O’NELLIGAN’S GLORY

by Michael Nethercott

 

We are proud to present the winner of the second annual Black Orchid Novella Award. The BONA is co-sponsored by AHMM with The Wolfe Pack www.nerowolfe.org) and honors stories of traditional detection as exemplified by the brilliant Nero Wolfe. In “O’Nelligan’s Glory” Mr. Nethercott offers his own twist on a classic form.

 

* * * *

 

It began with a phone call for my dead father.

 

“Plunkett and Son Investigators,” I answered.

 

“Buster! How ya doing, you dirty old—”

 

“No, this is his son Lee.”

 

“Really? Cripes, kid, you sound just like your old man.”

 

At thirty-one, my claim to being a “kid” was somewhat tenuous. And as for sounding like my father, I guarantee he had more gravel in his gullet then I could ever muster.

 

“Buster’s deceased,” I informed the caller. “About a year now.”

 

“Aw, no! I can’t believe it! Buster was a bull...” Then the voice softened. “I should’ve stayed in touch. This is Jojo Groom. Remember me, kid?”

 

My father’s life seemed to revolve around guys with names like Jojo and Slick and Lefty. His own moniker, Buster, had replaced the unfortunate Leander, his birth name, which for some reason he decided to pass on to me. My rough and tumble sire—World War I doughboy, city cop, private gumshoe—was every inch a Buster; whereas I, with my large round spectacles, slight frame and 4F classification, seemed tailor-made to be a Leander Plunkett. I’d shortened things to Lee to ease my burden.

 

“Sure, I remember you, Jojo.” He was an old police buddy of my father’s. “Dad always spoke kindly of you. I tried to call you for the funeral, but—”

 

“Don’t sweat it, Lee. I’ve moved around. Not so easy to track down. I’m up in Massachusetts now. But listen, I’ve got a case for you. I was thinking it was Buster I’d be tossing it to, but anyway it’s right up your alley. Murder.”

 

I should go on record as saying that a murder case was nowhere even remotely near my particular alley. Sure, back when Buster was at the helm, that caliber of job might have meant a nice paycheck for Plunkett and Son; but in my tenure, it was a struggle just to handle the infidelity and missing object cases. Dad had taken me on to give direction to my drifting life, but within sixteen months, he’d died over a bowl of stew, leaving me to fumble on. Truth be told, in the year since my father’s death, I hadn’t done much to champion the family business.

 

“Murder’s a little out of my league,” I told Jojo.

 

“Look, kid, I’ll level with you. If I’d known your pop wasn’t around to take this on, I maybe wouldn’t have called. But listen, you’re Buster’s boy, right? Your pop was a damned bloodhound. A bloodhound! And you got his fixings.”

 

Jojo hadn’t seen me since I was about seventeen, so his appraisal of my “fixings” didn’t carry much weight.

 

He hurried on, “The expired gent was one Clarence Browley, age thirty-five, well-to-do, bludgeoned. That happened nearly a month ago and the local cops have pretty much crapped out on solving this thing. I was kind of pally with Browley and his wife, and she’s looking to hire her own investigator. I told her, you want the best, get Plunkett and Son.”

 

I sighed. “Unfortunately, only the ‘son’ part of that is still available. Why don’t you follow up on this yourself?”

 

“Me?” Jojo snorted. “I’ve been out of the business since ‘37. Almost two decades, we’re talking. Still got a bullet in my leg as a reminder. I just hawk insurance now. For this mess, a pro’s needed. And I’ll take a Plunkett, junior or senior, any day of the week. Here’s the info....”

 

Jojo offered a few more details before I interrupted and told him I’d have to think things over. I took his number and rang off, then spent a half hour polishing my glasses.

 

* * * *

 

That evening, while slurping linguini with my fiancée Audrey at a local restaurant, I laid out the deal and sought her counsel.

 

“Are you nuts, Lee?” She tossed down her fork. “You didn’t snap that case up? A rich man’s widow wants to hire you and you don’t leap at the offer?”

 

“But it’s a murder.”

 

“A wealthy murder! This is what we’ve been hoping for, isn’t it? This kind of break? With a nice chunk of money, we could finally just do it. Get married, find some swell little place. We could—” She stopped herself abruptly and stared down at the mound of pasta. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I sound like a...”

 

“Gold-digger?” The word just leapt out.

 

Audrey smiled without mirth. “Not the word I would have chosen, but, sure, gold-digger will do. Thanks, Lee, for identifying me so succinctly.”

 

“I didn’t mean ... I only meant...” Oh, it was no use.

 

She sighed. “It’s just that we’ve waited so long.”

 

Undeniably, our engagement seemed to be a long-term proposition. We’d pledged ourselves to wed in the spring of ‘54, just after I’d joined Dad’s business and things were looking rosy. Now here it was early autumn 1956 and the deed was yet undone. There always seemed to be one obstacle or another to keep us from walking the aisle, be it money, timing, or bickering. Audrey was twenty-eight now, understandably eager to get the show on the road.

 

I took her hand. “I’m not my father. He was born for tackling murder and mayhem. I was born to take notes.”

 

“Your dad always said you took a mean note.”

 

“Yes, it was a real source of pride to him, I’m sure. Anyway, without him, I just don’t think I have the tools to take on a murder.”

 

“What if you had a cohort?”

 

“Cohort?”

 

“Someone to accompany you and bounce ideas off of.”

 

“You mean you?”

 

Audrey laughed. “Lord no! I’m quite content selling doorknobs and undergarments at the five-and-dime. I was thinking, actually, of someone we both know. Someone bearded with a brogue and stacks of old books.”

 

“Not Mr. O’Nelligan.”

 

She squeezed my hand. “Yes. Mr. O’Nelligan.”

 

* * * *

 

2.

 

In Thelmont, our modest Connecticut town, in a little pine-crowded house three doors down from Audrey’s parents, dwelt one Mr. O’Nelligan.

 

Now in his sixties, he’d emigrated from Ireland to New York with his wife twelve years before. His colorfully muddled history featured a string of professions including train conductor, schoolteacher, bricklayer, actor, and door-to-door salesman. Also, Mr. O’Nelligan had fought in his homeland’s civil war back in the twenties, though this seemed to be an episode he preferred to forget. When his wife died two years back, he left New York for Thelmont and retired himself into a life of books and conversation. Audrey and he became fast friends. I, on the other hand, on the three or four times that I’d met him, always found him kind of an odd duck.

 

“He’s a man of action,” my fiancée insisted as we approached Mr. O’Nelligan’s door the morning after our linguini dialogue. “Remember I told you about that scar?”

 

I did. Once, when Audrey had asked him why he wore a beard in these modern times, the old Irishman had muttered something about a knife scar and changed the subject.

 

“Maybe in his youth he was a man of action,” I said. “These days, he’s a man of musty books.”

 

Audrey rang the doorbell. “Be open minded, Lee.”

 

“Aren’t I always?”

 

She didn’t have to answer that, because just then a muffled voice within called out to us, “Enter, ye early revelers!”

 

This was exactly the sort of weird flourish that always made me uneasy with the old guy. I whispered to Audrey, “This is my cohort?”

 

We entered into Mr. O’Nelligan’s book-jammed front room. These early days of autumn were brisk ones, and the fireplace blazed lively. Close to the hearth, sunk in a massive armchair, sat our slender host, a book on his lap and a calm smile on his lips. I had never seen him when he was not decked out in a vest and tie; today was no exception.

 

“Many welcomes, Audrey,” he said in his Irish lilt. “And so good to see your young man again.”

 

His face was admittedly a pleasant one, with deep soft eyes and a high balding forehead. I made a quick study of his beard for any sign of old blade wounds, but the trimmed gray camouflage hid all.

 

We were gestured into chairs. A teapot and cups had been arranged on the coffee table, and Mr. O’Nelligan set his book aside and began to serve us.

 

“What are you reading today?” asked Audrey.

 

“Moby-Dick. I’m facing the perils of the open main.”

 

“You’re so well read, I would have thought you’d have already chalked that one up.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan finished pouring. “Oh, but I have, Audrey. Thrice! This is my fourth voyage upon the Pequod, and Captain Ahab is as feisty as ever. A good book always yields new riches. Now then, when you rang up, you said something about a proposition, yes?”

 

“I did,” Audrey said. “It’s a situation Lee has been asked to look into.”

 

“A situation?”

 

“Yes, a problem...” She was easing into this.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan took up his teacup. “And what style of problem are we speaking of?”

 

“Murder!” I spit the word out, surprised at my own vigor. “Murder and bludgeoning.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan paused mid sip. “Well now, that’s an honest answer.”

 

“A man was killed a month ago,” I said. “Up in Greenley, Massachusetts. His wife thinks that someone among their houseguests did it, but the facts don’t line up. That’s all I know so far.”

 

“He was a wealthy man,” Audrey added. “So there would certainly be compensation if you helped Lee.”

