McNally's risk

11

I awoke on Tuesday morning in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. Ursi served paper-thin latkes with little pork sausages and apple sauce, and a big wedge of casaba with a crisp winy flavor.

The boss wanted to know if I required a lift to the office, his not-so-subtle way of telling me it would be nice if I got to work on time for a change. I explained I had to return the Buick and pick up my rejuvenated Miata. He accepted that without comment and took off alone in his black Lexus 400.

I drove over to West Palm Beach and reclaimed my little beauty, sparkling after a bath and wax job. Then I returned to the McNally Building around ten-thirty to find on my desk two telephone messages, both asking me to call. The name Hector Johnson was familiar, of course, but I stared at the other, Luther Grabow, and at first it meant nothing.

Then a lightbulb flashed above my head just as it does in comic strips. Luther Grabow. Ah-ha. The owner of the store where Silas Hawkin bought his art supplies. Intrigued, I phoned immediately and identified myself.

"Oh yeah," he said. "Listen, your firm is settling Si Hawkin's estate-am I right?"

"That's correct, Mr. Grabow." The experienced liar always remembers his falsehoods.

"And you told me one painting is gone. Is it still missing?"

"It is. It's listed in his ledger as 'Untitled,' but we haven't been able to locate it."

"The paintings you did find-were they on canvas?"

"All of them."

"So the chances are good that the missing work is the one he did on that wood panel I told you about. You agree with me?"

"Completely," I said. "There were no paintings on woods in Mr. Hawkin's inventory."

Long pause. Then he sighed. "I've been thinking about it," he said, "and I decided there's no reason I shouldn't tell you. The reason I didn't before was that I thought it might make the widow unhappy. You know? But when you sell off his stuff, she's going to get all the proceeds-am I right?"

"Oh yes," I said, padding my deception. "Mrs. Hawkin is the sole beneficiary."

"Then I might as well tell you. When Hawkin ordered the oak panel and said he was going to try acrylics, I asked him what he had in mind and he said he was planning to do a nude."

I may have gulped. "A nude?"

"That's what he said. He told me he had done some nudes when he was young, but then he found out there was more money to be made doing portraits."

"Did he tell you who the model would be?"

"Nah. He just said it was going to be a nude."

"Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. Grabow," I said. "I appreciate it and will make certain you are adequately recompensed for your professional assistance."

"That would be nice," he said.

I hung up, lighted a cigarette, and stared at the ceiling. A nude? I wondered if Silas Hawkin had met Pinky Schatz. Ridiculous. Or was it?

My second call, to Hector Johnson, was just as puzzling.

"Hiya, Arch," he said breezily. "How're you doing?"

I don't object to the diminutive Archy for Archibald, but I have an intense aversion to being called Arch. Too much like an adjective.

"Fine," I said. "And you?"

"Couldn't be better. I want to buy you lunch today. How about it?"

"Sounds great," I said.

It didn't. To be candid, Hector Johnson and men like him dismay me. They know all about professional football, they understand baccarat, and they can cure an arthritic septic tank. I mean they're so practical. I know little about such things. But then, on the other hand, if you're seeking an apt quotation from Publius Vergilius Maro, I'm your man.

"Do you like tongue?" Hector asked. I could think of a dozen snappy retorts to that query, some of them printable, but he plunged ahead before I could reply. "Nothing like a tongue sandwich on rye with hot mustard and a cold beer. You know Toojay's Deli on U.S. One, up near Jupiter?"

"Yes, I know it," I said, wondering why he was picking such a distant spot. Tongue sandwiches were available closer to home. His home, for instance.

"Meet you at twelve-thirty," he said briskly. "Okay?"

"I'll be there."

"My treat," he said, and hung up.

Toojay's is an excellent deli, no doubt about it, but hardly the place for a quiet, intimate luncheon even in midsummer when the tourists are absent. I could only conclude that Hector didn't want to be seen conferring with me in more familiar Palm Beach haunts. But what his reasons might be I could not fathom.

