McNally's Dare

by Lawrence Sanders

  Probably thinking of all those irate hotel and restaurant owners storming the castle, Oscar picked up his phone and talked to the desk sergeant. “If he wasn’t on an incoming flight,” Eberhart said, after instructing his subordinate, “all we’ll have is more circumstantial evidence against these people.”

  “But we’ll have enough circumstantial evidence to go to the D.A.,” Al said.

  Eberhart was a small guy with a barrel chest and a jaw that defied a razor. He ran a thumb over the stubble now and blasted Al, “You go to the D.A. and tell him to arrest a Talbot because he’s not left-handed.”

  It was the Talbot name, more than anything else, that had the socially minded Oscar Eberhart worried. As the Los Angeles police are often intimidated by their movie stars, so the Palm Beach police are loath to badger their billionaires. Justice may be blind, but those doing her bidding are not.

  It was like waiting for a jury to come back into the courtroom. We had all had our say and now there was nothing to do but wait for the verdict. If Brecht had flown in on Friday, I was out of business. If he hadn’t, there was a chance Eberhart would go along with my plan, which I had yet to propose.

  There was a perfunctory knock on the door before it opened and the officer’s head appeared. “Claus von Brecht flew into Palm Beach on a flight from New York at about noon on Friday.”

  “That’s it,” Eberhart shouted, sounding relieved.

  “But,” the officer walked in, “he flew out of Palm Beach the night before.”

  I jumped out of my seat as Al Rogoff cried, “He what?”

  “He flew out Thursday night and back in Friday morning,” the man was reading from his notes. “Since the terror alert the airlines are recording anything of an unusual nature, no matter how harmless it may seem. This guy booked a round trip on Thursday night, returning in less than twenty-four hours—and he’s a foreigner, so they reported it to the feds.”

  “You see,” I said to Eberhart, “you see how clever they are. They announced that Claus was arriving from New York on Friday and, leaving nothing to chance, he flew out the night before just so he could fly in on Friday, in case someone checked, as we did. What they didn’t count on was the efficiency of the carrier, which should make us all sleep better. He was in hiding all this time.”

  “Why?” Eberhart said. “So he could kill the boy and the woman without being suspected?”

  “No,” I sighed. “It’s now all so clear. He was in hiding because he didn’t want them to appear as a family. Mother, father and son. Holga and the imposter had all Palm Beach believing they were lovers, and that’s just what they wanted, to dispel any thought that they might be mother and son. And it worked.

  “When they told anyone who would listen that Claus was arriving, the gossips were agog with speculation regarding the strange trio, assuming all the most salacious possibilities, except incest. That would be just too much even for our scandalmongers. And it worked,” I repeated, as if amazed at their audacity—which I was.

  “They didn’t know they would have to murder anyone,” Al told his disappointed superior, “but when Rodgers and Emerson gummed up the works, they had to go. Brecht, the guy who wasn’t here, could do the dirty work and get away with it.”

  “Even that played into their hands,” I said.

  “We still have nothing but circumstantial evidence,” Eberhart reminded us.

  “I have a plan, Lieutenant.”

  “Let’s hear it, Archy”

  His reaction was very much like Father’s, only more vocal. “No way,” Eberhart bellowed. “No [censored] way. It’s theatrical, it’s dangerous and it involves a decoy who is not a trained member of the force. We go by the book on this one.”

  “Claus Brecht wrote the book, Lieutenant.” Remembering his social ambitions, I resorted to temptation. “Dennis Darling is in town, as I’m sure you’re aware, Oscar. I’ll bring him in on this and by next week your name will be a household word. I believe Bare Facts magazine also operates a television station. Think about it.”

  “If we do like Archy says, Lieutenant, we could make it airtight. The chance of anything going wrong is minimal, at best.”

  Gilding the lily, as I often do, I predicted, “You know those true police dramas they run on the cable networks, Oscar? You could star in one.”

  On the eve of stardom, Lieutenant Oscar Eberhart looked miserable.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN me, Mr. McNally. My first film role and I did it in one take.”

  “Tell me about it, Todd,” I said, knowing he would whether I wanted to hear it or not.