 

“I’m beyond compensation, my dear. But help Lee how?”

 

“You have a good mind on you, Mr. O’Nelligan,” Audrey said. “You could go and assist Lee in his investigation.”

 

Our host’s eyes widened and he turned toward me. “You favor such an arrangement, young sir?”

 

“Yes,” I said, not sure that I meant it.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan sipped his tea for a while before continuing. “By way of reply, I’ll quote, as I oft do, William Butler Yeats, the greatest of Irish bards.”

 

He closed his eyes and recited, as if in a trance,

 

“I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”

 

I raised an eyebrow. “And that means...?”

 

“It means that one must heed the call of life.” Mr. O’Nelligan placed down his cup and met my eyes. “Command me as you will.”

 

* * * *

 

Mr. O’Nelligan and I sat silently for the first twenty miles of the two hour drive to Greenley, in mutual awkwardness, before he broke the ice.

 

“This man we’re to meet, he’s an old comrade of your da’s, you say?”

 

“Jojo and my father were police detectives together in Hartford. Dad was a bit older than him. More experience and more exploits.”

 

“Ah yes,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Audrey’s told me a little about your da’s shenanigans. Nabbed a few villains in his day, I understand.”

 

“He helped haul in the Reeper Brothers. And Ugly Joe Hully.”

 

“They sound fierce.”

 

“And he almost got King Carroway. Jojo and my father were part of the team on Carroway’s trail. They’d staked out his wife at a boarding house for nearly a week. On the day they ambushed the gang, Dad was out with a flu. It turned out to be an old-time, no-holds-barred shootout. When the smoke cleared, Jojo was badly wounded, Carroway and two other crooks were dead, and the wife had escaped on a bicycle in the nude.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan took note. “A bicycle in the nude?”

 

“Yeah. Obviously quite the headline grabber. It was also the biggest regret of my father’s life—the fact that he missed out on all that.”

 

“Although, had he been there, he might have shared his friend’s fate.”

 

“That’s right,” I said. “For Jojo, it was the end of his career. A few years later, a heart attack led Dad to leave the force and move us to Thelmont to set himself up as a P.I. He figured it was a good location, partway between Hartford and New York.”

 

“And he figured being a private investigator would be a healthier lot?”

 

“I suppose,” I said. “Though another heart attack finally took him down.”

 

“And then you stepped into your father’s shoes.”

 

Not by a longshot, I thought to myself.

 

We lapsed into silence again. Eventually, I turned on the radio and “Heartbreak Hotel” filled the car.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan came alive. “Ah, I know this singer! It’s Emmet Presley.”

 

“Elvis,” I corrected. “Elvis Presley.”

 

“Yes, that’s it. I saw him on the Ed Sullivan Show last week. The lad is teeming with energy. Just teeming.”

 

“That music doesn’t do much for me. Too twitchy.”

 

“Twitchy? A young man like yourself should be open to such twitchiness.”

 

“I’m thirty-one,” I felt compelled to explain.

 

“Exactly. A young man poised on the pulse of life. By all means, twitch!”

 

We continued northward as Elvis moaned on about losing his baby and finding a place called Lonely Street.

 

* * * *

 

As planned, Jojo Groom met us at a little diner on the edge of Greenley. He was pretty much as I remembered him—slim and tall, with dark, slicked-back hair (now winged with gray) and a narrow mustache. He was somewhere in his mid fifties. Leaning on a walking cane, he limped over to our booth. The hobbled leg served as an unsettling testament to the dangers of detective work—and of facing down murderers.

 

“Lee, how’s it going, kid?” He shook my hand, then Mr. O’Nelligan’s. “And this must be the partner you mentioned.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan smiled. “I am actually more of an adjutant. Sancho Panza to Mr. Plunkett’s Quixote, if you will.”

 

“That’s swell,” said Groom without comprehension. He slid in next to my “Sancho” and stared across at me for a few long seconds. I assumed I was being measured against his robust memory of Buster, and coming up yards short.

 

After reminding me once again what a bull my pop was, Jojo kicked things off. “Okay, not that I know the whole beanhill here, but I’ll give you what I got. Our boy Clarence Browley was plenty well off—”

 

“Hold on.” I pulled out my notepad and started scribbling.

 

“Stocks and bonds, that kind of action. One of his spare homes is here in Greenley. Nothing too lavish, but fancy enough. He and his wife would spend most of the summer here. Browley liked to throw these dinner parties—small, special-invite deals—and bring in certain types. Tough guys, y’know?”

 

“Thugs?” I asked.

 

“Nah. Manly guys. Daring guys. You know, guys who were—” Groom searched for a word. “—accomplished. For example, at one party, I ended up breaking bread with a mountain climber, a big-game hunter, and a matador. Adventurous guys, see?”

 

I nodded. “So Browley chose you as one of his ‘manly types’?”

 

Jojo suddenly looked shy. “Oh, you know, on account of my earlier escapades.”

 

“Well, you did take a bullet from King Carroway.”

 

“Four bullets, and one’s still in me.” He glanced down at his leg. “Anyway, Browley finally figured out I’m less of a lawman and more of an insurance hawker these days, ‘cause after a couple invites he stopped having me over. But still, his wife Nina’s a nice, fun dame and when I ran into her recently, I said I’d try to round up some help. That’s where you come in.”

 

I looked up from my notes. “So, Browley was killed at one of these dinner parties?”

 

“Yeah, well, outside the house,” Jojo said. “Apparently, someone brained him with something heavy. But look, like I told you, I’ve been out of that circuit for a while now. I’m going to put you onto Nina Browley herself. That’s who’s Hancocking your paycheck, and she knows all the lowdown. I’ll introduce you, then get out of your hair.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan now joined in, “Would it be advantageous for us to contact the local constabulary?”

 

“You mean talk to the cops?” Jojo shook his head. “I’ll give it to you straight, the local boys aren’t too delighted about Nina bringing in hired guns.”

 

“Wait. We don’t—” I wanted to declare that Mr. O’Nelligan and I carried no guns, but Groom cut me off.

 

“And stay clear of Handleman, their chief snooper. Nina says he’s particularly nasty.” Jojo clapped his hands. “Okay, gents, ready to rocket?”

 

Can’t say that I was.

 

* * * *

 

3.

 

Nina Browley met us at the door in a Japanese kimono, a large cocktail in one hand and a machete in the other. Some people certainly know how to make a first impression.

 

“My detective!” she cried out tipsily. She looked to be halfway through her thirties, blonde, with a nice face presently distorted by alcohol. “You are my detective, aren’t you?”

 

Without waiting for an answer, she put the drink and the weapon down on a hallway table and pulled Mr. O’Nelligan inside.

 

“Sorry for the machete,” she raced on. “It belonged to my husband. I was out back in the garden attacking the weeds. You need to be thorough, don’t you? Weeds are evil. Evil! Clarence always said so. I’m an idiot with gardens, but Clarence was clever and now you’re here to avenge him.”

 

“Begging your pardon, madam,” said Mr. O’Nelligan, “but I’m not the detective. Mr. Plunkett here is your man.”

 

I entered the hallway with Jojo Groom. Nina looked me over and turned to Jojo. “But the other one is much more distinguished. And he’s English like Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Irish!” said Mr. O’Nelligan. “I’m solidly Irish, madam.”

 

Groom, true to his word, made brief introductions and promptly left. We stood alone now with the swaying Mrs. Browley.

 

“This is the last chance for Clarence, don’t you see?” She began to cry. “The police have given up. Somebody killed my husband and is getting away with it.”

 

She gave way now to trembling sobs. I was completely at a loss on how to proceed when another woman entered the hallway and put her arms around Mrs. Browley. This one was younger, probably in her twenties, very petite with wavy brown hair.

 

“There now, Nina,” she comforted. “I know it’s hard. Everyone knows it’s terribly hard.”

 

Her presence had a calming effect and Nina, after several deep sighs, stifled her crying.

 

“Let’s all go sit in the living room,” Nina said softly, “and I’ll tell you everything.”

 

I was hesitant. “Well, perhaps now’s not the most convenient—”

 

“No, I’ll be fine. You’re thinking I’m too blitzed, but I’ll fix myself, you’ll see. Paige, bring them inside. I’m going to order up one of my soothers. It’s a special concoction—orange juice, paprika, and coffee. It always straightens me out.”

 

Nina moved off in one direction as the girl called Paige led us in another. The living room we settled into was, like the exterior of the house, pretty much as Jojo had described it—not too lavish, but fancy enough. An Oriental rug, plush sofas, and shelves filled with crystal ornaments gave the space style.

 

The young woman sat across from us. “Please don’t judge Nina too harshly. After all, she’s been through so much.”

 

“Without question,” agreed Mr. O’Nelligan. “To have her husband so cruelly slain must be a great hardship.”

