McNally's Dare

by Lawrence Sanders

  The murder weapon, as you might call it, was not exactly indicative of a confrontation between a couple of young punks or a crime passionnel. I knew that and so did Al. Reluctantly, I mumbled, “Rather sophisticated.”

  “Yeah, ain’t it. Like dressing pour la sport,” Al got in. “He was alive when he was shoved into the pool so the actual cause of death is drowning. His lungs were filled with water and he expired about an hour before he was fished out.”

  About three o’clock, just as I had pegged it. “Did they tell Nifty all this when he reported to the station house this morning?”

  “If you mean Mr. MacNiff, we did, and how do you know he came in this morning?”

  “Maria Sanchez, who works for Mrs. MacNiff, told our Ursi, who told me. I’m sure everyone up and down the Boulevard also knows it as our Ursi suffers from telephonitis.”

  “What a town,” Al groused.

  “I’m having lunch with Nifty this afternoon,” I confessed. “Mar-a-Lago.”

  “Is that what you’re dressed for? I thought you had a date with Phil Meecham.”

  “You’re a scream, Al.”

  “I got my fans.” He started to eject himself from the passenger seat. “Keep me posted.”

  “Also being rumored is that the victim was smoking a funny cigarette,” I called after him. “True?”

  “It was a Marlboro Light. Where did you hear that one?”

  “Abe Calhoun.”

  “So who’s that?” Al asked.

  “He does for Mr. Van Fleet,” I answered.

  “Yeah? How come I ain’t got nobody to do for me?”

  “Get married, Sergeant.”

  “Get lost, pal.”

  SIX

  MAR-A-LAGO IS EASILY THE most elegant if not the most famous beach house in the world. Built by Post Toasties heiress Marjorie Merriweather Post, it was the palace at 1100 S. Ocean Boulevard from which she ruled the island with a velvet glove worn over a steel fist. Ms. Post was keen on square dancing and often had the crowd in for a hoedown. Folks were tired of do-si-do-ing around her posh digs but dared not refuse for fear of never being invited again which, back then, was on par with being unable to secure a lunch reservation at Club Colette today. Don’t sneer; people around here take such things very seriously.

  Stories about the cereal lady abound. My favorite has her meowing that Evalyn Walsh McLean’s diamond tiara was “tinny from behind.” (Evalyn owned the Hope Diamond, in case you didn’t know.)

  Another is the one about suspecting her husband (I don’t recall which husband) of having it off with the help. She covered the area outside the servants’ quarters with talc (like a policeman dusting for prints) and the next morning discovered his size eleven hoofprints going from the back door to his nocturnal tryst. A divorce followed and, we can assume, a square dance to celebrate the occasion.

  So depressed was Marjorie during the Great Depression, she gathered a group of fun people aboard her yacht and sailed away from it all. Who says the rich are insensitive to the plight of the less fortunate?

  The mansion’s facade is fossilized stone, giving it the appearance of antiquity that its owner’s lineage lacked.

  Mar-a-Lago was bought by a New York real estate tycoon who has turned it into a club and spa for those who can afford a hefty six-figure entrance fee. Amusingly enough, the spa is located where the old servants’ quarters once stood. One of its most prized features is a round copper tub that holds umpteen gallons of water in which one can soak and absorb the supposed benefits of the mineral.

  A car jockey was on hand to help me out of my Miata and drive it off to the parking facilities. The boy reminded me of the late Jeff, as well as our Todd, and all the other boys and girls who labor in Palm Beach’s thriving service industry. They deserved better than what the fates had dealt Jeffrey Rodgers.

  I was told at the desk that Mr. MacNiff awaited me on the terrace and walked through the great room, which truly lives up to that oft-used name in size and decor, then out the back to the terrace where I saw Nifty at a table overlooking the pool and, beyond, a golf cart picturesquely poised at the perimeter of the pristine nine-hole course that is Mar-a-Lago’s backyard.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Mr. MacNiff.”

  “No, no, not at all, Archy. I had to go to the police station this morning and I came directly here for a late coffee.” With a lethargic wave of his hand, like royalty on parade, he said, “Isn’t the view stunning?”

