Dutch Blue Error

by William G. Tapply

  “I still don’t get it,” said Kirk. “He burned the duplicate. But he still had the original stamp. Seems to me Perry had done a good thing, and both he and Ollie knew it, and Petty should have understood that burning the stamp made sense.”

  I shook my head. “There’s the irony. The stamp Ollie burned was the original Dutch Blue Error. The only Dutch Blue Error. Not a duplicate. There was no duplicate Blue Error. Ollie’s stamp, the one he owned all those years, was a fake. Shaughnessey’s stamp was the only real one. So Ollie burned the real stamp and kept the fake. Perry knew that. Ollie didn’t.”

  “But Albert said…” began Zerk.

  “Albert knew,” I answered. “When we took the stamps to him, he saw immediately that the stamp Ollie had always owned was a fake, and the one Shaughnessey brought was the genuine article. Naturally, Albert wasn’t going to let Shaughnessey know that. He was loyal to Ollie, and he knew that it would change everything. So he waited, and then called Ollie to tell him. Except Perry answered the phone. So Albert told Perry. He didn’t realize, of course, that Perry had already killed Shaughnessey for the stamp, or that, in Perry’s warped little brain, all secrets had to be protected—at any price. Perry agreed to meet Albert—to see the evidence. Then he killed Albert. To maintain the secret of the stamp. And he took Albert’s notebook, which contained the evidence. And when he handed the stamp to Ollie this evening, he was about to make the grand announcement that he, Perry, had done what Ollie himself hadn’t been able to do—get the real Dutch Blue Error. But Ollie deprived him of that great satisfaction.”

  “He burned the stamp.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And that’s when Perry broke. All that was left was all the pent-up frustration and rage. A whole lifetime of it.”

  “So he shot him.”

  “Yes.”

  “And all those years Ollie’s stamp was a fake,” mused Zerk. “How could that be?”

  “Schwartz did it. He owned the original and offered it for sale to Ollie back in sixty-seven. So far, so good. But then he got greedy. He had a fake made—a good fake, of course, using one of the original orange stamps and carefully altering the color to make it blue. Same old paper, and so forth. Same old stamp, actually, except for the color. It’d take an expert like Albert to detect it, and even then it’d be hard to do without the genuine Blue Error to compare it with. So Schwartz felt pretty safe. He kept the original stamp and sold Ollie the fake. To make it work, he gave Ollie the papers of authentication for the real stamp. And last winter, nearly twenty years later, he had the chance to sell the genuine stamp to Shaughnessey, who traveled in the same circles as Schwartz, and who was not beneath cutting a few ethical corners to turn over a buck. Schwartz didn’t tell Shaughnessey what a bargain he was getting. He didn’t need to. He gave Shaughnessey a good price on the stamp plus Ollie’s name, and sat back to let the chips fall wherever.”

  “I’ll be damned.” breathed Kirk.

  “So when I heard all that from Schwartz, all I had to do was try to figure out who could’ve learned it. I eliminated everyone but Perry. But it was still a guess. I came here hoping I could smoke him out.”

  “Which you did. Damn near got yourself smoked, too,” said Zerk.

  “Both of us,” I said.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, and a minute later several official vehicles skidded into the driveway, their red and blue lights flashing eerily. Kirk stood up and went to talk with the men who piled out of the cars. Some moved into the house. Others gathered around Perry’s body. Zerk and I remained seated on the steps, ignored by the others. I lit a Winston and leaned back to watch.

  After a while Kirk wandered over and stood in front of us. “You guys can go, if you want. I’ll be in touch with you, Brady. Lots of questions, but they can wait.”

  Zerk and I stood up. I held out my hand to Kirk. “Thanks,” I said.

  “That was my first,” he said, his eyes searching mine.

  “The first man I ever killed.”

  “You had to, man,” said Zerk. “No choice.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. I had no choice. Still…”

  I squeezed Kirk’s hand. He nodded to me, then turned and walked up the steps into the house. Zerk and I climbed into our cars and drove home.