 

Paige nodded. “All month I’ve tried to get her to stay down in the city, but she keeps coming back up here. She says she needs to find answers. Of course, I understand. Clarence died in her arms, you know.”

 

No, we didn’t know. There was little, in fact, that we did know about this case. I got out my notepad.

 

“You’re a friend of Mrs. Browley’s?” I asked.

 

“I am. My name’s Paige Simmons, since you’re taking notes.”

 

“Were you here the night Mr. Browley died?”

 

“Yes. I was staying over. We all were, but I think Nina would be the first to tell you that I’d make a lousy suspect.”

 

“These are just preliminary notes.”

 

She smiled gently. “I don’t mean to be defensive. It’s just that the police detectives before you were so harsh. Anyway, I guess I’m what they call an ‘aspiring actress.’ More aspiring than actress, I’m afraid. I know the Browleys in Manhattan. They come here to Greenley in the summer and have people up on the weekends.”

 

Nina Browley now entered, a cup in her hand, and seated herself beside Paige. “This is my second dose. I downed the first one, and I’m already feeling steadier.”

 

I had to admit she seemed a bit more sedate.

 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she went on. “I told everyone that I was going to pay for the best investigator out there. The absolute very best. I had some prospects lined up, but then Jojo told me, ‘Get Plunkett. Plunkett’s the one.’”

 

Swell. “Mrs. Browley, please tell us about that night.”

 

She took a long sip of soother and began. “It was about a month ago, August 18, a Saturday. Clarence liked to have these dinner gatherings. He called them his ‘glory tables’ where men of a certain ilk would be invited.”

 

“Men of daring, you might say?”

 

“Yes, well put. We had three ‘men of daring’ that night: a fighter pilot, a boxing champ, and a gunslinger.”

 

“A gunslinger?”

 

“I’m being cavalier. It was Tom Durker, the film actor.”

 

“The one from the westerns?”

 

“Yes. Of course, Tom’s brand of daring exists chiefly on the movie screen. Still, he does personify American ruggedness. And he’s passably handsome.”

 

“Very handsome!” Paige amended. “And such steely eyes.”

 

“They’re not steely, Paige dear, just narrow,” Nina said.

 

I pushed on. “And the other men?”

 

“There’s Captain Webster Sands. He was a pilot in the big war, leading missions over Berlin and such. Quite the ace. And then there’s Polecat Pobenski.”

 

“What’s a Polecat Pobenski?”

 

“David Pobenski, up-and-coming middleweight fighter. Or was, I should say. He was slated to go to the Olympics in Australia as part of the U.S. boxing team, but he injured his hand. The doctors don’t think it will ever mend right.”

 

“No spouses accompanied any of them?”

 

“David’s not married. Captain Sands is divorced, and Tom Durker has a nice little wife who he left back home.”

 

“Any other guests?”

 

“Just those three,” Nina said. “And Paige here to help keep me from sinking in all that maleness. Right now, Durker’s off in Hollywood, tied up making a new movie, but I’ve asked the other two to meet you tomorrow. Pobenski’s taking the train up from New Jersey and Captain Sands will be flying in from Philadelphia.”

 

“So only you six were in the house that evening?”

 

“Well, of course, we had our cook, Mrs. Leroy, who we bring up from the city. And two local girls, the Daley Sisters, to help serve.”

 

“So, that evening...”

 

“We had cocktails, followed by dinner around nine thirty. Then everyone split up into smaller groups for cards and conversation. At about twenty minutes of twelve, several of us saw Clarence leave the house, carrying one of his swords. He was in an agitated state, but no one knew why.”

 

“His swords?”

 

“Yes, my husband was a great one for swords. And battle axes. And paintings of warriors and Vikings. Most of that stuff is back in Manhattan, but some of it has found its way here.” Nina indicated a pair of crossed daggers on the wall behind me. “So, as Clarence was heading out, he called for Ajax, but Ajax was sleeping somewhere.”

 

My pages were filling up fast. “Ajax?”

 

“Our German shepherd. I left him home this trip.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan perked up. “Aha! Ajax! Named for the hero of the Iliad. Homer describes him as being of colossal stature.”

 

Nina shrugged. “Well, he is a big dog.”

 

A woman in an apron entered the room, carrying a coffeepot. She was firmly into her fifties, slim but solid, with a no-nonsense air. “More soother, Mrs. Browley?”

 

“Yes, it’s doing wonders.” Nina extended her mug for a refill. “Mrs. Leroy, this is Mr. Plunkett. He’s come to solve things. Isn’t that comforting?”

 

The cook appraised me with one glance. “Yes, ma’am. Comforting.” She clearly was not dazzled by my potential.

 

“Oh, and that’s Mr. O’Nelligan,” Nina said. “He’s a Scotsman.”

 

“Please, it’s Irish!” the wronged Hibernian pleaded. “I’m an Irishman from scalp to soles.”

 

Our hostess smiled innocently. “Would anyone else like some soother? You don’t have to be pickled to enjoy it.”

 

We all declined, and the cook exited.

 

“Anyway, Clarence went out alone,” Nina said. “At twelve, I led everyone in a raid on the refrigerator. Midnight snacks, you know. It was then, just after we entered the kitchen, that Tom Durker saw my husband outside the window. Clarence was tapping with his sword, though as soon as he was seen, he hurried away. Tom asked if we should go find him, but I said, ‘Don’t bother.’ I figured if Clarence wanted to play games, then let him. About ten minutes later, I changed my mind, grabbed a flashlight, and went by myself to look for him.”

 

“No one offered to join you?” I asked.

 

“Some nice Merlot had just been opened, so everyone was distracted. And, of course, I never would have imagined anything dangerous...” She trailed off and lowered her eyes.

 

“Please, go on,” I coached.

 

She continued in a more subdued manner. “I walked down to the Roost, Clarence’s getaway place, thinking that’s where he’d probably gone. It’s the little building on our property just over the hill. It’s not so far, but you can’t see it from the house. I found him there sprawled on his back, just outside the open door. His sword lay under him, just useless. His forehead was all blood.” She touched her own forehead in a gesture that I frankly found chilling. “And, though I didn’t know it at the time, the back of his head was, well, the blow had...”

 

Paige reached over and took her friend’s hand. “She’s had to tell this so many times, over and over again, for the police.”

 

“But Mr. Plunkett needs to hear it,” Nina said. “Clarence had been struck twice on the head. Once in front, once in back. Hard. The weapon was never found. I knelt down and tried to cradle him. I asked who did this to him, but I couldn’t make out what he said. Then he raised his hand and pointed up here. You have to understand, it took his last spark of life to do it. He pointed and I asked if it was someone from the house. Then he said it. Clearly. He said, ‘Yes.’ A minute later, he was gone. I cried out for help and people came soon after.”

 

Her narrative conveyed, Nina Browley now seemed to deflate. The alcohol and the emotion—and perhaps the paprika-laced soother—had combined to bring her to a state of exhaustion.

 

“That’s the gist of it, Mr. Plunkett,” she said heavily. “If there’s anything else, perhaps tomorrow...”

 

“Certainly. We’ll be staying for the next few days at the Greenley Inn. We’ll come by to see you again tomorrow morning, say ten o’clock?”

 

Nina waved a hand at us, presumably in assent. Her eyes slid closed and she spoke as if to herself, “The police say it was just some unknown robber. That no one from the house could have done it. But Clarence said ‘yes.’ He said ‘yes.’”

 

Paige led us back to the front door. “Nina’s a fun, energetic person, but she can be pretty up-and-down, even at the best of times. This ordeal has just pushed her to the brink. She’s been wound up all afternoon about your coming and, unfortunately, got herself snockered.”

 

“We understand,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Just one more question before we part, Miss Simmons. Why do the police believe it’s impossible for someone from the house to have killed Mr. Browley?”

 

“Because we were all together in the kitchen during that fifteen minute period when he was attacked.”

 

“Fifteen minutes?” I asked.

 

“Yes,” Paige said. “The time between when Clarence was seen at the kitchen window up to the time when Nina found him by the Roost. It was only fifteen minutes. But I suppose that’s enough time to kill somebody, isn’t it?”

 

* * * *

 

4.

 

On the drive to the inn, we talked things over.

 

“What do you make of our Mrs. Browley?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

 

“Seems like a living rolling coaster.”

 

“Ah! You do have a touch of the poet in you, Lee. Of course, what we observed must be seen in the light of her situation. The murder of one’s spouse would be a devastating thing. And, too, she was in the grip of strong drink.”

 

“Sure, but Paige said it was par for the course, didn’t she?”

 

“And what do you make of Miss Paige Simmons?”

 

“She seems like a nice sincere girl.”

 

“But an actress.”

 

“Can’t an actress be a nice girl?” I asked.

 

“Certainly. I have known several virtuous ingénues from my own time before the footlights.”

 

“That’s right, you were an actor yourself.”

