The Haunting Ballad

by Michael Nethercott

  Though not the lousy-poisoned-souls variety, I longed to add.

  My partner moved on. “Mr. Lent, do you have any theories as to who would want to harm your friend?”

  “Nah, that’s your profession, not mine. You’re the ones who get paid to figure things out.”

  “By the way,” I said. “What’s your profession?”

  Loomis squared his shoulders in a posture of pride. “I’m a speculator. Like, for example, I can help you guys speculate on the Dodgers’ chances of triumphing Tuesday. It’s opening day and the Bums take on Philly. Campanella’s due for a good season. There’s all that talk of moving the team out of Brooklyn, but that’s just bull. Pure bull! Campy and the boys are here to stay, and Tuesday looks golden. Want to make a little side profit while you’re doing your investigating?”

  “No, that’s all right,” I said. “We’ll just survive on our meager earnings.”

  “Suit yourselves. If you change your mind, just come tug on my sleeve. I’ll be inside for a little bit more.” Loomis started toward the door but did a double take and turned back to us. “Hey, I just remembered what Lorraine wanted that night.”

  “The night at McSorley’s?” I asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. She was pretty heated up and wanted to ask me about a particular musician who was around back then. A guy named Cardinal.”

  Cardinal again. “What did she want to know?”

  “She’d just gotten a letter from him. A nasty one.”

  “When was this?”

  “I dunno. February? Maybe March. Anyway, she wanted to see if I’d heard anything about the guy. Because, you know, I’m the kind of person who hears things.”

  “Had you?”

  Loomis shrugged. “Not much. Only that he was Canadian and played banjo—but she knew that already—and that he was a magician.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said—a magician. Yanking rabbits out of hats, making girls disappear … that sort of stuff. He was a quick-change artist, too. Before he took up the music, he’d had himself a magic act—Cardinal the Conjurer. I think he did it for a year or two.”

  “How did you know this, Mr. Lent?” my partner asked.

  The prideful look returned. “Like I told you, I’m the kind that hears things.”

  “A useful gift, no doubt. How did Miss Cobble take the imparted information?”

  “You mean that Cardinal had been a magician? Neither one way or another, I guess. It’s not like Lorraine was afraid he’d saw her in half or anything. Anyway, that’s what I’ve got for you. Like I say, if you’re up for speculating, don’t be shy. I’m taking odds on Sugar Hart over Pineapple Stevenson in the welterweight bout.”

  “We’ll decline both Mr. Sugar and Mr. Pineapple,” my partner countered. “Still, thank you for the offer.”

  “Whatever suits you. Just avenge Lorraine, okay? Get the gruesome creep who killed her. He was a goddamned blue darter, y’know? Aiming right at my poor Lorraine.”

  With that, Loomis Lent zipped back into the Mercutio.

  “What a skittish little guy,” I said. “I can see why Patch isn’t head-over-heels over him.”

  My partner turned to me. “Our Mr. Lent just made a rather curious statement, did he not?”

  “Which one? If you ask me, most of his statements seemed pretty off-kilter.”

  “I mean his suggestion that Lorraine was killed by a ‘blue darter.’ An odd supposition, indeed. It may well be a reference to the blue poison dart frog, so named because of its bright azure skin and toxic secretions. The Emberá huntsmen of Colombia are known to smear dart frog venom on their blowgun darts, though usually of the golden variety. The creature is of the family Dendrobatidae. Genus Dendrobates, I believe … though I might have that piece wrong.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong!” I laughed, happy as a clam—or a dart frog. “‘Blue darter’ is a baseball term. It means a low, fast line drive that’s impossible to catch. In his quirky way, Lent was just saying that Lorraine’s death came in fast and furious.”

  “Oh … then … uh, well…” Mr. O’Nelligan stumbled along. “Apparently … there are gaps in my knowledge.”

  “Apparently!” Maybe I came off as a little too pleased—it wasn’t often I got to one-up my scholarly sidekick. “Anyway, do you think Loomis and Lorraine were as cozy as he makes out?”

