AHMM, July-August 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He moved past me, and as I turned to follow, I swapped glances with Mrs. Leroy. Her face hardened and she resumed her pounding. Clearly, she was none too pleased with me for interrupting their tete-a-tete.

  Through a circuitous route that he must have scouted out earlier, Mr. O'Nelligan led me upward into a low, peaked attic. He switched on a light to reveal a clutter of boxes, trunks, and old chairs, as well as several swords leaning in a corner. But what stood out most was a full-sized suit of armor, missing one arm. As I examined this wounded knight, I felt a jab in my back and spun about to face my companion, a long feathered spear in his hands.

  "It's as Captain Sands told us,” he said. “A Comanche war lance in the attic. Now, look out that little window behind you. What do you see?"

  I peered through the darkness to make out a round structure just beyond the hill. “The Roost."

  "Exactly! We were told that it couldn't be seen from the house, and that's true—except from this one vantage point. When we were standing at the Roost earlier today, we could see the top of the house. Remember? I didn't perceive a window from that distance, but once Sands mentioned an attic, I guessed there might be one."

  "So, Browley came up to get the lance, happened to glance out the window, and saw what? Even with a full moon, it would be pretty hard to see anything at night from up here. Unless someone below turned on the light in the Roost."

  "Or was wielding an electric torch. You have one in your automobile, I believe."

  "A flashlight? Yeah."

  "Then retrieve it, if you will.” Mr. O'Nelligan reached into his pocket and handed me a familiar set of keys. “I asked Mrs. Browley for these. Now, go position yourself in the Roost and flick on the wall switch. Then, after a bit, turn it off and use only your flashlight. We'll conduct ourselves a little experiment."

  Minutes later, I had stationed myself inside the stone outbuilding and flipped on the light. As instructed, I soon turned it off and switched on my flashlight. I played the yellow beam around the room, pausing on the metal brace from which Clarence Browley's shield of power had been torn. Next, I lingered on the man wrestling the tiger, then on the medieval battlefield. After some time, I doused my light and stood there in the pitch blackness, which felt cold and clingy like a strange second skin.

  I thought of ghosts. The unavenged ghost of the man who had been murdered just outside this door. The ghosts of fallen warriors, real men from real wars, not the romanticized figures on Browley's walls. I thought of the ghosts of Mr. O'Nelligan's youth—men he himself had perhaps killed in his own faraway war. And I thought of the ghost of my father, whose legacy now rested in my untested hands. In deep darkness, ghosts are easy to assemble and I was surely finding them all.

  The door opened abruptly, shrilly, and a spectral form filled the threshold. I fumbled to turn on my flashlight, then aimed its beam forward to discover Mr. O'Nelligan.

  "Our experiment worked,” he said.

  "How did you find your way here in the dark?"

  "As a boy, I worked with a gamekeeper who taught me the trick. It's all about trusting your feet. As I say, our experiment worked. From the attic, I perceived a light in this window here, the one facing the house."

  "When I flicked the wall switch on?"

  "Yes, but this I expected. More telling is the fact that even when you used only your flashlight, I could still tell someone was down here. Fainter light, of course, but still visible from the attic."

  "So, Browley saw somebody in the Roost and came out to face them."

  "And, alas, never returned."

  When we returned to the inn later that evening, Mr. O'Nelligan went to petition the night clerk for an after-hours cup of tea. Wishing him success, I headed upstairs. As I approached my door, a pair of small shiny objects on the carpet caught my eye. They lay directly below the doorknob of the opposite room, the one belonging to David Pobenski. I bent and retrieved them. For a very long time, I stood there transfixed by the two gleaming stones nestled in my palm. Unless I was mistaken, the green one was an emerald; the red one, a ruby.

  * * * *

  9.

  They had Pobenski in custody by midnight.

  As soon as I could pull my eyes away from the gems, I'd shown them to Mr. O'Nelligan, then phoned Handleman. The jumbo detective had rushed over with a number of policemen and promptly entered Pobenski's room. The boxer was absent, but another emerald and another ruby were discovered in his nightstand drawer. A protracted hunt eventually found Pobenski perched on a stool in a downtown bar, sloppy drunk.