 

“For a short spell. But, unfortunately, my parts in New York were mostly of the ‘stage Irish’ variety. Deplorable caricatures dripping whiskey and sentimentality. I had to utter the phrase ‘saints preserve us’ so many times, I nearly choked.”

 

I laughed. “Well, you’re safe from the footlights now.”

 

“I am. But what I meant to convey is that Miss Simmons is by vocation an actress and, thus, presumably capable of putting on a facade.”

 

“So you think she isn’t so nice and sincere?”

 

“I don’t mean that. I was merely saying that we should be nimble in our interpretations.”

 

I decided to come clean. “You see, Mr. O’Nelligan, that’s my problem—I’m not all that nimble. The deduction part of things is where I fall flat. I can take down the facts, all neat and legible, but as far as interpreting them, well, I’m no Buster.”

 

“Nor should you be! You’re your own man, Lee Plunkett. And ‘neat and legible’ is a fine place to start things out. By all means, herd in those facts. Then peer at them in the light of reason and see what rises to the surface. But may I make a suggestion?” Mr. O’Nelligan smoothed his beard. “It’s about your notebook...”

 

“What? I told you, note taking is my one discernable skill.”

 

“Of course, but the way you bury your face in it.”

 

“So, no notebook?”

 

“I’m not saying that, boyo. You just might want to pop your head up from it occasionally. Don’t let it separate you from the humanity of those you’re interviewing. As the expression goes, you want to see what ‘makes them tick.’”

 

“Duly noted.”

 

“Aha! Clever.”

 

“And may I make a suggestion? I noticed you didn’t ask many questions back there.”

 

“I didn’t think it was my place to. My instructions were to assist. I don’t wish to be treading on your toes.”

 

“My toes can take it. Anyway, I’d be happy if you were to ask these people whatever you think needs asking.”

 

“As you wish, Lee. From here on out, my queries will gallop free.”

 

* * * *

 

We checked into the Greenley Inn and went upstairs to find our rooms. There, blocking the hallway, stood a behemoth in a crumpled trench coat, with no love for us in his eyes.

 

“Which of you is Plunkett?”

 

“He is,” Mr. O’Nelligan was quick to say.

 

“I’m Handleman.” He had a good half foot on me and used every inch of it to intimidate. “I’m heading up the Browley investigation. Or at least I was. Seems like you’re the new golden boy who’s here to crack the case.”

 

“I’m not golden,” I said stupidly.

 

Beneath the low brim of his hat, Handleman’s eyes turned to bullets. “Don’t screw with me. You ask around. Anyone’ll tell you, Don’t screw with Handleman. I was born a little crazy, and I like it that way. Here, take this...”

 

His hand darted into his coat pocket, and I fairly leapt back, bracing for the sight of a gun muzzle.

 

“Jumpy little bastard. What’s your problem?” The hand slid out and pushed an envelope in my face. “My chief told me I had to give you this. Goddamn typical. The Browley woman squawks to the mayor, so he leans on the department to pass our info to some punk private dick.”

 

“You’re sharing your files with us?”

 

“Fat chance,” Handleman said. “I only coughed up what I had to, but you should be kissing my size fourteens for even giving you this much. If you’ve got half a brain, you’ll realize this was a robbery gone ugly, nothing more. Browley stumbles on the thief or thieves, they get spooked, crack open his skull and vamoose with the shield. Plain as vanilla.”

 

“Shield? What shield?”

 

“Beautiful! Golden boy hasn’t done his homework. The gem-studded shield that Browley kept in his ‘roost,’ that outbuilding of his. When his wife gets there, Browley’s sprawled at the door and the shield is missing—a heist, plain as goddamn vanilla. The wife thinks the theft was just a cover-up for something else, but she’s nutty as they come. The thieves will foul up eventually, leave a trail, and I’ll collar them. That’s how it works. Get it, nimrod?”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan stepped forward. “There’s no need for animosity here, sir. Can we not consider ourselves colleagues in this venture?”

 

“Who the hell are you? His goddamned leprechaun?” Handleman shoved past us and pounded down the stairs.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan shook his head. “A sour man, that one. A pitifully sour man.”

 

* * * *

 

Over supper in the inn’s near-empty dining room, we perused Handle-man’s notes. As promised, they were minimal, mostly confirming the timeline that Nina had already given us—including the significant quarter-hour between twelve oh five and twelve twenty when the victim was unaccounted for. During that interval, all the other persons of the house were gathered together in the kitchen, the exception being the two young serving girls, who had left just before eleven thirty and were immediately picked up by a carload of relatives.

 

The only gap in timing concerned Pobenski, the boxer. He had come to the kitchen like the others, but about five minutes later. That is, five minutes after Browley had been seen at the window. Was that enough time to hurry down to the Roost, dispatch Browley, steal the shield, and make it back to the kitchen? The police thought it unlikely, and it was hard to argue otherwise.

 

We were just finishing up some homey cherry pie when a man in a brown leather jacket strode into the room and made a beeline for our table. “Which of you is Lee Plunkett?”

 

Not again. This time I offered myself directly. “I’m Plunkett.”

 

“All right.” He dragged a chair over and dropped into it. “I’m Sands.”

 

“Captain Webster Sands?”

 

“My reputation precedes me.” He pulled out a cigar and fired it up. His lean, lined face marked him as a man of roughly forty, but his blond curls suggested the word boyish.

 

“Mrs. Browley told us you were due tomorrow.”

 

He spoke briskly, “Yes, well, I finished some business I had and flew myself up early. I like making a landing at sunset. It’s peaceable. Just caught a cab here from the airfield.”

 

“Have you contacted Mrs. Browley yet?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

 

“Who’s this?” Sands wanted to know. Thankfully, this time there was no mention of leprechauns.

 

I introduced my companion and repeated his question.

 

“I’ll call Nina tomorrow,” Sands said. “I grabbed a room here, and I just want to settle in. I’m bushed.”

 

“You’re not staying at the Browley residence?” I asked.

 

Captain Sands blew out a stream of smoke. “Hell, no. Nina doesn’t want anyone who was at that party lurking in her house at night.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Hasn’t she told you? She thinks one of us beat Clarence to death.”

 

“What would make her believe—”

 

Sands shoved back his chair and shot to his feet. “That’s it for tonight. I told you I’m bushed. Just stopped over to let you know I’m around.”

 

“We’ll need to speak soon,” I said.

 

“Listen, I’ll tell you straight up, I’m only here as a courtesy to Nina. I answered all the cops’ questions last month and didn’t much like it. Those goons were pretty damned arrogant. We can talk tomorrow, but on my terms. Take Route 2 west out of town for about seven miles. Little yellow building on your left.” He turned and marched off, calling over his shoulder, “Be there one p.m.”

 

“Abrupt fellow,” Mr. O’Nelligan observed.

 

“And one used to getting his way, I suspect.”

 

“Our dramatis personae are proving to be quite piquant, wouldn’t you say?”

 

I took a last bite of cherry pie. “If I knew what that meant, I’d probably say yes.”

 

* * * *

 

5.

 

That next morning, we drove onto the Browley grounds at ten o’clock, ascending, as we had the day before, the long, winding driveway to the house. We were greeted at the door by Mrs. Leroy, though greet might be too strong a word.

 

“Is Mrs. Browley up?” I asked.

 

“Up and out,” the cook said brusquely. “She took Miss Simmons off to town an hour ago for breakfast. Why she did that, I couldn’t say. My breakfasts are always hearty.”

 

“That goes without saying, madam.” Mr. O’Nelligan trotted out his best Irish lilt. “You have the air of a woman who runs a formidable kitchen.”

 

The effect of this compliment was immediate. Mrs. Leroy’s face softened into something akin to handsomeness, and a thin, but welcoming smile touched her lips. “Well, do come in and sit.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan proffered his own charming smile. “Actually, good lady, may we, by chance, see your work domain?”

 

“Why, of course.”

 

We were led through the dining room with its long oak banquet table—no doubt the gloried one—into a large kitchen, immaculate and well-organized.

 

I sized up the space. “So, this is where Mrs. Browley and her guests were when her husband appeared at the window?”

 

“It is, indeed,” the cook said.

 

“And you were here, as well?”

 

“Yes. I was finishing my cleanup when Mrs. Browley burst in with the others. She was coming to raid the icebox, as she sometimes does.” Ob-viously, the woman did not approve of such frolics in her realm. “Then almost immediately Mr. Browley was spotted at the window by Mr. Durker, the actor. He was the only one close enough.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan moved to the one window that looked out onto the front lawn. “This one, yes? But tell me, Mrs. Leroy, it seems that at night it would have been hard to truly see anything outside.”

 

“There’s an outdoor light that was on then. Also, the moon was just a couple days shy of full. It was actually quite illuminated out there. And Mr. Durker’s face was only inches from the glass.”

 

“I see,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Had Mr. Durker imbibed much at that point in time?”

