by Michael Nethercott

“First, I will tell you the dream,” she said, her Neapolitan accent quite strong, “because I believe dreams matter, and in this one my father came to me with roses.”

When Mr. O’Nelligan responded with “Yes, dreams rise from the soul,” I had to stifle a smile. My Irish friend was, as ever, shamelessly dripping with flourish and finery. Still, his sympathetic tone did have the immediate effect of easing the sternness from the young woman’s face. With this change, it occurred to me that she was fairly lovely. Per her request, we were seated at a picnic table in an obscure little park on the outskirts of Scarsdale, about an hour from my office. It was early October, 1956, and the air that afternoon was more than a bit chilly. I turned up my collar as our prospective client continued.

“I dreamt this three days ago. At first I was not sure it was him because a deep fog was everywhere, but someone said, ‘Here comes Giuseppe Zampino.’ Then the fog parted a little and my father was standing there holding some roses. Not a full bouquet, just a couple in each hand. He asked, ‘Where are my sons?’ I reminded him they were back in Italy and he seemed relieved. Then he said, ‘It has not been safe here for me,’ and I told him, ‘I know Papa. I’m so sorry...’”

Here her voice broke a little, but she caught herself and pushed on. “He handed me the flowers and told me to plant them. He said they would grow into a whole field of roses. I said, ‘It doesn’t work like that, Papa.’ He said, ‘Oh, but it does, Topolina—’ He often called me his ‘little mouse.’ ‘You must do it for me.’ And that’s how I knew I could not let this thing rest.”

“You mean the robbery?” I asked.

“I mean his murder. When my father and I entered the gallery that morning two weeks ago and saw that the painting had been stolen, he suffered a heart attack right there at my side. The police do not consider it murder, but I do. It’s no different than if the thief sank a knife into my father’s chest. That’s why I wish to hire you gentlemen.”

“Let’s backtrack a bit.” I pulled out my trusty notebook. “When you called, you said your father ran an art gallery here in Scarsdale.”

“Yes, yes.” Donna Zampino nodded. “He was not the owner, you understand, just the manager. But he gave his heart and soul to the place.”

“Then who’s the owner?”

Her face hardened again. “His name is Stuart Worley. And he is the one I believe stole the painting.”

Mr. O’Nelligan smoothed his neat gray beard. “That is an interesting notion, Miss Zampino. Was the purloined painting the property of the artist or of Mr. Worley?”

“Worley had bought it from the artist, Gilmar Noll, for a very small sum. Also, he made Noll sign a contract to sell him his next twenty paintings. Twenty! All at the same low payment. Then Worley convinced people that Noll was the next da Vinci, so everyone would rush to the gallery to view Bursting Skull.”

Mr. O’Nelligan cocked his head. “Bursting Skull?”

“That’s the name of the stolen painting,” said Donna.

“Is it a worthy work?”

“Actually, it’s a...” The young woman paused, seeking the right word. Her lips started in on an “m” sound, and I thought she was going for “masterpiece.” I was wrong. “Mess,” she said. “It’s a terrible mess, if you ask me. But it is considered modern art.”

“Oh, right, modern art.” There was concern in my friend’s voice. “Ah, well...”

“So, now Worley is set up to sell twenty more paintings at a very high dollar. That is, once Gilmar Noll creates them. It is a profitable business, you see?”

“We do see,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “But what would Mr. Worley’s motive be for stealing a painting he already owns?”

“One reason is the insurance,” Donna said. “Worley insured Bursting Skull for quite a high amount. But there’s a more important reason. You would have to know Stuart Worley to understand. He is in love with his own abilities. He sees himself as the perfect man.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Everything is correct about him—the way he dresses, the way he acts in the world, his success as a businessman. All these things. Even his smile. I once heard him lecture my father on the proper way to do it, how exactly the lips should turn up. The man is horrible.”

I offered my own flawed smile. “He sounds it. But still, what makes you so sure he’s the thief?”

“Because it was the perfect crime,” Donna Zampino said. “The exact timing, the way the electric alarms were found disconnected just right, the fact that there is no evidence. Even my father’s death. When Worley bought the gallery two years ago, the first owners made it part of the deal to keep my father on as proprietor. But Worley never liked him. With an expensive painting stolen, Worley could have a reason to blame my father and fire him. As it turned out, it went even better for Worley—Papa died. So, do you see? The perfect man, the perfect crime.”

“It’s a compelling concept,” Mr. O’Nelligan mused. “Perfection, I mean. Aristotle, that venerable old Greek, provides a threefold definition. He claims that for a thing to be perfect it must be complete unto itself, be beyond betterment, and must have attained its purpose.”

I wanted to caution him, Let’s keep things in the current century, okay? but held my tongue. You didn’t want to get in the way when Mr. O’Nelligan was strutting his scholarship.

He went on. “I would much like to meet a man who could boast those attributes. Such a man, if criminally inclined, would, as they say, give one a run for his money.”

“He’s a lousy rotten bastard,” Donna declared. Her English was really pretty solid. “And my father was such a good man. Ask anyone. They will tell you, Giuseppe Zampino was a good man. After my mother died, he brought me to America so he could make a nice life for us. Look, I have a photograph of him.”

