McNally's Trial

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Hey, maybe he was offering his customers flight insurance. If the plane crashed, the airline would have to pay, wouldn’t it? But that’s just smoke on my part. I think the way the scheme worked was this:

  “Gorton makes a deal with Oliver Whitcomb. The original caskets are purchased through Whitcomb Funeral Homes. They’re loaded with the goodies in Gorton’s warehouse. Then they’re trucked at night to one of Whitcomb’s three mortuaries. The director in charge, working alone or maybe with a helper on the pad, crates the casket for out-of-state shipment.

  “The phony death certificate is supplied by that zonked-out Dr. Omar Pflug. The paperwork and shipping invoices are prepared by the crooked funeral directors. Gorton pays for death certificate, coffin, crating, cost of the airlift, and probably a bonus. What does he care? He’s making a lush profit from his clients, who are happy to pay mucho dinero for guaranteed overnight delivery.

  “Ernest Gorton is operating a Coffin Air Express. The CAE. How does that sound?”

  Special Agent Griffin Kling finished a slice of anchovy pizza and wiped his lips carefully with a paper napkin. He stood, turned his back to us, leaned to look out one of the small windows.

  “You got it,” he said tonelessly. And then he kept repeating obsessively, “You got it. You got it. You got it.”

  31.

  HE FINALLY QUIETED BUT still didn’t turn to face us. Rogoff looked at me curiously.

  “How did you happen to come up with that one, Archy?” he asked.

  “Genius,” I said.

  “Luck,” he said.

  “A bit of both,” I admitted. “The question now is, where do we go from here?”

  Then Kling turned. I don’t believe he had been listening to my exchange with Al.

  “It fits,” the FBI man said. “Our offices up north have checked out maybe a half dozen of the places that took deliveries from the Cleo Hauling Service. They’re all no-goodniks. Funeral homes with bent-nose connections. Guys with records of security frauds. One hustler suspected of supplying guns to terrorists of all stripes. So when you tell me Gorton is running a ratty air express from South Florida, I’ll buy it.”

  I was about to repeat my question of what happens next, but Kling would not be interrupted.

  “The thing to do,” he said, “is bust that warehouse.”

  I glanced at Rogoff and I swear he gave me a quick wink. I had the feeling we were both thinking the same thing.

  “Sir,” I said to Special Agent Kling, doing my humble bit, “I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to conduct a criminal investigation—I’m the rankest of rank amateurs—but wouldn’t it be better to seize the loaded caskets after they’ve been picked up by the Cleo Hauling Service at LaGuardia, Logan, and O’Hare? Then you’ll have evidence of interstate shipment of contraband. It’s even possible you may find Gorton’s fingerprints on one or more of the coffins.”

  “Nah,” Kling said decisively. “A waste of time. I smell blood. We’ll raid the warehouse as soon as possible—maybe tonight if I can get the go-ahead. I hope Gorton will be there,” he added with savage joy. “But even if we don’t collar him and his soldiers actually loading the caskets, we’ll pull in everyone in sight. Then we’ll go looking for those funeral directors and that Oliver Whitcomb. We’ll lean on them and I guarantee at least one of those bozos is going to cut a deal and talk. We might even be able to pin Gorton for snuffing Rhoda Flembaugh. This is the chance I’ve been waiting for. Listen, I’ve got to run. I want to get back to Miami and get the show on the road. I’ll let you know how we make out. Thanks for the feed.”

  Then he was gone. Rogoff and I were left with a few cold crusts from the demolished pizzas. But the supply of beer hadn’t been exhausted and we each had another mugful, slumping down and relaxing. Kling’s presence was daunting; no doubt about it. The man was so perpetually intense it made my fillings ache.

  “I don’t like it,” Rogoff remarked.

  “The raid on the warehouse?” I said. “I don’t either. The cart before the horse and all that sort of thing. He’s not building a case methodically and logically; he’s the proverbial fool rushing in where angels fear to tread.”

  “My, oh my,” Al said. “We’re full of folk wisdom today, aren’t we?”

