CHAPTER TWELVE

 

Mr. O’Nelligan’s home always felt to me like some secret library. His living room was lined with about a billion books crammed onto shelves that reached to the ceiling. Allowing only for windows, doors, and a fireplace, this arrangement no doubt saved him a bundle on interior paint since very little wall space peeked out. There were a few amenities—a couple easy chairs, a sofa, one or two small tables, a phonograph—but the chief decoration came in the form of the books themselves, their spines creating a rainbow of clothbound color.

I’d come straight over from my encounter with Audrey, and my mood wasn’t what you’d call bubbly. To add salt to the wound, I entered to the sound of Elvis Presley posing the musical question “How’s the World Treating You?” Yes, Elvis the Pelvis—via the phonograph—was crooning on about hopeless tomorrows and shattered dreams. Just swell. It wasn’t unusual for Mr. O’Nelligan to be listening to a Presley record. After first seeing the gyrating rock-and-roller on The Ed Sullivan Show back in the fall, my sexagenarian colleague had become an ardent fan. Somehow this fit his quirky personality. For a person whose enthusiasms ran from Tolstoy to Superboy, it wasn’t surprising that Elvis held as much appeal for him as, say, Mozart or Beethoven.

My friend gestured me into one of his easy chairs, lifted the needle off the record, and settled into the other chair. “I find that starting off with my Tennessean troubadour helps ease me into the day. That and a poem or two.” He reached over and patted a leather-bound volume resting on the adjacent end table.

“Yeats?” I guessed.

“No, this morning it’s something different. You’re familiar with the works of Blake?”

I was feeling perverse. “You mean Amanda Blake? The one who plays Kitty the saloon girl on Gunsmoke? I didn’t know she wrote poetry.”

Mr. O’Nelligan narrowed his eyes. “Do you imagine, Lee Plunkett, that I don’t see through your teasing? I refer, of course, to William Blake, master poet and printmaker. The title of his grand work, Songs of Innocence and of Experience, might strike a chord for one in the detective trade, wouldn’t you say? Speaking thereof, I see you’ve come to propel us toward an early start on today’s tasks.”

“No, the opposite.” I removed my glasses for a moment to massage my eyes, feeling suddenly very fatigued. “I’m thinking of calling Sally Joan to tell her we’ve hit a brick wall and are withdrawing from the case.”

“What?” Mr. O’Nelligan sat upright. “We’re just getting our sea legs with this one.”

“This isn’t whale hunting with Ahab, you know. This is an investigation—and one that seems fairly futile.”

“I disagree! Where you see a brick wall, I see an open vista. Yesterday’s view revealed to us numerous colorful characters and intriguing tales.”

“Again, that’s all fine and dandy if we’re talking about a novel or movie. Not nearly so dandy when it’s a case that needs solving. To level with you, I’m not sure there’s even anything to solve here.”

“How can you be so convinced of that? I feel that we’ve just begun to scratch the surface of this mystery.”

“That’s because you’re a romantic. The notion of some shadowy fiend throwing damsels off rooftops appeals to you.”

Mr. O’Nelligan suddenly looked wounded, and his tone hardened. “Is that truly what you think, Lee Plunkett? That I derive some romantic satisfaction out of this tragedy? That I would view a woman’s death as some poetic amusement? Do you find me that cavalier?”

His distress shamed me. “Of course not. I’m sorry. I know you take this all very seriously.”

My friend gave a noncommittal nod, then reached over to the nearby end table and plucked up his mahogany pipe. He stuffed it, applied a match, and sat puffing silently for a minute or two. This was out of the norm, for he usually reserved his smoking for evening time, and not every evening at that. Moderation in all things—that was Mr. O’Nelligan’s motto. It was clear that my insensitivity had disrupted his routine.

I tried to make further amends. “No one would ever doubt your good intentions. After all, you’re O’Nelligan the Noble Knight. I should know—I’m your squire.”

This earned a mild chuckle from my Irishman. “Squire, is it? Certainly it’s the other way ’round. You lead and I, in a sense, merely bear your shield.”

“We both know that’s not true, but it’s nice of you to lie.”

Mr. O’Nelligan blew out a ribbon of smoke. “Before you make your final decision regarding the case, can we take a minute to review what we know about Lorraine Cobble?”

“Yeah, why not.”

“So, what we have here is a rather driven woman. An individual of noted enthusiasm dedicated to her area of interest.”

I made an effort to join in. “Though that enthusiasm doesn’t necessarily extend to her fellow humans.”

“So accounts suggest. Although Lorraine did seem to bear affection for her young cousin. Also, there’s evidence that she reached out the hand of charity to such individuals as Mrs. Pattinshell and the ancient drummer boy. The latter, by the way, I believe we should make our next visit.”