  Epilogue

  I HAD MY CHAIR swiveled around so that I could look out my office window at the gray November cityscape. The fountains of the Copley Square Plaza had been turned off for the winter, and the planes and angles of the concrete mall looked cold and bleak. Old Trinity Church, that ancient and elegant pile of rock, faced across to the Library. Old South Church watched from across the way. To my right, just beyond my vision, loomed the Hancock Tower, and off to my left rose The Pru, all fifty-two stories of it. Everything was painted in gloomy shades of battleship gray.

  I was pondering the relative merits of lunch at Jake Wirth’s with Charlie McDevitt versus a lengthy and leisurely afternoon with Douglas Segrue amid the old leather and mahogany paneling of the Algonquin Club.

  Segrue had business for me. Something about some property near the University of Massachusetts campus in Amherst that he wanted to buy and convert into condominiums. The Algonquin Club would serve lobster bisque and Oysters Rockefeller and dust-dry martinis. Doug would pay. We might even be lured into a penny-a-point bridge game.

  Charlie had a joke for me. The one about the guy with a trained alligator. Charlie chuckled over the phone at the thought of the punch line. I hadn’t heard it. It would cost me the price of his platter of German potato salad and a couple of steins of dark beer to hear it.

  “It was a tough choice. But, hell, we lawyers are paid to make the tough choices.

  There was a light rap on the door.

  “Come on in, Zerk,” I said.

  I heard the door open and close. I didn’t turn around.

  “Cold out there,” he said.

  “Winter’s coming,” I agreed.

  “You busy?”

  “I am deep in the throes of legal analysis. Stare decisis, amicus curiae, writs of certiorari, all that stuff.”

  Zerk cleared his throat. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said. “I passed the bar.”

  I rotated around to face him, stood, and extended my hand to him. “Hey, now. That is good news. Congratulations.”

  We shared an old-fashioned handshake.

  Zerk sat in the chair opposite my desk. “We’ve got to talk,” he said.

  “I was going to say the same thing.”

  “Now that I’m a full-fledged, attorney…”

  “Let me talk first,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “Julie’s due back the first of the year, you know, and, well…”

  “I know,” he interrupted. “Don’t make it tough on yourself. I know I’ve got to look for a job. It’s okay. I didn’t want to be a secretary all my life, anyway.”

  “What I wanted to say was this,” I said. “I think I could use a partner around here. A junior partner. There’s plenty of work—as much as I want to take on. No end to people’s problems, you know. It’d be good to have someone to work with. And—hell, Zerk. You want to come work for me, or what?”

  “I was wondering if you were going to ask,” he said softly.

  “Does that mean yes?”

  “No. That means no, Brady. I’m sorry.”

  “Look. It doesn’t have to be forever, you know. Just to get you on your feet, make some contacts, earn a couple bucks. I’m sincere about the offer.”

  “It’s nice of you. I’m flattered. I know you’d rather work alone.”

  “Working with you would be better than working alone.”

  “It’s not what I want.”

  “Oh.”

  “Nothing personal. But, hell, I don’t trust myself. The money, the contacts, all the soft cases. I’m afraid I’d be seduced. I want to do something that’s real, that makes a difference. Helping rich people stay rich—or get richer—that’s not for
me. That’s not my idea of a career.” He stared at me. “No offense intended.”

  I shrugged. “It’s up to you. But you ought to think it over.”

  “I have,” he said. “It was easy. I want to do something. I don’t want just some law practice.”

  “Hell, Zerk. It’s just a career. It’s a job, that’s all. Listen. My law practice isn’t the most important thing in my life, you know.”

  His dark eyes stared sorrowfully at me. “What is, then?”

  I laughed. “Having lunch with Charlie McDevitt. Drinking dark beer and finding out about the trained alligator. Right now, that’s the most important thing in my life.” I stood up and reached across my desk to clap his shoulder. “I wish you well. Perhaps we’ll meet in court one day.”

