Dutch Blue Error

by William G. Tapply

We shook hands, and Segrue left, muttering, “Jungle clinics! Damn little twerp.”

  In my outer office Zerk was pounding furiously on the typewriter. Seated on the sofa across from him, magazines opened on their laps, were detectives Kirk and Stone. Their heads swiveled in unison to follow Doug Segrue out the door, then rotated back to look at me.

  “Gentlemen,” I said.

  They both stood up. “Got a minute?” said Kirk.

  I jerked my head toward my office. “Come on in.” The tempo of Zerk’s typing seemed to increase as the two detectives followed me in. We sat around the coffee table in the corner of my office.

  “Did Zerk offer you coffee?”

  “He didn’t offer us the time of day,” growled Stone. “Told us you were busy.”

  “I was,” I said. “Want some?”

  Leo Kirk shook his head. “Thought you’d like to know. Mr. Schwartz isn’t our man.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was in New York the night Francis Shaughnessey was killed. His gun is not the one that shot Albert Dopplinger.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “But he was there. He admitted that. He chloroformed me.”

  “He admits he was there, yes. Says Dopplinger called him.”

  “Just like he supposedly called you,” added Stone.

  “Matter of fact,” continued Kirk, “he said he saw you standing over his body.”

  “You knew that,” I said. “Listen. What are you implying?”

  “It’s pretty obvious,” said Stone.

  “Nothing,” said Kirk quickly. “I’m not implying anything. Just that this Schwartz seems as clean as you, and we’re back to square one on this thing. The Dopplinger case belongs to Cambridge, anyway. And we’re certain Schwartz had nothing to do with the Shaughnessey thing—which is our problem.”

  “And that boy out there,” said Stone, “ain’t off the hook.”

  “Now, listen…”

  “Relax,” said Kirk. “I just wanted you to know, since you are, er, involved in this.”

  I thought for a minute. “What about his pulling a gun on me? Doesn’t that signify something?”

  “Did he pull a gun on you?”

  “He had it in his pocket. He forced me into the elevator.”

  “Did you see the gun?”

  “Well, sure.”

  “I mean before your friend hit him.”

  “I saw it in his pocket.”

  “He wanted to prosecute your friend,” said Stone. “For assault.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “We talked him out of it,” said Kirk.

  “You talked him out of it,” said Stone.

  “This guy,” I said, “chloroformed me. He broke into Deborah Martinelli’s house. Are you saying you’re letting him off scot-free?”

  “Look, Mr. Coyne,” said Kirk. “Schwartz admitted none of that to us. He said he went to Dopplinger’s lab when he was invited, peeked in the open door, saw you standing over the body, turned around and left. Matter of fact, he was the one who called it in. Apologized profusely for not leaving his name or sticking around. He said he was walking to your apartment with you when he was struck from behind. He had a weapon in his pocket, he admitted. He has a license. He deals in valuable objects. As for Mrs. Martinelli’s house, that is matter for the Carlisle police. I have communicated with them. They didn’t seem particularly inclined to pursue it, inasmuch as nothing was stolen and nobody was harmed.”

  “And he was in New York when Shaughnessey was murdered.”

  “Yes.”

  “But he came to the funeral.”

  Kirk nodded. “Sure. I saw him there myself. He said Shaughnessey had been a client of his. Schwartz deals in art objects. Buys in Europe, mostly, sells in the United States. Has offices in New York and Boston. He’s well placed in the business of importing valuable collectibles.”

  “So what the hell did he want with me?” I said.

  Kirk shrugged, “I’m not sure. He said he knew you were interested in that stamp. Said he felt that the two of you might put your heads together. That’s how he put it. He seemed surprised that you claimed to feel threatened.”

  “He was poking me with the goddam gun,” I said.

  “According to him, he asked if you could talk, you shrugged and said you were tired, and he went up the elevator with you and you didn’t tell him not to. Then Mr. Garrett snuck up on him and cold-cocked him.”

  “That,” I said, more loudly than was necessary, “is not the way it happened.”

  Kirk sighed. “You want to press charges?”