“Next visit? Don’t forget, I’m talking about dropping this case.”

“Oh, I’ve not forgotten,” my friend said dismissively. “I’m merely being speculative.”

“As for her kindness toward Mrs. Pattinshell, remember, Old Widow Spooky-Tunes had something that Lorraine wanted.”

“The ghost songs…”

“Yeah, if such things be. So it wasn’t exactly unbridled charity at play there. Maybe it’s the same deal with the old veteran. Maybe Lorraine kept him around to drum ‘John Brown’s Body’ for her whenever she needed her mood sweetened.”

“Perhaps. So, to continue, what we have is a woman whom everyone knows, whom everyone has opinions about…”

“Usually unfavorable opinions…”

“A woman whom no one recalls seeing in the days leading up to her death.”

“That last part’s not too surprising, is it? After all, she wasn’t married, had no family nearby, and seemed to keep to herself when she wasn’t pursuing her musical interests. Plus, she lived in Manhattan, and it’s easy to get lost in the city.”

“True, though one might argue that Greenwich Village is like a small town unto itself.” Mr. O’Nelligan took a last draw of his pipe and set it aside. “Now, regarding Lorraine’s demise, no one we’ve spoken to can propose a reason why she would take her own life. In fact, she’s not perceived as a likely candidate for suicide.”

“That happens a lot, doesn’t it? Someone kills themself and afterward everyone says, ‘Boy oh boy, I never would’ve expected it of them.’”

Mr. O’Nelligan nodded. “Certainly that happens. Conversely, it also often happens that, following a murder, people declare their astonishment that anyone would want to kill that particular person.”

“Though, in the case of someone as prickly and provoking as Lorraine Cobble, maybe it doesn’t come as such a shock that she’d be the object of foul play.”

My colleague folded his hands across his stomach and smiled subtly. “As you say, Lee. Perhaps someone did indeed desire Lorraine’s death.”

“Hey, hold on now!” I suddenly realized that Mr. O’Nelligan had played the old switcheroo on me—now I was the one arguing for homicide. “I’m in no way implying—”

“Your proposal is a worthy one, lad.”

I wagged a finger at him. “Don’t try to trick me, you wicked old leprechaun! I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m merely echoing your own sentiments.”

“I have no sentiments. All I have is facts. Or, in this case, the lack of them. You can speculate all you want to, but when it comes down to it, there’s not a single thing here that screams murder.”

“You’re absolutely correct,” Mr. O’Nelligan said. “Nothing screams. But perhaps, just perhaps, there is something that compellingly whispers.”

“Wait a minute! You’ve got an intuition, don’t you? One of your annoying, unreasonable, infallible damned intuitions.” I sank in my chair. “God, I hate those.”

“Is intuition really that undesirable an attribute?”

“It is if you’re a private eye being paid to deliver no-nonsense, rock-solid information.”

My colleague gave a quizzical little pout. “Do you believe our client would disapprove of the intuitive approach? Was it not Sally Joan’s own intuition that led her to employ you in this quest?”

I tossed up my hands. “Stop with the quests already!”

“Never,” said Mr. O’Nelligan calmly. “For to quest is to seek adventure, and to seek adventure is to live life.”

“Oh, good grief.”

“Not just any adventure, mind you. Not, for example, simply a hedonistic one. But a righteous adventure, yes, that is what gives value to our being.”

I groaned softly. “This is way too lofty for me, and way too principled.”

“Ah, you misrepresent yourself, Lee Plunkett. You’re a man of great integrity—as anyone close to you can testify. Why, just recently, your beloved Audrey was telling me—”

A nerve had been struck. “Yeah, well, Audrey has her own adventures to brag about. Not necessarily of the righteous variety.”

“What are you saying?”

As if a plug had been yanked from a dam, it all came rushing out of me: Audrey’s clandestine trips to the Village, her rendezvous with Spires, our unexpected encounter at the Mercutio, and her apparent identity crisis. I definitely hadn’t intended to broach the subject at all, but once I’d started, I couldn’t hold back. Maybe it was because Mr. O’Nelligan, with his stately gray beard and canyon-deep eyes, had the look of some wise father confessor. Or maybe it was because I’d been stockpiling hurt, confusion, and resentment since last night and was desperate to disperse it all. Either way, I immediately wished I’d kept my trap shut. I knew well that Mr. O’Nelligan thought highly of Audrey—had been her friend longer than he’d been mine—and I instantly cursed myself for presenting her as anything other than upright and virtuous.

Depleted by my venting, I crumpled in upon myself and waited for my companion’s response. Would he disbelieve my story and lambaste me for casting aspersions upon a good woman? Or would he accept my account and pronounce Audrey a wanton strumpet who should be hounded from decent society? Or—more judiciously—would his reaction fall somewhere in between?

