McNally's risk

3

The Pelican Club was cranking with the noonday crowd when I entered, but fortunately most of the Pelicanites were seated at tables in the bar area or dining room. I was able to find an unoccupied barstool, and Simon Pettibone came ambling over to ask my pleasure.

Ordinarily, my favorite summer potion is a frozen daiquiri, but recently I had been browsing through a secondhand bookstore and had come across a bartender's guide published in the mid-1980s, shortly after Prohibition was repealed. (Bless you, FDR!)

Naturally I purchased this fascinating compendium and spent many enjoyable hours studying the recipes of cocktails now lost and forgotten. Of course it included such classics as Manhattan, Bronx, Rob Roy, and Sazerac. But it also listed the ingredients of such obscure mixed drinks as Sweet Patootie, Seventh Heaven, and Arise My Love. (I kid you not.)

Much to my astonishment, I discovered our publican knew, he actually knew, how to mix many of these antique libations. It had become a game to test his expertise, and he succeeded more often than he failed.

"Today, Mr. Pettibone," I said, "I would like a Soul Kiss." It was a request that drew a few startled glances from nearby bar patrons.

"Soul Kiss," he repeated thoughtfully, cast his eyes upward and reflected. "Ah, yes," he said finally. "Orange juice, Dubonnet, dry vermouth, and bourbon."

"Bravo!" I cried. "You've got it-and I hope to get it as soon as possible."

He set to work.

I was sipping my Soul Kiss, wondering how long it might take to work my way through the 1000-plus drinks listed in the guide, when Consuela Garcia came bouncing into the Club. She immediately looked toward the bar, spotted me, and waved. I stood up and beamed happily.

Connie is as toothsome as a charlotte russe, but that is hardly the limit of her appeal. She has a sharp wit, is extremely clever at her job, and is just naturally a jolly lady. There are those who wonder why I don't marry the girl. The answer is simple: cowardice. Not fear of Connie so much as fear of matrimony itself.

I see wedded bliss as a kind of surrender-which I agree is an immature attitude. But I think of myself as an honorable chap, and if I were married it would mean that never again could I look at a dishy woman with lust in my heart. That is what scares me: that I would be incapable of resisting temptation, and so my self-esteem would evaporate, let alone the trust of my mate.

You may possibly feel all that is blarney, and my sole reason for remaining a bachelor is that I relish the life of a rake. You may possibly be right.

Connie and I had Leroy's special hamburgers, a beef-veal-pork combination mixed with chilies. We shared a big side order of extra-thick potato chips and drank Buckler, which is a non-alcoholic beer that tastes swell but doesn't do a thing for you except quench your thirst.

Connie chattered on about a reception Lady Horowitz was planning for a visiting Russian ballerina and didn't mention a word about 1'Affaire d'Oeufs Benedict, for which I was thankful. She was excited about her arrangements for the party, and it showed in her features: snappy eyes, laughing mouth, squinched-up nose to express displeasure.

Charming, no doubt about it. But different from Theodosia Johnson's beauty. Not inferior or superior, just different. Connie was earthy, open, solid. Madam X was an unsolved riddle. So far.

"Hey," Connie said over coffee, "I've been yakking up a storm and haven't asked about you. What mischief are you up to these days, Archy?"

"Oh, this and that," I said. "Nothing heavy. Right now I'm running a credit check on a man named Hector Johnson. Ever hear of him?"

"Of course," she said promptly. "He sent in a nice check for Lady Cynthia's latest project, to install Art Nouveau pissoirs on Worth Avenue. Can you imagine? Anyway, the boss asked him over for cocktails. What a doll! He's got charm coming out his ears."

"Uh-huh," I said. "Retired, is he?"

"Semi, I guess. He said he used to work for the government. He didn't say doing what, but I got the feeling it was the CIA."

"Connie, whatever gave you that idea?"

"Because he was so mysterious about it. I suppose I could have asked straight out, but I didn't want to pry. Who cares if he was a spy? He's nice and that's all that counts."