From her purse, she brought out a small picture of a balding, round-faced man, probably in his late sixties, with soft eyes and a gentle smile.

“Seven years here, working hard,” his daughter said. “He loved this place. He loved President Eisenhower and western movies and the New York Yankees. You know, they’re in the World Series this week. Papa was so looking forward to...”

She stopped and stared off for several moments, then fixed me with a compelling look. I blinked awkwardly behind my oversized spectacles, feeling a bit like an ensnared fly. Finally she said, “You will take my case, Mr. Plunkett?” Though she posed it as a question, I had the distinct impression that she was issuing an order.

* * * *

After gathering a few more facts, Mr. O’Nelligan and I climbed into my baby blue Nash Rambler and took to the road.

“She seems set on this Stuart Worley idea,” I said. “Maybe a little too set.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. O’Nelligan agreed. “But still, we should pursue her speculations. After all, we have tied Miss Zampino’s scarf to our wrist, so to speak, and now go to joust in her name.”

“Sure. Yep.”

What else could I say? When that old Irishman started spinning out words like a mad weaver, it was all a fellow could do to duck and dodge. Though I was the one with the actual P.I.’s license, Mr. O’Nelligan had become an unofficial partner of sorts and, I must confess, the one with the true deductive chops. I’d inherited Plunkett and Son Investigators from my late father, a bona fide tough guy nicknamed Buster, but it wasn’t until Mr. O’Nelligan came aboard that I chalked up any real success. Annoyingly, the man wouldn’t accept a dime of payment for his labor.

He continued with his reverie. “Even more enticing is the fact that we’ve been commissioned by her father’s ghost. Rather Shakespearian, no?”

“No is right! I don’t work for ghosts. Besides, it was only a dream she had.”

“Never underestimate dreams, Lee Plunkett. Do you know what Yeats has to say about them?”

I sure didn’t. But I’d bet a limb Mr. O’Nelligan did. If there was one personage he held above all others it was the Celtic bard William Butler Yeats, whom he could quote ad infinitum. (Toss in e pluribus unum and you’ve got the full extent of my Latin.)

Mr. O’Nelligan let me have it:

“I, being poor, have only my dreams
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”*

*from “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven,” William Butler Yeats, 1899

“Okay,” I promised. “I’ll do that.”

“Ah, you can’t fool me, lad. I know you have more poetry in your soul than you let on.”

At thirty-one, I believed my “lad” days were snugly behind me, but I didn’t complain. “Prepared to meet the perfect man, Mr. O’Nelligan?”

My friend took almost a full minute to reply. “Traditional Japanese builders, upon the completion of a house, will take an axe and gouge out a small piece from the timber. Can you imagine why?”

“I’m not the imaginative type.”

“I’ll tell you then. They make the gouge to acknowledge the innate imperfection of all things.”

“Intriguing. But we shouldn’t take an axe to Stuart Worley, right?”

Mr. O’Nelligan chuckled lightly. “Right. Some restraint on that front would be commendable.”

* * * *

Stepping into Worley’s Gallery of the Arts, we encountered a short, blocky man with a good suit and a bad disposition. There appeared to be very little flawless or refined about this particular specimen.

“Stuart Worley?” I asked.

“No, I’m Piker.” Every word seemed to be a grunt. “Mr. Worley’s in the back.”

“We’ll seek him directly,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “But, if I may query, what is your avocation here?”

Piker eyed my friend like he wanted to punch him in the brogue. “What’s my what?”

“Your job here,” I interpreted.

“I watch over the place.”

“You’ve taken Giuseppe Zampino’s position?”

“Yeah, more or less. But you better believe no paintings are sneaking out of here when I’m on deck. Who are you guys?”

“Private investigators,” I said.

That answer didn’t make him any cheerier. “I’ll get Mr. Worley. Don’t touch nothing.” He vanished through a side door.

“Not the most suave of curators,” Mr. O’Nelligan noted.

The gallery, which was empty except for ourselves, encompassed four rooms and several nooks and niches. The paintings and sculptures seemed pleasant enough, though my artistic standards are admittedly rock bottom. We’d barely had time to glance about when Piker returned and ushered us into a small, handsome office. He deposited us, then exited. There, staring up at us from behind a large mahogany desk, sat the gallery’s owner. Now, clearly, here was the real deal in terms of polished humanity. Stuart Worley was thirtyish, slender but substantial, with a strong jaw, wavy blond hair, and dark eyes. He fit impressively into a striped gray suit, and his purple tie and breast handkerchief lent him a dash of royalty.

“Gentlemen.” His voice was deep, but not gravelly; his intonation genteel without being delicate. In a word, perfect. “You’ve come on some inquiry?”

I noticed he didn’t offer us seats. Briefly, I explained Donna Zampino’s commission without going into the fact that Worley himself was her chief suspect.

He smiled magnanimously. “Donna is a lovely young woman. Quite intelligent, too, considering her background. But I’m afraid she suffers from—how shall I put this?—the romantic excesses of her race. She no doubt imagines all manner of high melodrama surrounding the theft of the painting. Intrigue befitting the most tempestuous of Italian operas.”

