And so, when my phone rang, I pounced upon it, hoping it might be Consuela Garcia announcing her return. In truth I missed my fractious fraülein. But it was not Connie; it was Sunny Fogarty.
“Archy,” she said in a hushed voice as if afraid of being overheard, “I’m calling from a public pay phone. I’d like to talk to you tonight. Is there any safe place we can meet?”
I thought swiftly. I can do that, y’know. Not habitually but occasionally.
“Suppose I pick you up in half an hour,” I suggested.
A pause. “But if I’m under observation,” she said, “won’t they recognize your car?”
“I’m not driving the fire engine tonight,” I said blithely. “I have a white four-door Acura. No one in his or her right mind would ever link it with A. McNally, the registered playboy and bon vivant. Wait in the lobby of your condo. I pull up, you pop out and pop in, and off we go. It’ll work.”
“You’re sure?” she said doubtfully.
“Can’t miss,” I said with more confidence than I felt.
“All right,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t important to me.”
“Thirty minutes,” I repeated. “White Acura sedan.” And I hung up before she raised more objections. The lady seemed spooked, and I didn’t blame her a bit. I had no desire for another encounter with that knife-wielding gent in the polyester leisure suit.
It went beautifully. Sunny was waiting, scurried to the Acura, and away we sped. I glanced in the rearview and saw no signs of pursuit. Certainly not a black Harley. That was comforting.
“Why don’t we just drive down the coast and back,” I proposed. “I have a full tank. Well, I don’t but the car does, and I think we’ll be more secure on wheels and in motion rather than holing up at some public place. Is that acceptable?”
“Fine, Archy,” she said, putting a hand lightly on my arm. “It’ll give us a chance to talk in private.”
“You told me it was important.”
“It is,” she said. “To me.”
Not another word was uttered while I headed for A1A and turned south. It was a so-so evening: scudding clouds, high humidity, a gusty breeze smelling of geriatric fish. It was the sort of dreary weather that would make a knight want to curl up with a good book—or one of the pages.
We were closing in on Manalapan when she finally spoke.
“Archy,” she said, almost whispering, “I want to apologize.”
“Oh? For what?”
“Mr. Horace told me he informed you that he knew of your investigation from the start. I’m sorry I misled you and your father.”
“Perfectly understandable and forgivable,” I assured her. “You were merely following the instruction of your employer.”
“Yes, and he had a good reason for acting as he did. He didn’t want his dying wife to learn he had discovered their son might be engaged in a criminal conspiracy. Mrs. Sarah loves Oliver so much.”
“I cannot quarrel with Mr. Whitcomb’s motive,” I said. “I’m sure he did what he thought was best. But he set in motion an investigation that can’t be stopped.”
“He said the local police and the FBI are now involved.”
“That’s correct.”
“Archy, do you think Oliver will go to jail?”
“It’s quite possible, Sunny. As well as me other Whitcomb employees who are accomplices in me scheme.”
“But what is the scheme?” she cried despairingly.
“We’re working on it” was all I could tell her.
“You may think it an awful thing for me to say,” she went on, “but I hope Mrs. Sarah won’t live to hear her son has been imprisoned.”
“Not so awful. A very sensitive and empathic hope. What is her condition?”
“Not good,” she said gloomily. “The doctor says it’s probably a matter of days. She’s going, Archy.”
My desire for an activity to enliven a dismal day was thwarted. I should have stayed home, I decided, and worked on my journal. This conversation was definitely spirit-dashing time.
We were almost down to Delray when I pulled into a turnaround and parked for a few moments. I did this because Sunny had started weeping, quietly and steadily, and it seemed unfeeling to continue driving while she was so distraught.
“And if that isn’t enough,” she said between muffled sobs, “my own mother is fading, and I don’t know how long she has. Archy, everything is just falling apart. Everyone I love seems to be dying and I’ve never been so shaken and miserable in my life. I just feel my world is ending.”
Then she turned suddenly to embrace me. Not passionately, of course; she was seeking solace and who could blame her. She buried her face betwixt my neck and shoulder, making little snuffling sounds like a child who’s fallen and is hurting.
