Read Online Dutch Blue Error by William G. Tapply - Free Book Online
Authors: William G. Tapply
Ads: Link
can talk to him, or I will have discussed it with him. Okay?”
“Sure.” I hesitated. Ollie had dismissed Perry before dragging me into his vault to see the Dutch Blue Error. “I didn’t know you were this interested in the Dutch Blue Error, Perry.”
“It’s family business. I have to be.”
“Um-hm,” I murmured.
“If Sullivan calls in the meantime, let me know.”
“I will. But don’t expect it. He’s been a stickler for punctuality so far. Well, we’ll see.”
Perry and I exchanged good-byes. I tried to turn my attention to the will on my desk. My concentration was poor. I smoked several Winstons, had another cup of coffee, and studied the Boston skyline through my office window.
Around five-thirty Zerk wandered back into my office. “Need me for anything?” he asked.
“Moral support.” I waved my hand at him. “Be gone. It’s already been a long day. I can’t understand it.”
“Sullivan not calling?”
“Yeah.”
At that moment, the light on my telephone console began to flash. Zerk and I exchanged glances. I picked up the receiver, at the same time punching the button that would permit Zerk to hear both ends of the conversation.
“This is Albert Dopplinger,” said the voice. “What’s going on, anyway?” A muted hum of conversation, an occasional clink of china, and a Mantovani of violins filtered in behind Dopplinger’s voice. “I’m here. I got a message to call you.”
“I tried to reach you at the museum,” I said. “You’d left already, I guess. Our friend never called, so I was unable to complete the arrangements.”
“They’re terrible about telephone messages. I keep asking for a phone in my lab. Some problem with cables, they keep telling me. They’ve offered me half an office. On the second floor. Can you believe that? A five-minute walk from my lab. But I do need a phone. Ah, well… Will you still want me?”
“Oh, sure. When the time comes. How can I contact you?”
“My home phone. Number’s in the book. Very few Albert Dopplingers in Cambridge.”
“Okay, then.”
“Well. Guess while I’m here I’ll have another Bloody Mary. The sea’s calm today. Wish Mr. Weston was picking up the tab, though.”
“That,” I told him, “can be arranged, I’m sure.”
I hung up and looked at Zerk. He stood and walked toward the door. “You coming?”
“Think I’ll wait around for a little,” I said.
“Still think he’s going to call?”
I shrugged.
“He won’t, you know,” said Zerk as he closed the door behind him.
And he didn’t.
Ollie wasn’t particularly upset when I talked to him Tuesday evening. He seemed preoccupied, as if he had more important things on his mind than a mere quarter-million-dollar business deal.
But when we talked again Wednesday morning, with still no word from Daniel F. X. Sullivan, Ollie seemed quite particularly upset.
“Goddamit, Brady Coyne!” I guess we wait was how he put it. “You find that son of a bitch and you stuff that money down his goddam Irish throat. I want that stamp!”
“How’m I supposed to do that, Ollie?” I said. “I don’t know his number or his address or any known acquaintances. I don’t know what he does for work or where he hangs out or where he went to school. I don’t even know his name, for God’s sake.”
“How do you know you don’t know his name?” said Ollie quietly.
I stopped. “Hm. Good point. I’ll get back to you.”
To Zerk I said, “Want to play private eye?”
He squinted suspiciously at me. “Say what?”
“Private detective. See if we can find our Daniel F. X. Sullivan in the phone book.”
“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered. He fixed me with a lopsided grin. “They’ll be calling me Sam Spade, eh?”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you,” I said.
An hour later I walked out into the reception area. Zerk had his jacket thrown over the back of his chair. His tie was pulled loose and his collar hung open. He was speaking into the telephone.
“Sure.” I hesitated. Ollie had dismissed Perry before dragging me into his vault to see the Dutch Blue Error. “I didn’t know you were this interested in the Dutch Blue Error, Perry.”
“It’s family business. I have to be.”
“Um-hm,” I murmured.
“If Sullivan calls in the meantime, let me know.”
“I will. But don’t expect it. He’s been a stickler for punctuality so far. Well, we’ll see.”
Perry and I exchanged good-byes. I tried to turn my attention to the will on my desk. My concentration was poor. I smoked several Winstons, had another cup of coffee, and studied the Boston skyline through my office window.
Around five-thirty Zerk wandered back into my office. “Need me for anything?” he asked.
“Moral support.” I waved my hand at him. “Be gone. It’s already been a long day. I can’t understand it.”
“Sullivan not calling?”
“Yeah.”
At that moment, the light on my telephone console began to flash. Zerk and I exchanged glances. I picked up the receiver, at the same time punching the button that would permit Zerk to hear both ends of the conversation.
“This is Albert Dopplinger,” said the voice. “What’s going on, anyway?” A muted hum of conversation, an occasional clink of china, and a Mantovani of violins filtered in behind Dopplinger’s voice. “I’m here. I got a message to call you.”
“I tried to reach you at the museum,” I said. “You’d left already, I guess. Our friend never called, so I was unable to complete the arrangements.”
“They’re terrible about telephone messages. I keep asking for a phone in my lab. Some problem with cables, they keep telling me. They’ve offered me half an office. On the second floor. Can you believe that? A five-minute walk from my lab. But I do need a phone. Ah, well… Will you still want me?”
“Oh, sure. When the time comes. How can I contact you?”
“My home phone. Number’s in the book. Very few Albert Dopplingers in Cambridge.”
“Okay, then.”
“Well. Guess while I’m here I’ll have another Bloody Mary. The sea’s calm today. Wish Mr. Weston was picking up the tab, though.”
“That,” I told him, “can be arranged, I’m sure.”
I hung up and looked at Zerk. He stood and walked toward the door. “You coming?”
“Think I’ll wait around for a little,” I said.
“Still think he’s going to call?”
I shrugged.
“He won’t, you know,” said Zerk as he closed the door behind him.
And he didn’t.
Ollie wasn’t particularly upset when I talked to him Tuesday evening. He seemed preoccupied, as if he had more important things on his mind than a mere quarter-million-dollar business deal.
But when we talked again Wednesday morning, with still no word from Daniel F. X. Sullivan, Ollie seemed quite particularly upset.
“Goddamit, Brady Coyne!” I guess we wait was how he put it. “You find that son of a bitch and you stuff that money down his goddam Irish throat. I want that stamp!”
“How’m I supposed to do that, Ollie?” I said. “I don’t know his number or his address or any known acquaintances. I don’t know what he does for work or where he hangs out or where he went to school. I don’t even know his name, for God’s sake.”
“How do you know you don’t know his name?” said Ollie quietly.
I stopped. “Hm. Good point. I’ll get back to you.”
To Zerk I said, “Want to play private eye?”
He squinted suspiciously at me. “Say what?”
“Private detective. See if we can find our Daniel F. X. Sullivan in the phone book.”
“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered. He fixed me with a lopsided grin. “They’ll be calling me Sam Spade, eh?”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you,” I said.
An hour later I walked out into the reception area. Zerk had his jacket thrown over the back of his chair. His tie was pulled loose and his collar hung open. He was speaking into the telephone.
Similar Books