"Sure," I said.

She looked at her Swatch. "Oh, lordy, I have to get my rear in gear. Sorry to eat and run, luv, but I've got a zillion things to do. Okay?"

"Of course," I said. "You go ahead. I think I'll dawdle a bit."

She swooped to kiss my cheek, gathered up handbag and scarf, and sashayed out. I wasn't the only man, or woman, in the dining room who watched her leave. Connie radiates a healthy vigor that even strangers admire. With her robust figure and long black hair flying, she could model for the hood ornament on a turbo-charged sports coupe.

I finished a second cup of coffee, signed my tab at the bar, and wandered out. I was musing about Hector Johnson, a man who apparently was knowledgeable about orchids, had been a professor of electronics or computer stuff, and had worked for the U.S. of A., possibly as a spy. Curiouser and curiouser. I had been enlisted to investigate Theo Johnson, but now I found myself concentrating on daddy. Because, to paraphrase Willie Sutton, that's where the money was, I supposed.

I went back to my cubicle in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. It is a squarish structure of glass and stainless steel, so stark and modern it makes you yearn to see a Chick Sales just once more before you die.

My office was a joke: a tiny windowless room as confining as a Pullman berth. I am convinced my father banished me there to prove to other employees that there would be no nepotism at McNally Son. But at least I had an air-conditioner vent, and I lighted my first English Oval of the day as I set to work gathering the financial skinny on Hector Johnson and his wondrous daughter.

I phoned contacts at local banks, promising my pals a dinner at the Pelican if they would reveal whatever they had on the enigmatic Hector. Then I prepared a letter to be faxed to national credit agencies to which we subscribed. Those snoops could usually deliver everything from an individual's date of birth and Social Security number to current Zip Code, hat size, and passionate preferences, such as an inordinate fondness for sun-dried tomatoes. Privacy? It doesn't exist anymore. Not even if you're lucky enough to be dead.

I finished the letter and was about to take it upstairs to Mrs. Trelawney, my father's private secretary, and have her fax it out, when my phone rang. That was such an unusual occurrence that I stared at it a moment before picking up. I was sure it would be an automatic marketing machine working through every possible telephone number in sequence and delivering a recorded spiel on the wonderful opportunity I had been granted to invest in a rhinestone mine.

"H'lo?" I said cautiously.

"Archy McNally?"

I thought I recognized that whiny voice but hoped I was wrong.

"Yes," I said. "Speaking."

"This is Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth," he said, reeling off the four names like a sergeant selecting a latrine detail.

"Hello, CW," I said, resolving to get rid of this world-class bore as fast as humanly possible.

"Archy," he said, and I thought I detected a note of desperation, "I've got to see you as soon as possible."

"Oh?" I said. "Concerning what?"

"Well…" he started, stopped, gave me a few "Uh's" and "Um's," and finally said, "It's a legal matter."

"Then you better speak to my father," I told him. "As you know, I am not an attorney. Would you like me to set up an appointment?"

"No!" he cried. "No, no, no! I know your father is an estimable man, but he scares me."

"Well… yes," I conceded. "At times he can be rather daunting. But if you need legal advice, CW, I'm just not your man."

"It's not really a legal thing," he stammered on. "It is and it isn't. And I'd rather talk about it to you. Please, Archy."

Now I was intrigued; the Chinless Wonder, with an ego as big as all outdoors, was pleading for help. And it just might have something to do with the trustworthiness of Theodosia Johnson.

"All right, CW," I said. "Would you like to pop over to the office?"

"Oh no," he said immediately. "I'd probably be seen, the word would get back to mother, and she'd demand to know why I was seeing our lawyer."

"Very well. Then how about the Pelican Club? Cafe L'Europe? Testa's? Perhaps a Pizza Hut?"

"Won't do," he said despairingly. "I can't be seen huddling with you in public. You know how people talk."