  “Touché,” I said. “But I didn’t hear you making any objections while he was here.”

  “C’mon, Archy, think straight. I’m a Palm Beach copper who’s supposed to warn guys who go jogging without a shirt. You want me to tell the FBI how to run a major case? They’d label me a redneck sheriff and put me on their shit list.”

  “But you don’t approve of the raid on the warehouse, do you?”

  The sergeant shook his head dolefully. “Kling has other options but he’s so hyper about Gorton he’s got to go for the muscle. I’m betting that bust will prove Murphy’s Law in spades.”

  I drove away from Rogoff’s assembly-line hacienda reflecting that his foreboding mirrored my own. I have confessed to you on several occasions in the past that I am a lad devoted to the frivolous and trivial. I simply refuse to take anything seriously. I have absolutely no absolute beliefs—other than grated ginger is wonderful on fresh oysters.

  And so I found Griffin Kling’s zealotry disturbing. am willing to admit that fanatics have accomplished much of value in the history of the higher primates. Artists, for instance, and poets, composers, architects and such—monomaniacs all—have created wondrous things. But a distressing number of the obsessionally driven have engendered wars, inquisitions, pogroms, and general nastiness that prevent an international chorus of “On the Good Ship Lollipop.”

  Exhausted by such sober meditation, I decided the McNally spirits required a goose, and so I used my cellular phone to call Binky Watrous, that homme moyen sensuel. (Short translation: a goofball.) Surprisingly he was at home and eager to chat.

  “Golly, I’m glad you called,” he said. “Listen, Archy, do you think I should grow a beard?”

  “Can you?” I asked.

  “Of course I can,” he said, offended. “It might take some time, but I’m sure I could do it if I set my mind to it.”

  “I’m on my way to the Pelican Club,” I informed him—a sudden decision. “Why don’t you meet me there for a spot of R and R, and we can discuss your plans to cultivate facial foliage.”

  “You’re on,” he said enthusiastically. “The Duchess wants me to accompany her to a flügelhorn recital, but I shall tell her the demands of my job-training come first. Righto?”

  “Righteo,” I said, topping him.

  Within the hour we were seated at a table in the bar area of the Pelican. I thought it wise to continue drinking beer, and Binky ordered a mild spritzer with a peppered Russian vodka as a chaser. Nutsy.

  “I guess you heard about Rhoda Flembaugh getting murdered,” he said mournfully.

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “It rocked me. I mean, she was a wild one, Archy, but really quite nice. I was wondering if I should go to the gendarmes and tell them I knew Rhoda and we had shared a Big Mac or two. Do you think I should?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “Keep out of it, Binky. The police have a good idea of who ordered her killing, and your personal relations with the victim will hold no interest for them whatsoever. And speaking of your many and varied intimacies, are you seeing much of Mitzi Whitcomb these days?”

  “Not really. I suspect she may be giving me the old heave-ho. I mean, the Whitcombs are still running their open house and I drop by frequently, but I think Mitzi is too busy working for Ernie Gorton to pay much attention to her most devoted admirer. Namely, me.”

  “Oh? What sort of work is she doing for Gorton?”

  “I’m not sure but now there seems to be an amazing number of yummy young lasses lolling around the premises and just as many older guys wearing gold chains, silk suits, and face-lifts. I think Mitzi may be running a dating service. You know—introducing lonely singles to each other.”

  A dating service? What
a goober my aide-de-camp was!

  “That’s possible,” I said. “Or Mitzi could be selling subscriptions to the Kama Sutra Gazette.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “A new magazine. Profusely illustrated. Very in. Does Oliver attend these soirées?”

  “Some,” Binky said. “Not always, but occasionally. He’s drinking an awful lot these days, Archy. I don’t think he enjoys the idea of his wife working for Gorton.”

  “Uh-huh. And does dear old Ernie put in an appearance?”

  “Well, he’s been there every night I’ve dropped by. He doesn’t stay long. Just pops in, says hello to everyone, has a private chat with Mitzi, and pops out. What do you suppose is going on, Archy?”

  “Infamy,” I said.