 

“As it turns out, Mr. Durker is a teetotaler. Quite rare, I imagine, for those Hollywood people. So, he wasn’t impaired, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

 

“Very good. Now, I believe Mr. Browley tapped his sword on the pane. Did you hear him?”

 

“No. It was terribly noisy in here. Mrs. Browley and her guests were rather—” The cook made a diplomatic choice. “—rambunctious.”

 

“I see,” said Mr. O’Nelligan. “And where was everyone situated at that moment?”

 

“Well, I myself was bustling about dispensing food, and the others were all clustered around the table there.”

 

Given the room’s layout, it seemed unlikely that someone at the kitchen table would have had a view of anything out the window.

 

“And Tom Durker?”

 

“As I’ve said, Mr. O’Nelligan, he was over near the window, right where you’re standing now. He told us he saw Mr. Browley just outside, but Mr. Browley had already darted off.”

 

“Though no one else can verify that.”

 

“No, but Mr. Durker seems like an honest man. I can’t say I care much for his motion pictures—too much gunplay and fistfighting—but the man appears trustworthy.”

 

“And what do you base that on?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

 

The cook gave a little shrug. “Just the cut of the man, I suppose.”

 

“Ah, I understand you, madam,” said Mr. O’Nelligan, gazing out the window. “Sometimes one just knows the worth of a being. Back in County Kerry, I had a neighbor who could judge a cow’s milk capacity just by pinching its ear. Downright infallible he was, don’t ask me how.”

 

A phone rang in another room. Mrs. Leroy excused herself and left to answer it.

 

I turned to my cohort. “I have to agree with the police. It had to be an outsider. Everyone from the house is accounted for during the time of the attack, right here making merry. By the way, good job working your Irish wiles with the cook lady. Not a bad-looking woman, really, in a severe sort of way. I believe you noticed.”

 

The old widower blushed so vividly that I regretted my ribbing. “Enough with your nonsense. Now, back to the facts. Yes, it does seem to be a closed equation. But since your client feels differently, I think we owe it to her to proceed in our inquiries.”

 

The cook returned. “Mrs. Browley phoned to say she’s running a little late. Feel free to explore the grounds if you wish.”

 

“We were hoping to see the Roost,” I said.

 

“When you step outside, it’s a little walk over the hill. You’ll have to wait for Mrs. Browley, though, if you want to get inside. There’s only one set of keys and she has them. It used to be that Mr. Browley kept them on his person at all times, but now...”

 

According to Handleman’s notes, those keys were found in Browley’s pocket after his death, the assumption being that the thieves never possessed them and had, instead, somehow picked the locks.

 

“Have you been in the Roost much yourself, Mrs. Leroy?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

 

“Heavens, no. It was Mr. Browley’s special place. He had it built when he bought the place three years ago. I don’t think that even Mrs. Browley has been inside more than a few times.”

 

“What do you suppose he did there?” I asked.

 

“He slept there at night,” the cook said. “Not when guests were staying over, during his glory tables, but all the other evenings.”

 

That grabbed my attention. “How do you know this?”

 

“Because I’m always here. I have my own little room just off the kitchen. I’d see him go out and return in the morning.”

 

“So he didn’t sleep with his wife most nights. Is that how it was back in New York, as well? I mean, were there matrimonial concerns?”

 

Her voice tightened. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. I don’t bother with what others do in their privacy.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan caught me by the arm, like a stage manager giving the hook to a failing vaudevillian. “We’ll go explore now,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Leroy, you’ve been kind beyond belief. When Mrs. Browley returns, have her bring us down the keys, will you?” He bustled me out of the house.

 

“What’s our hurry?” I asked.

 

“I’m saving you from a thrashing! Didn’t you see the fire in the woman’s eyes? After all, you’re probing the bedchamber of those who pay her wages.” Mr. O’Nelligan was clearly displeased with me.

 

“But I’m obtaining useful information. And, did you notice, I never once brought out my notebook.”

 

“Yes, admirable restraint on that front. But listen, lad, when you go brandishing about terms like ‘matrimonial concerns’ you’re likely to rile up proper folks. That wasn’t a showgirl you were talking to back there.”

 

I had to laugh. “You’re coming off a bit prudish, Mr. O’Nelligan.”

 

“Propriety and prudishness are two different beasts, I assure you. Now, in regard to the Browleys sleeping separately, it may not signify much. I knew an old farmer named Finnerty who slept in his barn while his wife kept to the house. He swore it wasn’t out of animosity, but kindness, for he snored like a freight train. They were married sixty-odd years and still held hands when strolling.”

 

A several-minute walk brought us in sight of the Roost. It proved to be an unusual building, round and made of stone, with several barred windows, one facing in the direction of the main house. As we came up to the small citadel, a tall figure in a long dark coat and fedora appeared from behind it. For a fleeting, illogical moment, I imagined it to be Clarence Browley himself, returned to the scene of his death.

 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to jump out at you.” He was a young man with a good face, if you discounted the somewhat flattened nose. “The train station’s not far from here, and I decided to walk. I’m David Pobenski.”

 

“Polecat.” The word leapt to my lips.

 

His smile had a touch of sadness to it. “Sure. At least, I used to be Polecat.” He held up his left hand to display three of the fingers curled in upon themselves. “Not much call for a one-fisted boxer. A few months back, I severed a couple tendons on a table saw. Pretty stupid of me. I was making a gift for my nephew, and ended up trading the Olympics for a wooden toy truck.”

 

I told him who we were and that we’d like to ask him a few things.

 

“That’s why I came up,” he said. “But I have to be honest with you, I think Nina’s just grasping at straws. I mean, I know this thing has thrown her for a loop, but the police called it a robbery, and that’s seems to fit the bill.”

 

“A second look never hurts,” I said. “Can you tell us your view of that night?”

 

“Sure. I got to the house by about seven. I was the last to arrive. Paige and the Browleys had come up the night before, and Tom Durker and Captain Sands had made it in about an hour before me.”

 

“Together?”

 

“Yeah. Sands had picked Durker up at New York International and flown him the rest of the way in his own plane. We all hung out for a while, had cocktails, and sat down to dinner around nine thirty.”

 

“You three were all members of Clarence Browley’s glory table, were you not?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

 

Pobenski grinned. “You make it sound like an official club, with rules and uniforms. It was more like Clarence surrounding himself with sports guys and adventurers and such.”

 

“No other purpose?”

 

“He just enjoyed having people like that around, to hear their stories and live a little through them, I guess.”

 

“You were a frequent guest at these gatherings?” I asked.

 

“I guess I was in the rotation. Captain Sands too. I think for Tom Durker, that was his first time. Anyway, it was a long dinner, and afterwards we sort of scattered through the house. I ended up in the living room, playing cards with Nina and Paige.”

 

I snuck out my notebook for an inoffensive jot or two. “How long did you play for?”

 

“Maybe forty-five minutes. At one point, Clarence stopped in looking for his dog, and he seemed upset. The dog wasn’t there, so Clarence hurried off down the hallway. We heard the front door slam.”

 

“And this was at eleven forty, yes?”

 

“Sounds right. After Clarence left, we played some more. Then, just when the midnight clock chimed, Nina tossed all the cards in the air and said we should go on a food raid. She rounded up everybody and headed to the kitchen.”

 

“But you didn’t join them immediately?”

 

“I’d stopped to pick up all the cards off the floor. I’m told I got there about five minutes after they did.”

 

“So you weren’t in the kitchen when Browley was seen at the window?”

 

“No, but people were talking about it. Tom Durker said Clarence was acting strange, that he hopped away when Tom saw him. A little after I got to the kitchen, Nina went out to find Clarence. Then we heard her scream for help, and all three of us guys ran outside. Paige too. When we got to the Roost, Clarence was bloodied up, already dead, and Nina was holding him in her arms. Right there.” Pobenski pointed to the earth just before the door. “It wasn’t a nice thing to see.”

 

“So here he expired,” Mr. O’Nelligan said as we gazed down at the spot. “There is always something somber about a place where the soul has fled the body.”

 

He closed his eyes and I noticed his lips slightly moving. It took me a moment to realize that he was reciting a prayer.

 

* * * *

 

6.

 

“Hello!” a voice called from up the hill. We turned to see Paige Simmons approaching us.

 

“Nina sent me down with the keys. She can’t bear to come near this building anymore.” Paige passed me a ring of keys, then extended her hand to Pobenski, who accepted it with a shy smile. “Good to see you again, David.”

 

After a bit of figuring, I managed to undo the three door locks. If robbers had indeed picked their way in, they must have done it skillfully, for none of the locks seemed damaged.

 

I pulled open the heavy oak door and we stepped inside. The room was sparsely furnished: a single bed, nightstand, table and chair. All basic, all oak. A burgundy rug covered the floor. The curved walls, also paneled in oak, contained two paintings, one of a medieval battlefield, the other of a man with a knife fighting a tiger. A kind of bolted metal bracket, slightly bent, was positioned just above the bed.

