McNally's Trial

by Lawrence Sanders

  “I congratulate you on your good fortune, Binky,” I said solemnly. “Keep your ears open. Pillow talk and all that.”

  I don’t believe he grasped what I implied, for he merely shouted, “Party on!” and staggered away in search of the nearest bar.

  I found the wide, flagstoned terrace facing Lake Worth, but it was crowded with gabbling guests as intent as I on corroding their lungs. I lighted up and went down a side staircase of old railroad ties to the deepwater dock. I was alone there and could enjoy a brief respite from the brittle chatter.

  I would have guessed Mr. Horace Whitcomb owned a fine, woodbodied sloop or something similar. But moored to the dock was an incredible boat: a perfectly restored 1930 Chris-Craft mahogany runabout. It was a 24-footer, a treasured relic of the days when men in white flannels drank Sazeracs and women in middy blouses sipped Orange Blossoms while zipping about offshore waters.

  I was admiring the sleek lines of this legendary craft when I sniffed the aroma of a good cigar and turned to find our host. He was holding a lighted cheroot and regarding me with a pleased smile.

  “Like her?” he inquired.

  “She’s a pip!” I said. “Operational?”

  “Fully. We used to go out frequently but then my wife became ill and...” His voice trailed away.

  “Surely your son must enjoy piloting a classic like this.”

  He took a puff of his cigar. “I think not. My son’s taste runs to hydroplanes and Jet Skis. You’ve met Oliver?”

  “Yes, sir. Just a few moments ago.”

  “And what was your reaction?” he asked unexpectedly.

  I was cautious. “I thought him very personable,” I said.

  “Oh yes, he is that.” Horace tossed his half-smoked cigar into the lake, and I heard a faint sizzle. “His mother dotes on him.”

  I wanted to ask if he also doted on his son, but that would have been an impertinence.

  “Tell me, Archy,” he said, “do you admire things of the past?”

  “Incurably addicted,” I confessed. “I’m a nostalgia buff. Two of my favorite comics are Bert Lahr and Ed Wynn, though I never saw either of them perform live.”

  “I did,” he said, “and they were even better than you think. But I was referring to antiques. I collect ship models, mostly sailing men-of-war. I have the Chesapeake, Serapis, Victory, Constitution, and several others. They were made by master craftsmen. I thought you might like to see them.”

  “I would indeed, Mr. Whitcomb. I enjoy reading about old naval battles. Wooden ships and iron men, eh?”

  His smile was hard. “Exactly,” he said. “Give me a call whenever you’d like to view my collection. And now I must get back to our guests. My wife has already retired and so I shall make the farewells.”

  “It was a marvelous party, sir,” I called after him. “Thank you for having me.”

  He didn’t turn but gave me a wave of his hand in acknowledgment. It seemed obvious he was saddened by his wife’s illness. But I also detected an undercurrent of anger that perplexed me.

  I smoked another coffin nail, pacing slowly up and down the planked dock, admiring the play of moonlight on the gently rippling surface of the lake. I had many sharp, jagged impressions of that MTV evening but was in too bemused a state to sort them out. I could do that on the morn when, hopefully, I would have slept all befuddlements away and awakened with a clear, concise revelation of the toil and trouble bubbling at Whitcomb’s.

  I finished my cigarette, drained the last drop of cognac, and went back inside with every intention of leaving immediately and hightailing it to the home of Sunny Fogarty. But there was a short delay.

  I attempted to move through the throng of departing guests—all of whom were pausing to pick up their favors: crystal paperweights with a little replica of a Ford Model T encapsulated for gentlemen and, for ladies, a tiny sprig of edelweiss. You may scorn this as kitsch but think of how much more tasteful it was man if the owner of Whitcomb Funeral Homes had handed out miniature caskets suitable for pencils, paper clips, or condoms.

  I was about to slip away (I really had no use for a paperweight) when a heavy hand clamped about my left bicep. I turned and faced the chubby gent who had been conversing with Oliver Whitcomb at me bar. He tugged me away from me crowd, his grip still tight on my arm. I finally shook him loose.