  He finished his wine spritzer and started on the chaser.

  “Binky,” I said, “when we started our semi-professional association you more or less agreed to follow all my suggestions, instruction, and orders without question.”

  “Well, I have, haven’t I?”

  “You have indeed and I commend you for it. I now have another and probably final command. I want you to sever your relationship with Mitzi and Oliver Whitcomb, with Ernest Gorton, and all their snorting pals. You are not to visit the Whitcomb maison again or attempt in any way, shape, or form to contact the residents or guests thereof. In other words, Binky, cease and desist.”

  He was astonished. “You mean I can’t even enjoy a jolly gibber with Mitzi on the phone?”

  “I don’t want you to even dream about her,” I said sternly. “Momentous events have been set in motion, and I fear the Whitcombs, Gorton, and their coterie are quite likely to have their hilarity squelched and their lifestyle dampened by stalwarts of the law. Why, they may even be shackled and dragged off to durance vile. And this cataclysm may occur within a few days or a week at the most.”

  “What’s going on?” he said indignantly. “You must tell me what’s happening.”

  “I would if I could,” I assured him, “but I have been sworn to secrecy. It involves plans by agencies and officials at the highest levels of the U.S. government.”

  “Gosh,” he said, suitably impressed.

  “What I definitely do not want,” I continued, “is to have you caught in the wreckage and perhaps charged with misdeeds of which I know you are totally innocent. I’m sure the Duchess would be as horrified as I.”

  He became even paler, if such a thing were possible. “Oh no,” he said hoarsely. “No, no, no. We can’t have it. She’s already threatening to cut my allowance. Insists I economize. I’m already buying underwear made in Hong Kong. What more does she expect?”

  “Then you agree to end immediately all connection with Mitzi, Oliver, and their circle?”

  “I agree,” he said sadly and looked longingly at his empty glasses.

  I felt he had endured enough of a shock to earn a refill and so I fetched him another spritzer and vodka from the bar.

  Binky sipped his fresh drink appreciatively and then said, “You know, Archy, what you do—these discreet inquiries and all—it’s for real, isn’t it? I mean it’s not all giggles.”

  “Of course it’s real. Sometimes people get badly hurt. Sometimes people get killed.”

  “The trouble is,” he said with abashment, “it’s fascinating, isn’t it? All the raw emotion and that sort of thing. I don’t mind telling you it’s a new world for me. I never realized people lived like that. Oh, I know there’s plenty of mean things going on, but I supposed all the evil was committed by thugs in leather jackets and baseball caps. Now I find upper-drawer citizens with big bucks and mansions can be just as slimy as your average mugger. It comes as a bit of a shock.”

  I knew what he was trying to say. “You’re such a tyke, Binky,” I told him. “Frequently the people I investigate are moneyed, well educated, charming, and utter rotters. Class really has nothing to do with it. Net worth and beluga for breakfast do not prevent ignobility. Have you had your fill of discreet inquiries?”

  “Oh no!” he said determinedly. “It may be an acquired taste, but as I said, it’s fascinating. You’re not going to fire me, are you, Archy?”

  “How can I fire you when I didn’t hire you?”

  “No, but you let me help. And I did assist, didn’t I? I admit I have a great deal to learn, but I’m certain my performance will improve as I gain experience. Can’t I continue my on-the-job training for a while?”

  As usual I temporized. I wasn’t certain I wanted a geeky Dr. Watson walking up my heels but Binky was correct: he had contributed to the Whitcomb case.

  “Let me think about it,” I said. “When our current investigation is closed we can talk about it further. What will be the reaction of the Duchess if you keep working without pay?”

  “She’ll be delighted to get me out of the house,” he said, “but not half as happy as I to be absent from that mausoleum. You’ve never been inside, have you, Archy?”

  I thought a moment. “I don’t believe I ever have.”

  “Then you’re obviously not aware that every upholstered chair is equipped with an antimacassar crocheted by the Duchess.”

  “You jest.”