  We didn't learn of this last piece until the next morning, when Handleman showed up again at the inn to loom above our breakfast table and gloat. He bragged about Pobenski's arrest, adding that he'd just phoned Nina Browley to tell her everything was wrapped up.

  "We're sitting pretty,” he said. “It's like I explained it to you. Sooner or later, the thief screws up and I'm there waiting to reel him in."

  Mr. O'Nelligan lowered his teacup. “Was it not, in fact, Mr. Plunkett here who discovered the evidence?"

  "Dumb luck. Not that I don't appreciate his ability to step on jewelry.” Handleman chuckled nastily. “The truth is, Pobenski's probably been feeling the heat from my investigation for a while. He gets nervous, gets careless, and makes a bonehead mistake like dropping the rocks outside his door. No question they came from Browley's shield. That links poor little Polecat to the robbery and therefore to the murder. Case closed."

  "But what about the timeline?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked. “David Pobenski was only unaccounted for during a five minute interval. How could he have made his way to the Roost, conferred the death blows, purloined the shield, and returned calmly to rejoin the others—all within five minutes?"

  "The guy's an Olympic-class athlete,” said Handleman. “He's young, he's strong, he's fast. That's how he does it."

  "But in your earlier notes, you argued that such a feat was implausible."

  Handleman snarled. “Listen, Shamrock, I said case goddamned closed. Now, if it's the money you two are worried about, I'm sure the Browley woman will settle up nicely for whatever hours you've clocked. But, face it, you're done here. Hang out for another day, just on the off chance I have any follow-up questions, then hit the ol’ highway.” He snagged a piece of bacon off my plate and popped it into his big mouth. “Enjoy your meal, boys."

  After Handleman left, I pushed aside my violated breakfast. “It's over then. So, why do I feel like things are unresolved?"

  "Because perhaps they are,” Mr. O'Nelligan said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. Since the moment I'd showed him the gems, he had offered little by way of advice or reflection, preferring, it seemed, to keep his own counsel.

  "What do you mean, ‘perhaps they are'?"

  "Oh, probably nothing.” He folded the napkin primly and set it aside. “I would just like to ponder some more."

  "Ponder away. You have all day to do it."

  Later I joined Mr. O'Nelligan in a short walk to a nearby newsstand. We'd just purchased the morning papers when someone from behind called my name. I turned and saw Jojo Groom limping up the sidewalk.

  "Hey, Lee! You did it, kid!” He grabbed my hand and shook it briskly. “I just heard the lowdown. You nailed that punch jockey dead-to-rights. Emeralds, rubies ... everything on him but gold doubloons. See, this is what I was saying—always trust a Plunkett. Was I on the money or what?"

  My face reddened under the glare of undeserved praise. “Well, to be honest, Jojo, I really didn't—"

  He slapped my shoulder. “Don't second guess yourself, kid! And don't be modest. God knows your old man wasn't. And I'll tell you this—Buster would be proud as a peacock of you. Proud as a big, stinking peacock.” Here his voice got low and solemn. “You know, when I heard your pop had died, they'd just renominated Eisenhower. Seemed fitting somehow. So right there and then, I toasted the two of ‘em—Ike and Buster—'cause they don't make ‘em like those guys anymore.” He punctuated this by tapping m
y chest with his walking cane. “Guys like you, neither."

  "Thanks, Jojo,” I had to say.

  "So, you gents heading back to Connecticut?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Okay then. Job well done, kid.” He now acknowledged Mr. O'Nelligan. “You too, buddy."

  My cohort merely smiled.

  Jojo started away, but not before saying again, “Proud as a stinking peacock!” Just in case I didn't get it the first time.

  Soon after, Mr. O'Nelligan and I parted ways for the bulk of the day. He seemed to be either satisfied with the outcome of things, or indifferent, and as best I could tell, he planned to divide his time between strolling the town and visiting Captain Ahab. As for myself, I eventually drove out to talk to Nina Browley about the latest turn of events. Instead of Nina, I found Paige Simmons sitting outside under a willow tree, her natural good looks spoiled by recent tears.