  My partner adjusted his tie—and his composure. “Who knows? My people have an old proverb—‘It’s better to be quarreling than lonesome.’ Perhaps the relationship between those two could be thus defined. In general, though, I’d say Mr. Lent’s allegiance to the truth is suspect. Imagine claiming he recently had drinks with Zelda Fitzgerald! What will he say next—that he shared brunch with Christina Rossetti?”

  “Yeah, that would be ridiculous.” I was guessing that Christina was another long-dead lady. “So we can add Loomis and his ramblings to all the other vague characters spinning around Lorraine Cobble—Cardinal Meriam, Hector Escobar, the mystery scribe who wrote that first note…”

  “Our situation brings to mind a parable from antiquity. Are you familiar with Plato’s Cave?”

  I took a stab at it. “Is that where Mickey Mouse keeps his pet dog?”

  Mr. O’Nelligan groaned. “I badly need to believe that that was one of your pithy little jokes. Certainly you know the difference between Plato and Pluto.”

  “Certainly!” I hoped I sounded adamant.

  “Listen now. The great thinker Plato proposed the following analogy. Imagine, if you will, a group of prisoners chained within a cave for their whole lives. They face a blank wall and are shackled in such a way that they cannot look over their shoulders. Behind them are various people and objects, on the other side of which blazes a large fire. Since the prisoners have never been able to turn around, they perceive naught but the shadows of those people and objects projected on the wall. So they see these shades not as reflections of a reality beyond, but as reality itself.”

  “So you and I, we’re seeing only the shadows of … of what?”

  “Of Lorraine Cobble’s life and death. We see one flickering shadow of her that’s been offered by her cousin, another by Minnie Bornstein, another by Loomis Lent, and so forth. In Plato’s parable, one prisoner eventually goes free and learns the reality outside the cave. That is our goal here, Lee Plunkett—to stride forth from the cavern of illusions and learn the truth of this woman’s final moments.”

  “My task is to pocket a fee for services rendered.”

  “Only if you exit the cave.” Mr. O’Nelligan drew out his pocket watch and eyed it. “It’s time for me to go meet my friend for dinner.”

  “Right. He’s an old theater crony of yours, isn’t he? Will he show up in a flowing toga, fresh from playing Julius Caesar?”

  “Knowing Marguerite, I imagine she’ll show up in something tight and sparkly.”

  “Marguerite? It’s a lady friend? A sparkly lady friend?”

  Mr. O’Nelligan held up a hand. “Now, don’t let your imagination run amuck, Lee. My bond with her is that of comrades who have faced the spotlights together.”

  “Sounds real fraternal,” I said with a smile.

  “I’ll stop first at Horton’s Grill to have a word with Tucker the waiter. Let’s see if he can provide any illumination regarding Lorraine’s last morning of life. After my dinner with Marguerite, I’ll return here to rejoin you.”

  Noting an oncoming taxi, Mr. O’Nelligan promptly stepped out to the curb and flagged it down. Just as he was crouching to enter the cab, he turned quickly back to me.

  “Be on your guard, Lee.”

  As the taxi sped off, I wondered if my friend’s parting advice had been inspired by Minnie Bornstein’s warning. Instead of heading straight back into the Mercutio, I decided to take in more of the evening air before resuming work. I began to walk in no particular direction, glancing into darkened shop windows and observing my fellow nocturnal wanderers. The night was warm and inviting, and I
took some comfort in not thinking about women plummeting off roofs. After fifteen minutes of aimless strolling, I started to retrace my tracks. Just short of the Mercutio, I came upon an entwined couple leaning against a wall, the girl’s long auburn hair acting as something of a veil between them and me. I could hear the sounds of their energetic kissing and sped up to spare myself an embarrassing encounter. Without warning, the male half of the pair chose that moment to disengage and take a couple of sideways steps. This resulted in our awkwardly colliding.

  “Hey, sorry there, man,” the young lover said.

  I might have accepted the apology had it come from someone else. Anyone other than Byron Spires.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I know you,” Spires said.

  I adjusted my glasses in a gesture that I hoped conveyed scornful scrutiny—rather than just lousy eyesight. “Yeah, and I know you. We need to talk.”

