Dutch Blue Error
Authors: William G. Tapply
A Brady Coyne Mystery
William G. Tapply
For Mum and Dad
Prologue:
San Juan, 1967
G
UILLAUME LUNDI MUTTERED, “MERDE.”
An eight and a five. With a sigh, he crooked his forefinger and beckoned to the dealer. A black queen slid across the green felt table.
Lundi leaned back and rolled his shoulders up along the sides of his neck as his cards and the ten-dollar chip were raked away. He was tired. He wanted only to sleep. And if he had to gamble, he would have preferred roulette, where he could play at nearly fifty-fifty odds.
But his instructions had been clear. They had arrived in the envelope with his round-trip ticket from Paris to San Juan. “Take a cab from the airport to the Hotel Europeana. Deposit the item in the hotel safe. Go directly to the casino. Take a seat at the first blackjack table on the left. Play ten-dollar bets. Wait for Grayson.”
He hoped Grayson would show up soon so they could make the transaction quickly. His return-flight ticket was open, and he wanted only to get back to Paris and crawl into his big bed beside his big warm wife and sleep away his travels through time zones and time warps and wake up at 6:30 in the morning. He didn’t care what day it might be. But he wanted it to be 6:30 in the morning.
The dealer slipped him a nine, then a six. Lundi put his chip on top of his cards. He’d stay with the fifteen. Lousy cards, but the dealer showed a five. He’d have to take a hit.
The young woman in the seat beside him showed a four and a jack. “Hit me,” she said tonelessly, as if she knew she’d lose. When she saw the eight she nodded her head vigorously, acknowledging the inevitable. “Shit,” she said loudly, as her last chip was raked away.
“Well,” she said, addressing the others at the table, “I quit. That’s it for me. Back to the beach.”
“Tough luck,” said Lundi.
“Yeah,” she said, “that’s it. Bad luck.” She slid out of her seat and wandered away.
A big man with black curly hair on his knuckles took her seat. Like Lundi, he began to play ten-dollar chips. Lundi got a blackjack and won double. He split a pair of nines and lost on both. He stayed on a twelve. It was an unreliable hunch. The dealer’s six had a four under it.
The man with the hairy fingers touched his arm. “Mind if I bum a cigarette?” His voice seemed to whisper from somewhere deep inside his big chest.
“
Pas de tout
,” said Lundi, pushing his pack of Marlboros toward the man.
“Thanks a lot.” The man had pale green eyes and silver-rimmed glasses and powerful shoulders. His head seemed to squat directly atop those shoulders like a bowling ball on a table. His dark hair was flecked with gray.
“You’re Lundi.” It was a statement.
“Yes. And you’re…?”
“Grayson.”
“Well,” sighed the Frenchman. “Mr. Grayson, finally. I’m glad you’re here.”
Grayson eyed Lundi’s short stack of chips and smiled. “I suppose you are. You have the item?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Well, unless you’d like to continue playing, why don’t we get it, then, shall we?”
Lundi picked up his chips, stood; then turned and dropped two of them at his place with a nod to the dealer, who nodded solemnly back at him and raked them in.
They went to the desk in the hotel lobby, where Lundi exchanged a slip of paper for a battered briefcase. Then they entered an elevator and rode up through the bowels of the hotel. They emerged into an empty corridor.
Grayson bent to unlock the door to his room, then pushed it open and stood back to let Lundi in. The room seemed surprisingly small for a luxurious hotel—no larger than the Holiday Inn singles Lundi usually took when he was in America.
Grayson pulled the door shut behind himself and went to the wall-sized window. He drew the heavy curtains shut, then moved to a table that held an assortment of bottles and glasses. He splashed some Scotch into a glass.
“You?” he asked Lundi.
“The same. No ice.”
Lundi stood awkwardly for a moment, then sat on the bed and leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped between his legs which dangled just above the floor. He wished Grayson had left the curtains open. He found the big sky and empty, dark ocean a soothing antidote to a hectic day.
Grayson handed Lundi his drink, which he accepted with a murmur and sipped thirstily.
Grayson seemed unable to settle. He moved nervously around the room. He had the quick, agile movements of a boxer, Lundi thought. In spite of his bulk, he was graceful and lithe.
“Would you mind opening the curtains?”
“Yes,” said Grayson. “I mind.” Instead, he picked up a wooden chair and brought it to the side of the bed where the Frenchman sat, twirled it around so that the back faced Lundi, and slid onto it. He crossed his arms over the top of the chair, rested his chin on his thick wrists, and fixed Lundi with a grin. “Okay. Let’s see it, then.”
Lundi opened the old briefcase and handed an envelope to Grayson, who glanced perfunctorily at its contents, then said, “And the papers?”
Lundi handed him the documents. These the big man scrutinized more carefully. Lundi finished his Scotch and watched Grayson without interest. He wanted to lie back on the bed and sleep. The Scotch burned pleasantly in his stomach. He wanted his big warm wife, whom he would hug from behind, her great soft rump against his stomach, his hand buried between her thighs. He yearned to sleep, and later awaken. She would turn to face him. They would make love then, in their comfortable, practiced way.
“…trace it? Mr. Lundi?”
“I’m sorry. What was it?”
“I said, you’re certain no one can trace it?”
