Dutch Blue Error (23 page)

“Well, yes. You are involved in your father’s business, aren’t you?”

“Sure, but…”

“Good. I’ll be there around eight.”

“What is this all about?”

“Eight o’clock, then. Perry.” I went to the safe in my office and took out my Smith and Wesson .38. I loaded it, dropped it into my jacket pocket, and walked out of my office. Zerk looked up.

“Where you going with that gun?” he said.

“It shows, huh?”

He shook his head back and forth, grinning. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble, you know that?”

I shrugged. “I’m bringing the gun so I won’t.”

“So where are you going?”

“I’m going to pay a call on Ollie Weston.”

“The stamp, eh?”

“Yes.”

“You got it figured out?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’ll know more when I get back.”

“And you’re bringing a gun with you.”

I nodded, a little sheepishly.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Tell you what. Suppose I meet you later on? Maybe have a dish of shells at Marie’s, couple bottles of Chianti. Say around ten?”

“Why don’t I go with you?”

“No,” I said. “That wouldn’t work. I’ll meet you at Marie’s.”

T
HE FLOODLIGHTS WHICH HUNG
in the eaves of the Weston mansion bathed the circular drive-around in warm, orange light and cast eerie shadows across the sweep of lawn. I drove through the front gate, which had been left open for me, parked my BMW directly in front of the entry, climbed the half-dozen wide steps to the big porch, and rang the bell.

I waited several moments before Perry opened the door. “Come on in,” he said, stepping aside for me.

I brushed past him. “Where’s Edwin?”

“Gave him the night off. He left right after dinner.” Perry grinned. “Edwin has a lady friend, you know.”

“Good for him.”

“We’re in the sitting room,” said Perry, leading the way. Ollie was seated in his wheelchair at a big table near the window. To his right stood the wall-sized bookcase behind which lay his secret air-locked vault, from hidden speakers came a Sibelius symphony. Ollie held a shotgun opened on his lap. He was rubbing the metal parts of the gun with a rag. I recognized the pleasant odor of Hoppe’s gun oil.

“Brady, my friend,” he said when he saw me. “Long time. Here,” he commanded, thrusting the gun at me. “Heft this.”

I took the shotgun from him and lifted the stock gently to the barrels, snapping it shut. I admired the engraving along the side. The gold and ivory inlay depicted a setter on point. I raised it to my shoulder and swung it across the row of books. I dropped it, then lifted it to my shoulder, again.

“A Parker,” said Ollie. “Finest grade. Twenty-gauge. I’ve shot hundreds of quail with that gun. Thousands. In my better days. I had a plantation in Georgia, you know. Two thousand acres. Just for quail shooting.”

“Get you a drink?” said Perry.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Dad?”

“No.” Ollie rolled himself away from the table and swiveled his wheelchair around to face me. I broke open the shot-gun and laid it on the table, then sat in a dark leather armchair. Perry perched on the arm of the chair beside mine. “So,” said Ollie. “What brings you out? Not looking for a game of chess, are you?”

“No, Ollie. I want to update you on the Dutch Blue Error.”

Ollie tossed his head. “Ah, well. It’s gone, I know. No matter. Like I told you, it’s no good to anybody unless they sell it to me anyway.” He peered at me. “You haven’t found it, have you?”

I ignored his question. “I have a story for you,” I said. “Interested?”

Ollie shrugged his heavy shoulders. “You came all the way out here to tell me a story, I suppose I ought to listen.”

“It concerns a man named Guillaume Lundi. Ring a bell?”

Ollie glanced at Perry, then jerked his shoulders again. “Go on,” he said.

“Mr. Lundi served as a purchasing agent at an auction in Paris in April of 1967. He bought a valuable postage stamp. Then he flew to San Juan with the stamp, evidently to deliver it to his client. Guillaume Lundi was found in the hotel swimming pool with a broken neck. Suicide. They said he jumped from the balcony above the pool.”

“I don’t get it,” said Perry.

“Your father does,” I said to him. “On the ninth floor of the hotel, the room directly above the pool was registered to an American guest. A certain Mr. Grayson. Mr. Grayson was seen in the company of Mr. Lundi that evening.” I turned to Ollie. “The Puerto Rican police were not very diligent. The hotel people wanted it handled quietly. By the time the body was found, Mr. Grayson had checked out. But Lundi didn’t commit suicide, did he, Ollie?”