“Sunny,” I said, hugging her firmly, “you’re going through a bad time. But you’re a very strong woman and I know, I know you’ll survive intact. Are you familiar with Lincoln’s philosophy, appropriate to all times and situations? ‘This, too, shall pass away.’ It may sound cold and hardhearted in your present state but do keep it in mind. I think you’ll be surprised at what consolation it offers.”
After a few moments we shared a chaste kiss, disengaged, and returned to Palm Beach. Sunny’s head remained on my shoulder during that silent drive home, and occasionally she touched my arm or shoulder, as if she wanted to make certain I was there, to make contact with the living.
It had been a harrowing evening and I trust you’ll be muy simpatico when you hear that, arriving back in my belfry, I immediately poured a double brandy and flopped down behind my desk to sip and recover from that wounding conversation.
I discovered that, in my cowardly way, I didn’t even want to think about my talk with Sunny Fogarty. And so I donned earphones and listened to a snippet of tape: Gertrude Lawrence singing the yearning “Someday I’ll Find You.” I played it not once, not twice, but thrice.
I finally went to bed in a deliciously melancholic mood, reflecting that Mr. Lincoln may have been correct.
But the memory lingers on, does it not?
30.
WE NOW ARRIVE AT a section of this narrative which I find, regretfully, somewhat embarrassing to pen. It concerns how I discovered the exact nature of Ernest Gorton’s flagrantly wicked scheme.
I wish with all my myocardium I could claim my discovery was the result of deucedly clever deductive reasoning—akin to Mr. Holmes solving a case by noting a dog didn’t bark. But I’m sure you respect me as a chap of absolute veracity, scrupulous and exact, not given to embroidering the facts. And so I must be truthful about what happened. I fear you’ll find it ridiculous—and it was ridiculous.
It began on Wednesday morning when, as usual, I overslept. Upon awakening I immediately phoned my West Palm garage and was overjoyed to learn the Miata was re-tired, back in fighting trim, and could be re claimed at my convenience. Good news indeed.
I breakfasted alone: a frugal meal of cranberry juice, black coffee, and a croissant sandwich of liverwurst, jack cheese, tomato, a slice of red onion, and just a wee bit of a macho mustard. Invigorating.
I was heading for the garage when mother came trotting from our little greenhouse. She was clad in Bermuda shorts and one of my cast-off T-shirts. Over this costume she wore a soil-soiled apron, as so many pistil-whipped gardeners do, and I knew she had been digging into or perhaps transplanting one or more of her precious begonias. We exchanged a morning kiss.
“Archy,” she accused, “did you have onions for breakfast?”
“Not me,” I protested. “It must be that new Polish mouthwash I’ve been using.”
“Listen, darling,” she said, “do you think you might get over to West Palm Beach sometime today?”
“That’s where I’m heading right now, luv. To get my car out of hock.”
“Would you do me a favor?”
“I’d go to hell fa ya,” I said, “or Philadelphia.”
She gig
gled delightedly. “That’s cute. What’s it from, Archy?”
“Beats me,” I admitted. “One of those oddments rattling around my cavernous cranium. A song lyric, I think.”
(Dear Reader: If you happen to know the source of that quote, please drop me a line. Much obliged.)
“Well, here’s what happened,” momsy went on. “I ordered some hanging scented begonia bulbs from a garden supply house. I specifically and definitely asked for the apricot basket but they sent the lemon which I already have. I want to return their package and request what I ordered or a refund. I have it all packed up and addressed. Could you take it to that mailing place in West Palm and send it out by UPS?”
“Of course I can and shall,” I averred. “Give me the package and I’ll be on my way.”
An innocuous incident, was it not? Merely the incorrect delivery of lemon-scented begonia bulbs when apricot had been ordered. Who could have guessed that trivial business would lead to the solution of the Crime of the Century? Certainly not A. McNally, the demon detective who once again learned the importance of chance and accident.
It took me an hour or so to return my rental, bribe an attendant to give me a lift to my garage, and ransom the Miata. I paid for everything with plastic and kept a record of the extravagant cash tips I distributed. Papa might be interested in billable hours; I was just as interested in my next monthly expense account.