There was no denying it—this character could wield a word. Painfully aware of my limitations, I turned to Mr. O’Nelligan, who caught my eye and gave the subtlest of nods. In my head, I cried out, Sic ‘em, boyo, sic ‘em!

“Miss Zampino is of solid disposition,” my colleague began. “She is unlikely to confuse reality for either the jests of Rigoletto or the torments of La Traviata. In the wake of her father’s death, it’s understandable that she would seek answers and resolution. Towards that end, Mr. Plunkett and I have been activated. Our client believes that the police have not been exhaustive in their probe.”

Worley appraised my friend for a long moment. What he saw before him was a trim, whiskered man in his sixties, dapper in vest, tie, and tweed jacket, and keen of eye. Worley glanced my way, took in my 4F physique and saucer-sized glasses, and promptly returned his gaze to Mr. O’Nelligan. It was obvious who his natural nemesis was.

“Your accent marks you as a son of Erin,” Worley said. “It’s quite expected that you should feel an affinity for your fellow immigrants.”

“Affinity alone does not propel me,” Mr. O’Nelligan countered. “The hunt for truth proffers its own rewards. Now, how did your relationship with Mr. Zampino stand?”

“Relationship? We had no relationship. His was my employee.”

“But not of your own volition, we understand.”

“Correct. The previous owners made it a stipulation that I retain Zampino.”

“You disliked him?”

Worley flicked his hand dismissively. “Sir, believe me, I don’t waste my energies on likes or dislikes. To be honest, I found the man inoffensive, but not as poised as I would have wished. Certainly, he tried to look the part of a cultured person, but, well, never quite succeeded.”

I jumped in. “What about his replacement—Piker? He doesn’t exactly ooze culture.”

Worley sighed softly. “Agreed. But after the theft, I felt a more rugged individual was required on the premises, at least for the time being. Piker serves my present needs, and I can bring in a more well-rounded manager down the line.”

“Very practical,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Will you do us the courtesy of showing us where the stolen painting was set?”

“No harm in that. Come.”

Worley rose and led us back into the gallery. A few patrons were now strolling about, and Piker was keeping an eye on them. We paused before a small, empty alcove and Worley gestured theatrically. “Behold ... nothing.”

“Why haven’t you hung another painting here?” I asked. “It’s been two weeks, hasn’t it?”

“I’ve been waiting on the artist, Noll, to provide a new work. A quirky individual, indeed. Unfortunately for me, he seems to be at some sort of creative impasse.”

“You paid a pretty penny for that canvas,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Does its loss not distress you?”

Worley offered one of his impeccable smiles. “You must understand, gentlemen, that my personal economy rests on no single painting—in fact, on no single enterprise. This gallery is only one of my many investments.”

Mr. O’Nelligan smiled back. “Ah, yes. Many irons in the fire.”

“Many,” Worley concurred, his lips upturned just right.

I interrupted this battle of ingenuous grins. “You obviously enjoy the finer things in life, Mr. Worley.”

“Guilty as charged. But I do seek out the occasional plebian entertainment. For example, I have tickets for today’s World Series game. You’re lucky to have caught me when you did.”

“You’re a Yankees fan?”

“Why not? I like Mickey Mantle. I respect winners.”

“Who’ll be accompanying you?”

“How is that even remotely your business?”

“Just a friendly inquiry,” I said.

“It’s a beautiful woman,” he responded. “I just haven’t chosen which one yet.”

I let that pass and shifted gears. “We were told that the gallery was protected by an electronic alarm system.”

“Was and is. A very modern one, in fact. But some unknown rogue apparently breached it. Unless...” Worley gave a little shrug.

“Unless what?” I asked.

“Well, it’s indelicate to malign the dead, but only two people were in possession of the keys here and knew how to deactivate the alarms. I was one.”

I saw where this was going. “And the other was Giuseppe Zampino.”

Worley bowed slightly. “Why, you are detectives, aren’t you?”

I very much wanted to cram his sarcasm right down that smooth gullet of his, but I wasn’t the cramming kind.

Mr. O’Nelligan returned to the joust. “Yes, logic is our passion. But, tell us, sir, if Mr. Zampino had taken the painting, why then would he have succumbed to a heart attack the morning after the theft? There would have been no moment of shock to precipitate such a reaction.”

“You want me to lay this all out for you?” Worley allowed himself to look put out. “Very well then, I’ll play. Let’s assume that the Italian had indeed stolen the painting. I surmise that when he returned to the scene of the crime, the magnitude of his deed overtook him and his vulnerable heart gave out. He was, after all, a man of advanced years. Older, perhaps, than even this gentleman.” He nodded toward my comrade.

Mr. O’Nelligan nimbly sidestepped the thrust. “I’m inclined to think of my own heart not as vulnerable, but venerable.”

I wasn’t sure whether to groan or yell touché. I said, “Have you passed your theory on to the police?”

“My theory? I was simply speculating here for your benefit.” Worley adjusted his elegant tie. “Besides, I try to stay above the fray. My insurance has compensated me. I prefer to just move on.”