“Oh, yes,” sighed Lundi. “Absolutely. I am the only one who knows my client’s name. I paid with a cashier’s check, as instructed. I told no one. Those people, they understand and respect that. It’s not uncommon, the desire for an anonymous transaction. And I, I understand discretion. That, I assume, is why I was retained to perform the service. And now, if everything is in order, I would appreciate your paying me so that I can return to the airport. It has been a long day for me. A very long day.”
Grayson rose from the chair. “Why don’t you pour us another drink,” he said, “while I get you your money.”
“Bon.”
Lundi yawned and got slowly to his feet. He placed the palms of his hands on his lower back and rolled his hips, then moved wearily to the low table where the bottles stood. He splashed some Scotch into his glass. Without turning around, he said to Grayson, “Where’s your—”
He never finished the sentence. Grayson’s left forearm circled his chest from behind, viselike, pinning his arms and whooshing the breath from his lungs. Lundi gasped: He could not inhale, so insistent was Grayson’s embrace.
“So sorry, Mr. Lundi,” whispered Grayson into his ear. Lundi felt Grayson’s free hand cup his chin. The fingers and thumb caressed the jawbone on either side, feeling for the proper grip. Then Lundi felt his chin suddenly squeezed hard in Grayson’s hand. A quick, hard jerk sideways and upward, and Lundi heard, rather than felt, the grinding and popping of cervical vertebrae. He felt his body melt away, drained of life, a moment of tingling and then nothing. The last sensation to register in Guillaume Lundi’s brain was the fetid odor of human excrement. Then came the final blackness.
That is how I imagine it happened. Of course, I wasn’t there.
What happened afterward, and how I learned Guillaume Lundi’s story, and all the deaths that followed years later—those things I can tell you with confidence.
O
LIVER HAZARD PERRY WESTON
dabbed at his thin, gray mustache with a monogrammed Irish linen table napkin.
“That will be all, Edwin.” He nodded to the white-shirted man at his elbow.
“Very good, sir.” The gaunt butler disappeared like morning fog.
“Come on, Brady,” said Weston to me. “There’s something I want to show you.”
Perry Weston—Ollie’s only son and heir—who was seated at his right, moved quickly to take the handles at the back of his father’s wheelchair. Weston flapped the back of his hand at his son without turning around.
“Not you.”
Perry jerked his hands away from the wheelchair and held them in front of him in a gesture of mock surrender. Then, with a quick, ironic smile at me, he swiveled around and left the room.
“C’mon, Brady,” said Ollie. “Give us a shove, will you?”
“Sure,” I replied, taking the handles of his wheelchair.
“Kinda rough on him, weren’t you?”
“Nope. He’s used to it. Anyway, this is business. For my lawyer, not my son.” Ollie raised an aristocratic hand and pointed through the archway and beyond the adjacent living room to a wall of bookshelves that surrounded an enormous fieldstone fireplace.
“The books?”
Ollie nodded.
When I had pushed the old man to the bookcase, he reached up, removed a volume entitled
The Road to Serfdom
, which appeared to be well used, and reached his hand into the vacant space. He fiddled for a moment with what I guessed was a combination lock against the back of the bookcase. Then I heard the faint whine of a motor, and slowly the bookcase slid away into the wall, opening into a smaller room. “In,” ordered Weston. I pushed him in.
The wall eased shut behind us. I looked around. We were alone in a windowless room perhaps twenty feet square. Bookshelves, lined with rich, old-looking volumes, covered an entire wall. In one corner stood a portable bar with shelves of bottles and glittering glassware. In another corner was a giant rolltop desk, which I took to be an antique. Across another wall hung a row of mounted heads: an eland, an elk, a tawny cat which I guessed was some kind of panther, a sheep with huge, curled horns, an antelope. Against the same wall stood a glass-fronted gun cabinet, and aligned beneath the glassy-eyed heads were a series of matched prints in silver frames. I leaned closer to study them and saw that they weren’t prints at all, but original watercolors. Grouse shooting in Scotland, quail rising before a brace of pointing setters, geese setting their wings to join a set of decoys, woodcock fluttering above New England alders.
“They’re nice,” I said. “Didn’t know you were a hunter, Ollie.”
“Was,” said Ollie, slapping his dead thighs with his right hand. “Damn good one, too.”
“I doubt it not,” I murmured.
“So, Counselor. Welcome to my vault.” Ollie hoisted himself from his wheelchair onto a dark leather sofa. In front of the sofa stood a low coffee table. The sofa faced a blank, wood-paneled wall. “Fix us a brandy, will you? And let’s have a cigar.”
I obeyed. Ollie Weston was accustomed to being obeyed, and I understood that. It was a small price to pay for the lucrative opportunities O. H. P. Weston made available to his personal attorney. For his many business dealings, Weston employed large and prestigious law firms. For his private affairs, he employed Brady L. Coyne, and if it fell short of my old dream of arguing the great ethical issues of the day before what FDR called—how times change!—the “nine old men” of the Supreme Court, the retainers and fees of a few wealthy clients like Ollie Weston kept me comfortably ensconced in a nice apartment overlooking the Boston Harbor, and allowed me to fish for trout in places like Newfoundland and New Zealand and Argentina just about whenever I chose to take a vacation—not to mention Gloria’s alimony payments, the mortgage on our—her—house in Wellesley, and the college fund for Billy and Joey. So I didn’t really mind fetching brandy and cigars for Ollie Weston. It was a small price to pay.