Then I set out for the mailing emporium to send mother’s begonia bulbs on their way. I’m sure you have similar handy and useful services in your neighborhood. They pack and address shipments of all shapes and sizes, and send them off via United Parcel Service, Federal Express, Airborne Express, or whichever carrier you request. Of course one pays extra for this convenience, but it’s well worth it to have the paperwork professionally prepared.
The mailing outlet was crowded when I arrived, and I wondered how the U.S. Postal Service could hope to compete with express shippers offering speedy delivery, sometimes overnight, of everything from a legal-sized envelope to a leather hippopotamus hassock swaddled in bubblewrap and encased in a carton that looked large enough to contain a Wurlitzer.
I sent off the mater’s package by UPS, received a receipt for same, and wandered outside musing on the scene within and imagining what would have happened to our nation’s commerce if we were still enamored of the Pony Express. I was climbing into my rejuvenated Miata when it hit me.
I cannot declare it was a stroke of genius or claim my sudden revelation gave me the urge to yelp with joy and execute a grand jeté toes atwirl. My first reaction was a desire to smite my forehead sharply with an open palm, devastated by chagrin that I had been such a brainless ass I hadn’t grasped it before. “It” being Ernest Gorton’s odious machinations.
Instead of driving to my office in the McNally Building, I returned home, for there was work to be done to verify my sudden enlightenment. I cannot describe my mood as one of exhilaration. Grim would be closer to the bone—and admittedly a smidgen of humiliation at not having solved the puzzle sooner.
I climbed directly to my oubliette and, donning my reading specs, began poring through my journal, that scrawled compendium of the frivolous and the meaningful. What I sought, y’see, was evidence to lend credence to my theory. No, strike that. It was not merely a theory; it was a conviction, a certainty, not an opinion but a faith.
I found evidence aplenty to convince me I had lucked onto Ernest Gorton’s crafty design. And you know, I found myself feeling a grudging admiration for the scoundrel. He had created a criminal enterprise at once simple, almost foolproof, and exceedingly profitable. It required boldness on his part, of course, but it was now obvious he was a man of unlimited audacity.
I jotted a page of brief notes: facts to substantiate my analysis of Mr. Gorton’s illicit activities. Then I sat back and pondered what to do next. I knew my hypothesis must be brought to the attention of Sgt. Al Rogoff and Special Agent Griffin Kling—after all, the Gorton investigation was their baby—but I wasn’t certain how to announce my discovery and which law enforcement officer should be the. first informed. Cops are more protective of their territory than wolverines.
So, as is my wont, I dithered. And a very pleasant dithering it was, lackadaisical and pleasurable. Have you noticed I’ve made no mention of lunch? I had none. Skipped it completely by deliberate choice. Naturally I was famished, but I had recently noted the waistbands of my slacks were shrinking at an alarming rate, and I decided it was time to take a keen interest in my caloric intake.
I returned from a leisurely ocean swim to dress for the family cocktail hour and dinner. That night Ursi Olson served sautéed chicken breasts with grapes and grilled veggies. Dessert was cheesecake with a fresh blueberry sauce. I had two portions of everything—but then I had omitted lunch, hadn’t I?
Despite that holiday afternoon and evening I had not ceased wrestling with the problem of what my wisest next move should be. By the time I retired to my digs after the cheesecake I had made my choice and phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff. I determined he should be present when I revealed my brainstorm. I might never be associated with Special Agent Kling again, but Al’s continuing friendship and assistance were too valuable to cut him out of the loop.
I found him at home and he wasn’t too happy at being disturbed by my phone call.
“Now what?” he demanded.
“What,” I said, “is a complete, logical, and irrefutable explanation of Ernest Gorton’s criminal involvement with the Whitcomb Funeral Homes.”
“Yeah?” Al said, his voice sharpening. “You got a bright idea?”
“More than a bright idea,” I told him. “It’s the trut’, the whole trut’, and nothing but the trut’. Can you persuade Kling to drive up tomorrow? I shall disclose all to both of you then.”