  Spires turned to his honey du jour. “Hey, Coco, go wait for me inside. I’ll be right along. Here, take this with you.”

  He grabbed up a guitar case that had been leaning against the wall and passed it to the young woman. Was Spires afraid that if the instrument was at hand I might be tempted to smash it over his curly cranium? Not a bad idea, but before I could fully consider it, the girl and guitar were headed off for the Mercutio.

  Spires smiled without warmth. “We’ve met once before, man.”

  “I’m not a man—I’m a detective.” Yet another instance where my mouth managed to outrace my brain.

  That response caught him up. “Uh, yeah, well … You told me last month you were a private eye, remember? The night you—”

  “The night I was down here with my fiancée?” I felt the blood racing to my face. “With Audrey? You recall Audrey, don’t you, Byron? Or have you forgotten her since you’ve acquired your latest little friend?” I nodded down the street in the direction the girl had vanished. “Does Audrey know about her? You have properly introduced them, haven’t you, Byron? That’s just good etiquette.”

  Spires took a large step away from me. No doubt to keep my surging craziness at bay.

  I rushed on. “How many sweethearts do you have squirreled away, Byron? Cratefuls? Truckfuls? Must be nice. Myself, I only have the one. Audrey. Or, at least, I did have her till you came along.”

  “Listen, friend, there’s no need to—”

  “Friend? Gee, Byron, I don’t think friends steal fiancées. I’ve read up on it, and I’m pretty sure I’m right about that. Ninety-nine percent positive, I’d say.”

  At this point, my words were leaping into the air with mad abandon. Some disembodied part of me stood on the sidelines, watching curiously to see what insane thing would come out next. Just as I was gathering steam, Spires did an about-face and hurried toward the Mercutio.

  He called over his shoulder, “I don’t mix with kooks.”

  With that, all my fondness for Spires drained away. I sprinted after him and caught up just as he was reaching for the Mercutio’s door. Then, surprising myself with my actions, I grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and pinned him to the outer wall.

  “You’re not going anywhere!” I had no idea what I planned to do next—if I was even capable of anything else—but Spires sure looked distressed.

  “You’re nuts, man!”

  “Maybe I am nuts. Losing your girl can do that to a fella.”

  Just then the door opened and Loomis Lent stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  Spires turned to him. “Christ, Loomis, help me! This guy’s gone around the bend.”

  The interruption didn’t stop my little tirade. “Shut up, Spires. I know what you did to her.”

  “To her? What makes you think—”

  “I know what you did.”

  Spires made another appeal. “Lent! Get this guy off me, will ya?”

  The rumpled bookie just stood there looking concerned and confused.

  “Keep walking, Loomis,” I said, doing my best James Cagney. “I’m on top of this.”

  After a long moment, Loomis Lent turned and shuffled away down the street. Apparently, he had no immediate plans of rushing to anyone’s aid. Once it was only myself and Spires again, my wrath seemed to flag. I’d never thrown a blow in anger, and I didn’t know that I really had it in me now. I took a step back and exhaled deeply.

  “Now get lost, you bum,” my Cagney self said.

  Ideally, Spires would then have whimpered a thanks for sparing his life and raced off into the fugitive night. Instead, he studied me for a few quizzical seconds, snickered, and straightened his collar.

  “I didn’t do anything at all to Audrey,” he said, defiance in his voice. “You think I’m some wolf who led her astray? No, she was more than glad to hang out with me. Anyway, there’s something you should know. Audrey called me up a few hours ago.”

  I tensed. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Want to know what she told me?”

  “Let’s not make this a game. Just spill it.”

  “She said she no longer wanted to keep company with me.” Spires smirked. “That’s actually how she put it—keep company—like it was the turn of the century and we’d been out to a tea party.”

  “Audrey’s an old-fashioned girl,” I said protectively.

  “I guess. Anyway, what I’m saying, man, is I’ve moved on.”

  ”Yeah, I get that impression.” I was thinking of his new girlfriend.

  Spires read my mind. “Coco’s a sweet little thing, isn’t she? Just goes to prove what they say about fish in the sea. You just need to know how to reel them in.”

