest. I didn't really know what to make of him."
"And Mrs. Browley?” I asked. “What do you think of her?"
He adjusted something on the control panel before answering. “Nice lady,” was all he said.
We began our descent and soon found ourselves again on terra firma, which did my mind and body much good.
After we'd all climbed out of the plane, Sands gave us an ingenuous grin. “Pleasant flying with you both. Hope you track down whoever used Browley's head for batting practice."
Mr. O'Nelligan stepped close to the pilot. “Captain, a man has been slain. Your flippancy is out of line."
Sands pulled off his flying gloves, his smile still fixed. “No offense meant. But I've been in war, you see. Death is a different creature when you've been in war."
"I've been in war,” Mr. O'Nelligan said, a mix of fierceness and pain in his eyes. “Terrible war. And I tell you, a butchered man is a dark thing to behold."
Not waiting for a response, my friend turned abruptly and walked away. I followed.
* * * *
Our drive back was conducted in near silence due to my post-flight queasiness and Mr. O'Nelligan's pensiveness. I wondered to what black field of memory his thoughts had summoned him. On returning to the inn, Mr. O'Nelligan opted for a late lunch with Moby Dick, while I went up to our room to lie down, just for a minute, to allow my innards to settle.
When I awoke, I discovered I'd been asleep for almost two hours; I vowed right there and then to remain earthbound for the rest of my natural days. I went downstairs in search of Mr. O'Nelligan. The desk clerk passed me a note that had been left not long before. It read: Dear Lee, Gone for a little stroll to respire and reflect. Meet me at the Browley house after sunset. Yours, O'N.
I calculated that the walk from the inn to the house would take him a good two and a half hours. A little stroll? Well, more power to the man. I made some inquiries and found that Sands had been checked out since morning, but that Pobenski still had a room, right across from mine as it turned out.
Deciding I'd track him down later, I seated myself in the empty dining room and ordered black coffee. Normally, I took mine well sugared and glutted with cream, but at this moment I needed something more Spartan. Black and neat is the way Buster Plunkett always liked it, and if I possessed even a drop of his sleuthing blood, maybe unvarnished java would help bring it to the surface. I pulled out my notebook—with no O'Nelligans in sight to chastise me—and reviewed what I'd written down. Yes, a number of possibly pertinent facts had been logged, but none strong enough to pierce that impenetrable quarter-hour of murder where all suspects dwelt together in cheerful innocence.
The tangle of potential dalliances did seem worth unraveling. Was Nina's unease at seeing Pobenski based purely on her general suspicion of the guests, or did a history exist between those two that caused shame? Was Sands's description of Nina as simply “a nice lady” just a little too terse to take at face value? And what about our unseen cowpoke, Tom Durker? True, we could always place a call to Hollywood, but that seemed a poor substitute for going face-to-face. Finally, at the heart of the mystery stood the quirky Clarence Browley, hoarder of swords and shields, who slept in a stone circle and surrounded himself with valorous men.
I spent half an hour mulling things over, then pocketed my notes and ordered an early dinner. Later, as I stood in the lobby, David Pobenski entered from outside.
"Mr. Plunkett. Oh right...” He seemed distracted.
"Mr. Pobenski, I was hoping to talk some more, but I'm expected now at the Browley home. Later then?"
"Fine,” he said softly. “I'll be here if you want me."
"Thanks.” As I reached out to shake his hand, I was thinking that he seemed too gentle for a man so skilled at pummeling others. But as he gripped me with his right hand, the undamaged one, it felt like my knuckles would splinter. The guy was made of granite.
* * * *
8.
Daylight had just quit the sky when I pulled up to the house. This time it was Paige who answered the door, looking more tired than she had earlier. She led me inside to a small den where Nina sat intently watching television.
"I do love Lucy,” Nina said without looking up. “But do you know who I love even more? Fred Mertz! His voice reminds one of rumbling thunder, and he possesses a certain gruff sex appeal
."
I had absolutely nothing to offer on the subject of Fred's virility. “I'm looking for Mr. O'Nelligan."
"Check in the kitchen,” Nina instructed, then let out a wild laugh in appreciation of Lucy's latest high jinks. She never once glanced my way.
Paige and I stepped back out into the hall.
"You never know which Nina you'll get, do you?” the young woman said, a note of apology in her voice. “That's just her nature."
"You're a faithful friend to her, it seems."
"I try. She's always been very good to me. Always introducing me to nice people...” She trailed off.
I left her and made my way to the kitchen. Hesitating in the doorway, I stood for a while unobserved and watched my dignified old Irishman brazenly flirt with the cook.
"Ah, Mrs. Leroy,” he said. “A woman who can produce a fine chicken cordon bleu is worthy of all praise. Mrs. Browley is lucky to have someone like yourself who respects French cuisine—which I myself hold in high esteem. Even, I must admit, beyond my own Irish cuisine."
"Irish?" Mrs. Leroy, who had been pounding chicken cutlets, paused and gave a wry smile. “Irish cuisine amounts to little more than boiled cabbage and a splash of whiskey."
"Madam!” Mr. O'Nelligan feigned outrage. “You overlook the potato.” There was a glint in his eye that I'd have preferred to miss.
"French is good,” the cook said simply and firmly. “It's the food of passion and the language of love."
Dear God, this was going too far. I was about to break things up with a theatric cough when Mr. O'Nelligan reached across the kitchen counter for a waylaid slice of ham. Down slammed Mrs. Leroy's meat pounder the merest inch from Mr. O'Nelligan's fingers. “None of that,” she said coquettishly. “This isn't a buffet."
At this point, the Irish Lothario noticed me. “Oh, Lee. Yes, well...” Thrown by my presence, he took a deep breath to compose himself. “Come. I have a task for us."
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 22