 

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.”

 

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 my 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.”

 

“That’s a good sign.”

 

“Got a bit of a headache too.” I gingerly touched my skull and found it to be bandaged.

 

“You’re lucky to be alive, Lee, after being hit so hard. When Mr. O’Nelligan called me, well, I don’t want to think about it.”

 

“Thanks for coming.”

 

“What? You think I’d stay home and twiddle my thumbs while my fiancé’s lying unconscious?”

 

“No, I guess not.” I made a mental note to finally marry this girl.

 

* * * *

 

That night’s gathering commenced in the Browley kitchen where Mr. O’Nelligan had asked us to convene. Audrey and I sat at the table with Nina and Paige Simmons (who couldn’t seem to look me in the eye). Webster Sands leaned against a counter, puffing on a thick cigar, while Mrs. Leroy passed among us offering snacks. Most surprisingly, over near the window, stood a man I recognized as Tom Durker.

 

Like a maestro stepping before his orchestra, Mr. O’Nelligan entered the room and started things off. “Thank you all for your indulgence. I especially wish to acknowledge Mr. Durker for flying all the way from California on such short notice. A long trek, to be sure.”

 

“A very long one,” Durker concurred.

 

“And it goes without saying that everyone is pleased to see Mr. Lee Plunkett here safely among us after his encounter last evening.”

 

All eyes turned to me, and I did feel a little like a revived corpse.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan continued. “As Lee has been hindered by his injuries, I will, with his permission, speak on behalf of our investigation.” He looked to me for confirmation; I gave a little nod. “Very well then. I’ll try to present the facts of the case as delicately as possible, but with the understanding that the search for truth must be unflinching.”

 

The man’s time upon the stage had obviously served him well. He proceeded with poise and flourish. “Presently, I’ve been enjoying a rereading of Moby-Dick and have found parallels between that superb tome and our investigation. In Melville’s novel, as Ahab pursues the white whale, the narrative offers many side trips—forays into biology, philosophy, etymology, et cetera—before arriving at the climax. But all these diversions ultimately serve the narrative. Likewise, as we sought the truth of Clarence Browley’s murder, we’ve had to take various side trips, which, while not directly leading to the resolution, nonetheless helped us see the grander picture.”

 

Captain Sands discharged a hefty smoke ring. “We didn’t come for a literature lecture. Can’t we keep this brief?”

 

Nonplussed, Mr. O’Nelligan pressed on. “In Ahab’s tale, it is his nemesis who finally prevails. Hopefully, our outcome here will turn out differently. Now, the kitchen in which we presently congregate is, in many ways, the heart of our story. It is here that Clarence Browley was viewed at the window, an event of great significance to our case. Let us lay out three assumed facts. Fact one: Tom Durker saw Clarence at the window at roughly five minutes after midnight.”

 

Durker spoke up. “Saw him and heard him. He was tapping with that sword of his, and then scooted off when he caught sight of me.”

 

“Yes, that has always been your testimony,” said Mr. O’Nelligan. “Fact two: When Mrs. Browley discovered her dying husband at twelve twenty, he indicated to her that someone in the house was his assailant. These first two facts combine to limit the possible attack time to a fifteen minute interval. And fact three: During those fifteen minutes, everyone who’d been at the house that night was assembled here in the kitchen. Everyone, that is, except for three people—two being the Daley sisters, who left by eleven thirty in a car filled with relations—and one other, who had arrived five minutes late to the kitchen. The same man who last night struck down Lee Plunkett.”

 

Paige Simmons let out a pitiful groan. “David can’t have done these things. It’s just not in him.”

 

“I disagree,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “And, yet, I also agree.”

 

I now threw in my two cents. “It was Pobenski! No question it was Pobenski who hit me.”

 

“That part is undeniably true,” my cohort conceded. “But it was the action not of a murderer returning to the scene of his crime, but rather of a fugitive, desperate and falsely accused, who was startled in the darkness.”

 

Paige nearly jumped out of her seat. “Yes! You believe he’s innocent.”

 

“I do not believe,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “I know. Pobenski is innocent. Innocent, but foolish, for had he simply remained in custody, the probings of Plunkett and Son would have inevitably freed him. Am I wrong in surmising, Miss Simmons, that you know young Polecat’s present whereabouts?”

 

Paige lowered her eyes. “I ... I do. He left a note in my car.”

 

“I’m not shocked to learn that. No doubt, he came here last night in an attempt to assure you of his blamelessness. When we are done here, you may contact him and tell him to present himself. Of course, he’ll still have to clear things with the authorities—and with the man he knocked out.”

 

Again, all eyes enwrapped me, most imploringly, Paige’s. I said, “If he’s innocent, I’ll let things slide.”

 

“But, wait now.” Nina Browley seemed confused (and she was not alone). “What about the gemstones? David had them in his room.”

 

“They were placed there by another party.” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Someone found the opportunity to enter the inn, pick Pobenski’s lock, and scatter the gems. Someone who wished to bring this investigation to a premature end. But let us return to our trio of facts. I say that all three cannot be mutually true. The third fact, that everyone had gathered in the kitchen, is undeniably true. Everyone is everyone else’s alibi, so to speak. I will also insist that, despite police assertions, not even an athletic youth like David Pobenski could have raced to and from the Roost and committed murder in those few minutes before he joined the others. Thus, for all practical purposes, we can place him fully with his companions during that quarter hour.”

 

“Yes!” Paige cried out again, clearly pleased with David’s ongoing exoneration.

 

Our maestro played on. “Since we know the household was gathered together, then one of our two remaining facts must be wrong. Let us first examine Nina Browley’s statement. She claims that Clarence indicated someone from the house was his killer, but could she be lying? And if so, why? One reason would be self-protection, if it was, in reality, Mrs. Browley herself who had felled her husband.”

 

“How could you!” Nina leapt to her feet. Her face became a mask of rage, and I thought she might jump the aged Irishman.

 

Paige was at her side in a heartbeat, embracing her friend like the first time I’d seen them. “How can you even say that, Mr. O’Nelligan? Nina would never—”

 

“Never!” Nina echoed. “Why, I’m the one who paid you to come! Why would I do that if—”

 

“Madam, madam,” Mr. O’Nelligan reached out and gently placed a hand on Nina’s cheek. The unexpected gesture seemed to calm her. “Please, take ease and allow me to proceed.”

 

The two women returned to their seats and Mr. O’Nelligan continued. “Mrs. Browley makes a compelling point. If she was the guilty party why then would she bring in investigators? As a courtesy to our client, we shall assume, for the time being, that she’s telling the truth.”

 

“I would hope so,” Nina mumbled.

 

“As we journey across the landscape of this case, we must constantly ford rivers of doubt to get from one point of understanding to the next. Sometimes, we find solid bridges—solid information—by which we can progress. Other times we must simply gird our loins and leap for the farther side. Leaps of faith, as the saying goes. We then trek on until such time as our faith seems ill-founded. When that happens, we must turn back, leap again the previous river, and find a new place to cross.”

 

“Listen, old man,” Captain Sands grumbled. “What the blazes are—”

 

“Hear me out, sir!” demanded Mr. O’Nelligan, cutting off any potential complaint about philosophy lectures. “Let us presume, until compelled not to, that Mrs. Browley is without guilt here and that she spoke the truth regarding someone from the house being the assassin. We are now forced to conclude that our remaining fact is the false one. Tom Durker cannot have seen Clarence at the window.”

 

Durker huffed. “Are you saying I’m lying?”

 

“Why would one lie about seeing Clarence alive?” Mr. O’Nelligan mused. “Well, perhaps to cover up the fact that he himself was the assailant and had already left Clarence for dead.”

 

Durker puffed up his chest. “I didn’t fly all the way here to take this kind of bull. I’ve got a barrelful of L.A. lawyers I can sic on you.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan held up a hand. “Don’t rush to conclusions, Mr. Durker. The truth is, I believe you were honestly mistaken about seeing Clarence. Yesterday, Mr. Plunkett and I took in one of your westerns. Sagebrush Ambush, it was called. An admirable piece of filmmaking.”

 

Pride replaced anger in keeping the actor’s chest swelled. “That’s my latest. I sure raise hell in that one.”

 

“Unquestionably. I did have a motivation, besides my love of cinema, in wanting to see one of your movies. It was something mentioned by Mrs. Browley and Miss Simmons regarding your eyes.”

 

“Well, women do say I’ve got commanding eyes.”

 

“One would argue that at his own peril.” Mr. O’Nelligan stepped over to the window, looked out, and gave a gesture of beckoning, apparently to someone near the front of the house. “Ah, Detective Handleman has arrived.”