I arrived at Toojay's fashionably late, and it was as crowded and clamorous as I expected. I looked around for Hector and spotted him sitting at a table for four. With him was a gent with a profile like a cleaver and the body of a very tall jockey. I had absolutely no doubt that he drove a gunmetal Cadillac De Ville and his name was Reuben Hagler.

I made my way to their table, dodging the scurrying waitresses. By the time I arrived I had what I hoped was an unctuous smile pasted on my puss. Johnson rose to greet me, but the other man remained seated.

"Heck," I said, shaking his hand, "good to see you again."

"Likewise," he said. "Arch, I want you to meet Reuben Hagler, an old buddy of mine. Rube, this is Archy McNally, the dude I told you about."

The old buddy didn't rise or offer his hand, but he did grant me a glacial nod. I gave him one in return and sat down next to Hector, across from Hagler. The two men had glasses of beer but no food. Johnson snapped his fingers at a passing waitress, a habit I detest.

"How about it?" our host asked. "Tongue sandwiches all around with fries and slaw? And a beer for you, Arch?"

There were no objections, and that's what he ordered. Hector glanced at his wristwatch but it wasn't the old digital he had been wearing the first time we met. Now it was a gold Rolex, and I wondered if it might have been a gift from Louise Hawkin.

"Don't want to rush you, Arch," he said, "but Rube and I have an important business meeting in about an hour so we'll have to eat and run."

"No problem," I said and looked at the man sitting opposite. "What business are you in, Mr. Hagler?"

"Investments," he said. "Interested?"

"Sorry," I said. "At the moment I'm teetering on the edge of abject poverty."

Hector laughed but not Reuben. He didn't strike me as the kind of man who laughed often, if at all.

"If you change your mind," he said, "look me up. I'm in Lauderdale. I can promise you a twenty percent return with no risk."

When pigs fly, I thought, but didn't say it.

Our luncheons were served. They were enormous sandwiches with what I estimated was a half-pound of tongue between two slabs of sour rye. We set to work, but gluttonizing didn't bring our conversation to a halt.

"Arch," Hector said, "I got something to ask you, but first I want you to know you can talk in front of Reuben here. We've been friends a long time, and we got no secrets from each other. Right, Rube?"

"Right," the other man said.

"And he knows how to keep his mouth shut," Johnson added.

"I don't blab," Hagler agreed.

"Now tell me," Hector went on, "you work in the real estate department of your daddy's law firm. Is that correct?"

"Usually," I said cautiously, "but not all the time. Occasionally my father gives me other assignments. Things that require special handling."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," he said, "because it's been bothering me. I couldn't figure out how you got involved if all you did was real estate."

"I don't understand," I said, understanding very well. "Involved in what?"

"That's what I like," Hector said, addressing the other man. "A closemouthed guy. Archy don't blab either. Well, a few days ago this Chauncey Smythe-whatever, a fellow my daughter has been dating, comes to me and says he wants to marry Theo and he wants my approval. Can you top that? In this day and age he wants the father's permission before he pops the question. Is that nutsy or what?"

He looked at me to gauge my astonishment.

"Amazing," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "This Chauncey-hey, Arch, what in hell kind of a name is Chauncey?"

"I believe it's of French derivation."

"No kidding? Well, this Chauncey works in a bank and I guess he's got mucho dinero. You know anything about that?"

He was, I decided, one brash lad. "I don't believe the Smythe-Hersforth family is hurting," I said carefully.

"Uh-huh," he said, shoveling in more coleslaw, "that's what I thought. Well, that's all to the good; every father wants to see his little girl well-provided for. But from what he said I figure his mama holds the purse strings. Am I right? Hey, let's have another round of beers."

And without waiting for our acquiescence he did his finger-snapping shtick again. I was glad he did because it gave me time to frame a discreet answer to the question about who controlled the Smythe-Hersforth millions. But I needn't have bothered; Hector didn't pause for a reply.

"The reason I figured that," he continued, "is because this guy who wants to be my son-in-law told me his mother asked her lawyers to investigate my daughter. Is that right, Arch?"

