McNally's luck

15

I awoke Monday morning with a dread feeling of having forgotten to do something I should have done. I recognized my lapse while scraping my jowls, and if it hadn't been a safety razor I might have nicked the old jug, I was that mortified. What I had disremembered was to phone Connie Garcia on Sunday as I had promised. Not for the first time did I wonder why I treated that dear woman with such thoughtless neglect. I suppose it was because I knew she was there.

I had roused in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. While scarfing my way through a stack of buckwheat pancakes, I informed the governor of Laverne Willigan's phone call the previous night.

He glanced up from The Wall Street Journal long enough to gaze at me speculatively. "You actually intend to deliver the money to the catnappers yourself, Archy?"

"Yes, sir. I expect Sergeant Rogoff will come up with a plan for a trap."

He nodded. "When you receive the fifty thousand at the bank," he advised, "count it before you sign a receipt."

I sighed. "Yes, father," I said. Sometimes he treated me as if I were the village idiot. I do have a brain, you know, even though occasionally I choose not to use it.

Before leaving for the Willigan hacienda, I phoned Al Rogoff at his office and found him in a surprisingly lively mood.

"What are you so chirpy about?" I asked him.

"It's all coming together, old buddy. I'll fill you in later. What's up?"

I repeated what Laverne Willigan had told me of the catnappers' letter and the instructions as to how the ransom was to be paid.

"I don't like it," Al said at once. "Too much risk of a double X."

"I told Laverne that but she said Harry has no choice and is willing to shell out the fifty grand."

"Which makes her and the boyfriend happy- right? Okay, Archy, I'll start working on a snare for midnight tonight."

"After I collect the money from the bank, do you want to mark the bills?" ›

"Haven't got time," he said. "And too dangerous if they've got a lamp to read the markings. We'll make a list of the serial numbers; that'll hold up in court. Stay in touch; it's going to be a rackety day."

"Tell me about it. Al, do you think you'll be able to keep Laverne Willigan out of it?"

He was silent a moment. Then he said, "It depends," and I had to be satisfied with that.

Then I buzzed down to the Willigan manse. Leon told me the lady of the house was busy with her pedicurist, but he handed me the latest ransom note in its white envelope.

"I guess Peaches is coming home," he said.

"Looks like it," I agreed.

"And I start sneezing again," he said mournfully.

"If you don't like cats," I said, "why don't you buy yourself a koala or a wallaby? Just to remind you of down under."

"I've been down and under since I got here," he complained. "Florida is the outback with oranges."

Have you ever noticed that some people aren't happy unless they're unhappy?

Then I scooted for the McNally Building somewhat in excess of the legal speed limit. I arrived in time to smoke a cigarette before joining my father. I noted my hands weren't exactly shaking, but I would not have selected that moment to thread a needle. It was amazing how the prospect of a meeting with Mrs. Irma Gloriana rasped my nerves.

I went up to my father's office a few minutes before ten o'clock.

"I think it best, Archy," he said, "if you serve as a witness, a silent witness. Please let me ask the questions. If you are addressed directly, of course, you may respond. But I would prefer the conversation be limited to Mrs. Gloriana and myself."

"I'll be a fly on the wall," I assured him.

"Exactly," he said with his wintry smile.

His phone rang, and he glanced at the antique railroad clock on the wall over his rolltop desk. "The lady is prompt," he said. He picked up the phone. "Yes, show her in, please."

Mrs. Trelawney opened the door and stood aside to allow Mrs. Irma Gloriana to enter. Then the secretary closed the door softly.

Father was standing at his desk and I was across the room next to the bottle-green leather chesterfield. Irma took two steps into the office, her eyes on my father. Then she became aware of my presence, stared at me for a beat or two, and turned back to father.

"What is he doing here?" she demanded.

"I am Prescott McNally," he said in a plummy voice, "and I presume you are Mrs. Irma Gloriana. Since you are already acquainted with my son, I have asked him to attend this meeting as witness and adviser. You may be assured of his discretion."

Irma shook her head angrily. "It won't do," she said. "I don't need a witness and I don't need an adviser. I insist on a private, confidential conversation between you and me."

"In that case," my father said, "I suggest this meeting be terminated forthwith. Good day, madam." (He accented the "madam" ever so slightly.)

How I admired his tactics! Not only was he establishing his command of the situation but he was determining her anxiety level. If she marched out, then she felt she held a winning hand. If she remained, then her role was that of a supplicant, anxious to cut a deal.

She stood a moment in silence, and I reflected it was the first time I had seen her irresolute.

She was wearing a tailored suit of pale pink linen with a high-necked blouse. It was certainly a conservative costume, but not even a chador could conceal that woman's sexual radiance, and I wondered if my father was aware of it. I suspected he was. He might be stodgy but he was not torpid.