 

Nina scrunched up her face. “Handleman? What’s that Neanderthal doing here?”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan turned away from the window. “Actually, he’s come per my request. So, as I was saying, the women were disagreeing on how best to describe Tom Durker’s eyes. One saw them as steely; the other called them narrow. After seeing you on the screen, the word I would hold out for is squinty. Mr. Durker, are you, by chance, nearsighted?”

 

The cowboy hero’s face dropped. “Well, I ... I mean...”

 

“That’s it!” Nina Browley cried out. “I thought there was something about his stare. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it’s obvious now. Do you wear glasses, Tom?”

 

“Sometimes,” he said quietly. “Look, don’t tell anybody. No one wants a half-blind gunfighter. But I swear, I did see Clarence outside this window. I saw his face, his sword. Even with my lousy eyes, I couldn’t just see someone who wasn’t there.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan nodded in agreement. “That’s exactly what I said to myself. With the outside light on and a full moon in the sky, it seemed impossible that even myopic eyes could perceive a nonexistent man. Then, on the ride back from the film, something occurred to me. What if the man Tom Durker saw was not Clarence Browley at all, but someone who generally resembled him? So, I asked Nina to see a photo of her husband.”

 

Heavy footsteps could now be heard approaching us.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan did not pause. “The photo revealed a slender, dark-haired man with a thin mustache. I asked myself, does this image bring to mind anyone else involved in the case? Someone who was known to carry not a sword, but an object that could be mistaken for one? Then the answer came to me—”

 

Handleman stomped into the kitchen, followed by three uniformed officers and, in handcuffs, Jojo Groom.

 

* * * *

 

11.

 

“Jojo?” Nina Browley was on her feet again. “It was Jojo?”

 

“He does sort of resemble Clarence,” Paige said.

 

My father’s old buddy and I met eyes for a second or two. He looked quickly away. Nina started toward him, but Mr. O’Nelligan led her gently, yet firmly, back to her seat.

 

“Okay, Shamrock,” Handleman said. “It’s like you told us. When we ransacked Groom’s place, we found a bunch more of the gems, maybe the complete lot.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan met the news matter-of-factly. “Yes, I speculated that Groom might have retained the gems. Presumably, to be cautious, he was waiting for more time to pass before attempting to sell them.”

 

“Plus, we found these.” Handleman produced a ring of three keys.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan smiled. “I think you’ll find that those are a copy of the set that Mrs. Browley possesses.”

 

“They’re the keys to the Roost,” Nina said. “But how did he get them? There was only one set.”

 

“All shall be explained,” promised the Irishman. “Jojo Groom does, you will admit, bear a basic resemblance to Clarence Browley. Mr. Durker knew that Clarence was outside with a sword, so it’s understandable that he might mistake one man for the other, especially when peering with unreliable eyes through a glass pane. Although only inches separated Durker’s face from Groom’s, for someone with strong myopia, even such proximity may be a problem. What was actually a cane in Groom’s hand, Durker saw as a sword in Browley’s. What Durker perceived as Browley hopping away was, in reality, Groom limping off.”

 

“Once I was aware of the resemblance between the two men, I reviewed a moment of note which occurred yesterday morning when Groom met us at the newsstand. He mentioned that on the day he first heard Buster Plunkett had died, Eisenhower had just secured the presidential nomination.”

 

“Renomination,” Webster Sands had to put in. “We’re going for term number two, remember?”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan turned to the aviator. “Ah, Captain Sands, as an ardent supporter of the president, please tell me, when was his party’s national convention held?”

 

“About a month ago, just after Browley’s murder.”

 

“That’s right. August twentieth to the twenty-second, to be exact. I looked it up. I knew the conventions were generally held in the summer, so something did not sit right with me when Groom said he’d just heard then that Plunkett Sr. had died. Why, you might ask?”

 

“I know!” I finally had something to add. “Because when Groom called me five days ago with this case, he acted as if he was just that moment learning of my father’s death, not back in August.” I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this before.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan looked at me with what seemed awfully like paternal fondness. “Behold him, good people! Maimed as he is, Lee Plunkett still contributes to the investigation.” Nice compliment, but I don’t think he fooled anyone in regard to my deductive abilities.

 

“Hold on now,” Nina said. “Why would Jojo pretend to not know that the older Plunkett was dead? And why would he talk me into getting Plunkett and Son in the first place? I was planning to hire someone else, but he insisted they were the best.”

 

Suddenly, I understood a lot. Groom had heard that Nina was going to buy the finest private eye her considerable bankroll could afford, someone who might well succeed where the inept Handleman had not. To prevent this, Groom cajoled Nina into hiring someone with virtually no chance of solving the case—me. Through the grapevine, he’d no doubt heard that Buster’s kid was definitely no Buster. When he called me last week, had he revealed that he knew Dad was dead, it would have meant that he was seeking the unproven Lee Plunkett for a top-drawer murder case. Would I have really believed that anyone of sound mind would do such a thing? Probably not.

 

“Well? Why would Jojo bring in Mr. Plunkett?” Nina still wanted an answer. Groom himself was staring at his shoes. He wasn’t going to field any questions.

 

I met Mr. O’Nelligan’s eyes and saw that he knew what I knew. To spare me embarrassment he simply said, “Groom probably believed that the devil you know beats the devil you don’t.”

 

“So, it was all just about stealing the shield,” Paige said.

 

Handleman sniffed. “Hell, that’s what I kept telling—”

 

“Please, Detective.” Mr. O’Nelligan let him get no further. “You promised to observe in silence while I concluded my presentation here. Was that not our agreement?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Handleman did not look joyful. “Get on with it, then.”

 

Once more, Mr. O’Nelligan took center stage. “This case has proved to be one of seeming contradictions. Yes, it was a straight robbery, as the police insisted, but also it was something more. For a time, the social aspects of Clarence Browley’s life seemed to overtake the investigation. His need to surround himself with adventurous men, his relationship with his wife, his wife’s relationship with others. These things attracted our attention but, in the end, did not provide a solution.”

 

“Thank God,” Nina said sotto voce.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan went on. “We realized two nights ago that Clarence, from the vantage point of the attic, could have observed someone moving about the Roost with a flashlight. This gave credence to the scenario in which Clarence rushes out to surprise a thief at his game. We are indeed looking at a robbery, and Jojo Groom is the thief, seeking the bejeweled shield. Poor Clarence was bludgeoned before he could apprehend Groom or summon help.”

 

“But how could it be Jojo?” Nina asked. “I keep telling everyone, Clarence let me know it was someone from the house, but Jojo hadn’t been here for a couple weeks. He can’t be Clarence’s killer.”

 

“I never said he was,” said Mr. O’Nelligan. “I only said that he was the thief.”

 

He let that sink in.

 

“Wow!” This came from Audrey, who was obviously impressed by her friend’s gala performance.

 

“Here we go, then.” It felt as if Mr. O’Nelligan was ushering us onto a fast-moving carnival ride. “Since we now know the man at the window was Groom, it means that Clarence may have already been dead by then. Thus, the possible time frame of the attack now expands to include the interval after Clarence left the house up until the window incident. Of course, everything may still point to Groom—he himself could have struck down Clarence when caught in the act of thievery. Except that he wasn’t ‘someone from the house,’ as Mrs. Browley points out, at least not that night.”

 

“Exactly! Exactly!” Nina cheered him on.

 

“Yes, Groom committed the robbery—we have the gems to prove this—but did he necessarily commit the murder? We must ask ourselves, why did he tap at the window in the first place? Remember, he could not have known the kitchen would be filled with Mrs. Browley and her guests. In fact, when he saw one of them staring back at him, he fled. So, who would he have expected to see? I’ll tell you. It was someone who I believe orchestrated the theft and, when it appeared the plan was about to be thwarted, followed Clarence Browley outside and brutally ended his life. Now, who here among us would we naturally expect to find in the kitchen?”

 

He paused for effect as, one by one, all heads turned towards the same person. Mrs. Leroy, the cook.

 

* * * *

 

12.

 

Standing by the sink, Mrs. Leroy said nothing. For a fleeting moment, she fixed a cold eye on her accuser, then stared away.

 

He did not let up. “In that period between Clarence exiting the house and Nina finding him, three members of the party were playing cards, while two others were together in the den. We have, in fact, only one person unaccounted for...”

 

“Mrs. Leroy.” Nina finished for him. “Right, she was alone in the kitchen.”

 

“Using my method of bridges and leaps, here is how I believe the events played out.” Mr. O’Nelligan took a deep breath to fill his sails, then voyaged on. “Mrs. Leroy had, at some earlier point, procured, by stealth, Mr. Browley’s key ring. A copy was made and the original replaced. Knowing that Browley did not sleep in the Roost when he hosted his glory tables, the cook instructed her confederate, Groom, that such a night would be best for the purpose of stealing the shield. Since the canine would be released at midnight, the robbery needed to be accomplished before that hour.”