  “Hey,” he said. “Ollie tells me you’re a lawyer. Right?”

  He was a gloriously rumpled man wearing a wrinkled dinner jacket that looked as if he had been snoozing in it for a fortnight. He wasn’t quite obese, but a lot of rare roast beef had gone into that protruding paunch, those meaty shoulders and bulging thighs.

  “I’m not an attorney,” I told him, trying to be civil, “but my father is. I assist him.”

  “Yeah?” he said with a wiseacre grin. “Like a gofer, huh?”

  I kept my cool; give me credit for that. “No,” I said, “not like a gofer. My duties are somewhat more extensive.”

  “Oh sure,” he said. “Just kidding. You got a card? Maybe I can throw some business your way.”

  I took out my wallet and extracted a card, imagining what my father’s reaction would be to a stranger telling him, “Maybe I can throw some business your way.”

  The fat one examined my card. “Archibald McNally,” he said. “What kind of a moniker is that?”

  “A serviceable one,” I said. “And what is your alias?” He looked at me, startled. “Just kidding,” I told him. “Like you were.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” he said, and dug a creased business card from his jacket pocket and handed it over.

  “Ernest Gorton,” I read aloud. “Import-export.”

  “That’s right. But you can call me Ernie.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “And you may call me Archy. What do you import and export, Ernie?”

  “This and that.”

  “I hope this and that are profitable.”

  “Sometimes yes and sometimes no,” he said. He had twinkly eyes set in a mournful bloodhound face.

  “I see your business is located in Miami. That’s your home?”

  “Yep. You ever been there?”

  “Many times.”

  “Next time you’re in town, look me up.”

  “I certainly shall,” I said, thinking never, never, never.

  “Maybe you and me can do some business together,” he said. “Have a few laughs, make a few bucks.”

  I had absolutely no idea what he meant and had no desire to find out.

  “Nice meeting you, Mr. Gorton,” I said.

  “Ernie.”

  “Ah yes—Ernie. Now I’ve got to dash.”

  “Love the way you talk,” he said. “Real fancy.”

  “Thank you,” I said and fled.

  9.

  SUNNY FOGARTY GREETED ME at the door of her condo holding a pilsner of beer. I made a rapid mental calculation of the number and variety of spirituous beverages I had consumed that evening, beginning with the family cocktail hour: gin martini, vodka gimlet, white wine, cognac. I reckoned a beer might push me beyond the point of no return, but then I took solace from the traditional collegiate dictum: “Beer, whiskey: rather risky. Whiskey, beer: have no fear.”

  Sunny ushered me into her living room, motioned me to an armchair, and brought me a duplicate of her glass of suds.

  “It’s Budweiser,” she informed me. “I have nothing more exotic.”

  “Bud is fine,” I assured her and swilled half my drink to prove it.

  “Has the party ended?” she asked.

  “It was breaking up as I departed.”

  “I think it went well, don’t you?”

  “It went beautifully. I saw no one upchuck, no one was falling-down drunk, and there were no fights. Ergo, a successful bash. You planned it, didn’t you, Sunny?”

  She was embarrassed; her gaze slid away. “How did you know?”

  “Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb is obviously in no condition to organize a celebration of that magnitude
, and I don’t believe Mr. Horace has the know-how. And Mitzi and Oliver haven’t the talent, time, or the interest in arranging a jamboree like that.”

  “You’re right,” she said, “on all counts. You do see things, don’t you? Well, I’m happy it went off so well. Did you personally enjoy it?”

  “Indeed I did. A very intriguing evening. Binky Watrous has fallen in love with Mitzi Whitcomb.”

  She gave me a dim smile. “Men usually do.”

  “Not yours truly,” I said stoutly. “I prefer to admire the lady from afar. A strong instinct for self-preservation, I suspect. And Mr. Horace invited me to view his collection of ship models.”

  She came alive. “Oh, they’re incredible! You must see them, Archy.”