"CW," I said, more than a little miffed, "you ask to meet me to discuss what is apparently a personal matter of some importance, and then you reject all my suggestions for a rendezvous. Here is my final offer, and I do mean final: The McNally Building has an underground garage. If you will drive down there, I will be pleased to meet with you, and we will have a cozy tete-a-tete."

"Is that the best you can do?" he said, the whine becoming a drone.

The McNally temper, though rarely displayed, is not totally nonexistent. "Not only the best," I said with some asperity, "but the only. Either be there within fifteen minutes or forget about the whole thing."

"All right," he said faintly.

I dropped my letter off in Mrs. Trelawney's office, asked her to fax it out, and went down to the garage. After that goofy exchange with CW, I was far from being gruntled, so I merely waved at Herb, our security guard, and lighted my second cigarette of the day. I leaned against a concrete pillar, puffed away, and awaited the arrival of the Chinless Wonder.

About ten minutes later his black Mercedes came rolling slowly down the ramp. He pulled into an empty parking slot, and I went over and slid in next to him.

"Are you certain no one will see us?" he asked nervously.

"No, I am not certain," I answered. "But the odds against it are worth a wager. Now what's this all about?"

"Mother told me she asked you to investigate Theodosia."

"That's correct."

"Well, I'm sure you'll find she's true-blue."

"I'm sure I shall. So what's the problem?"

He hesitated. "This is embarrassing," he said.

"Not for me," I said. "What is it?"

"Well…" he started, and I got another dose of "Uh's" and "Um's." "You see, Archy, before I met Theo, I had a, ah, fling with another young woman."

"Hardly a mortal sin, CW."

"Well, after I met Theo, I realized she was the genuine article. I fell completely in love and decided I wanted to marry her. So I broke off with the previous young woman- or attempted to."

"Oh-ho," I said, "I'm beginning to get the picture. The previous lady has raised objections?"

"Loud and clear," he said miserably. "She claims I had promised to marry her, and she threatens to sue me."

I laughed. "Breach of Promise? Forget it, CW. That's as common as Contempt of Congress. Everyone's guilty. The lady has no case."

"Well, uh," he continued, "she may not have a legal case, but there's more to it than that. I wrote her letters."

I looked at him. "You actually wrote letters to her? Promising marriage?"

"Yes."

"Told her how much you adored her, did you?"

"Yes."

"That you would be faithful for a lifetime?"

"Yes."

"That you desire no girl in the world but her?"

"Yes."

"CW, you're a fool."

"Yes," he said. "And now she's threatening to sell my letters to a tabloid. They're, um, somewhat passionate."

It was difficult to believe this lump could compose passionate prose, but I let it go. "How much does she want?" I asked.

"She doesn't mention money," he said. "She keeps saying that all she wants is to marry me."

"Who is she? What's her name? What does she do for a living besides collect letters from brainless bachelors?"

He swallowed the insult. "Her name is Shirley Feebling, and she works in a topless car wash down near Lauderdale. That's how I met her."

I wasn't surprised. Florida is the home of the topless car wash, topless restaurants, topless maid service, topless coffee shops. It is only a matter of time before we have topless funeral homes.

"And what is it you wish me to do?" I asked.

"Talk to her," he begged. "Persuade her to turn over the letters and keep quiet. If she wants money, I'll pay. Within reason, of course. Archy, if she carries out her threat, she could ruin me. Mother would disown me, Theo would give me the broom. You've got to do something!"

I didn't know why I should, but then the thought occurred to me that someday I might be in a similar fix myself. And after all, he was a client-or at least the son of a wealthy client.

"All right," I said finally, "I'll see what I can do. Give me her name, address, and telephone number."

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a ballpoint pen. Typical Chinless Wonder: He drove a Mercedes and carried a Bic. He tore a page from a pocket notebook and jotted down all the vital info.

I tucked it away, started to get out of the car, then paused.

"By the way, CW," I said, "I imagine you've met Hector Johnson many times. What is your impression of him?"