  I agreed it was, and then got down to business. “And calming, I’m sure, after your morning meeting with the police.”

  Looking at a pair of youngsters splashing about the pool, he said, “The boy was murdered, Archy.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “I’ve heard you have your contacts at headquarters. How very clever of you. It happened very much as you suggested.”

  He said this almost as if my guess had precipitated the PM’s verdict. I was spared from answering by the arrival of our waiter bearing a bottle of wine submerged in a bucket of ice and a tripod on which to mount it.

  “I took the liberty of ordering a white wine to go with lunch. A simple pinot. Nothing pretentious.”

  Why do the very rich insist on simplicity when picking up the tab? But it was a Collio, a very fine pinot and among my favorites. After Nifty had his sip and declared it drinkable, I got my share and raised my glass in a silent toast.

  “The police are fairly certain, and so am I, that one of the boy’s friends is responsible. Trouble over a girl, I would think. I would like you to look into it, Archy, and see what you can learn.”

  Was this a mandate to make sure them and not us was the guilty party? I believe it was and I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t have to disappoint one of our richest and most respected clients. “I will make some inquiries, sir, and report directly to you.”

  “That would be fine, Archy.” His point made, noted and set in stone, Nifty moved on to more pressing matters. “Have you seen the menu?” he asked. “The lobster salad is top drawer.”

  We both ordered the top drawer and I chose the shrimp cocktail for starters while Nifty went for the escargot. Hot rolls and butter were served just as a jet roared above us close enough to clearly see its wheels being ingested into the body of the craft. One of the drawbacks of dining on Mar-a-Lago’s terrace is that it is in the direct path of the airport’s take-off runway in West Palm, so close that the plane hasn’t had a chance to gain much altitude before soaring over the Atlantic.

  When we could once again hear ourselves talk, I said, “I believe you had something else on your mind when you invited me to lunch yesterday.”

  “Yes, I did. It’s confidential, Archy, and it concerns young Lance Talbot.”

  Another surprise.

  “I dare say you know the story,” he continued. “It was the talk of Palm Beach a few months back.”

  Nifty went on to tell me much of what I had already heard from Lolly Spindrift, with some embellishments only an insider could know. When the call came informing Mrs. Talbot of her daughter’s death, it was assumed that the boy, Lance, was also a victim of the accident. Later it was discovered that Lance had not gone on the slopes with his mother as was assumed, but had left her to go off on his own.

  “Who called Mrs. Talbot?” I asked.

  “Jessica’s Swiss lawyer. He learned of the tragedy from newspaper reports that stated both mother and son had died in the avalanche. A day or two later, the lawyer received a call from Lance and he immediately put in another call to Mrs. Talbot to correct the error.”

  When Mrs. Talbot learned that her grandson was alive she immediately summoned him to Palm Beach where she was on her deathbed and, reunited with the boy, made him her sole heir.

  “I was Aunt Margaret’s executor,” Nifty told me. “She’s not a relation but was a close friend of my parents and I’ve referred to her as my aunt since I was a boy. Margaret Talbot was near ninety when she died.”

  Thinking that Nifty wanted he
lp in ending the affair between young Talbot and Holga von Brecht, I cut directly to the chase and asked, “And the problem, sir?”

  “The problem is that I believe Aunt Margaret thought the man calling himself Lance Talbot is an imposter.”

  And wasn’t that a kick in the kimono?

  “You must remember, Archy,” he quickly went on, “that Aunt Margaret had suffered a stroke that affected her speech and she was rather addled the last days of her life. I visited often and she asked me several times, as best she could, what I thought of Lance. I told her, of course, that he was a fine lad, but now I don’t think that’s what she wanted to hear. In retrospect, I now believe she knew something was amiss but either didn’t know what it was or couldn’t articulate her suspicion. Then she said, ‘He doesn’t talk like a king.’ I assume she meant her grandson but had no idea what she meant and still don’t.”

  “Did you ask her, sir?”