Ollie smiled at me. “Good for you, my boy.” He chuckled. “You know, I didn’t retain you to dredge up unfortunate incidents from my past. You are too damn persistent.” He nodded. “Yes. That was I. Do you intend to reopen that case, Brady, like a dutiful officer of the court?”

“I don’t understand,” I said, “why you had to kill Guillaume Lundi.”

Ollie shook his head. “I explained all that to you. The mystery of the stamp had to be nurtured. At all costs. That’s all. Mr. Lundi prevented that.” He raised his hands and let them fall, dismissing Guillaume Lundi. “You’ll have a hell of a time making a case on that, you know.”

Perry was staring at his father. “You killed a man?”

Ollie nodded. “It was quite necessary. Regrettable, but necessary. I lost my legs not long after that, you know. I’ve often wondered if that was some sort of divine retribution.” He turned to me. “Why are you doing this, Brady? Why are you telling me this now?”

“It’s part of the picture,” I replied. “Let me continue. Mr. Schwartz, from whom you bought the stamp in Paris, made a point of finding out who Lundi delivered it to. It was no problem to figure out that Mr. Grayson was, in fact, Oliver Hazard Perry Weston. I have talked to Schwartz. At length.”

“Ah,” sighed Ollie softly. “That’s how Sullivan—Shaughnessey, I believe his real name was—found out about me.”

“Right. Schwartz sold him that information.”

“Well,” Ollie smiled, “I do hope you’re not accusing me of murdering Shaughnessey. Or poor Albert. I’ve been parked right here.” He thumped his dead legs with his fists.

“Yes. I know. But Perry has legs.”

Ollie’s head jerked around to stare at his son. “Him?”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Perry.

“You can correct me on the details, Perry, but this is how I figure you did it. You knew when I’d be going to the museum to get the stamp authenticated. You made a point of being there. Parked inconspicuously outside. You saw me and Zerk arrive, greet Albert. A few minutes later you saw us meet another man. Shaughnessey. Who you knew as Sullivan, and who you knew, owned the stamp. You saw us all go into the building together. You waited. When we came out, you followed Shaughnessey home. A couple nights later you went back there. You rang his bell. You told him who you were, that you were coming on behalf of your father about the stamp. That made sense. He let you in. How’m I doing so far?”

“Go on,” said Perry.

“Okay. You told him you were prepared to purchase the stamp. Maybe you even brought money with you to show him. Now, Shaughnessey was a very cautious man. He must have thought it odd, this change of procedure. But your finding his house and going to him would’ve made him uneasy enough to be willing to consummate the deal, get it over with and get the Dutch Blue Error off his hands. So he fetched the stamp, you gave him the money, and he poured you each a drink to seal the bargain. The first blow probably killed him. But you couldn’t take the chance. So you hit him two more times. You took the money back, took the stamp, and ransacked the place to make it appear to have been a burglary gone bad. You figured since no one knew he was the one who had the stamp, no one would link his murder to it. Or to you. You even broke the window at the back door. A nice, professional touch. The police believed it, and if Zerk hadn’t happened to see Shaughnessey’s picture in the paper, no one would ever have been any the wiser. You could have presented your father with the stamp later, having saved him a quarter of a million dollars. Or,” I added, glancing at Ollie, “you could have waited until Ollie died. Then you would have had it all to yourself. Your own secret.”

Ollie raised his eyebrows at his son. “You?”

Perry had been glaring at me throughout my recitation. Then his expression shifted. I saw a smile play on his lips. “Yes, me. I
was
going to give it to you. I got it for you.”

“I’ll be damned,” muttered Ollie.

“You killed a man for a stamp,” said Perry. “So did I.”

“But that wasn’t the end of it,” I said. “Because you got a phone call from Albert Dopplinger. He wanted to speak to your father, but that was when Ollie was laid up, so he talked to you. And what he told you was upsetting. So you had to kill him, too.”

“You killed Albert?”

“He’s right. I had to.”

“Yes,” I said. “You had that one all planned. Albert played right into it. You agreed to meet him at his laboratory, where he was going to show you the proof of what he told you. It was all in his notebook. You brought a gun with you. You chloroformed him, took his notebook, and shot him. Just about then you heard me at the door. You turned off the lights and hid. You saw me come in, you saw Schwartz come in behind me and use your chloroform on me, and then you saw Zerk come in and take me away. Then you slipped away, clean as a flute.”

Ollie was shaking his head slowly back and forth. “Is that the way it was?”