"A great fellow!" he said enthusiastically. "Never knew a man who understands as much about banking as old Heck. He used to own a bank somewhere out West, you know."

"Uh-huh," I said, and started to leave again. This time he stopped me.

"Listen, Archy," he said, the whine rising in pitch, "I hope you won't mention anything about my problem to your father. I mean it's just between us, isn't it? Confidential and all that?"

"Of course," I said. "My lips are sealed."

"Good man," he said.

So that evening, after my ocean swim, the family cocktail hour and dinner, I followed the sire to his study.

"Father," I said, "may I have a word with you?"

"Can't it wait?" he said testily.

I knew what irked him; I was delaying his nighttime routine. He was looking forward to having one or more glasses of port while he continued slogging his way through the entire oeuvre of Charles Dickens. I think he was currently deep in the complexities of Martin Chuzzlewit but it might have been Little Dorrit. The amazing thing was that he stayed awake while reading.

"It'll just take a few minutes," I promised.

"Oh, very well," he said. "Come on in."

He stood erect behind his massive desk and I stood in front. As I delivered a report on my recent conversation with Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth, his face twisted with distaste.

"A tawdry business," he pronounced when I had finished.

"Yes, sir," I said, "but troubling. Was I correct in telling him that the woman had no legal grounds for a suit against him for Breach of Promise?"

"You were quite right," he said. "Breach of Promise actions were abolished by the Florida legislature in 1945. In fact, lawmakers had such an abhorrence of the practice that they decreed that anyone initiating such a suit would be guilty of a misdemeanor in the second degree. Shortly after the statute was passed, a law review published an article on the subject entitled 'No More Torts for Tarts.' "

"Not bad," I said. "But now the question is how to handle CW's problem. I imagine the complainant will accept a cash settlement."

"A reasonable assumption," father said dryly. "But that doesn't necessarily mean the end of the affair. I can draw up a release she will be required to sign before she hands over the letters and gets paid. But a release never completely eliminates the possibility of her making another claim at some future date, especially if she's shrewd enough to keep photocopies of the letters. It could go on and on. It's really blackmail, Archy, and blackmailers rarely give up after one payoff."

"I concur," I said. "I think I better meet the young woman, get a take on her, and perhaps a rough idea of how much she expects for the letters. After that, we can decide how to deal with it."

My father was silent, mulling over my suggestion. He was a champion muller; I have seen him spend three minutes deciding whether to furl his golf umbrella clockwise or counterclockwise.

"Yes," he said finally, "I think that would be best. Interview the lady, appear to be sympathetic and understanding, and find out exactly what she wants. Then report to me, and we'll take it from there."

"Yes, sir," I said, resisting an urge to salute.

I trudged upstairs to my nest, put on the reading specs, and set to work recording the details of that eventful day. I paused while I was scribbling a precis of the Chinless Wonder's remarks about Hector Johnson: "Knows banking. Owned a Western bank." Let's see, I recapped, that made Theodosia's father an expert on orchids, electronics and/or computer stuff, government service (possibly espionage), and banking. Why, the man was a veritable polymath, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if my next interviewee claimed that Hector was a master bialy maker.

I finished my labors, closed my journal, and was preparing to relax by sipping a dram of marc and listening to a Patricia Kaas cassette when my blasted phone blasted. I glanced at my Mickey Mouse watch (an original, not a reproduction) and saw it was almost ten-thirty.

"Archy McNally," I said, expecting the worst. It was close.

"Ah-ha!" Sgt. Al Rogoff, PBPD, said in his heavy rumble. "I have tracked the sherlock of Palm Beach to his elegant lair. How you doing, old buddy?"

"Up to my nates in drudgery," I said. "And you?"

"Likewise," he said. "But enough of this idle chitchat. You know the painter Silas Hawkin?"

I hesitated for just the briefest. "Yes, I know him," I said. "Matter of fact, I visited him at his studio this morning."