We waited.

"Very well," Mrs. Gloriana said finally. "If you wish. ."

Father gestured toward an armchair upholstered in the same leather as the chesterfield. He sat in his swivel chair, turned to face his visitor. I remained standing in a position where I could observe them both without making like a fan at a tennis match.

"Mr. McNally," she said crisply, "I understand you were the attorney for the late Roderick Gillsworth."

"That is correct."

"Then I suppose you're handling his estate?"

He inclined his head, and she took that for assent. In addition to a black calfskin handbag she was carrying a zippered envelope of beige suede, large enough to hold legal documents. She opened the three-sided zipper with one swift motion and withdrew two sheets of white paper stapled together.

"I have here," she began (and I marveled at how assertive her voice was), "a photocopy of a handwritten last will and testament executed by Roderick Gillsworth approximately a month ago. It has been properly prepared, dated, and witnessed. Attached is a photocopy of an affidavit signed by the testator and both witnesses in the presence of a notary public and so certified. I believe the affidavit makes Mr. Gillsworth's will self-proving, and it may be admitted to probate without further testimony by the witnesses."

She leaned forward to proffer the documents. My father bent forward to accept them. He remained in that position a moment, staring at her expression-lessly. Then he leaned back and began to read. He perused the two sheets slowly, then read them again. He turned his swivel chair a bit to face me.

"Archy," he said, his voice dry, "this purportedly holographic will, allegedly signed by Roderick Gillsworth and witnessed by Irma Gloriana and Frank Gloriana, states that the original manuscripts of the testator's poems shall be given to the Library of Congress. Other than that, the total assets of Roderick Gillsworth at the time of his death are bequeathed to Irma Gloriana."

Al Rogoff had been right; the bomb had been dropped.

My father's aplomb was something to see. He showed absolutely no sign of the turmoil I knew must be racking him. The face he turned to Mrs. Gloriana was peaceable, and when he spoke, his voice and manner were pleasantness personified.

"You were a friend of the late Mr. Gillsworth?" he inquired.

"A close personal friend," she said defiantly, lifting her chin. "Especially after his dear wife passed over. I believe my family and I provided him with spiritual comfort."

"My son tells me your daughter-in-law is a medium."

"She is. And very gifted, I might add."

"Did Mr. Gillsworth attend the seances I understand are held at your home?"

"Occasionally. He attended with his wife."

Father nodded and seemed to relax. He looked down at the papers he was holding, rolled them into a loose tube, tapped them gently on his knee. He didn't speak, and his silence obviously perturbed Mrs. Gloriana.

"Is there any reason why this will cannot be filed for probate immediately?" she said. "It is absolutely authentic."

"Well, naturally that must be determined," he said smoothly. "The testator's signature must be verified, as well as that of the certifying notary public. A search must be conducted to locate immediate survivors-family members-if such exist. In addition, I wish to review the statutes of the State of Florida dealing with holographic wills."

That last, of course, was complete nonsense. My father knew Florida law as well or better than any attorney practicing in the State. He knew the music, knew the lyrics, and could sing you verse and refrain. He was simply stalling this would-be client.

"How long will you need?" Irma asked. "I know that probating a will takes months, so I want to get it started as soon as possible."

"Very understandable," he said. "And I shall attempt to expedite the process as much as possible. Where are the originals of these documents now?"

"In my safe deposit box."

He nodded. "And do you have any evidence, Mrs. Gloriana-personal letters from Mr. Gillsworth, for instance-that might attest to your friendship with the testator?"

"Why should that be necessary?" she asked indignantly. "Take my word for it, we were close friends."

"Oh, I do take your word," he said. "But sometimes probate judges make inquiries to establish to their own satisfaction the relationship between testator and beneficiary."

"Well, yes," she admitted, "I do have some letters from Rod. And a few unpublished poems he sent to me. And autographed copies of two of his books."

"Excellent. And where is this material at present?"

"Also in my safe deposit box."

"I suggest you have photocopies made of anything that relates to your friendship with Mr. Gillsworth and have the copies delivered to my office."

"Must I do all that?"

"I strongly urge it. It is my duty to anticipate any questions the presiding judge might have and be prepared to answer them. Do you have any notion of the size of Mr. Gillsworth's estate, madam?"

That last was asked suddenly in a sharp voice, and I could see it flustered her for a brief moment.

"Why, no," she said. "Not exactly. At the time Rod wrote out his will, he said he didn't have much."

That at least, I acknowledged, was the truth.

"And did he give you any reason why he was making a holographic will rather than coming to me, his attorney of record, to have his last testament revised?"