  “Like you reeled Audrey in?”

  “Hey, this is 1957, not 1907. Girls don’t need a lot of bait these days. Just a nice shiny hook.”

  “I’m coming real close to slugging you.”

  “I’m only trying to speak the truth here. I do that with my music, and I do it with my life. Verity, man. I’m all about the verity.”

  I needed to get off the topic of girl-fishing. The practice seemed a far cry from The Old Man and the Sea, and I’m sure Mr. O’Nelligan would be appalled. I remembered my trade and decided to ply it again.

  “I’m investigating the death of Lorraine Cobble.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “When I was down here last month I got to see firsthand what a warm connection you two shared.”

  “Oh yeah, our little dustup over ‘The Wild, Weeping Heather.’”

  “She claimed you stole that song from her.”

  “She’s one to talk. Did you happen to hear the little saga of Lorraine and Cardinal Meriam?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you know who the real song thief was.” Spires ran a hand through his thick brown curls. “Look, it’s a drag Lorraine killed herself, I’m not saying it isn’t. But trying to conjure up some big bad murderer is just fairy tale stuff. Lorraine Cobble had a bitter little heart, and I guess she just got tired of listening to its lonely beating.” His eyes brightened. “Hey! That’s not a bad line, is it? I gotta remember it when I’m writing my next lyrics.”

  At that moment, perhaps for the first time, I truly did want there to be a big bad murderer; and desperately, oh so desperately, I wanted it to be Byron Spires. I couldn’t think of a more satisfying conclusion to this case.

  “Did you spend much time with Lorraine?” I asked tersely.

  He gave the answer I’d heard a dozen times already. “No, Lorraine didn’t do a whole lot of socializing. Now, if we’re done here, I should go join Coco—so she doesn’t think you executed me out here.”

  Spires sauntered past me and entered the coffeehouse. Deserted by my nemesis, I stood there for several minutes, digesting the remaining morsels of my anger. I didn’t know what I’d really gained just then by playing the crazy tough guy. Whatever discord existed between Audrey and me probably wasn’t going to get resolved by confronting Spires. The fact that she’d told him it was over between them—whatever it was—had to be a good sign. Yeah, let
Coco take her chances with the cur. One of the questions I’d flung at Spires now came back to me—did Audrey know about Spires’ auburn-haired canoodling partner? Probably not, since I couldn’t see Audrey consenting to join the roster of anyone’s personal harem.

  When I reentered the Mercutio, the Doonan Brothers had taken the stage and were belting out a ballad of Irish rebellion. I saw Spires and his girl sitting off at their own small table. I passed them without engaging. In my murky mood, I considered ordering a full bottle of wine and a deep glass, but reminded myself that I was on the clock. And a piss-poor drinker. While maneuvering through the crowd, I heard someone call my name. Turning, I spied the Grand Mazzo beckoning me from the entrance to the back rooms. I made my way over to him.

  “Been looking for you for the last few minutes,” Mazzo said. “Your cohort O’Nelligan’s on the line.” He led me into his office and handed me the phone.

  I waited till he’d left the room to speak. “Hi. I’m here.”

  My partner’s familiar brogue greeted me. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned ship, Lee. Where have you been off to?”

  “I’ll tell you later. What’s up?”

  “I’m at Marguerite’s about to dine, but I wanted to convey to you what I’ve just learned. On the way here, I stopped in at Horton’s and spoke briefly with Tucker the waiter. He confirms that he served Lorraine Cobble breakfast on the morning of her final day.”

  “Did he mention what time?”

  “He couldn’t say for certain, but he thinks it was no earlier than nine and well before eleven.”

  If I’d been a cartoon, a little lightbulb would have flashed over my head. “The letter from the unknown person indicated a ten A.M. meeting. That fits with what the waiter says.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, was Lorraine with anybody?”

  “Yes … someone we most likely know.”

  “Go on.”

  “A young woman. Tucker had never seen the lass before, but he described her as attractive with extremely long black hair, her nose a tad slanted, and a small scar under one eye. Sound familiar?”