"Interesting," Al said. "I think you better wheel your baby carriage back to his studio. Right now."

"Why on earth should I do that?"

"Because the maid just found Silas with a knife stuck in his neck."

I swallowed. "Dead?"

"Couldn't be deader," Rogoff said cheerfully.

"But why pick on me, Al?"

"Because your business card was on his desk. You coming or do I have to send a SWAT team after you?"

"On my way," I said.

I paused long enough to take one sip of marc (a gulp would have demolished me) and bounced downstairs. I trotted out to the garage to board my pride and joy. It had been a sparkling day, and the night was still dulcet. As I drove, I admired Mother Nature while I pondered who might have stuck a shiv in the throat of Father Hawkin.

People acquainted with my investigative career sometimes ask, "What was your first case?" To which I invariably reply, "A 1986 Haut Brion." Actually, my first Discreet Inquiry that involved criminal behavior turned out to be a debacle because I hadn't yet learned that in addition to lust, we all have murder in our hearts-or if not murder, at least larceny.

So now I could easily come up with a Cast of Characters who might have put down Silas Hawkin, including wife, daughter, maid, gallery agent, and any of his clients. But, as in any homicide investigation, the prime question was Cut bono? Or who benefited from the artist's death?

When I arrived at the Villa Bile the studio building had already been festooned with crime scene tape. The bricked driveway was crowded with official vehicles including an ambulance, indicating they had not yet removed what Al Rogoff enjoys referring to as the corpus delicious.

There was a uniformed officer standing guard at the studio door, inspecting the heavens and dreaming, no doubt, of Madonna.

"Archy McNally," I reported to this stalwart. "Sergeant Rogoff asked me to come over."

"Yeah?" he said, not very interested. "You stay here and I'll go see."

I waited patiently, and in a few minutes the sergeant himself came trundling out, a cold cigar jutting from his meaty face. Al is built like an Ml-Al tank, and when he moves I always expect to hear the clanking of treads.

"What were you doing here this morning?" he demanded, wasting no time on preliminaries.

"Good evening, Al," I said.

"Good evening," he said. "What were you doing here this morning? The maid, wife, and daughter don't know- or maybe they do and aren't saying."

"I'm doing a credit check on a man Hawkin knew," I said. "I stopped by to get his opinion on the subject."

"And who is the subject?"

I had calculated how much I could tell him and how much, in good conscience, I could withhold.

"Hector Johnson," I told him. "The father of one of the late artist's customers."

"And why are you doing a credit check on him?"

"At the request of a client of McNally and Son."

"What client?"

"Nope," I said. "Unethical. Confidentiality."

He looked at me. "You're no lawyer and you know it."

"But I represent my father who is an attorney," I pointed out. "And I can't divulge the information you request without his permission."

"Son," Al said heavily, "you've got more crap than a Christmas goose. All right, I won't push it-for now. Let's go up."

We entered through that oak and etched glass door. I glanced into the ground floor area. Mrs. Louise Hawkin was slumped at one end of a sailcloth-covered couch and Marcia Hawkin was at the other end, both as far apart as ever. We tramped up the cast-iron staircase and walked into the studio. The techs were busy.

Rogoff stopped me. "Wife was out playing bridge. Daughter went to a movie. They say. Silas didn't go over to the main house for dinner, but everyone says that wasn't unusual. When his work was going good he hated to stop. Finally, around nine o'clock, the maid called him to ask if he was coming over to eat or if he wanted her to bring him a plate. No answer. But she could see the lights on up here. So she came over and found him. Let's go take a look."

He was lying supine, naked on that tattered sleigh bed. His eyes were still open. The knife was still in his throat. An assistant from the ME's office was fussing over him. I knew the man. Thomas Bunion. One of the few people I've ever met who are simultaneously cantankerous and timid.