  "Nina's gone shopping with the cook,” she said. “She won't be home for a while."

  "I can come back later."

  "They say it was David. He's in jail now. But he's not the type. Not the type at all."

  "The police have evidence."

  "They told Nina some of the shield gems were found in his room."

  "It's true."

  "If David really did do it, why would he still be carrying them around a month later?"

  "I'm not sure,” I said. “Maybe he was letting things die down a little before trying to sell them."

  "This is all wrong. David couldn't kill a man."

  I thought, Well, he has been known to beat them up.

  "What about you, Mr. Plunkett?” she asked. “Do you think David murdered Clarence?"

  "The evidence is hard to overlook. And when I saw Pobenski last evening, he did seem distracted about something."

  "It was about me!" She stood and looked me in the eyes. “David and I have been fond of each other ever since we met last year. He's a quiet, shy boy, not like the other men who come here. Yesterday afternoon, when I drove him to the inn, he told me that for him it was love. But he was worried that Nina's suspicions about him would make me afraid to trust him."

  "And what did you say?” I asked, feeling immensely intrusive.

  "I really didn't know what to say just then. I told him I had to get back to Nina, but we could talk by phone later if he liked. That evening he called the house and we spoke for a few minutes."

  "When was this?"

  "Sometime after Mr. O'Nelligan came, but a while before you showed up. I told David then that I thought I loved him, too, but that Nina's suspicions did make me hold back from him. This really upset him, saddened him. He said he was going back to his room, and that's when you must have seen him looking so distracted. Afterwards, I guess he went out to a bar and drank too much. And that's when the police came and ... and..."

  She couldn't bring herself to finish. Unsure of what solace I could give, I blathered something inane about it all working out and took my leave.

  * * * *

  Hours later, when Mr. O'Nelligan and I regrouped, he informed me that we were going to the movies. What's more, we had to drive two whole towns away to enjoy the diversions of the silver screen. Then, to top it all off, he refused to say what film he intended us to see. He just treated me to an infuriating little smile and suggested I have faith.

  The ride there found Mr. O'Nelligan back in his patented pondering mode. He stroked his beard, listened to the radio, and kept largely silent. At one point, perhaps feeling the need to explain his aloofness, he offered a brief tale.

  "I once knew a seamstress who barely spoke to her customers. She'd listen to your needs and accept your garments, but shunned all verbosity. Cleverest seamstress in the town, but quiet as a chapel. One night, the local postmistress pried her with a pint or three of stout and asked about the silence. The seamstress then confessed her belief that if she were to give herself to chatter, her needles would lose their sense of direction. So there you have it."

  Yes, there I had it, whatever it was.

  The movie, I soon learned, was a western called Sagebrush Ambush and starred none other than Tom Durker.

  "This was the nearest theater showing one of his pictures,” Mr. O'Nelligan explained as the houselights dimmed.

  The sagebrush looked authentic and the ambush was daring enough, but the acting lay flat as a prairie. Tom Durker obviously hadn't achieved B-picture stardom due to any thespian abilities. What he did have going for him was a deep voice, strong jaw, and moody eyes that seemed always half shut.

  The nighttime drive back to Greenley resembled the earlier ride, except that my passenger seemed even more intensely lost in thought. When we pulled into town, he requested that I bring us once more to the Browley home. I didn't even bother to ask why. I'd barely parked the car when my companion pushed himself out and hurried to the door, a man on a mission. Nina Browley appeared, again in the kimono, and ushered us into the hallway.

  Her present demeanor was fairly reserved. “Everyone else has retired, and I'm really not up for entertainment. Though I do appreciate you helping to bring the situation to a close."

  "You're satisfied with Detective Handleman's conclusions?” asked Mr. O'Nelligan.

  Nina tossed up her hands. “I suppose I must be. After all, David was caught with the goods. Isn't that how you put it—'caught with the goods?’”

  "It occurs to me that we've never seen a picture of your husband,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Could you possibly produce one?"

  Nina left briefly and returned with a small framed photograph. In it, a slender, handsome man with a Clark Gable mustache smiled out at the world. For good measure, he sported one of his beloved swords.