“Remarkably philosophical of you,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “It’s interesting that only Mr. Noll’s work was taken. Do you consider it to be of the highest caliber?”

Worley laughed with finesse. “Good lord, no. His work is a confusion. But there’s something to it that I felt I could pass off as genius. The world is always hungry for genius, and, my friends, I’m more than willing to reap the benefits of that hunger.”

The other visitors had exited the gallery, and Piker came over to stand beside his boss and scowl at us. “Everything swell here, Mr. Worley?”

“You could say that.” The perfect man favored us with a parting smile. “I think that’s all I have to offer, gentlemen. Best of luck on your quest for truth.”

* * * *

Back in the Nash, my hands squeezed the steering wheel without mercy. “Maybe taking an axe to Worley isn’t such a bad idea after all. Have you ever met a more condescending creep?”

Mr. O’Nelligan calmly pondered the question before responding. “To be truthful, I have. Back in County Kerry, I knew a newspaper editor named Horgan who was absolutely insufferable. Horgan would speak to you as if he’d created the very earth itself and you were trespassing on it. Had an infuriating way of saying, ‘You can believe that if it pleases you,’ no matter what the subject might be. Unfortunately for himself, he printed an untruth about the local blacksmith for which he acquired a broken jaw. Cured him of his condescension, though.”

“Well, I hope Worley gets a similar remedy. I’ve no doubt he’s the type who’d rob his own gallery. Just for jollies.”

“That would be a charge we’d have to meticulously prove.”

“Then—hi-yo silver—let’s do just that.”

Twenty minutes later, we were standing outside Gilmar Noll’s door on the third floor of a nondescript apartment building. Donna Zampino had given us the address, and as with Worley, we were arriving unannounced. In response to my knock, the door swung open and a tall, redhaired young woman, arms akimbo, demanded, “So who the hell are you?”

She was decked out in a clingy black dress with yellow polka dots, the neckline of which should have caused her mother dismay. Warmed by her greeting, I gave up our names and occupation.

She seemed interested. “Are you here about Bursting Skull? Did you find it?”

“You’re Mr. Noll’s wife?” I ventured.

“I’m his woman,” she said huskily. “Come on in.”

Her hips swaying like a metronome, she led us into a large jumbly room filled with several easels, a couple of paint-splattered tables, stacks of blank canvases and an overabundance of crookedly hung paintings. Noll’s art struck me as half cocked and chaotic, with dizzying sprawls of color that made me a little queasy.

Mr. O’Nelligan seemed even less enamored of this display. “Oh my,” he said softly and pursed his lips.

Something moved in a corner. We saw now that there was a man, half hidden by a pile of canvases, sitting cross legged on the floor. Skinnier even than me, he looked lost in his oversized black turtleneck and trousers. A wispy little beard was smeared across his lower face. Everything about him seemed rumpled.

“Gilmar Noll?” I asked.

“I suppose.” His voice was airy and disinterested. “At least, that’s who they say I am.”

“You’re the artist who painted Bursting Skull?”

“Right as rain.” He pushed himself to his feet. “But, what makes rain so right, anyway? Why is it more right than snow?”

“Shut up, you idiot,” Miss Polka Dots said. “These men are detectives. See what they have to say.”

“Sure, Maxine. I’m all ears. No rain, just ears.”

“Quiet!”

I studied the couple, thinking that Cupid hadn’t done his best work when he matched these two up. I explained our task and asked Noll if he had any thoughts as to who might have stolen his painting.

He yawned and shook his head. “No, but what does it matter? It didn’t belong to me anymore. My finest effort and it didn’t even belong to me.”

“Because you chose to sell it to Stuart Worley,” Mr. O’Nelligan noted.

Noll grinned at him. “You talk nice. It sounds like a little song. Say something else.”

“It’s called a brogue, you dope,” Maxine scolded. “Yeah, Gilmar sold Skull to that fancypants Worley—for stinking peanuts! Now all these artsy reviewers are calling Gil a genius, but Worley’s got the rights to everything he paints.”

“Only the next twenty works,” Noll corrected. “After that, my shackles crumble.”

Maxine snorted. “Sure. Problem is, you can’t pull yourself together enough to finish even one lousy painting.”

“I’ve got to differ with you on that, babe.” Noll gestured around the room. “I’ve produced dozens of lousy paintings. Hundreds. I’m the high duke of lousy paintings.”

Glancing around me, I couldn’t argue with that. Even within the generous definition of “modernism,” these things hurt.

“Art is a great wild thing to tame.” Mr. O’Nelligan spoke softly and kindly. “I admire any person who puts his hand to the beast. Tell me, Mr. Noll, was Bursting Skull in the style of these pictures before us?”

“Hardly.” The artist seemed to perk up a little. “That canvas was hot. Hot as a Saturday night, right, Max?”

His self-proclaimed woman grunted but said nothing.