  I was once again in Todd’s furnished apartment, having called, telling him only that I needed a favor.

  “I went to the Meecham yacht and Max introduced me to the Hollywood crew. Then he got this great idea. He said I could be in the test.”

  “What part did you play?”

  “A waiter,” he laughed. “Typecasting, they call it. You see, the shot had Jackson Barnett and this real beautiful gal sort of meandering around the deck like they’re on The Love Boat. Max thought the shot would look more authentic if a waiter came into the scene with a tray of drinks for the lovebirds, and I got my chance.”

  Todd had conveniently forgotten that Max Sterling had told him the screen test hoopla was pure Hollywood hype. I guess when you’re part of the hype it gains respectability. But Todd was so thrilled, the exhilaration was catching.

  “I know it’s just a test for their big star, but I got my name on the clapboard. Rick Brandt, in white chalk.”

  “You’re no longer Todd?”

  “Well,” he hesitated. “I’m Edward at home, Todd to the crowd, and Rick in Hollywood. You see?”

  No, I didn’t see, but pretended I did. One doesn’t like to be thought dense. “Before you head west, Todd, I need a favor.”

  “Name it, Mr. McNally. I owe you my life.”

  Bite your tongue, dear boy, bite your tongue.

  “I want you to play a scene for me,” was how I phrased it.

  “Is that all? I even sing and dance, Mr. McNally.” He cleared his throat and flexed his knees, but I stopped him before he auditioned.

  “Sit down, Todd.”

  No fool, he quipped, “That bad, eh?”

  When he was settled, I let him have it. “I want you to call Lance Talbot. Tell him you’re a friend of Jeff’s, the bartender at the MacNiff party. He’ll know who you are. Trust me.

  “Tell him you know Jeff was blackmailing him, and why. If he asks for specifics, just say the words left hand. He’ll get it. Say you want ten thousand dollars or you’ll go to the police and tell them he killed Jeff.”

  The movie star blanched. “Did he, Mr. McNally?”

  Briefly, I let him in on what we now suspected. It was the least I could do.

  “What do you think they’ll do?” he asked.

  “Try to kill you, I hope,” I answered.

  “That’s what I thought. I’ll go down in the Guinness Book of Records as the movie actor whose career spanned seventeen seconds.”

  “The police and I have given this a lot of thought,” I assured him, “and we have all bases covered. I know the layout here and this is how it’ll work.”

  The meeting would take place here, in Todd’s apartment. Counting on Brecht to accompany his son, they would search the place to make sure it wasn’t a trap. No fools they. The patio door was cut into the wall, leaving about six feet on either side of the frame. Two men, with their backs flat against the outside wall, could hide out there and not be seen from within.

  “Is there a patio light?” I asked Todd. He showed me the switch. “Even if they put on the light to check outside, they won’t see us and I doubt if they’ll take the time or trouble to come out.”

  “What if they do, Mr. McNally?”

  “Then we’re done for, but you’ll be okay.”

  Denny and I would be on one side of the door, Al and Eberhart on the other. We would leave the
door open a crack so we could hear what was going on. When they made their move, we would burst in, catching them in the act.

  “Suppose they have a gun, or a knife,” he wisely speculated. “You couldn’t get in fast enough to stop them.”

  “It’s not Brecht’s choice of weapon. Chloroform is, and it takes time to work.”

  “I hope you’re right, Mr. McNally.”

  So do I, son. So do I.

  “You don’t have to do this, Todd. I’ll understand if you refuse.”

  He heaved a sigh. “For Jeff, Mr. McNally. I’ll do it for Jeff.”

  “Todd, this phone call is going to show if you’ve got the makings of an actor,” I said, to boost his enthusiasm for the plan. “You have to make them believe you’re telling the truth and, at the same time, that you’re stupid enough to leave yourself wide open for their retaliation. But not that stupid. That’s why you insist they come here and not meet you in a dark alley or the Talbot mansion. You play the wise kid, not the wise guy.”