She was obviously ready for that query; her answer was immediate and glib: "He said that because you also represented his wife, he didn't want to run the risk of Lydia learning he had changed his will."

That implied Prescott McNally might be guilty of unethical conduct, but father voiced no objection. He stood and waited until she had gathered up handbag and suede envelope.

"Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Gloriana," he said cordially. "If you will supply me with copies of the personal correspondence in your safe deposit box, I will start preparing an application for probate as well as initiating those other inquiries I mentioned. Please feel free to phone me if you have any further questions or desire a progress report."

She nodded coolly. I wondered if they would shake hands on parting. They didn't. He opened the office door for her and she swept through, head high, indomitable.

Father returned to his swivel chair, and I collapsed onto the couch, weary from standing erect for so long.

"As you said, Archy," the sire remarked with a wry smile, "a disturbing woman."

"Sir," I said, "is a handwritten will legal in Florida?"

"Oh yes," he said, "if it is properly prepared, as this one apparently is. In addition, the attached affidavit serves as self-proof of the authenticity of the will."

"And is a witness allowed to inherit?"

"Yes, a witness to a last will and testament may also be a beneficiary, under Florida law. Archy, me-thinks the lady and Gillsworth had the assistance of an attorney in preparing this will and the accompanying affidavit. Some of the language she used was legalese, borrowed from the lawyer I'm certain she consulted. The question then arises: Why did she come to me? The will I prepared for Gillsworth has been superseded by this holographic will. And, in effect, I have been superseded. Mrs. Gloriana could just as easily have retained the attorney who assisted her and asked him to file for probate. But she came to me. Why?"

"Father, I think she figured that by retaining you she would eliminate the possibility of your asking embarrassing questions, causing trouble, delaying her receiving what she considers her rightful due. And if you raise too many objections, she'll offer to cut you in on her inheritance."

He looked at me thoughtfully. "Yes," he said, "I do believe you may be correct. The lady is using me, and I don't relish it."

We sat in a moody silence awhile, chewing our mental cud, and then my father drew a deep breath.

"Archy," he said, "yesterday you told me you thought the Glorianas were involved in the murders of Lydia and Roderick Gillsworth but you had no idea as to their motive." He held up the copy of the holographic will. "Now you have a motive."

I rose to my feet. "I better call Sergeant Rogoff," I said. "Interesting morning, sir."

"Wasn't it," he agreed.

On my way through the outer office Mrs. Trelaw-ney took one look at my expression and evidently decided not to crack any jokes or make any reference to our recent visitor. Instead she silently handed me a message: Mrs. Laverne Willigan had phoned and I was to call her as soon as possible.

I returned to my closet, phoned the Willigan house, spoke to Leon, and eventually Laverne came on the line. She told me she had heard from the bank, the fifty thousand was ready, and I could pick it up anytime. I thanked her and hung up at once, fearing she might ask questions about plans for delivery of the ransom.

Then I phoned Sgt. Rogoff.

"Al," I said, "I'm in my office. Irma Gloriana just left, and you were right. But that bomb she dropped was a blockbuster. Can you come over?"

"On my way," he said. "Fifteen minutes."

He was as good as his word. He came barging in and plumped down in the uncomfortable steel chair alongside my desk. He lighted a cigar and took out his notebook. "All right," he said, "let's have it."

I gave him a complete account of what had transpired in my father's office. When I started, he tried to keep up by scribbling notes, but then he became so entranced by my report that he left off writing, let his cigar go out, and just listened, bending forward intently.

I finished, and he leaned back, relighted the cold cigar and stared at me. I lighted a cigarette, and within minutes my tiny office was fuggy.

"A handwritten will is legal?" he asked finally.

"My father says so. And a witness can be a beneficiary."

"And Irma gets everything?"

"Everything but the original manuscripts."

He made a grimace of disgust. "Why did the idiot do it?"

"That's obvious," I said. "Sexual obsession."

"I love the way you talk," he said. "You mean he had the hots for her."

"That's exactly what I mean," I said.

Then, when we both grasped the implications of the poet's folly, I think we became excited-hunters on a fresh spoor. We couldn't talk fast enough.

"Look, Al," I said. "Lydia was a lovely woman but something of a bluestocking. The gossip in Palm Beach was that the Gillsworths had a marriage in name only."

"Then Roderick goes to one of those cockamamy seances with his wife and meets Mrs. Irma Gloriana. Snap, crackle, and pop!"

"Irma was everything Lydia wasn't: voluptuous, dominant, and a wanton when it suited her purpose."

"And as rapacious as a shrike."

"So they have an affair. Rod learns there's more to life than iambic pentameters, and Irma calculates this besotted fool might be the answer to her family's money problems. Do you buy all that?"