  “I intend to. And I met a curious bloke claiming to be Ernest Gorton. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “He was talking to Oliver Whitcomb at the bar when you pointed Oliver out to me. They seem to be pals. He referred to Oliver as Ollie.”

  “Ernest Gorton?” she repeated. “No, I’ve never heard of him.”

  “He’s from Miami and he’s in the import-export business, whatever that may be. Seemed an odd sort to be a close friend of the CEO of funeral homes.”

  “Mitzi and Oliver have several odd friends,” she said tartly. “Let me get you another beer.”

  “Just one more,” I said, “and then I’ll be on my way.”

  She made no reply—which I took for approval. And which only proves how fallible my judgment can be.

  She brought my refill, then touched a cushion of the couch on which she was seated. “Sit over here, Archy,” she said, and I noted how often her requests sounded like commands. “I have something to tell you, and it will be easier to talk if we don’t have so much space between us.”

  I did as she asked. She had taken off her jacket and kicked away her satin pumps. She looked more relaxed than she had seemed at the party. Her tensity had thawed and her rather schoolmarmish manner vanished. She had softened; that’s all I can say. Except that the two top buttons of her poet shirt were undone.

  “The last time we spoke about the computer printout,” she said, “I told you I could not understand why it did not include the names and addresses of out-of-state funeral homes and cemeteries to which Whitcomb’s shipments were made. It was strange; that information is routinely entered on our computer.”

  “But it wasn’t,” I said.

  She turned sideways to look at me directly. “It was, Archy, but it had been erased.”

  I took a gulp of beer. “You’re certain?”

  “No doubt about it. I caught it and then called in our computer consultant to verify what I had discovered. He agreed: someone had simply deleted that information from our records.”

  “Could anyone at Whitcomb’s have done it?”

  “You need to know a code to access our system. The code is known only by the top three executives—Horace, Oliver, and myself—and by the four department heads and our three chief funeral directors.”

  “Could a malicious hacker have invaded the system?”

  “Of course. That’s always a possibility and very difficult if not impossible to prevent. But why would a hacker want to delete only those specific items of information?”

  “Haven’t the slightest,” I admitted. “But you did say you’d be able to reconstruct the missing information from the weekly reports of your funeral directors.”

  “That’s correct,” she said, “and I’m going to start on that tomorrow. But I wanted you to know that someone made a deliberate and seemingly successful effort to impede the investigation. Archy, I’m now even more certain that something very wrong is happening at Whitcomb’s. It may be just dishonest or unethical but it may be criminal, and it’s got to be stopped.”

  “No doubt about it,” I agreed. “How soon will you be able to provide me with the missing information?”

  She thought a moment. “It shouldn’t take longer than two or three days. I’ll phone you as soon as I have it.”

  “Fine. Those names and addresses will provide a good start. Tell me, Sunny, have you informed Mr. Horace of this inquiry and that the computers have been tampered with?”

  “I have not,” she said explosively, “and I don’t intend to. And I forbid you or your father mentioning it to him. Is that understood?”

  Overreacting again. I began to wonder if father’s and my initial impression had been accurate: this was one squirrelly woman.

  “Completely understood,” I told her. “You may depend on our discretion.”

  I finished my second glass of beer (they were only eight ounces per) and started to rise.

  Sunny gave me one of her rare sunny smiles. “Must you go?” she said.

  Zing! Went the Strings of My Libido.

  I set my empty pilsner on an end table and turned back. Then she was not in my arms, I was in hers. She smelled delightful.

  “I should tell you,” I said, “I don’t kiss on the first date.”

  She cracked up. It was the first time I had seen her laugh with abandon and it was a joy to witness.

  “I haven’t heard that line since nursery school,” she said when she ceased spluttering.

  “Nursery school?” I said. “I am shocked, shocked! I hesitate to think of what went on by the time you got to junior high.”

  But of course we kissed. And kissed. And kissed. If she had an ulterior motive for coming on to me, and I suspected she had—to insure my loyalty?—I have sufficient male ego to believe what began as a manipulative ploy quickly became a more genuinely passionate experience than she had anticipated.