Mr. O’Nelligan fixed his eyes on mine, quietly hmmed, and, after a few long moments, spoke. “I certainly understand your distress, Lee. May I offer here a tale from my days back in Kerry?”

Now, this might have been the first time he’d ever asked my permission to unleash one of his Celtic yarns. Normally, Mr. O’Nelligan would launch into a homespun parable at the drop of a hat—whether I wanted to hear it or not. Somewhat stunned by the courtesy, I mumbled a yes.

“My Eileen and I had been courting for some time,” he began. “I’d not yet gotten down on bended knee, but I think, at that point, we both knew that day wouldn’t be long in coming. To be sure, we were much taken with each other. One summer eve, we were attending a local dance and having an exceedingly fine time of it. The hall was bustling with friends and kinfolk, and the band, as I recall, was a spry one. I got in many a dance that night. You might not guess it, but I had a nimble step back in those days.”

I had to smile. “I’m sure you were the Gaelic Fred Astaire.”

“Well, that is going too far, but suffice it to say I was much sought after as a dancing partner. Eileen had loaned me out to the Widow McLinley, a rather full-bodied, robust woman who fairly unmoored me every time she gave a whirl. I was thus engaged when into the hall strides one Johnny Fitzgibbon, an old beau of Eileen’s. Now, young Fitzgibbon had been off in Dublin for two or three years, and this was the first time the village had again set eyes on him. He’d left town a humble tanner’s son and had returned as a fine-turned-out barrister’s clerk. He entered the dance garbed in a tailored silk suit and beaver-skin derby, sporting an elegantly waxed mustache. Furthermore, some form of expensive cologne wafted off the fellow like a breeze from a rose garden. Certainly, there was nothing about him not to hate.”

I couldn’t resist a laugh. “Yeah, I can imagine. Especially seeing as he was a former rival of yours.”

“As you say. So, like a bee to a blossom, Fitzgibbon made his way directly to my Eileen and swept her into a dance. Followed by a second. Whereas one dance was perhaps understandable, to my youthful sensibilities the second was excessive. Then, just when I was about to step forward and reclaim my lass, Fitzgibbon coaxed her into a third dance. A third! Having quit the Widow McLinley several minutes before, I now stood alone seething in a corner, oh so young and oh so wronged.”

“You said it was only a dance, though.”

“I said it was three dances! It was that third, don’t you see, that unsettled me so. The number three has a certain power to it, as borne out in myth and history. In my distraught brain I was forming an argument to sway my stolen paramour: Oh, beware, Eileen! Three is way too weighty a numeral to be trifled with! Just look to lore and legend—three Fates, three Magi, Macbeth’s three witches … Why, the Holy Trinity itself! Trifle not, girl, with that portentous third dance!”

“Sounds a little overblown, wouldn’t you say?”

“In retrospect, yes, but at that heightened moment, the third dance felt to me like a final coffin nail being pounded home, sealing the lid on my fate. A fate that was not to include Eileen.”

“Though that’s not how it turned out, is it?” I said. “It wasn’t Johnny Fitzgibbon who ended up marrying the girl—it was the dashing young O’Nelligan.”

My friend leaned forward. “Exactly! But if, in the end, I was dashing, it was only because I cast aside the feeling of being dashed—which is how I felt that night in my miserable corner of the dance hall. While Eileen no doubt admired the fine cut of Fitzgibbon’s clothes and the tang of his cologne, in due course none of that really mattered. Our bond was genuine and enduring, and no silky barrister’s clerk could sever it. Eileen returned to me after the third dance, and we never parted for the rest of the evening, much to Fitzgibbon’s disappointment—and the Widow McLinley’s, I might add.”

“Though what if there had been a fourth dance?” I asked. “Let’s say an excruciatingly slow one?”

“Ah, but there wasn’t, was there? And if I’d let myself dwell on the possibility of one, I might never have kept my heart open and, ultimately, acquired the mantle of husband and father.” Mr. O’Nelligan rested his hands on his knees and smiled gently. “And now, in my silver years, I would not possess the succoring memories of that good woman who loved me so well and so long.”

Mr. O’Nelligan went silent, no doubt to let the story settle in and work its magic with me. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how his situation compared to my troubles with Audrey. After all, my Irishman was possessed of an exasperating saintly nature—at least compared to my own—and could be expected to take the high road. The roads I seemed to find myself on were consistently low, unpaved, and muddy as hell.

I rose from my chair. “I’ll let you know later what I’ve decided.”

Mr. O’Nelligan arched an eyebrow. “About Lorraine Cobble? Or about Audrey?”

“About Kitty the saloon girl.” I headed for the door and called over my shoulder, “She’s the only female I really understand.”