  “Oh, yes, but it was so pathetic to see her struggle to answer, actually crying in desperation until the nurse insisted I leave, and rightly so. You must see how difficult this was. Aunt Margaret was a very intelligent woman who spoke like an orator. So sad. So very sad.”

  I was thinking of my own mother when I told him I understood his predicament.

  “The last time I saw her alive, she seemed to have surrendered to the inevitable or been given a powerful sedative on doctor’s orders. Taking my hand and smiling benignly she said quite clearly, ‘The king is dead, Malcolm.’ After that she lost consciousness and never regained it.”

  “Had Lance ever been referred to as a king? Even in jest or a nickname?”

  “Not that I know of,” Nifty said.

  “Then I think the old lady was hallucinating, sir. Between her recent stroke and the medication it wouldn’t be unusual.”

  Nifty nodded. “That’s what the doctor said, Archy, but I feel I owe Aunt Margaret the benefit of what I think was her doubt.”

  “Thanks to modern technology, it couldn’t be simpler. A DNA test can tell you if Lance Talbot is who he says he is.”

  “Well, it’s not so simple,” Nifty lamented. “His mother was cremated in Switzerland, her ashes scattered over her beloved Alps, and Aunt Margaret was cremated here and, as per her will, her ashes sprinkled over the Atlantic. Margaret Talbot, as you know, was the daughter of the Detroit tycoon, Woodrow Reynolds. Woody’s marriage was sine prole.”

  I had studied Latin at Yale and retained enough of it to know that Woodrow Reynolds and his wife were childless.

  “Margaret was adopted and had no known blood relatives. Lance’s claim comes via his mother and grandmother. As for Aunt Margaret’s husband, Luke Talbot, he was an officer in the last big war and recalled at the time of the Korean conflict where his helicopter was shot out of the sky and his remains never recovered. If he has any relatives they are not known to me or to anyone that I know. I believe Aunt Margaret married for love and poor Luke’s antecedents did not live up to old man Reynolds’s expectation, hence they were erased from the record, if you know what I mean.

  “So none of them can supply DNA samples to compare with Lance.”

  Like the last czar of Russia, I was thinking, whose remains, along with his family, were found decades after their execution and DNA samples taken and compared to their cousin, Prince Philip, for positive identification. I also calculated that Lance could have had his mother’s ashes consigned to the Alps, if she was his mother, but if it was in old Mrs. Talbot’s will that her ashes be dropped into the ocean it surely wasn’t young Talbot who made them disappear.

  Our now empty appetizer plates were removed as I refilled our wineglasses and casually asked, “What do you want me to do, sir?”

  “I would like you to look into the matter, Archy. You know the young set, you mix and mingle and get invited hither and yon, as Lolly might say. You are in a much better position than this old man to learn what our newest millionaire is all about.”

  “Did you know Lance as a child? Before his mother took him to Switzerland?”

  “I saw him a few times, certainly. To tell the truth, Archy, he was a bit of an embarrassment to Aunt Margaret, not knowing who his father was, and her friends more or less looked the other way out of respect for her. I remember a boy with a dark crew cut and blue eyes. Our Lance Talbot certainly fits the bill in that respect. As for facial features, one does change from age ten to age twenty.”

  Our lobster salads arrived, looking top drawer as promised, and I spoke the name, “Holga von Brecht.”

  Nifty laughed, or snorted, and said, “I was saving her for dessert—not literally,” and laughed, or snorted, again. “She was a friend of Jessica’s and arrived here with Lance. They are inseparable and it’s a scandal. They say she’s seventy.”

  “Some say ninety, sir, but I’d go for fifty.”

  “Whatever her age, she’s a beautiful woman, Archy, but I don’t have to tell that to a healthy American boy. All the women want to know about this clinic she is supposed to have gone to for injections of—well, I won’t spoil your appetite.”

  Now I had to know what was rumored to be in those injections but would defer my curiosity to a time when I wasn’t at table.

  “Lance is living in his grandmother’s house—sorry, it’s now his house—and Holga is his guest. Don’t ask me if they share a bedroom because I don’t know, but I’m sure you can find out.”