“I didn’t see Brady come in. I had left by then.”

Ollie waved his hand. “Details. So you have the stamp.”

“Yes.”

“Well, Jesus, boy, go get it.”

Perry nodded and left the room. Ollie looked at me. “Imagine that. I didn’t think the boy had it in him.”

“He’s a murderer, Ollie. Are you proud of him?”

Ollie smiled. “He
did
something, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He did something. That’s true.”

“So what’s next, then?”

“Oh, come off it, Ollie. You know what’s next.”

I was standing in front of Ollie’s wheelchair. My back was to the doorway, I saw Ollie’s eyes shift to look over my shoulder. I started to turn around. Too late, I felt Perry’s hand at my jacket pocket and a sharp pain at the base of my spine.

“You didn’t think I’d just walk out of here with you, did you?” said Perry, lifting my Smith and Wesson from my pocket. I turned. Perry had stepped back. My gun dangled carelessly from his left hand. The muzzle of the little handgun he held in his right was a black eye staring at me.

“Cut it out, Perry. You’ve performed your heroics. It’s all over now. Why don’t you just give me that?” I held out my hand. Perry smiled. The gun remained steady in his hand.

“Just sit down, there, in that chair. I can kill you, too.”

I sat. “You don’t think I’d come here like this without telling anyone, do you?” I said. “The police know all about this. They know I’m here.”

He shook his head. “Somehow I doubt that. They wouldn’t have let you come alone. Anyway, it’s not your style. And I don’t seem to have too many choices.” He spoke to Ollie. “Here’s your stamp.” Without taking his eyes from my face, and without moving his gun from its aim at the bridge of my nose, he handed an envelope to Ollie.

Ollie took it eagerly, lifted the unsealed flap, and gingerly reached in with his thumb and forefinger. Then he held up a tiny scrap of paper to the light. He narrowed his eyes to study it. “The duplicate Blue Error,” he whispered. “This is it.” He looked at Perry. “You have exceeded my fondest expectations. We must celebrate. Brandy. Cigars.”

Perry smiled. Still watching me, he moved to a sideboard and poured brandy into three snifters with one hand. With the other, he kept the gun pointing at me. He handed one glass to Ollie and one to me. Then he took a silver case, flipped up the cover, and held it to his father. Ollie reached in and removed a slender cigar.

Perry stood by his father’s shoulder, the automatic wedged into one hand, his own snifter of brandy in the other. Ollie lifted his glass.

“Again, Brady, let us drink to the Dutch Blue Error.”

I shrugged and sipped with the two Weston men.

Ollie placed his glass on the table beside him. He still held the stamp in one hand. He put the cigar into his mouth and reached for a big silver lighter.

“Now I own two Dutch Blue Errors,” he said slowly, rolling the cigar in his mouth. He held up the stamp again and squinted at it. “There’s an interesting thing about stamps,” he continued. “If, let us say, a million stamps of a particular issue existed, and each stamp was worth a dime, and one man owned every one of them, each stamp would bring no more than a dime on the market. Now, supposing there were only one of those stamps. And supposing it was worth a million dollars. And supposing the man who owned it suddenly came into possession of a second stamp—its duplicate. What do you think would be the value of each of those two stamps?”

Ollie stared at me.

“You asking me?” I said.

“Yes. See what you’ve learned.”

“Each of them would be worth at least half a million, I suppose. More, probably, if you were able to maintain the mystery about them.”

Ollie shook his head sadly. “Ah, no. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.” He glanced at Perry, then returned his attention to me. “You see, what happens is that the very existence of the duplicate destroys the value of the original. It’s no longer unique. Where there’s one duplicate, there may be more. Now. I’m very glad to have this duplicate. Not because I want to own it. But simply because I want to be certain that nobody else ever will.”

Ollie paused, flicked his lighter, and fired up his cigar. He rotated it slowly over the flame, then blew a great cloud of fragrant blue smoke at the ceiling, still holding the flaming lighter. “There is now a way that I can secure the uniqueness of my own Dutch Blue Error,” he said softly.

“Hey! What are you doing?” said Perry suddenly. Then he said, “Jesus Christ! Don’t do that!”

It was too late. Ollie delicately held the little stamp over the lighter until it burst into a tiny orange flame. He dropped it into an ashtray on the table beside him. The flame died out in a moment, and the duplicate Blue Error was a tiny mound of black ash.