“Can’t you tell me now?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t chew my cabbage twice.”
“What an elegant expression,” he said. “I must remember to use it—maybe in the next century. All right, I’ll give Kling a call and get back to you. I hope you’re not shucking me on this, because if you are, it’s the end of the road for us, buddy.”
“Not the end,” I assured him, “but a new, more glorious era of a close and more trusting relationship.”
“Bleep you,” he said and hung up.
He phoned back in about forty-five minutes. “Okay,” he said, “it’s set. It took some fast talking, but Kling finally agreed to drive up tomorrow morning. Where do you want to meet?”
“Hadn’t thought of it,” I confessed. “Any suggestions?”
“Kling doesn’t like restaurants. He thinks the salt shaker may be bugged. How about my chateau again? At noon.”
“Fine,” I said. “If you feel like it, order up some pizza and beer, McNally and Son will pick up the tab.”
“Of course,” he said. “Naturally.”
We now fast-forward to noon on Thursday. Nothing unusual happened in the interim except that I awoke in time to breakfast with my parents (we had smoked salmon and scrambled eggs) and I arrived at my office at the traditional 9:00 A.M., shocking all the fellow employees I encountered and occasioning a few snide comments.
I worked dutifully at listing the billable hours father had requested and recording my own out-of-pocket costs. They would eventually appear on my monthly expense account, which was now beginning to rival the gross national product of Sri Lanka.
I arrived at Chez Rogoff just as the delivery lad was departing, and by the time I parked and entered Al’s snug and pleasantly scruffy mobile home, he was setting out three medium-sized pizzas: meatball, pepperoni, and anchovy. He also provided Coors Light in frosted glass mugs: a welcome touch.
On this occasion Special Agent Griffin Kling rose to greet me and shake my hand. It was similar to receiving a benediction from the Grand Lama, even if he neglected to remove his semiopaque sunglasses. The three of us immediately began devouring hot pizza and swilling chilled brew. I could not resist casting
a furtive glance or two at Kling. Have you ever seen anyone chomping a slice of meatball pizza while wearing black specs? An unsettling sight.
Curiously it was he who offered the first revelation.
“We have Gorton’s warehouse under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” he told us. “Last night around midnight a semi pulls up and starts unloading. The sign on the truck says it’s from the Cleo Hauling Service of New York. We got all this on videotape. Okay? So then they start unloading the truck, carrying the cargo inside the warehouse. You know what? Caskets. All colors, plain, fancy, whatever. They had to be empty because two men were handling each one easily. No forklifts. Maybe twenty coffins. The truck was unloaded and took off. Now what do you suppose was going on?”
I laughed. “Easy,” I said. “Mr. Gorton is such a shrewd money-grubber he was having the empties returned.”
Rogoff looked at me. “What the hell are you talking about, Archy?” he demanded.
I took the page of notes from my jacket pocket, spread it alongside my pizza plate, and began my presentation.
“Al, you told me Gorton isn’t tied to the Mafia or the Colombian drug cartels but he’s worked deals with both. He knows how they operate, he knows their problems, and he figured a way to make them an offer they couldn’t refuse.
“What he did was set up a service for the air-lifting of drugs, guns, and money to distribution centers in New York, Boston, and Chicago. How is contraband ordinarily transported within the forty-eight contiguous states? By courier, car, van, truck, or small planes. But all those are easy targets for arrest and seizure. Individuals and trucks can be stopped and searched. Ditto private cars. And small planes need certification and are supposed to file flight plans.
“But our hero came up with a scam that couldn’t miss. The deceased are shipped out of Florida at an enormous annual rate. Each casket is crated or placed in a carton clearly labeled ‘Human Remains. Handle with Extreme Care.’ Who’s going to open a package like that to verify the contents?
“The dear departed depart from Florida in the cargo holds of legitimate airlines. The coffin, crate, and corpse weigh about four hundred pounds. Gorton learns all this from Oliver Whitcomb, who’s in need of ready cash. Ernest realizes immediately that those caskets can be filled with guns, drugs, or laundered money, providing he doesn’t exceed the usual weight by too much.
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