  “Not so,” he said darkly. “About once a month, when she’s not home, I swipe one of those disgusting rags and toss it into a distant trash can. It’s driving her right up the wall. The Case of the Disappearing Antimacassars.”

  He cackled insanely and I feared he might be paddling a leaky canoe. The lad was a trial, I could not deny it, but neither could I ignore my very real affection for him, as one might have for a mentally disadvantaged brother whose main (and possibly sole) talent was birdcalls.

  “Binky,” I said, “about this beard you’re thinking of growing.”

  “Oh yes!” he said, bright with anticipation. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t wish to be brutally frank,” I said, “but let me be brutally frank. The growth presently on your upper lip which you claim to be a mustache is so fair, so almost colorless that it can hardly be seen in full sunshine. I fear a beard may exhibit the same gossamer quality.”

  “I could dye it,” he suggested.

  “And risk having it drip down your shirtfront when it rains? No, m’boy, I don’t think a beard would suit you.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I was hoping it might make me look more, you know, mature. I mean, you and I are about the same age but you look so much older man I do.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said.

  The remainder of our conversation was so absurd I’m ashamed to detail it here. Suffice to say I left Binky that afternoon with the horrifying realization I had just been cluttering with a cartoon character from Boob McNutt.

  32.

  THE MOOD OF THAT day had as many zigs and zags as the tail of an affrightened Halloween cat. And there was more to come.

  I returned home and saw a swampy ocean in such turmoil I immediately decided to eschew my daily swim. Instead I ascended to my eighth heaven and recorded the day’s events in my journal. I also had time for a sweet nap before preparing for the family cocktail hour.

  But when I descended to the second-floor sitting room I found only mother present. She was seated in a wicker armchair and dabbing at her brimming eyes with a square of cambric.

  “What is it, dear?” I said fearfully.

  She looked up at me, her face wracked. “Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb passed away this afternoon.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling I had been punched in the heart. “Ah, the poor woman.”

  “Father called and said he’s going to the hospital to see if he can assist the family. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone and suggested we start dinner rather than wait for him.”

  “Does he want me to join him?”

  “He said nothing about it.”

  “Then I certainly shan’t intrude. Her death was expected, mother, but it still comes as a blow. She was a brave lady.”

  “Yes. Very brave. Might we have
a drink now, Archy?”

  “Or two,” I said. “Much needed.”

  I did the honors and stirred the martinis as I knew my father would—to the traditional recipe: a 3-to-l mixture of 80-proof dry gin and dry vermouth. Not astringent enough for my taste but it was what my parents enjoyed and I had no desire to challenge their preference.

  Nothing more was said until we both had consumed almost all of our first libation. I don’t believe it enlivened us but it helped dull the pain.

  “Archy,” mother said, “do you remember the Whitcombs’ party we all went to, the first big affair of the season?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “Well, I was talking to Sarah for a few moments. Just the two of us. And suddenly she asked me if you and father get along together. Wasn’t that an odd thing to say?”

  “Very odd.”

  “Naturally I told her that you and father get along very well, that you’re quite close. And she gave me the saddest look and said, ‘You’re very fortunate.’ I’ve remembered it because it was such a puzzling thing. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” I said and rose to top off our glasses. We finished the dividend and started downstairs to dinner.

  “I didn’t know her very well,” mother said. “She wasn’t an intimate friend, you know, but I did admire her. I had the feeling she was an unhappy woman—and not only because of her illness. But she always had a smile. That’s important, isn’t it, Archy?”

  “It surely is.”

  “Now you’re going to tell me there’s a song lyric that says it better.”

  “Of course,” I affirmed and sang, “Smile, though your heart is breaking...”

  “Yes,” mother said, gripping my arm tightly. “That was Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb.”

  I think we both felt lost at the dining table without the presence of my father. He really was captain of our ship, and for all his foibles and cantankerousness we depended on him to chart our course. Moms and I were halfway through the crabmeat appetizer when we heard the sounds of the Lexus arriving and being garaged neatly and swiftly. A moment later the lord of the manor came striding in. His expression revealed nothing. He leaned down to kiss mother’s cheek.