“Oh, wait, I’ve got a photo of it somewhere.” Noll started to fumble around the room, sidestepping canvases and random objects in what proved to be a five-minute hunt. As I watched his search, I at first figured that liquor or drugs might be hindering him but quickly realized that Gilmar Noll was just naturally awkward and unfocused. Remarkably so. At last he found the photo and shoved it toward us. After eyeing it for several moments, Mr. O’Nelligan and I exchanged a glance. We were thinking the same thing: Bursting Skull looked unfortunately similar to all the other paintings around us. True, there was something in it that vaguely resembled an exploding skull, but mostly it was just an ugly splatter.

Mr. O’Nelligan spoke without cruelty. “I see. Have you any earlier works that you offered to Mr. Worley?”

“No, only Bursting Skull,” Noll said. “Can you believe it was my first completed canvas?”

Oh, I could, I could. “Have you shown any of these other paintings to him?”

“Why would I? They’re obviously not up to the standards of Skull.”

I nodded as if I believed that. “Once you sold the painting to the gallery, did you ever see it again?”

“I used to visit it occasionally. Just to see how it was doing.”

Maxine huffed. “Like pining over a lost child. Ridiculous.”

“It was my best.” Noll looked down sadly at the photo in his hand. “I don’t know that I’ll ever do anything as good again.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Maxine snatched the picture from him and tossed it onto one of the splattered tables. “I’m so sick of your moaning. If it was me, I’d have dunked twenty canvases in a vat of paint and passed them off to Worley. Then I’d have dunked another and sold it to some highbrow for a small fortune. We could be rolling in money now, but ... oh, hell!” She tossed her hands up in disgust.

Noll scratched his facial hair, walked over to a corner, and plunked himself back down on the floor. He closed his eyes and said, “I could use a nap.” And that was that.

Maxine led us back out into the hall and paused in the doorway. “Look, I know Gil’s a waste and his paintings are crap. I’m not fooling myself—he’s the most defective guy I know. But if a high roller like Stuart Worley sees something in him, then it’s smart for me to stick around. These days a girl’s got to look out for herself. You get it, right?”

“I believe we do,” said Mr. O’Nelligan flatly.

“Good. ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to come off as a sap.” She stepped back into the apartment and shut the door on us.

As we descended the stairwell, I said, “Well, I’m not sure how much that little visit was worth.”

“This case revolves around a painting,” Mr. O’Nelligan noted. “Seeing its creator gives us another angle to observe things.”

“Noll is one funny duck, eh?”

“He seems not very well planted upon the earth, I would say.”

“What do you make of his work?”

Mr. O’Nelligan drew in a breath and expelled a quote: “‘Supreme art is a traditional statement of certain heroic and religious truth, passed on from age to age.’”

“Yeats?” I guessed.

“Yeats. By that standard, I would say there’s nothing remotely supreme about Mr. Noll’s brushstrokes.”

“And what’s your take on Maxine?”

“Not a woman trammeled by excessive empathy.”

“Right. Whatever you said...”

* * * *

At Mr. O’Nelligan’s suggestion, we found a telephone booth where I called Donna Zampino and asked her to meet us again. This time she gave directions to a small backstreet lot. When I wondered about the shifting, off-the-path venues, she said that Stuart Worley had contacts throughout the town and she feared that our conversations might be overheard. It was the same reason she’d hired Connecticut investigators from an hour’s drive away. When we reached the lot, it was late afternoon and a rising wind was shoving stray newspapers down the street. The three of us stood in a little circle as I reported on our encounters thus far. I tried to soft-soap Worley’s statements, but apparently didn’t do too nifty a job of it.

“He accuses my father?” Donna’s voice leapt an octave. “That pig dares to suggest—”

I tried to backpedal. “Actually, he was only—”

“I’ll kill him! Kill him! First he does this crime, then he tries to blame Papa?”

Mr. O’Nelligan intervened with his calming lilt. “The loss of one’s father is an emotional thing, Miss Zampino, but we must navigate towards the facts here. Mr. Worley was providing that scenario in an attempt, perhaps, to be provocative. We must not jump at the bait.”

Donna slid both hands through her long black hair and let out a small groan. “You’re right, of course. I apologize. I know I mustn’t let him provoke me, but he’s such a ... such a...”

“Jackass?” I offered.

It was nice to see her laugh. “You have a sharp eye, Mr. Plunkett.”

I almost replied with something akin to “aw shucks,” but thankfully kept my trap shut.

“Please give us your opinion,” Mr. O’Nelligan beseeched our client. “Are there truly many people who consider Bursting Skull to be a work of genius?”

Donna smirked. “I wouldn’t think so. Of course, there are a number of art critics who wrote beautiful articles about the painting, but that was all Worley’s doing. He has such influence. Then there are all the people who came to the gallery to view it. Again, Worley’s work. He’s like the man at the tent who says, ‘Come in and look at all the wonders and strange beings that no one has seen before.’ Then when you enter the tent, you find that it’s all fake images and lies. He is like ... what do you call it?”

“A huckster?” I suggested.

“Huckster! Yes, huckster.” I’m not sure if she knew the word, but she seemed to like the weight of it.

“What did your father think of his employer?” Mr. O’Nelligan asked.

“Papa was a kind man. Always. He would never speak badly of another person, not even someone like Worley.”

“Though you yourself do not feel so restrained.”