If the Chinless Wonder had been there at that moment I could have cheerfully throttled the numskull, possibly by force-feeding him a dozen of those colossal tongue sandwiches.

I realized I had no choice but to tell the truth, even though it is foreign to my nature. "That's correct, Heck," I said. "I have been assigned the job of gathering information about your daughter."

Unexpectedly he accepted it quite good-naturedly. "I can understand that," he said. "Can't you, Rube? The old lady's got a lot of loot and she doesn't want her sonny boy falling into the hands of a gold digger. Isn't that about it?"

"Something like that," I agreed, taking a deep swallow of my beer.

"Sure," Reuben Hagler put in. "If I was the old lady, I'd be doing the same time. Smart-know what I mean?"

"Absolutely," Johnson said. "She's protecting her own, and who can blame her for that? So I went to Theo and asked her if she really liked this guy. And she-"

"Wait a minute," I interrupted, suddenly horrified. "You didn't tell Theo I was investigating her, did you?"

"Hell, no!" Hector said, drowning his remaining fries in catsup. "Positively not! Because that girl's got a lot of pride, and if she knew she was being tracked she'd have dumped that Chauncey so fast he wouldn't know what hit him. No, I didn't tell her, Arch; I just asked if she wanted to marry Chauncey, and she said she did. So I phoned him and gave him the go-ahead."

Both men looked at me, and I wondered what they were expecting me to say. All I could manage was a weak, "You gave him permission to propose to Theo?"

"That's right," Hector went on. "He seems like an okay guy. Maybe not too swift, if you know what I mean, but solid. You agree, Arch?"

"Oh yes," I said, wanting to add "especially between the ears," but didn't.

"So now," Hector said, "the only thing standing in the way of these two swell kids getting hitched, as far as I can see, is the report you deliver to Chauncey's mommy. When I first told Rube about all this, he said I should offer you, you know, like a nice tip. But that's how Rube thinks- always dollars and cents."

"It's my way," Hagler said tonelessly.

"But I told him if I did that you'd be insulted. Was I right?"

I couldn't believe this totally inane conversation was taking place. Larry, Moe, and Curly were gobbling tongue sandwiches and discussing the fate of a lovely young woman. Where were Abbott and Costello when they were so sorely needed? And who's on first?

"You were quite right," I told Hector. "I would have been insulted."

"Sure you would. Because you're a straight arrow; I knew that from the start. You haven't heard anything bad about Theo, have you?"

"Not a word," I said. "No gossip. Not a hint of scandal. Nothing."

"And you won't find anything," he assured me. "That girl is true-blue, believe me. So that's what you'll tell old lady Smythe-whatshername?"

"If I had to report today," I said, "that's what I'd tell her."

If he caught my tergiversation he gave no sign of it. "That's great!" he enthused. "Listen, Rube and I have got to run. But I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for having a nosh so we could clear the air. I'm happy to know you're on our side."

We finished our beers and rose to depart. I noticed that not Hector Johnson but Reuben Hagler paid for lunch, and with a hundred-dollar bill. We walked outside into the afternoon sunshine. We all shook hands. Hagler's grip was cool and surprisingly boneless. I thanked them for lunch and we all agreed to do it again real soon.

I paused to light a cigarette. I watched them get into Johnson's white Lincoln and jazz away. Those two, I reflected, were definitely not gentlemen. But then, on occasion, neither am I.

I drove back to Palm Beach in a fractious mood. I was furious with the Chinless Wonder for telling his prospective father-in-law that the bride-to-be was being investigated. How dense can you get? But then I sighed and acknowledged the man was what he was-a brainless twit-and there was no point in getting angry at what God hath wrought. As Groucho Marx said, "Why wax wroth; let Roth wax you for a change."

Still reviewing that crazy luncheon, I concluded it was a clear case of attempted manipulation. If I was naive, which I trust I am not, I would have said Hector Johnson was simply a concerned father who wanted only the best for his "little girl" and would do whatever he could to insure her happiness.