  Contemplating that, he said, “I’ll play it like Willy Loman, Mr. McNally. Desperate. It’s not his job going down the drain, it’s his life. I’m stupid enough to do this because my mother needs an operation...”

  “Cut!” the director cried. “Let’s try it with less passion and more conviction, kid.”

  I knew Lance, or Hans, would fall for it because he had seen Todd at both the MacNiff parties and had asked me if Todd was a friend of Jeff’s. Those who kill to silence an adversary will forever wonder who else knows their secret. Friends of Jeff were all suspects, because the young talk and it was well known that Jeff liked to boast about his achievements, true or false.

  The Brechts would be relieved to hear from Todd. The guessing was over and their course clear.

  Todd made the call and I silently nominated him for a Tony, an Academy Award and a Golden Globe.

  “What should I wear, Mr. McNally?”

  “A bulletproof vest.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  I SPENT THE REST of the day briefing Denny and Malcolm MacNiff. Denny was packing his bags but said, “I wouldn’t miss it for a Pulitzer, chum.”

  Nifty was not as sanguine. “Can’t we leave well enough alone, Archy?”

  If two murders and a fortune to the perpetrators was well enough, what was Nifty’s definition of a miscarriage of justice? Guccibaggers lunching at a gentleman’s club, I suspect. I trust Mrs. MacNiff was telling her husband to get with it.

  I picked up Denny at his hotel and we drove directly to the station house, where I had arranged to meet Al and the lieutenant at nine. Al was in uniform, Eberhart was not. The four of us were driven to Todd’s house in an unmarked police vehicle, after which the driver left the scene. A second police vehicle unloaded three backup officers in civilian dress who were to remain outside and out of sight unless needed.

  Todd had chosen to wear the PB uniform of the youth brigade: sneakers, jeans and white sweatshirt with sleeves pushed up above the elbows. “We who are about to die salute you,” he welcomed us into his home. He was either calmer than any of us or a better actor than I suspected.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Lieutenant Eberhart said. “It’s not too late to back out, son. Say the word and we’ll abort the mission.”

  “The show will go on, Lieutenant,” Todd told him.

  Denny was scribbling in shorthand on a minipad with a ballpoint. “It’s B-R-A-N-D-T. Right, Todd?”

  “Yes, Mr. Darling. But for the press it’s Rick Brandt, Jackson Barnett’s costar.”

  After that show of bravado we settled down to pacing and looking at our watches. The meeting was scheduled for ten. I asked where Monica was this evening.

  “Working,” Todd said. “She’s staying with a friend tonight.”

  A few minutes before the appointed hour we went out to the patio and took our places. I turned for a final look at Todd and mouthed, “Break a leg, kid.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and forced a smile. If Denny hadn’t nudged me forward I would have turned back and fled, taking Todd with me.

  Denny and I took the right wall, Al and Eberhart the left. As planned we left the sliding glass door open a crack.

  The early-morning rain had given way to a light drizzle in the afternoon and partial clearing later on. Now it changed its mind and began to pour as we stood, rigid, our backs to the wall. In minutes we were drenched, but I doubt any of us noticed. The rain muffled any sounds coming from within but in a matter of minutes we heard voices raised in anger. There were two of them. Claus and his son, surely. Then the sound of doors opening and banging shut as one of them searched the apartment.

  Water ran down the back of my neck and over my face. I held my breath as the patio light came on. A second later it went out. I heard the sliding door close and the unmistakable click of the lock falling into place. I was paralyzed with fear. We were locked out and Todd was in there with two killers. There was a flash of lightning and the distant sound of thunder bringing with it my father’s warning, A man who would chloroform a boy and shove him into a pool to drown is deranged...

  I made a dash for the sliding door when I heard the first shot. What had I done? Oh, God, what had I done? I stumbled, and Denny collided into my back. A second shot. A third. When I gained my footing and wiped the water out of my eyes I saw Al Rogoff firing at the lock. In seconds he had the door open and was in the room, followed by Eberhart. The men stationed outside entered from the opposite direction.

  Al was pulling Claus Brecht off Todd, who was reeling from the pad Brecht had pressed against Todd’s mouth. Eberhart went for Hans who was kneeling, his arms in a brace around Todd’s struggling legs.