"Every word of it," Rogoff said. "That's why he began writing those erotic poems; the poor devil couldn't control his glands. It happens to all of us sooner or later."

"But not many of us end up dead because of it."

"Thank God."

"You think Gillsworth knew Otto was Irma's husband?"

"I doubt that. I think she passed him off as her brother or a friend."

"You're probably right," I said. "How's this scenario: Irma learns that Rod is practically penniless but his wife is loaded."

"And if she dies, her husband inherits the bulk of her estate."

"Who do you think made the first fatal suggestion?"

"The husband," Al said promptly. "If that was the price he had to pay to keep enjoying Irma, he was willing."

"Maybe Irma promised to marry him once Lydia was out of the picture. That's assuming he didn't know she was already married."

"And I'm betting Irma told him he wouldn't have to do the dirty deed himself; her so-called brother or friend would take care of Lydia-for a price, of course."

"Maybe the price was Gillsworth writing out that holographic will, leaving everything to Irma. A lovely quid pro quo. But why the poison-pen letters, Al?"

"Just to send the cops galloping off in all directions looking for a psycho who didn't exist. By the way, I sent that rookie up to the Glorianas' office to try to sell Frank a Smith Corona word processor.

You were right; Frank already owns a model PWP 10 °C."

"You think he was in on the plot to murder the Gillsworths?"

Rogoff pondered a moment. "I doubt it," he said finally. "He obviously knew about it-he witnessed the will, didn't he? — but I don't think he was a partner. Frankie boy had his own plot in the works: the catnapping of Peaches with the loving assistance of Laverne Willigan."

"Who he probably met at a seance. Those seances are beginning to resemble the bawdyhouse the Glorianas operated in Atlanta."

"Archy, you figure the medium knew what was going down?"

"Hertha? I don't think she knew about the murder plan. She knew her husband was nuzzling Laverne Willigan, but she just didn't care. Hertha isn't guilty of any crimes, Al."

He looked at me, amused. "How about conduct that violates the ethical code of psychics?"

"Well, yes, she may possibly be guilty of that."

He laughed. "Listen, let's go through the whole megillah one more time from the top and see if we can spot any holes."

So we reviewed our entire scenario, starting with Roderick Gillsworth meeting Irma Gloriana and falling in love-or whatever he fell into. It seemed a reasonable script with only a few minor questions to be answered, such as the date Otto Gloriana arrived in Greater West Palm Beach, where Irma and Rod consummated their illicit union, and why Lydia Gillsworth had opened her locked door to allow her murderer to enter.

"We'll clear those things up," the sergeant said confidently. "Now that we've got a logical hypothesis, we'll know what evidence to look for and what's just garbage."

"Whoa!" I said. "I hope you're not going to discard facts simply because they don't fit our theory. That's ridiculous-and dangerous."

"It's not a question of discarding facts," he argued. "It's a matter of interpretation. Let me give you a for-instance. When Gillsworth's body was found, there was a big meal he had been preparing in the kitchen: six huge crab cakes and an enormous salad. Now there were three interpretations of that humongous meal. One: He was famished and was going to eat the whole thing himself. Two: He was making enough food so he could have a leftover dinner the next day. And three: He was expecting a guest and was preparing dinner for two people. According to our theory, the third supposition is the most likely. He was expecting Irma Gloriana to join him for dinner. The doorbell rings, he looks through the judas window, sees her, and unlocks the door. Otto is standing to one side, out of sight, and the moment the door is open, he comes barreling in with his single-edge razor blade. Doesn't that sound right to you? It's what I mean by interpreting facts. They don't become evidence until you can establish their significance. If you don't have a reasonable supposition, you can drown in facts."

"Thank you, professor," I said. "I've enjoyed your lecture enormously. Of course it's based on the belief that our scenario is accurate."

"You believe that, don't you?"

"I do," I said. "It seems to me the only plausible explanation of what happened."

But that wasn't the whole truth. Do you recall my mentioning a vague notion I had early on, something so tenuous that I couldn't put it into words?

Then, as more was learned about the homicides, I began to see an outline. Now, with the most recent revelations, the outline was filling in and taking on substance. If it proved valid, it would radically alter the script Sgt. Rogoff had adopted so enthusiastically. But I didn't tell him that.

"Al," I said, "the bank has the ransom money ready. Will you go with me to pick it up? You're the man with the gun."

"Sure," he agreed readily. "Then I want you to come back to headquarters with me. We've got to go over the program for tonight's payoff."

"I hope you've devised an effective plan."

"It should work," he said.

I sighed. "Can't you be more positive than that? After all, it's my neck that's at risk."

"Well. ." he said doubtfully, "maybe you better not buy any green bananas."

Then he laughed. I didn't.