I stared down at the remains of Silas Hawkin. There was an ocean of blood. An ocean. I am not a total stranger to violent death and thought I had learned to view a corpse with some dispassion, without needing to scurry away and upchuck in private. But I admit I was spooked by the sight of the murdered artist. So pale. For some reason his beard looked fake, as if it had been spirit-gummed to his face.

A wooden handle protruded from his neck.

"It looks like a palette knife," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Uh-huh," Rogoff said. "We already figured that."

"But a palette knife doesn't have a cutting edge," I said. "And the blade is usually thin and pliable, something like a spatula. It's difficult to believe it was driven in so deeply and killed him."

"Well, it did," Bunion said crossly. "Looks like an artery was severed, but we won't know for sure until we get him on a slab. Thin blade or not, it was a lucky hit."

"Not for Silas," Al said.

"Poor devil," I muttered, turned away, and took a deep breath.

The sergeant inspected me. "Want to go outside, Archy?" he asked quietly.

"No, I'm fine," I told him. "But thanks." I looked around the studio. A plainclothesman was seated behind the decrepit desk, slowly turning pages of the ledger Si had slammed shut when I visited him that morning.

"What is he doing?" I asked.

Rogoff answered: "Hawkin may have been a nutsy artist, but he was a helluva businessman. He kept a record of every painting he did: date started, date finished, and disposition. If it was sold, he wrote down the size of the painting, name and address of the buyer, and the price paid. What we'll do is check his ledger against those finished works stacked against the wall and see if anything is missing."

"That makes sense," I said, but then I thought about it. "Al, are you figuring Hawkin was sleeping naked on that ugly bed and a burglar broke in to grab something he could fence? Then the artist wakes up and the crook grabs the nearest deadly weapon, a palette knife, and shoves it into the victim's throat to keep him quiet?"

He shrugged. "The wife and daughter were away. The maid was in the kitchen at the far side of the maid house with her radio going full blast. She couldn't have heard or seen an intruder. The door to the studio building was unlocked. It could have been a grab-and-run scumbag. Maybe a junkie."

"Do you really believe that?" I asked him.

"No," he said.

We went downstairs together. "Excuse me a moment," I said to the sergeant. I went over to the couch where wife and daughter were still sitting, isolated from each other.

"May I express my sympathy and my deepest sorrow at this horrible tragedy," I said. It came out more floridly than I had intended.

Only Mrs. Louise Hawkin looked up. "Thank you," she said faintly.

Al and I moved outside. He used a wooden kitchen match to light his cold cigar and I borrowed the flame for my third cigarette of the day, resolving it would be the last.

Rogoff jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the ground floor of the studio building. "Not much love lost there," he said.

"No," I agreed, "not much. It was a sex scene, wasn't it, Al?"

He nodded. "That's the way I see it. The guy's in bed with someone, woman or man. There's an argument. She or he grabs up the nearest tool, the palette knife. I think it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Not planned. They started out making love and then things went sour."

"Where do you go from here?"

"Check his inventory of paintings. Check the alibis of wife, daughter, maid, agent, clients, friends, enemies, and everyone connected with him."

"When did it happen-do you know that?"

"Tom Bunion figures it was about an hour before we got the squeal. That would put the time of death around nine o'clock, give or take."

"I was home," I told him. "Upstairs in my rooms. I had just talked with my father in his study."

"We'll check it out," he said with ponderous good humor. Then, suddenly serious, he added, "You got any wild ideas?"

"Not at the moment," I said. "Except that it must have required a great deal of strength to drive a blunt blade into Hawkin's throat. That would suggest a male assailant."

"Yeah," the sergeant said. "Or a furious woman."

"One never knows, do one?"

"There you go again," he said.

I returned home that night to find the house darkened except for the bulb burning over the rear entrance. I went directly to my quarters and finished that marc I had started aeons ago. Also my fourth English Oval. Then I went to bed hoping I wouldn't have nightmares involving palette knives and oceans of blood. I didn't. Instead I had a dotty dream about Zasu Pitts. Don't ask me why.