The young woman’s eyes flashed. “Can you blame me? My father gave everything to Worley’s gallery. In the end, even his life.”

I told her, “We haven’t seen anything to connect Stuart Worley to the theft.”

“Then look harder! Please, you can’t let him get away with this thing.”

We parted ways with her and headed toward home. As we drove, Mr. O’Nelligan and I lapsed into silence, content to just listen to the car radio and the soothing larynxes of the Five Satins, the Platters, and Frank Sinatra. I dropped off my friend and returned to my own humble dwelling. I ate a lackluster dinner and spent some time thumbing through my notes. Turning in early, I nodded right off.

Sometime in the night, a dream came to me. It started with an absurdist bit which had me deep-sea fishing with Winston Churchill and Scarlett O’Hara. No idea what that was about. Eventually, I ended up back on land in a field of deep red roses. They’re his, I remember thinking. Giuseppe’s. It’s what he wanted. In the crazy way of dreams, plaid clouds and green-winged eagles moved overhead as a woman somewhere began singing opera. Then I woke. I’d like to say that I sat bolt upright, the solution to the Zampino case suddenly crystal clear, but that wasn’t the way of it. I merely rolled over and fell into a dreamless slumber.

* * * *

On the drive back to Scarsdale that next morning, I tried to talk over the details of our assignment. Mr. O’Nelligan, however, chose to confine himself to the occasional “hmm” or “yes, I see.” While I found this frustrating, I’d learned that my friend’s silence was not necessarily a bad thing. Something was percolating in that Celtic cranium. I flicked on the radio and soon heard that the Yankees had beaten the Dodgers the night before in the fifth game of the World Series. What’s more, the somewhat obscure winning pitcher, Don Larsen, had thrown a perfect game—no hits, no walks, no man reaching base. In professional baseball history, this had happened only five times before, and never in a World Series.

“And wouldn’t you know it,” I noted to my companion, “Stuart Worley was there to see it.”

“Perfect...” said Mr. O’Nelligan absently.

We made Worley’s gallery the first stop of the day. As with our last visit, we found the place empty except for Piker, who sat on a stool in a corner reading a tabloid newspaper. He popped up at our arrival, but not to embrace us as brothers.

“Dammit! You bums don’t belong here.” The burly lackey strode toward us, his paper rolled tightly in his fist. It made an adequate-looking bludgeon.

Mr. O’Nelligan arched his eyebrows. “Don’t belong here? Surely, any man eager to immerse himself in art belongs here. Would you thwart the passions of two aficionados?”

It was a risky ploy, but it worked. Mr. O’Nelligan’s eloquence halted the rhino in its tracks. Confounded, Piker muttered, “My boss won’t want you around.”

“We have a quick question,” I said. “Shouldn’t ruffle his feathers too much.”

Stuart Worley now stepped into the room. “I had hoped our acquaintance had run its course.”

“Nope,” I corrected. “We’ve turned up again. So, last night’s game was a doozie, eh? You’re a lucky man to have been there.”

Worley’s face darkened. “Just stick to business.”

“Fair enough. How can we contact the makers of the alarm system?”

Without a word, Worley vanished into the back and promptly returned with a business card, which he shoved into my hand.

“Dunkle Brothers Quality Alarms,” I read aloud. “They’re local, I see.”

“Yes,” said Worley. “I’m sure they’ll bedazzle you with tales of the alarm trade. Now be off.”

He was way too haughty and I was feeling feisty. “Not everyone hops to your commands, chum.”

I couldn’t believe I’d actually tossed that out, but the reaction to it was swift. Piker suddenly appeared an inch from my face, making me fear a rendezvous between his teeth with my nose. “No one calls Mr. Worley chum,” he hissed.

“Apparently not,” said Mr. O’Nelligan as he pulled me backward through the door. “Well, we must withdraw. Good day, sirs.”

He bustled us into the car just as Piker stepped out to the sidewalk and flung his rolled newspaper at me. It flew through my opened door to land on Mr. O’Nelligan’s lap. I slammed the door closed and sped off.

My comrade laughed freely. “My, that was an uncharacteristic show of bravado, Lee Plunkett. I’d say you were a split second away from fisticuffs.”

“That pretty boy gets my goat,” I grumbled.

“I assume you’re referring to Mr. Worley because Mr. Piker roughly resembles a sack of root crops. Well, at least we’ve acquired the day’s news.” He began to leaf through the paper.

I pulled out the alarm company’s business card and checked the address again. “I don’t know where this is. We’ll have to ask around for directions.”

“Aha!” Mr. O’Nelligan slapped the newspaper. “This might be it! This might very well be it. Perhaps we don’t need to visit the esteemed Dunkle Brothers after all. Pull over for a moment.”

I complied. “What’s up?”

He climbed out of the car. “I need a little stroll. Just to mull things over. Wait for me, won’t you?”

Well aware that Mr. O’Nelligan did his very best mulling while strolling, I nodded and waited. I looked over the page of the New York Daily News that my friend had been reading. It offered an account of last night’s baseball contest with the lead line, The unperfect man pitched a perfect game yesterday. This alluded to the fact that Don Larsen was not only an erratic ballplayer, but also a noted carouser. I went through the full article, unsuccessfully trying to determine what had inspired Mr. O’Nelligan’s enthusiasm.