  I looked at the two detectives. Stone was grinning at me. “No,” I said. “I guess not. Tell Schwartz I would like to talk to him, though, would you?”

  “Can’t do that,” said Kirk.

  “Why not?”

  “Schwartz went back to New York.”

  “You’re lucky he’s not pressing charges against your boy out there,” added Stone.

  They stood up. I took Kirk’s hand. Stone didn’t offer his, nor did I to him. “Sorry this didn’t pan out,” said Kirk.

  “He’s lying, you know,” I said.

  Kirk nodded. “He’s lying about some of it, I’m sure. But he didn’t murder Shaughnessey, and his gun didn’t kill Dopplinger, and we’ve got nothing on him. But don’t be discouraged. Something’ll turn up.”

  “We’ve already got a good suspect,” said Stone, his fat jowls purred in a smile.

  “Zerk didn’t do anything, and you know it.”

  When they left, Zerk stopped typing and swiveled in his chair to glower at me. I summarized what they had told me. The creases of his frown deepened as he heard the story. When I finished, he said, “Yeah. That figures.”

  “Well,” I said, “he didn’t murder anybody.”

  “He could’ve shot Dopplinger with a different gun.”

  “So could you or I. Or anyone else.”

  Zerk snorted and turned his back on me. His typewriter resumed its rapid-fire clacking. I shrugged and returned to my office.

  It was several hours later that same Monday afternoon when Zerk buzzed me.

  I picked up my phone. “What is it?”

  “Phone call. Long distance. Guess who?”

  “I’m not in the mood for games, Zerk. Who is it?”

  “Our friend. Schwartz.”

  “Well, okay,” I said slowly. “Why don’t you listen in?”

  “Will do.”

  I heard a click. “Mr. Schwartz,” I said.

  “Mr. Coyne,” he said. “We have some unfinished business.”

  “We do?”

  “We do. The gendarmes have released me from their clutches. An unfortunate misunderstanding. But I bear you no grudge.” He paused. “Now, then. I have concluded that you do not possess the duplicate Dutch Blue Error, nor does Mrs. Martinelli, and you don’t know where it is. Am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then my apologies for my discourtesy last Thursday.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I accept any apologies you might care to extend with regard to your friend’s treatment of me.”

  I said nothing.

  “I apologize also for the unfortunate necessity of rendering you comatose in Mr. Dopplinger’s laboratory, as well. Naturally, I assumed you had murdered the poor man. When I subsequently found no weapon, I admit I was puzzled. I did, in any case, require the opportunity to search your person as well as Mr. Dopplinger’s.”

  “For the stamp.”

  “For the stamp, yes. And, failing that, for Mr. Dopplinger’s notebook. Neither of which I found, of course.”

  “So you called to apologize. Well, thanks.”

  I heard him chuckle. “I didn’t call to apologize. That was gratuitous. I called to share some information with you. Information that could enable you to find the stamp.”

  “And if I do, I might do business with you,” I said.

  “Ah, Mr. Coyne. You do not disappoint me.�
�

  “If I find the stamp, I sell it to you. Is that it?”

  “Let us say, you’ll allow me the opportunity to make the first offer.”

  “If I find the stamp, Mr. Schwartz, it won’t be mine to offer for sale.”

  “Ah, quite so. That, of course, is entirely up to you. It belongs, as patrimony, to Mrs. Martinelli. Perhaps you would suggest to her how she might profitably dispose of the item, then.”

  I thought for a minute. “I suppose,” I said slowly, “that could be done. Provided I find the stamp.”

  “Consider what I tell you,” said Schwartz. I heard him sigh deeply. “My, ah, interest in the so-called Dutch Blue Error goes back well before the events in Paris and San Juan in 1967 of which I am about to speak. My involvement has not been altogether, shall we say, ethical. I have not, on the other hand, participated in homicide, which is considerably more than can be said for other players in the drama of the Blue Error. I want you to understand that. I have killed no one, nor have I abetted anyone who has. Nevertheless, several men have died. The first was an innocent Parisian purchasing agent named Guillaume Lundi…”

  As Schwartz talked I jotted notes onto a yellow legal pad. He talked for fifteen minutes or more in that precise diction of his. My mind swirled with possibilities. I underlined several words on my notepad, drew arrows from this point to that, punctuated some of Schwartz’s bits of information with question marks and exclamation points.