But I could not believe his motives were as innocent as that. For instance, his mentioning that Reuben Hagler had suggested I be offered a "tip" for a favorable opinion on Theo was surely a trial balloon to test my mendacity. If I had expressed even a mild interest, I'm sure our conversation would immediately have degenerated into vulgar haggling. To wit: How much did I want to turn in an A-plus report card on his daughter?

The whole thing was a Jeroboam of annelids. What had begun as a simple investigation of the character of a young woman had become as complex as an inquiry into the causes of the Seven Years' War. And I was certain more surprises awaited me.

Sure enough, one was awaiting when I drove into the underground garage of the McNally Building. The moment I dismounted from the Miata, Herb, our porcine security guard, came bustling over, his huge revolver in its dogleg holster slapping against his thigh.

"You got a visitor, Mr. McNally," he said. "Been waiting a long time."

"Oh?" I said. "Where? In my office? The reception room?"

"Nah," he said, jerking a thumb. "Over there."

I turned to look. A black Jeep Cherokee. Marcia Hawkin. "Oh lordy," I said aloud and stared about wildly for an escape route. But I was doomed. The Cherokee door swung open, a white arm beckoned. I shuffled over, dreading another go-around with that young lady. And her greeting did nothing to relieve my angst.

"Where have you been?" she demanded angrily.

I wished I had my father's gift of raising one eyebrow. "Luncheon," I said. "People do have them, you know."

"Get in," she commanded imperiously.

I got in, wondering how I could possibly connive to drop off this spacey child at the nearest day-care center.

And she looked like a child, wearing a navy middy piped with white and a pleated skirt of creamy silk. Her face was scrubbed, and she seemed young enough to roll a hoop or engage in an exciting game of jacks. But she was smoking a joint; that muddied the picture.

"How are you, Squirrel?" I asked.

That pleased her. "You remembered my name!"

"Of course."

"You're my very best friend," she said. "Really."

I was as much saddened as startled. I had met her- what? Twice? Thrice? And now I was her very best friend. I was aware of her hostility toward her stepmother and reckoned she had adopted me as a confidant since the death of her daddy. I had never before served as a father figure and it made me a mite uneasy.

"I know how much you miss him," I murmured.

"My father?" she said. "He was the most wonderful and the most horriblest person in the world."

I looked at her. "Horriblest? Marcia, I'm not sure there is such a word."

"Well, you know what I mean. A devil. He was a devil." She offered me the roach. "Would you like a toke?" she asked.

"No, thank you."

She pinched it out carefully, wrapped the stub in a facial tissue, and tucked it into her purse. It was an ugly thing: red plastic with a tarnished chain handle. It looked like something from a garage sale.

"Listen, Archy," she said, "I want you to do me a favor."

I was immediately wary. If she asked me to assassinate her stepmother or blow up Fort Knox I wouldn't be a bit surprised.

"If I can," I said cautiously.

She took a white envelope from that awful purse and handed it to me. "Keep this," she said. "But you must promise not to open it unless something happens to me."

I inspected the envelope, sealed and with no writing on the outside. "Marcia, what do you think is going to happen to you?"

"I don't know," she said. "But if something does, then you can open the letter. It explains everything."

I sighed. "You're being very mysterious," I told her.

"Screw that," the child said. "All I want you to do is promise not to open the envelope unless something happens to me. If nothing happens, then you give the letter back to me."

"Nope," I said, "I won't do it. You're too vague. What if you decide to go to the Bahamas for a week. Do I open the envelope? What if you get appendicitis and they pop you in a hospital. Do I open the envelope? What if you're busted on a shoplifting charge. Do I open the envelope? What I'm trying to tell you, Squirrel, is that you've got to be more specific. Just saying 'If something happens to me' doesn't cut the mustard."

She thought about that, gnawing on the lower lip with her upper incisors. "All right," she said finally, "I'll be more specific. You must promise not to open the envelope and read the letter unless I die. Okay?"

"You're not going to die," I said.