I’d known the old Irishman to go ambling for a good two hour chunk, so I was grateful when he returned after only twenty minutes. He smiled gently and informed me that he had found a telephone booth and placed two calls—one to Donna Zampino, the other to the local police. I was given driving instructions but no real information beyond that. Such was Mr. O’Nelligan’s way. We drove on as Elvis Presley’s voice rose from the radio, admonishing us not to be cruel to a heart that’s true.

* * * *

A half hour later, Mr. O’Nelligan, Donna, and I were standing in Gilmar Noll’s studio.

Maxine was in fine form. “Why the hell do you guys keep showing up to pester us? This isn’t a bus stop, y’know. And who’s your little dolly here?”

Donna Zampino looked like she was about to slug the other woman right there and then. I rested a restraining hand on her shoulder. Noll was leaning in a corner, seemingly uninterested in our presence.

“Please bear with us,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “We’re here to offer a solution to the theft of Mr. Noll’s painting.”

This got Noll’s attention. “Really? You’ve found it?”

“Has Worley confessed?” Donna asked.

Maxine jumped in. “It should come back to Gilmar, right? After all, it was his to begin with. And if Worley—”

“Please!” Like a cop conducting traffic, Mr. O’Nelligan held up one hand. “With Mr. Plunkett’s assent, I will lay out the conclusions of our investigation.”

He looked at me and I nodded, fully realizing that any forthcoming conclusions were to his credit and not mine.

Mr. O’Nelligan smoothed his vest and commenced. “If this case of ours has a theme, it would be perfection. While recruiting us, Miss Zampino stated her belief that Stuart Worley, who presents himself as the perfect man, had himself stolen the painting from his own gallery. She felt that a perfect man was quite capable of executing a perfect theft. As Miss Zampino is our client, we approached things from that perspective.

“We found that Mr. Worley is indeed an outwardly refined individual. As to whether that refinement has trickled down into his soul, well, such a determination belongs to the angels. I myself harbor doubts. Nonetheless, Worley does come off as rather spiffy. Now, as to the stolen painting, at first glance it might seem odd that a man of lofty tastes would champion a work of such ... limitations.”

Noll stirred in his corner. “What did you say?”

Mr. O’Nelligan pressed on. “Mr. Worley admitted to us that he purchased Bursting Skull with the intention of inflating its worth. He was under no illusion as to the artistry of the work. In fact, scarcely anyone directly involved with the case believed that the painting possessed any true merit. Not Worley. Not Miss Zampino or her father. Not even Mr. Noll’s paramour.” Maxine tried to interrupt, but Mr. O’Nelligan’s traffic-halting palm rose once again. “Let me say that sometimes inspiration comes from unexpected sources. An hour ago, a newspaper flung uncharitably at Lee Plunkett here yielded up an illuminating phrase. An article describing last night’s ball game started with the declaration, ‘The unperfect man pitched a perfect game yesterday.’”

“Isn’t the correct word imperfect?” Donna Zampino asked.

Mr. O’Nelligan smiled. “Well asked. Actually, either word is proper. But to continue, the concept implied in that sentence immediately seized me. Up to this point, we had been considering the possibility of a ‘perfect’ man successfully executing the theft. We were now presented with a converse concept—that of an imperfect man achieving the perfect heist. This brought to mind someone who could be considered the antithesis of Mr. Worley. An individual who has just in the last twenty-four hours been described as quirky, flawed, a funny duck, and—by his own lover—’the most defective man I know.’ This also happens to be the one person directly connected with the stolen painting who sincerely holds it in high esteem. So, Mr. Noll, why don’t you relate for everyone how you broke into the gallery?”

Gilmar Noll widened his eyes. “Me? Why would you—”

“There’s no point in feigning innocence,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “I know how everything was accomplished, but I think it best if we heard it from your own lips. Glance out your window, if you will, sir. You’ll notice two rather sizable men leaning against a car. These are police detectives who, at my summons, will soon be coming up to search your apartment.”

Noll looked out the window, as did I. There they were, a beefy pair indeed. I’d noticed them as we entered but thought nothing of it. So this was the result of my friend’s phone call.

Noll turned away from the window and stared at Mr. O’Nelligan for half a minute before answering. “It was fairly easy really, once I decided to do it. Old Zampino was used to me stopping in at the gallery. One afternoon, I told him I was worried that someone might steal my painting. That’s when he showed me how the alarm worked, how it went on—and off. I pretended to be distracted and barely interested. That way he wouldn’t suspect anything later. Actually, I was paying very close attention.”

Mr. O’Nelligan nodded. “Exactly. But don’t forget to tell about the key.”

“That was a little more difficult,” Noll said. “I’d noticed that Zampino would sometimes take out his keys for some task or other, then place them down on a display case while he puttered around. So I took to carrying a small tin of clay in my pocket for just the right moment. I’d seen it done in a movie. One day, when the old man’s back was turned, I got a mold of the front door keys.”