  He nodded and grinned. “Perhaps we will. And I’ll whip your tail.”

  “Whether you do or not, you’ll know you’ve been in a tussle.”

  “Believe it,” he said.

  Talcum snow as fine as smoke swirled on the sidewalks and misted through the headlights of passing cars. Deborah clutched my bicep with both of her hands and with squinted eyes savored the season’s first snowfall on her face. Tiny droplets, melting on contact with her cheeks and chin, made her face glow.

  We descended the five steps to the entrance of Marie’s. Inside, Deborah shook herself like a golden retriever that had fetched a stick from the water. We hung up our coats, then followed a lithe, blue-jeaned waitress to a table against the brick wall. A candle burned in its wine-bottle holder. Deborah grinned at me through the flame. “So the weather gods have blessed us again with a little demonstration,” she said.

  “Or cursed us.”

  “It’s not even Thanksgiving. Looks like a long winter.”

  The slim waitress produced a fat bottle of Mateus rosé, which she placed in the middle of the table. “Compliments of Marie,” she said. “Our specials tonight are tortellini—which is pasta stuffed with white meats, prosciutto, portabella, Parmesan cheese, and various herbs and spices, served with our Bolognese sauce.” The girl grinned. “It’s delicious. Also egg fettuccine with tomato and basil sauce. Equally great.” The girl pointed at the blackboard on the wall. “Our regular things are up there. Would you like a minute to think about it?”

  I raised my eyebrows to Deborah. She shook her head. “I won’t be able to make up my mind any better in a minute. I’ll try the first thing you said.”

  “The tortellini,” said the girl.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll have the fettuccine,” I said. “And a salad for each of us. Just the lettuce with your house dressing.”

  She smiled and swiveled away.

  I poured each of us a glass of wine. Deborah held hers to me. “To your health.”

  We clicked glasses and sipped.

  Deborah peered into her wine glass. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “No. Not really.”

  She shrugged.

  “We’ve talked on the phone. When I can get past Darlene, and your mechanical answering machine. I’ve been busy. Work piled up.”

  She nodded.

  Our salads arrived. We ate them in silence. I refilled our wineglasses.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” said Deborah, her eyes focused on the flame of the candle.

  “Me too.”

  “About us.”

  I nodded.

  “We—we never did get along that well, really, you know?” I smiled and didn’t answer. She toyed with her fork. When she looked up, her silver eyes were wide and serious.

  “I learned a lot from you, you know. About myself, about marriage, and…” She stopped.

  “And what?”

  She sighed. “I’ve decided to go back to Philip.”

  “I see.”

  “Oh, it’s a long story.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  She shrugged. “Yes. Well, anyway, we’ve got to give ourselves a chance, that’s all. I don’t want to—to make a mistake.”

  “The way I did.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m happy for you, then,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “But I’m not happy for me.”

  “We wouldn’t have worked out.” She leaned forward. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I know. That’s not it.”

  “Brady, I’m sorry.”

  I smiled. I thought of the little speech I had prepared for the occasion. The age difference. The dissipation of my child-rearing energies. My slothful housekeeping habits. The enthusiasm with which I avoided chores like lawnmowing, and driveway shoveling, and wallpaper hanging. The importance of my twice-weekly golf matches. The long weekends I spent on distant trout rivers. The arbitrary hours I spent in the office.

  I’m fixed in my ways, Deborah, the speech read. No flexibility left. Anyway, there’s this woman in my life. Known her for a long time. Was even married to her, once. The married part didn’t work, never could, but…

  I folded up my little speech and tucked it back into the hip pocket of my mind. Deborah was staring across the table at me, concern etched into two vertical lines between her eyes.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Brady Coyne Mysteries

  Part 1 Eddie

  1

  SYLVIE SZABO NORMALLY SPEAKS with the careful diction and precise grammar of one whose English is a second language, but when she’s a little sleepy or drunk or wants to tease, her speech tends to betray her Slavic origins.