She flipped out. "Stop arguing!" she screamed at me. "Stop treating me like a stupid kid! Just do what I asked you! Promise me this instant!"

I put a hand on her arm. "Take it easy," I said as softly as I could. "Of course I promise to do what you ask. I'll keep the envelope and won't open it until you die. And you can have it back, unopened, whenever you like. Is that satisfactory?"

"Yeah," she said, beginning to sniffle, "that's fine." She took another tissue and wiped her nose. "I'm sorry I blasted you, Archy, but people have been pushing me around and I can't take it anymore. But everything's going to get better. You'll see. My money worries will be over and I'll be able to live my life the way I want to."

"Glad to hear it," I said, suspecting she was handing me a lot of hooey.

"Oh yes," she said and smiled for the first time. "Things are going to change. I'm in the driver's seat now and certain people are going to do things my way if they know what's good for them. They think they're so smart but I'm smarter."

I hadn't the slightest idea of what she was talking about, of course, but her words sounded to me like a threat against a person or persons unknown, and that worried me.

"Marcia," I said, "I don't wish to pry. I know nothing about your personal affairs and have no desire to know. But if you're in a sticky situation and would like advice, assistance, or just encouragement, I'd be happy to help."

"I don't need help," she said disdainfully. "From you or anyone else. Daddy is dead and can't tell me what to do. No one can tell me what to do. I'm in control of my own life now. For the first time. And I know how to do it."

I was convinced she didn't. She wasn't a child, she was an infant, an impetuous, disturbed, and possibly violent infant. I saw no way to aid her without becoming immersed in the same madness that was obviously engulfing her. So I did nothing. Save yourself. It's a hard and sometimes cruel dictum. But it's the first law of survival.

"I wish you the best, Squirrel," I said. "I hope all your plans succeed." I opened the door of the Cherokee, holding that damned white envelope. "Please let me know how you make out."

"Sure," she said with an elfin grin that broke my heart.

I stood there and watched her gun up the ramp and out of the garage. I was in no mood to return to my claustrophobic office, so I remounted the Miata and headed for home. I needed a long, slow ocean swim, the family cocktail hour, and a merry dinner with my parents to reassure me that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

And it worked-for a while. I arose from the table feeling content and full of beans (actually they were haricots verts with slivered almonds), but then my father summoned me to his study. I followed him with the premonition that my serene mood was soon to evaporate.

"Glass of port, Archy?" he inquired.

That cinched it. When the patriarch invites me to have a postprandial libation it usually means he's going to give me a world-class migraine in the form of an unwelcome assignment. The proffered drink is his a priori apology.

He did the pouring, from one of his crystal decanters into Waterford goblets. He seated himself behind his massive desk and I took the nearest leather club chair. We sipped our wine. I thought it rather musty but I didn't tell him that.

"Anything new on Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth's young lady?" he asked.

"No, sir," I replied. "Nothing definite."

"His mother came in today. Apparently her son has proposed and the woman in question has accepted. Were you aware of that, Archy?"

"Yes, sir."

"I wish you had informed me."

"I learned of it only last night, father."

He accepted that. "Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth was quite upset. Perhaps indignant would be more accurate."

"I can imagine."

"However, I think she is reconciled to the fact that her son is determined to marry. Unless, of course, your investigation should prove the lady to be completely unsuitable."

"I've uncovered nothing to date that would disqualify her, sir." Naturally I said nothing of uncovering the lady herself.

"But you're continuing your investigation?"

"Yes, father, I am."

"Good. But our client has raised another objection. Before she gives her final blessing to the match she is determined to retrieve her son's letters to that unfortunate woman in Fort Lauderdale-what was her name?"

"Shirley Feebling."

"Yes. Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth fears that if she gives her approval, it's possible that before, during, or shortly after the marriage those embarrassing letters might surface as a cover story in one of our more lurid tabloids."

"She has a point."

"Indeed she does, Archy. I told her of the efforts I have made, with the assistance of Sergeant Rogoff, to seek the return of the letters from the Lauderdale police, to no avail. Their position is that they can release no evidence, particularly that found at the murder scene, until the case is cleared."