“I don’t believe it!” Maxine’s eyes were opened to the maximum. “You can barely figure out how to use a can opener, never mind planning something like this.”

Noll shrugged. “Well, it’s true. After I had replicas made, I went back to the gallery a little before closing time and left when Zampino did. As I was going out, I quickly switched off the alarm. Then I came back later, unlocked the door, took my painting, and turned the alarm back on before leaving.”

“Just as we surmised,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Now, if you would please produce the painting.”

“But it’s mine. Mine!” Noll’s mouth twisted into a foolish pout.

Mr. O’Nelligan spoke as if addressing a toddler. “It would save us all some trouble if you produced the painting straightaway. Can you do that for us, Gilmar?”

Noll pressed his fingers to his eyes as if suppressing a headache. After a moment, he stepped into a side room and returned holding a large canvas. The photograph we’d seen earlier had been bad enough, but to behold Bursting Skull in all its sputtering glory was almost too much to take.

“It was under the bed,” Noll said.

Maxine looked appalled. “We were sleeping over it all along? You stupid creep!”

With a robust scream, she grabbed an empty wine bottle off a table and flung it at Noll’s head. He narrowly dodged it, dropping his painting in the effort. The bottle struck the window pane and exploded the glass.

Mr. O’Nelligan glanced out the window. “Well, that certainly got the attention of the constabulary. They’re on the way up.”

Noll stared down at his creation, not bothering to retrieve it. “I had to have it back. We belong to each other.”

Donna Zampino now stepped forward. “You took my father’s life.”

Noll shook his head. “I only took my painting.”

“No. You took his life. His heart gave out because of his sense of responsibility. If not for you, my father would be alive.”

She pressed in on Noll and raised her hands. No one else moved. For a moment I wasn’t sure if she was going to strike him, strangle him, or tear into his eyes with her long fingernails. Instead, she did something far more unsettling. She took his head in her hands and, drawing it down to her lips, kissed his brow.

She said softly, “May my father forgive you.”

This had an effect no less jolting than had she struck him outright. The failed artist shuddered and groaned and quickly pulled away from the woman. An insistent rapping now came from the hallway. Noll turned toward the sound and extended his arms, wrists upturned in anticipation of handcuffs. It was a gesture both theatric and pathetic.

Maxine wrinkled her nose. “What a sap I’ve been. What a big, dumb sap.”

Then she sashayed off to answer the door.

* * * *

With one thing and another, it wasn’t until the next evening that Mr. O’Nelligan and I were able to sit together in my office and debrief.

“How did you figure out how Noll did it?” I asked.

“I didn’t.”

“Pardon?”

“Motivewise, Gilmar Noll had risen in my mind as a likely candidate for the theft, but frankly, I feared he was too inept to fit the bill.” Mr. O’Nelligan paused a moment to stroke his beard. “Then when I saw that newspaper article, I took it as a sign, of sorts, that my theory was correct. Sometimes an unperfect man can conjure up a perfect outcome. In truth, though, I wasn’t at all positive how Noll enacted the theft. When we confronted him, I simply played the part of a confident interrogator and fooled the fellow into revealing all.”

This really delighted me. “You conniving old thespian!”

He gave a little nod. “Thank you. Although, in the end, some might see the resolution of this case as itself imperfect. It was, after all, born of a dream, a ball game, and a bluff. Deduction took a back seat to intuition.”

“Whatever works. We did our job—or, rather, you did our job—and we’ll be paid for it. Surely, you’re going to accept compensation for this one.”

“Surely, I am not,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “I’m just grateful for the chance to exercise my aging cerebrum. However, if you wish to stake me to a repast this evening, washed down by a pot of strong tea, well, I would probably acquiesce to that.”

“Three or four repasts,” I insisted. “And a barrel of tea.”

“Moderation, Lee Plunkett. Always steer towards moderation.”

The phone rang.

An excited Italian accent greeted me. “Did you hear? The Yankees won the World Series today! My father must be so happy.”

For a fleeting moment, I pictured Giuseppe Zampino atop some very high bleachers, the mists of heaven swirling about him. He had a rose in one hand and a bag of peanuts in the other.

“That’s great,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry the case didn’t work out the way you expected. Stuart Worley wasn’t the guilty party, after all. Plus, he’ll get the painting back once it’s not needed for evidence.”

“So it goes.” Donna sounded downright philosophical. “I wanted the truth and that’s what you gave me. But wait! Here’s something even more beautiful. I just found out that Worley never did get to see the perfect game on Monday. His tire blew out on a back road somewhere and he wasn’t able to find a tow truck until too late. He never made it to the stadium!”

I laughed. “Come to think of it, Worley did seem touchy when I mentioned the game yesterday. Poor little rich guy.”

She asked to talk to Mr. O’Nelligan. I passed him the phone. He listened for a while, offering an occasional “I see” or “of course.” After several minutes, he said, “You’re very welcome. Good-bye ... Topolina.”

He hung up and we sat together quietly. After a spell, we both rose and gathered up our coats and hats.

“Now let’s away to close of day,” my friend said softly.

“Yeats?” I guessed.

The Irishman sighed. “No. Merely O’Nelligan.”