McNally's Dilemma

by Lawrence Sanders

  19

  I MET HECTOR ON my way to the garage. He tipped his cap and asked, “Do you have any more questions, señor?”

  “Is Seth Walker in the garage, Hector?”

  It was not the question he expected nor one he cared to answer. “I don’t know, señor. I mind my own business around here.”

  “I don’t blame you, Hector.”

  The garage was a four-car affair and, like ours had an apartment on its upper story. Seth could probably live there if he chose, but I imagined he would prefer The Breakers. As I drew near, I saw a woman come scurrying out of a side door and knew why my question had embarrassed Hector.

  “Mrs. Peterson, I presume?” I called as she tried to bolt past me without acknowledging my existence.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I was just seeing if I had left one of the grocery bags in my car. I did the shopping this morning and seem to be missing a few items I know I bought.”

  She was a few years younger than her husband, which still left her past her prime. I attributed her trim figure to a metabolism in a constant state of overdrive rather than to a conscious effort at diet and exercise. Her hair was a shade of reddish brown that did not appear on Mother Nature’s color chart.

  Eyeing her empty hands, the fingers of which fluttered as if she were manipulating a string of invisible worry beads, I said, “I take it you didn’t find what you were looking for.”

  “No, I didn’t. If you’ll excuse me...”

  “Is Seth in the garage?”

  “Seth?” She suddenly looked as if she were about to cry. “How would I know?”

  “Well, you just came from the garage, Mrs. Peterson, and I’m looking for Seth Walker.”

  “He might be in there. I didn’t notice. I just went...”

  “Yes, Mrs. Peterson. You told me why you were in the garage. By the way, I’m Archy McNally.”

  “Yes, I know. Or I assumed that’s who you were. I really must be getting back to the house now—”

  “I’ve met your husband and Arnold.”

  She began to march in place, giving the impression that it was the loo she was desperate to get back to. Poor thing. I imagined her husband would find her excuse to visit the garage as lame as I did. Knowing that Peterson was tied up with me in the library, had she made a quick run to the garage to bring Seth a goody from the kitchen? Herself, for instance?

  “Are you at all curious as to what I’m doing here, Mrs. Peterson?”

  “I’m sure it’s none of my business, Mr. McNally. We were told to expect you and to answer any questions you wished to put to us.” Very little seemed to be the business of Mr. and Mrs. Peterson.

  “However, Mrs. Peterson, I did not ask you what you were doing in the garage, did I?”

  “No, but I—”

  “But you thought you would tell me anyway. How kind. What items were missing from your grocery bags?”

  Between her busy feet and her hands, I thought the woman was gearing up for a marathon. “I was missing...” She threw her hands in the air and exclaimed, “I don’t know what I was missing.” She began to weep.

  “Mrs. Peterson. Really. You must get a grip on yourself. I have no wish to cause you distress, and I could not care less what you were doing in the garage, or anyplace else, for that matter.”

  She removed a tissue from the pocket of the very plain gray dress she wore and dabbed at her eyes. “Forgive me. I’ve not been myself lately.” Then she took a deep breath and said, “I went to the garage to tell Seth you had arrived.”

  “May I ask why, Mrs. Peterson?”

  “Because he asked me to.”

  “Seth Walker asked you to alert him to my arrival?”

  The tissue had been rolled into a ball and was now hidden in her clenched fist. “No harm, I’m sure. We were all curious about you, and Seth asked me to let him know when you got here.”

  “You could have called. I’m sure there’s a phone that connects the garage to the kitchen and other rooms in the house.”

  She looked a bit startled and answered, “I never thought of that.” And I almost believed her.

  “Did you and Seth discuss what might be the purpose of my visit?”

  “Why, we all did,” she stated.

  “And what did you all conclude, Mrs. Peterson?”

  “That you’re here because of the murder.”

  Now it was my turn to be startled. “You mean the murder of Geoff Williams?”

  She nodded. “Who else? Unless there’s been another murder on Ocean Boulevard.”

  “What connection would Mr. and Mrs. Fairhurst have with the murder of Geoff Williams?”

  “They were good friends at one time—Mr. and Mrs. Fairhurst and Mrs. Williams and her first husband. They were very close, in fact. Not so much after Mr. Manning died and the widow took up with Geoff Williams. The Fairhursts didn’t care for him. And the whole world knows you’ve been helping Mrs. Williams’s daughter.”

  Geoff’s murder was the talk of the town, and thanks to my television appearance with Veronica, I was now associated with the case. Ergo, I should have known that the Fairhurst household would think I was acting for Melva and not their employer. And I had inadvertently played along by asking both Peterson and Arnie what they knew about Geoff’s connection with Seth Walker.

  Neither man had the boldness, as did Mrs. Peterson, to confront me with the purpose of my visit, so Arnie said a lot about nothing and Peterson said a little about the same thing. Unless those guys thought I was looking for the Mystery Woman among Fairhurst’s collection of erotica, they must now be wondering how Seth Walker fit into Geoff’s murder. Some can of worms I had opened around here, and I did it without half trying.

  But I immediately sensed that the misconception could work to my advantage. If my presence was otherwise accounted for, the blackmailer would have no idea I was hot on his trail. So why not add a little more mis- to the conception? “Did you know Seth was a friend of Geoff Williams, Mrs. Peterson?”

  She began shredding the piece of tissue between her fingers. “I did not. Is that why...” She stopped in mid-sentence.