  “So that,” he said finally, “is how Francis Shaughnessey and I came to know each other. My role in the entire matter has not been completely honorable, of course. On the other hand, I have given value for value. As things presently stand, my unique knowledge that your Mr. Weston possesses the original stamp has lost its marketability. Hence I come to you.”

  “I’ll have to give it some thought,” I said cautiously.

  I heard Schwartz chuckle. “A devilish puzzle, I grant you. I trust I have helped you to sort out some of the pieces.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Good day, then, Mr. Coyne. Please call me should there be some business for us to transact.”

  He gave me his phone number in New York and hung up. After I heard the click I said into the phone, “You still there?”

  “Yup,” said Zerk.

  “What’d you think?”

  “Wow!”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought, too. Look. Hold any calls. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

  I replaced the telephone and studied the several pages of notes I had taken. Charlie McDevitt had advised me to presume some lies. Suddenly I had more candidates than I knew what to do with.

  I sucked on Winstons, outlined scenarios, and after an hour I dropped my pencil onto my desk, pushed myself back, and whispered, “Of course!”

  I rang Ollie Weston’s number. Perry answered.

  “It’s Brady Coyne,” I said.

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “I’d like to see your father this evening,” I said. “Any problem with that?”

  “He doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “Good. And Perry?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you be there, too?”

  After a hesitation, he said, “Me?”

  “Well, yes. You are involved in your father’s business, aren’t you?”

  “Sure, but…”

  “Good. I’ll be there around eight.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “Eight o’clock, then. Perry.” I went to the safe in my office and took out my Smith and Wesson .38. I loaded it, dropped it into my jacket pocket, and walked out of my office. Zerk looked up.

  “Where you going with that gun?” he said.

  “It shows, huh?”

  He shook his head back and forth, grinning. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble, you know that?”

  I shrugged. “I’m bringing the gun so I won’t.”

  “So where are you going?”

  “I’m going to pay a call on Ollie Weston.”

  “The stamp, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got it figured out?”

  “I think so,” I said. “I’ll know more when I get back.”

  “And you’re bringing a gun with you.”

  I nodded, a little sheepishly.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Tell you what. Suppose I meet you later on? Maybe have a dish of shells at Marie’s, couple bottles of Chianti. Say around ten?”

  “Why don’t I go with you?”

  “No,” I said. “That wouldn’t work. I’ll meet you at Marie’s.”

  16

  THE FLOODLIGHTS WHICH HUNG in the eaves of the Weston mansion bathed the circular drive-around in warm, orange light and cast eerie shadows across the sweep of lawn. I drove through the front gate, which had been left open for me, parked my BMW directly in front of the entry, climbed the half-dozen wide steps to the big porch, and rang the bell.

  I waited several moments before Perry opened the door. “Come on in,” he said, stepping aside for me.

  I brushed past him. “Where’s Edwin?”

  “Gave him the night off. He left right after dinner.” Perry grinned. “Edwin has a lady friend, you know.”

  “Good for him.”

  “We’re in the sitting room,” said Perry, leading the way. Ollie was seated in his wheelchair at a big table near the window. To his right stood the wall-sized bookcase behind which lay his secret air-locked vault, from hidden speakers came a Sibelius symphony. Ollie held a shotgun opened on his lap. He was rubbing the metal parts of the gun with a rag. I recognized the pleasant odor of Hoppe’s gun oil.

  “Brady, my friend,” he said when he saw me. “Long time. Here,” he commanded, thrusting the gun at me. “Heft this.”

  I took the shotgun from him and lifted the stock gently to the barrels, snapping it shut. I admired the engraving along the side. The gold and ivory inlay depicted a setter on point. I raised it to my shoulder and swung it across the row of books. I dropped it, then lifted it to my shoulder, again.

  “A Parker,” said Ollie. “Finest grade. Twenty-gauge. I’ve shot hundreds of quail with that gun. Thousands. In my better days. I had a plantation in Georgia, you know. Two thousand acres. Just for quail shooting.”