  Nifty’s belief in my powers of detection was heartening, if a trifle overrated. I thought it best not to tell him I didn’t have a clue as to how to go about learning who Lance Talbot was, if he wasn’t Lance Talbot, and even less of an idea of how to spy into his bedroom. I thought of getting a position as his valet but dismissed that as being too much like work. But I didn’t rule out having Jamie befriend Lance’s valet, if Jamie didn’t already know the bloke.

  “How friendly are you with the boy?” I wanted to know.

  “Not very. He is certainly polite and most respectful. My wife adores him, but few women can resist a lad with a crew cut.”

  Really? I had to remember that next time I was tonsured.

  “As I’m the executor of his grandmother’s estate, our meetings are usually of a business nature,” Nifty said.

  “Does Holga attend?”

  “No. I would not countenance that and I’m sure the boy knows it.”

  “And your relationship with Holga von Brecht, sir?”

  Nifty thought a moment before answering. “Again, polite and respectful but, unlike Lance, most seductive.”

  For a woman like Holga von Brecht this would be her natural approach to men, especially older men and certainly rich men. Recalling Holga’s blond good looks and what I had discerned as a manner of speech acquired at one of the Seven Sisters colleges, I inquired after Holga’s husband. “She’s a Yankee,” I said, “not a von Brecht from Switzerland.”

  “She was introduced to us as Mrs. von Brecht, Archy, so I believe there is a Mr. von Brecht, but I’ll be damned if I know who he is or where he is or, for that matter, what he does to keep Holga in those clothes my wife tells me are all couture.”

  And, I added to myself, the MacNiffs are too well bred to ask. As for Holga’s wardrobe, it could very well be the result of Lance’s largesse.

  “There was one Vivian Emerson at yesterday’s event. Do you know if she’s a friend of the von Brecht woman?”

  Nifty shook his head as another jet threatened to join us for lunch. When it had passed he said, “Don’t know. You’ll have to ask Helen. She does all the inviting. I can’t keep up. The old days when our crowd were all kissin’ kin are long gone. The island is crawling with social climbers, con artists and Guccibaggers. Crying shame, I call it.”

  Glancing around the terrace, I noticed several persons I hoped had not heard Nifty trash certain members of our town’s newest club. But I rather liked the play on “carpetbaggers” and filed it for future use.

  The lobster salad was succulent and to express my gratitude I began talk
ing like I had a game plan. “I would like the name and fax of Jessica’s Swiss lawyer and, if possible, a picture of Lance Talbot when he was a boy.” “I can give you all the information on the lawyer, but I’ll have to check with Helen to see if we have any pictures. She keeps albums of them, don’t you know. Children, weddings, grandchildren, the lot.”

  “Which reminds me, sir, my mother asked me to express her concern for you and Mrs. MacNiff after yesterday’s tragedy.”

  “How very kind of Madelaine. How is she, Archy?”

  “Hanging in, as they say”

  “That’s all we can do these days.”

  We finished the last of the wine and ordered coffee and the caramel custard for dessert.

  “I almost forgot,” Nifty said holding a spoon full of custard aloft, “Lance’s foot.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “His foot,” Nifty repeated. “When he was a boy his foot was injured in some freak accident. I believe the chauffeur accidently slammed the car door on it when the boy was climbing in. A toe had to be amputated. I believe the small toe on his right foot.”

  “I take it you haven’t...”

  “Asked to see his foot? Good Lord, no. I thought you might have a go at it.”

  When I got back to my office, which is about the size of your handkerchief if you don’t go in for bandannas, the little red light on my answering machine was blinking. Yes, I have succumbed and entered the new century, not by choice but on orders of the executive suite, which consists of Father and his secretary, Mrs. Trelawney, the bane of my existence on Royal Palm Way.

  She of the gray polyester tresses has been urging me to install voice mail since declaring herself too busy to intercept my calls and take messages for the firm’s most expendable employee. To this end she had Father sign a memo stating that all personnel of McNally & Son would be obliged to install such a device on their desk phones if they hadn’t already done so. As I was the only personnel person who did not possess the odious thing, it was clear whom she meant. Trelawney had won the battle, but not the war.