  So when the phone rang that Saturday morning, she grunted, sighed, disentangled her leg from mine, picked it up and said, “Allo?”

  She listened for a moment, frowned, jabbed me with her elbow, and said, “Bradee, are you awake?”

  “Is that your idea of foreplay?” I replied, yawning.

  She smirked and handed me the telephone. I put my hand over the receiver. “We have a rule, Sylvie. When we’re at my house, I answer the phone. At your house, you answer. Remember?”

  She cradled my face in both of her hands and bent so close that the tips of our noses touched. Her green eyes peered solemnly into mine. “Sylvie’s sorry,” she said. She kissed me hard on the mouth, then rolled away and stood up beside the bed. “Sylvie will make coffee.”

  “Stop talking that way,” I hissed to her, mindful that someone was waiting to speak to me on the telephone. “And put on some clothes,” I added.

  She winked at me and minced out of the bedroom. I marvelled at how little her body had changed in the thirty years I had known her. She turned heads when she was fourteen. She still did.

  I put the phone to my ear. “This is Brady Coyne,” I said.

  “It’s Jan. Sorry if I interrupted something.”

  “Aw, Jan…”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” There was a catch in her voice, as if something were lodged in her throat.

  “What is it, Jan? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s E.J. He’s not back from his paper route. I’m worried sick.”

  “What time does he usually get home?”

  “On Saturdays, seven-thirty at the latest.”

  I glanced at my wristwatch. “Jeez, it’s not even nine-thirty now. He probably stopped at a friend’s house or something.”

  “That’s what I thought at first. But I called everyone I could think of. And he did deliver all his papers. I checked that, too. I drove all over the neighborhood. He always comes right home. He’s only ten years old. I know. You think this sounds paranoid. But I’m telling you, something’s happened to him.”

  “What—?”

  “I don’t want to say,” she said quickly. “I don’t even want to think about it.” Her voice caught again. “But—but I am thinking about it. Brady, damn it, if something has happened to E.J….” There was an urgency to her tone that hovered near hysteria. I had known Jan for a long time. She wasn’t an hysteric.


  “You’re jumping to conclusions,” I said. “Look. It’s a beautiful summer day. E.J. probably went to the playground to play ball or something. He’s getting to be a big kid. Feeling his independence. A little heedless, like kids will be. Believe me, I know. I don’t think you should worry about him.”

  I heard her sigh. “That’s what my father said.”

  “If you’re worried, call the police. They’ll keep an eye out for him.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I could do that. That would be something.” Abruptly she sobbed. “Brady, I am a wreck. I really am. Do you—will you come over?”

  “Call the police, Jan. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “You could hold my hand.” She tried to laugh, but it broke into a sob. “You think I’m being silly. But E.J.’s my little boy.”

  “I didn’t say you were silly. I understand how you feel. But you don’t need an attorney.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Right. Sure. Sorry to bother you.”

  “Jan, wait. Is Sam there? Let me talk to him.”

  “Sure. Hang on.” Anger seemed to have replaced the anxiety in her voice.

  A moment later I heard Sam Farina’s rich tenor. “Brady, that you?”

  “Yes. What’s going on?”

  “Janet is absolutely beside herself. She seems to think you can make things all better.”

  “You couldn’t calm her down?”

  “I told her not to call you. Hey, she’s my little girl. What can I say? Her husband already ran out on her. She dotes on that boy, you know that. Anyway, I gotta tell you, I’m a little worried myself. I can’t console her.”

  “I can, huh?”

  “You can. You know you can.”

  “Sam, what the hell can a lawyer—?”

  “Screw the lawyer, Coyne. You’re her friend.”

  “I see.” I groped on the bedside table for a pack of Winstons, shook one loose, and plucked it from the pack with my mouth. Then I lit a match one-handed, a trick I learned in college. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

  “Appreciate it, friend.”