  Mr. O'Nelligan thanked her, then turned to me. “Lee, I'd like you to walk around the building to the kitchen window. Mrs. Browley, is the outside light there on? The one that was on the night of your husband's passing?"

  "It is. But why do you—"

  "All in good time, madam. Now, Lee, I'll go place myself inside the kitchen. When you arrive at the window, tap on it, then run off in the direction of the Roost. Go about partway, then come back. We don't have a full moon like that night, but we'll just have to make do. Oh wait! Take this with you.” He reached down to an umbrella stand near the door, and slid from it a long, narrow sword that I hadn't before noticed. “Mrs. Browley, would this be the very weapon that Mr. Browley bore on that night?"

  Nina looked a little pale. “Yes, it's the rapier. The police returned it a while ago. I just placed it back there."

  "Very well.” Mr. O'Nelligan said, passing me the blade. “Now onwards, man, onwards."

  I stepped out into the autumn night. An aggressive wind had come up and made itself known in the treetops beyond the lawn. I eased my way along the side of the house, feeling the heft of the sword in my hand. I found myself very aware that, in this manner, Clarence Browley had spent the final minutes of his life. Reaching the kitchen window, I raised the blade and tapped. Mr. O'Nelligan's face appeared immediately, just inches from the pane. Unexpectedly, this sent a shiver through me. As instructed, I then turned and ran toward the hill, soon leaving the influence of the outside light.

  Though my assignment only required me to go partway to the Roost, something compelled me to continue on. Pressing forward into the darkness, my run slowed to an urgent walk, and I tried to trust my feet like Mr. O'Nelligan. As I drew closer to the outbuilding, I, in a sense, became Browley, being pulled seductively toward violence and death. Fear pressed on my chest, and I tightened my hold on the sword. The wind around me had become enraged, filling the world with a high, lamenting moan. I reached the Roost and placed my free hand against the cold stone of the outer wall.

  Then someone, something, appeared next to me. I cried out and raised the sword, as what felt like a knot of iron slammed into my jaw. Through the power of the blow, my head bounced back against the stone wall, and the sword fell from my hand. I crumpled to the ground. Lying where Clarence Browley once
had, I rolled over on my back. Somehow, my glasses had remained on, but, as I attempted to focus my vision, a strong light blinded me. I heard someone curse, and, seconds later, the light shifted slightly away. For one passing moment, just before my eyes rolled back in my head, I caught a glimpse of my attacker staring down at me. It was Polecat Pobenski.

  * * * *

  10.

  I didn't regain consciousness until sometime the next morning, when I opened my eyes to find that Pobenski's face had been replaced by a far more welcomed one—Audrey's. She stroked my hair and told me that everything would be fine; I smiled, believing it would be. Then I passed out again. Over the next few hours, I'd slip in and out of my senses, occasionally noting my surroundings. I gathered that I was in a hospital room as various humans came and went: here a nurse; there a doctor; here a Mr. O'Nelligan. Once, Handleman even showed up, looking down at me in either pity or disdain. Throughout it all, Audrey seemed to be the one constant, and I found that greatly comforting.

  Finally, a thick, dark cloud lifted, and I came back for good. I felt weak, but my brain appeared to have regained its standing in the world.

  "I love you, Audrey,” was the first thing I remember saying.

  "Me too,” was her answer. She squeezed my hand and her eyes teared up. Darned if mine didn't too.

  The next thing I said was, “Pobenski hit me."

  "We know.” Mr. O'Nelligan now came into my line of vision. “You told me when I found you. It was all you said before you blinked away again."

  "Pobenski was supposed to be in custody."

  "He was, but he escaped last night due to an inefficient jailer. But rest up, Lee. There's much abrewing right now. I've taken the liberty of pursuing matters in your absence, and tonight we've a little get-together that should be memorable. If the doctors think it practical, you'll be there in person, like Lazarus yanked triumphantly from the grave."

  "I don't feel triumphant. Just glad to not be comatose."

  "I'll see you tonight then, lad. Seven o'clock at Mrs. Browley's."

  Mr. O'Nelligan hurried off and I turned back to Audrey. “I'm hungry."