 

I looked over at Mrs. Leroy. She stared blankly ahead, not reacting at all to the unfolding account.

 

“And so, we arrive at the night of August the eighteenth,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Groom has snuck onto the grounds, probably leaving his car below, and uses the copied keys to enter the Roost. He begins to unfasten the shield from the wall. Meanwhile, Clarence Browley, in the attic of the house, notices Groom’s flashlight below and decides to confront the intruder. A minute later, Mrs. Leroy, like the others, sees an agitated, sword-wielding Browley leave the house. She surmises that her employer has seen something in the Roost. Fearing that Groom will be discovered and her own complicity in the robbery revealed, she grabs something from the kitchen to use as a weapon.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan walked over to a rack on the wall and removed the meat pounder. “Although I don’t know for certain, I have a feeling this tool would serve as a sufficient bludgeon. Detective, I believe there are determining tests that might be applied?”

 

As he handed over the pounder to Handleman, I thought, I’ll never eat chicken cordon bleu again.

 

“Now, Mrs. Leroy has a room just off the kitchen.” Mr. O’Nelligan pointed to a door near the refrigerator. “Right through there. I took note today that her room possesses its own exit. She can pass to and fro, unnoticed by the rest of the household. And that is what she does on that night, as, meat pounder in hand, she follows Browley down to the Roost. He is standing at the entrance of the building. Perhaps he has already confronted Groom, or is just about to. Mrs. Leroy creeps up behind him and strikes hard to the back of his head. Browley falls to the ground, then rolls over on his back and sees that it is his cook who has assaulted him. Mrs. Leroy then viciously delivers what she believes to be the death blow to the front of his skull.”

 

Nina let out a low groan.

 

“Forgive me, madam.” Mr. O’Nelligan allowed a long moment to pass before resuming. “Though appearing dead, Browley will linger more than a half hour, long enough to indicate to his wife that his killer came from the house. The fact that Browley was found facing upward suggests that, of the two blows, the one from behind was delivered first. This leads me to believe that it was not Groom who waged the attack. He would probably have been confronted face-to-face by Browley and would not have had the opportunity to strike from behind. Am I correct, Mr. Groom?”

 

Jojo broke his silence. “Yeah! You got it, mister. You got everything right. I’m a thief, sure, but I’m not a murderer. I don’t have the ice in my veins for that. But she does!” Here he pointed his handcuffed hands toward Mrs. Leroy. “Believe me, that one’s cold as Alaska!”

 

The cook merely smoothed her apron and stared away.

 

“And so, the crime is done,” Mr. O’Nelligan continued. “In the aftermath, Groom, shaken by the turn of events, remains at the Roost to complete the robbery. Mrs. Leroy, a steadier hand, returns directly to her room, changing any blood-splattered garments, then enters the kitchen. Here, she perhaps even washes her weapon, for when Mrs. Browley and her guests barge in, the cook is observed ‘cleaning up.’ Soon, Groom, expecting only Mrs. Leroy to be attendant, taps on the kitchen window to inform her that his task is complete. The rest we’ve covered—”

 

“You sure know your racket!” Groom seemed so taken by Mr. O’Nelligan’s account, I thought he might applaud. “Especially the part about me being shaken up. This murder stuff isn’t my line, y’know? But, that one over there ... You know who she is, don’t you? Who she used to be?”

 

“I was getting to that. Earlier today, I made some calls and accessed some pertinent records. I discovered that ‘Dorothy Leroy,’ while legally this woman’s current appellation, is neither her original nor her married name. Born Dorothy Ritz, she became Mrs. George Carroway upon her marriage to a man better known as—”

 

“King Carroway!” I stole my cohort’s punch line.

 

“Precisely. The storied bank robber who died in a hail of gunfire some nineteen years ago.” He indicated the unflinching Mrs. Leroy. “Yes, this woman was his wife. Captured shortly after her husband’s death, she turned state’s evidence against several of his associates in exchange for an abolished sentence. Later, to avoid notoriety, she took a name which, while inconspicuous, still cryptically honored Carroway. Having learned of her inclination toward French, I’ve been able to decode her little riddle. The name Leroy is derived from the French le roi meaning ‘the king.’ Mrs. Leroy is literally King’s wife.”

 

I looked at the aging cook with new eyes. In her younger days, this woman had escaped a gun battle perched naked on a bicycle.

 

“A last question remains,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “How did Mrs. Leroy and Groom become partners in crime? Here I have no solid bridge, but I will make a leap. At an earlier glory table this summer, the ex-police detective encounters the Browleys’ cook, whom he recognizes from years before. This is, after all, the wife of the man who put four bullets in him. At some juncture, Groom perhaps threatens to reveal her unsavory past unless she pays him a certain fee. Perhaps she then makes an offer—why settle for a handful of cash when something as precious as a gem-studded shield can be obtained with her help and guidance? In this way, Mrs. Leroy turns her would-be blackmailer into her accomplice.”

 

“You pretty much got it,” Groom admitted. “I tell ya, that witch can make a guy jump through hoops. You wouldn’t know it to look at her.”

 

Mr. O’Nelligan now walked over to Mrs. Leroy and locked eyes with her. I wondered what was going through his mind. Only days ago, these two had been trading flirtations; now he was accusing her of murder. “Tell, madam, what do you say to all that I have laid at your door?”

 

Mrs. Leroy never said a word, but her eyes turned to fire. Then it all happened. She let out a high, animal scream, and a butcher’s knife appeared in her hand. It flashed across the Irishman’s chest, dropping him to the floor.

 

“Mr. O’Nelligan!” I knelt beside him, quickly joined by Audrey.

 

Mrs. Leroy ran into her adjacent room, and we heard a lock click. Handleman slammed his sizable girth against the door, splintering it open on the third try. Guns drawn, he and his men rushed in.

 

Audrey undid the top buttons of Mr. O’Nelligan’s shirt to reveal a thin red line across his chest. “She barely marked me,” he told us. “I’m all right.” We helped him to his feet.

 

I heard Handleman curse. Moments later, he stepped back into the kitchen. “We found her on the bed. She drove the blade through her own heart. One cool customer.”

 

We all just stood there, saying nothing. Then Mr. O’Nelligan walked over to the doorway of Mrs. Leroy’s room and looked in. After a moment, he recited something no doubt by Yeats:

 

“I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.”

 

* * * *

 

13.

 

The next morning, I felt well enough that Audrey agreed to leave me and return home for work. I would drive back later that day. After tying up a few loose ends with Handleman, who grumbled something at us that may have been a thanks, Mr. O’Nelligan and I stopped by Nina Browley’s one last time. We found her outside at a little table with Paige and Pobenski, who, I noticed, sat together with their fingers intertwined.

 

Polecat nearly fell over himself with his apologies for hitting me. I accepted them rather graciously, I thought, considering he darn near decapitated me. Nina presented me with a wildly generous check, then walked us to my car.

 

“This is my last day here,” she said. “I’m selling the place directly.”

 

I nodded. “I can understand why.”

 

“And, of course, I’ll need to find another cook. Who would ever have believed ... Well, thank you both for all you’ve done. We did avenge Clarence, didn’t we?” She spun away from us and headed back toward the house, whistling cheerfully.

 

“A rare creature, indeed,” observed Mr. O’Nelligan.

 

We drove home through a light, windy drizzle, the chatter of the radio in the background as we talked.

 

“We never actually learned what made Browley tick,” I noted. “What did his glory tables really mean to him? What did he and Nina mean to each other?”

 

“No, we never learned. But then, in the end, we did not need to. Let him rest with his secrets. The hearts of other men are oft a mystery.”

 

As is yours, Mr. O’Nelligan, I thought. I wondered how the heart of this old scholar-warrior was faring in the wake of what it had just passed through. I wanted to ask at what moment he began to suspect Mrs. Leroy. And had that moment overlapped with their playful banter? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t.

 

Mr. O’Nelligan continued. “We were here to solve a crime, not judge a man. As he would have wanted it, Clarence Browley perished like a knight, sword in hand. Ironically, he was slain by a king’s wife while defending his own castle. Still, to each man his glory.”

 

“Well, you certainly earned yours,” I said. “I owe you everything. All our success there was because of O’Nelligan, not Plunkett.”

 

“What are you saying, Lee?” He looked aghast. “Are you not the man who took the blow of a middleweight boxer and lived to tell? Are you not the man who put pen to paper to chronicle this case so undauntedly? Are you not the very man who dragged me from my melancholic life into this grandest of adventures? It is I, dear friend, who owe you.”

 

To Mr. O’Nelligan’s delight, a familiar voice rose again from the radio.

 

This time Elvis informed us that we were nothing but hound dogs. Hound dogs ... aren’t they trackers? Well, then, damned if I didn’t agree.

 

Selections from “The Lake Isle of Innisfree,” “An Old Song Resung,” and “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death” by William Butler Yeats.