"That's understandable, father."

"Of course it is," he said crossly. "They're entirely in the right, even though Chauncey is not a suspect. So apparently his letters will remain in their possession until the homicide of Miss Feebling is solved."

He looked at me intently, knuckling his Brillo mustache. I knew what he wanted me to say and I said it.

"Let me look into it, father."

"Yes, Archy," he said gratefully, "you do that. Nothing illegal, of course. Do not, in any way, shape, or form, interfere with the official investigation. But though I admire your ingenuity, I must tell you I doubt you will succeed where, to date, the police have failed. However, I want to be able to assure our client that McNally and Son has done its best to accede to her wishes." He paused a moment and gave me a wry smile. "Also," he added, "your investigation should result in a large number of billable hours."

I laughed. "I expect it will, father," I said.

He finished his glass of wine and stood up. It was my dismissal. The moment I left he would pack and light one of his James Upshall pipes, pour another port, and get back to Dickens. I wondered if he had started The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

"Kindly keep me informed of the progress of your investigation," he said. Very patrician. I admired him. He had the intonation just right.

I nodded, left his study, and started upstairs. I paused at the second-floor sitting room, where mother was watching a rerun of "The Honeymooners." I kissed her good-night and she patted my cheek while laughing delightedly at Ralph Kramden. I continued up to my own cloister.

It had been a long, arduous day, and instead of a shower I opted for a bath. I frothed the water with a mildly scented oil and launched a squadron of rubber duckies Connie had given me as a gag. Then I slid in with a moan of contentment.

An hour later I was dried and had donned one of my favorite kimonos, the one printed with images of Elmer Fudd at play. I sat at my desk and worked hard at my journal, recording everything that had happened since the last entry. I do work hard, you know, though I suspect you may think I'm just another pretty face.

I remembered to jot notes on what Luther Grabow had told me of Silas Hawkin's intention to paint a nude on wood; the insane luncheon with Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler; and the even madder conversation with Marcia Hawkin in an underground garage.

That last item reminded me to take the white envelope from my jacket pocket and slip it into the top desk drawer. But before I did that, I held it up to the strong light of my student lamp. Unfortunately it appeared to be a security envelope-one of those with an overall pattern printed on the inside-and I could decipher nothing of what Squirrel might have written on the letter within. Frustrating, but I swear I was not tempted to steam it open. Subsequent events made me wish to hell I had.

Finished with my scribbling, I reviewed everything I had written since my initial interview with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth. Even more frustrating, for it seemed to me I had compiled a compendium of disparate facts and fancies. If there was a pattern, a design no matter how bizarre, I simply could not see it. Mishmash would be an apt description.

And now there was another spud in the stew: my father's request that I investigate the murder of Shirley Feebling. I could understand his doubts that I would succeed where, so far, the Lauderdale homicide detectives had failed. But neither the squire nor the police, as far as I knew, were aware of the existence of Reuben Hagler, the "old buddy" of Hector Johnson, father of the woman I had been assigned to dissect.

There were connections, I was convinced, but they were so tenuous as to be ungraspable. (There is such a word; you can look it up.) After a long bout of jumbled pondering I decided I had no choice but to engineer another meeting with Pinky Schatz, close friend of the slain Shirl Feebling. I could not forget my impression that the bouncy Ms. Schatz had lied to me because of fear. But fear of whom I could not imagine. Unless he drove a gunmetal Cadillac.

All this Sturm und Drang was so depressing. I really don't know how psychiatrists do it. I mean they listen to woeful confessions of ridden people every day. All they hear is weeping, wailing, and the gnashing of teeth: stories of hate, abuse, greed, lust, violence, and other swell stuff. Who could blame the shrinks if they went home at night and, to survive, read fairy tales-or anything that ends "And they lived happily ever after."

I suppose I was in that mood when I determined to call Connie Garcia. I needed a dose of normality. It was close to midnight, and I let her phone ring and ring. But she did not answer.

I went to bed. I was not gruntled.