  She was carried away. I was carried away. And we both were carried away right into her bedroom where we disrobed in frantic haste, muttering when buttons were fumbled or zippers snagged.

  She owned a body as solid as the figurehead of a Yankee clipper. I don’t mean to suggest she could have played noseguard for the Washington Redskins, but there was not an ounce of excess avoirdupois on her carcass. Believe me; I searched.

  Our acrobatics became more frenzied, and my last conscious thought was of Binky Watrous attempting the tango with Mitzi Whitcomb. Sunny and I were doing the same thing horizontally rather than vertically. But with infinitely more expertise, I assure you. Then I stopped thinking.

  I do recall that at one point during our exertions the bedroom seemed filled with light, really a soft glow. The only way I can account for it is the phenomenon of triboluminescence. Very rare and much to be desired.

  I stayed in Sunny’s bed until almost 2:00 A.M., during which time we consumed another Budweiser—and each other. What a loverly night that was—a fitting end to an evening of jollity. Such perfect occasions occur all too infrequently and must be sought and treasured. Remember that gem of McNally wisdom the next time someone offers you a beer.

  I drove home slowly, hoping my eyelids would not clamp firmly shut before I arrived in the safety of the McNally garage. I made it and stumbled upstairs, undressing as I went, and flopped into bed with a wheeze of content. “Thank you, God,” I murmured. A Category Five hurricane could have descended upon the coast of South Florida that night and I swear I would not have been aware of it. I slept the sleep of the undead.

  I awoke the following day a sad Budweiser man. Listen, I know it’s an ancient pun, but I was not in a creative mode that morning. Physically I felt fine, having had the foresight to pop a couple of Tylenols before collapsing into the sack. But mentally I was totally flummoxed. The Whitcomb case seemed to be growing steadily like some horrid fungus that just keeps getting larger and larger until it devours acres. The Blob That Ate Cleveland.

  In addition, I was suffering from an attack of the guilts. My unfaithfulness to Connie Garcia, of course. I had committed a disloyal act and could not deny it. Well, I could to Connie but not to myself. Sighing, I blamed those treacherous genes of mine. I tell you a faulty DNA can really be hell.

  I had sle
pt a good eight hours, and by the time I finished my morning routine, breakfast was out of the question; luncheon loomed. Determined to do something— anything!—purposeful that day, I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff at PBPD headquarters. I was told he was on a forty-eight. They wouldn’t give me his unlisted home phone number, of course, but that was okay; I already had it.

  I called and he picked up after the third ring.

  “Archy McNally,” I said.

  “Good heavens!” he said. “I haven’t heard from you in a week or so. I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said. “I hear you’re on a forty-eight. Have anything planned for today?”

  “Why, yes,” he said. “I thought I might play a chukker of polo this afternoon or perhaps enjoy an exciting game of shuffleboard—if my heart can stand it.”

  “Funny,” I said, “but not very. Al, why don’t you have lunch with me at the Pelican?”

  “Oh-oh,” he said. “Every time you invite me to lunch I end up getting shot at.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “It’s half-true,” he insisted, “and half is enough for me. I refuse to lunch with you at the Pelican Club or anywhere else. And that’s definite.”

  I told him, “We’ll have Leroy’s special hamburgers with a basket of matchstick potatoes and perhaps a few pale ales.”

  “What time do you want to make it?” he asked.

  Before leaving home I called Binky Watrous, hoping the Duchess wouldn’t pick up the phone. She didn’t but their houseman did, and he informed me Master Binky was still asleep and had hung a Do Not Disturb sign on his bedroom door. (I happened to know that sign had been filched from the Dorchester in London.) I requested that Master Binky be asked to phone Archy McNally as soon as he reentered the world of the living.

  “I don’t know when that will be, Mr. McNally,” the houseman said dubiously. “He just arrived home about an hour ago.”

  “Whenever,” I said and hung up, wondering where my vassal had spent the night. Deep in mischief, no doubt. The apprentice shamus was becoming even more of a trial than I had expected.