  “Get you a drink?” said Perry.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “Dad?”

  “No.” Ollie rolled himself away from the table and swiveled his wheelchair around to face me. I broke open the shot-gun and laid it on the table, then sat in a dark leather armchair. Perry perched on the arm of the chair beside mine. “So,” said Ollie. “What brings you out? Not looking for a game of chess, are you?”

  “No, Ollie. I want to update you on the Dutch Blue Error.”

  Ollie tossed his head. “Ah, well. It’s gone, I know. No matter. Like I told you, it’s no good to anybody unless they sell it to me anyway.” He peered at me. “You haven’t found it, have you?”

  I ignored his question. “I have a story for you,” I said. “Interested?”

  Ollie shrugged his heavy shoulders. “You came all the way out here to tell me a story, I suppose I ought to listen.”

  “It concerns a man named Guillaume Lundi. Ring a bell?”

  Ollie glanced at Perry, then jerked his shoulders again. “Go on,” he said.

  “Mr. Lundi served as a purchasing agent at an auction in Paris in April of 1967. He bought a valuable postage stamp. Then he flew to San Juan with the stamp, evidently to deliver it to his client. Guillaume Lundi was found in the hotel swimming pool with a broken neck. Suicide. They said he jumped from the balcony above the pool.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Perry.

  “Your father does,” I said to him. “On the ninth floor of the hotel, the room directly above the pool was registered to an American guest. A certain Mr. Grayson. Mr. Grayson was seen in the company of Mr. Lundi that evening.” I turned to Ollie. “The Puerto Rican police were not
very diligent. The hotel people wanted it handled quietly. By the time the body was found, Mr. Grayson had checked out. But Lundi didn’t commit suicide, did he, Ollie?”

  Ollie smiled at me. “Good for you, my boy.” He chuckled. “You know, I didn’t retain you to dredge up unfortunate incidents from my past. You are too damn persistent.” He nodded. “Yes. That was I. Do you intend to reopen that case, Brady, like a dutiful officer of the court?”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, “why you had to kill Guillaume Lundi.”

  Ollie shook his head. “I explained all that to you. The mystery of the stamp had to be nurtured. At all costs. That’s all. Mr. Lundi prevented that.” He raised his hands and let them fall, dismissing Guillaume Lundi. “You’ll have a hell of a time making a case on that, you know.”

  Perry was staring at his father. “You killed a man?”

  Ollie nodded. “It was quite necessary. Regrettable, but necessary. I lost my legs not long after that, you know. I’ve often wondered if that was some sort of divine retribution.” He turned to me. “Why are you doing this, Brady? Why are you telling me this now?”

  “It’s part of the picture,” I replied. “Let me continue. Mr. Schwartz, from whom you bought the stamp in Paris, made a point of finding out who Lundi delivered it to. It was no problem to figure out that Mr. Grayson was, in fact, Oliver Hazard Perry Weston. I have talked to Schwartz. At length.”

  “Ah,” sighed Ollie softly. “That’s how Sullivan—Shaughnessey, I believe his real name was—found out about me.”

  “Right. Schwartz sold him that information.”

  “Well,” Ollie smiled, “I do hope you’re not accusing me of murdering Shaughnessey. Or poor Albert. I’ve been parked right here.” He thumped his dead legs with his fists.

  “Yes. I know. But Perry has legs.”

  Ollie’s head jerked around to stare at his son. “Him?”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Perry.

  “You can correct me on the details, Perry, but this is how I figure you did it. You knew when I’d be going to the museum to get the stamp authenticated. You made a point of being there. Parked inconspicuously outside. You saw me and Zerk arrive, greet Albert. A few minutes later you saw us meet another man. Shaughnessey. Who you knew as Sullivan, and who you knew, owned the stamp. You saw us all go into the building together. You waited. When we came out, you followed Shaughnessey home. A couple nights later you went back there. You rang his bell. You told him who you were, that you were coming on behalf of your father about the stamp. That made sense. He let you in. How’m I doing so far?”