  “Get an ambulance for the kid,” one of the men shouted.

  Denny and I were beside Todd, holding him steady.

  He looked at me, panting, and gasped, “My performance made you cry, Mr. McNally.”

  “It’s the rain, you conceited ham. It’s the rain.”

  There was a crack of light coming from under the door of my father’s den. I tapped lightly and looked in. Father was seated behind his desk and I was even more surprised to see Mother in her nightgown and robe, her hair in a long braid, nodding in a chair.

  “Archy?” Father called when he saw me.

  “It’s me, sir.”

  “Was it a good show, Archy?”

  “It was a splendid show, sir.”

  Mother opened her eyes. “Oh, Archy” she said. “Your father was so late coming to bed, I came down to see what he was up to and I must have fallen asleep in my chair. How silly of me.”

  “Yes,” Father said, “we were both a bit silly, it seems, staying up till all hours.”

  A simple thank-you seemed so inadequate; anything more, unnecessary.

  “Now let’s all go to bed,” Mother said. “And if we get up late enough, we can have breakfast with Archy.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  BRECHT WAS INDICTED ON two counts of murder one. Holga, née Olga, and Hans were charged with aiding and abetting, and the boy was also charged with carrying a counterfeit passport with intent to commit fraud. Being Swiss citizens, there were complications, but nothing insurmountable in giving the three their due.

  Talbot and Reynolds relations, however distant, are lining up to petition for their share of Mrs. Talbot’s fortune. I’m keeping my distance from the beleaguered executor. Iago is with child and Othello is suspected. More reason to keep clear of the MacNiff abode.

  Since bringing the Brechts to justice, Izzy Duhane has lost interest in Skip McGuire and, I fear, Binky Watrous. She spends more time at her mother’s apartment in The Breakers and less in her trailer love nest. The mousse has gone from Binky’s locks but his brush with a Kalamazoo Battle has left him a tad haughty. Like a spirited colt, he will have to be broken.

  Joe Gallo is back caddying at the club where he met the late Vivian Emerson, and living in a motel until he can find affordable digs. He’s in line for Izzy’s trailer should she give it up. Al Rogo
ff is not thrilled.

  Denny called from New York to ask permission to use “The King Is Dead” as the title for his story, which will be Bare Facts’ lead next month, with a photo of Lieutenant Eberhart and Edward Todd Rick Brandt on the cover. Eberhart has taken to applying a cream called Erase to the stubble on his chin and Edward Todd Rick received rave reviews for his portrayal of Biff in Death of a Salesman.

  Joe hangs around Georgy girl a lot and I feel that we’ve acquired a child. Or at least, I have. Is the honeymoon over? Connie finds it all very amusing. We took Joe, at Georgy’s insistence, to the Pelican and ended up at a table for five with Connie and Alex. My dream of mating Joe with Alex and leaving Archy in charge of the harem came to naught as the two charming young men took an instant dislike to each other. God got me for that one.

  I look over this final entry in my journal, enjoying my first, and last, English Oval of the day before retiring. As I close the book on “The King Is Dead,” the phone rings. It is midnight. I could crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and pretend I never heard it, or...

  “Archy McNally here.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Archy McNally Series

  1

  THE LADIES SHRIEKED IN despair; the gentlemen moaned in frustration. Couples, chosen by the luck of the draw, gasped as they turned a corner and collided with the friends they believed they had lost at the last cul-de-sac.

  Wives cast furtive glances at passing twosomes to see if their husbands were hot on the trail of or suspiciously detained in a leafy nook with some mysterious young beauty. Shouts, giggles, expletives, raucous laughter and sighs were the order of the night, presided over by a crescent moon and a sky full of tropical twinklers.

  A bacchanalian orgy? The Shriners’ annual scavenger hunt to benefit gout-suffering millionaires? An out-of-hand church bazaar? Not at all, folks. The huffing and puffing, snorting and shouting, guffaws and wails were nothing more than the Palm Beach Smart Set traversing the Amazin’ Maze of Matthew Hayes.