  “Is that why he was worried about my arrival?” I finished for her.

  “I didn’t say Seth was worried. He was just curious like all of us. How friendly was he with Geoff Williams?”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Peterson. I ask the questions.”

  That got her back up as high as it was ever going to get. “What else would you like to know, sir?”

  “The answer to my first question. Is Seth Walker in the garage?”

  “Yes.” And without a by-your-leave she hurried off, her walk turning into a trot before she had taken ten steps.

  The garage contained three cars, the Rolls and two less impressive vehicles. Just as I was about to conclude that Seth Walker had made himself scarce, I saw something move inside the Rolls. I ambled over and peeked in the back window, where I saw a young man seated with his nose in a magazine whose glossy cover depicted a young lady clad in bikini briefs and nothing else. I tapped on the window.

  The young man rolled down the glass and looked at me as if I had come to sell him a subscription to National Geographic. “Yeah?” The word came out sounding like “get lost.”

  “Are you Seth Walker?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Arnie’s thumbnail sketch was right on the mark. Young, handsome, not too bright but with street smarts written all over his pretty face. The face reminded me of an actor of yore, but I was too angry at the moment to place it. It would come to me.

  “You know damn well who wants to know. Mr. Fairhurst told you I was coming and Mrs. Peterson just informed you that I had arrived. Now put that magazine down and step out where I can see all of you.”

  He tossed the magazine onto the classy leather seat and after opening the door of the Rolls, he stepped out. The punk spread his arms wide and did a complete turnaround for my inspection. In lieu of a cap at a rakish angle, he was crowned with a head of brown hair
, perfectly cut and layered. When he had finished exhibiting himself, he exclaimed, “Look all you want. More than that you can’t afford.”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head or you might find yourself unemployed.”

  “Touchy. Okay, I’m at your disposal, Archy.”

  “Mr. McNally to you.”

  “Whatever. How can I help you, Mr. McNally.” He had a way of making the more proper address sound degrading. But I felt certain that when speaking to his employers, he sounded as shy and ingratiating as a two-year-old looking for an ice-cream cone. What a package was Seth Walker.

  “Do you get to Miami often?” I asked. And why not? He had no idea what I was after.

  “South Beach, when I feel like slumming.”

  “And when you don’t feel like slumming?” I tried again.

  “I stick close to home.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In Palm Beach. South of here.”

  “South of here goes all the way to the Keys.”

  “Not to mention South America. Could I know what all this is about?”

  “No.”

  “Can I smoke?”

  “They’re your lungs.”

  He wore the black suit and tie of the chauffeur, but on Seth Walker the outfit looked vaguely military—a naval officer who had forgotten to sew the chevrons on his sleeve. He pulled a pack of Camels out of his jacket pocket and lit one.

  “What do you know about the Fairhurst family?” I watched him closely as I spoke, but he never betrayed what was going on beneath that perfect head of hair. Seth Walker wasn’t a stranger to being interrogated.

  “Their checks don’t bounce.”

  “Have you ever been inside the main house here?”

  He inhaled deeply and blew smoke out the corner of his mouth. The boy must have been raised on gangster films. “When I was interviewed by Mr. Fairhurst I was in the house.”

  “Where did the interview take place?”

  “In his office. It’s in the back, on the ground floor. Why?”

  “Don’t keep asking me why, because I’m not going to tell you. Get it?”

  “Hey, mister, I’m cooperating, and for this you’re giving me a hard time.”

  “Were you ever in any of the other rooms in the house?” I questioned.

  He puffed on his cigarette, pretending to think. “I’ve been in Arnie’s room. He’s got a suite. Nice.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Socializing, I think it’s called. Why do you want to know where I’ve been in the house? Did someone pinch one of the knickknacks?”

  “You know better that that.” All I was doing here was treading water while watching the hooligan grin at me. “What did you do before you got this job?”

  “Waited tables in South Beach.”

  So, there was a link to Miami. “When was the last time you visited the old haunts?”

  “Not since I started here. More than a month ago.”

  “How’d you get this job?” If I thought this was going to put a crimp in his style, I was wrong.

  “Finally,” he said, “the reason you’re here. Why didn’t you just say it up front and save us all this painful bull? You know how I got this job. Mr. Fairhurst told you, I’m sure.”

  “Now I want you to tell me.”

  “Geoff Williams put in a good word for me with Mr. Fairhurst. That make you happy?”

  “What would make me happy, pal, would not make you happy, believe me. What’s your connection with Geoff?”

  “None, I hope. The guy is dead, isn’t he?”

  I wouldn’t mind seeing Seth Walker in the same condition. “How did you two meet? And I want the truth.”

  He stuck his free hand in his trouser pocket and looked at the ceiling. “He was an acquaintance of my mother’s.”

  No surprise. It was just as I thought. Geoff doing a lady friend a favor. And Seth Walker was a surly blob who would one day choke on his own bile.

  But now I had something else to think about. Was Seth’s mother our Mystery Woman? Melva said that she had been a young woman, but that was just a fleeting impression. Even Lady Horowitz, who was over seventy, had the figure and grace of a much younger woman. I had to keep reminding myself that I was here to locate a blackmailer, not Geoff’s last paramour.

  “Geoff was in Palm Beach about a month ago, long before the family moved down for the season. Any idea what he was doing here?”

  “No.”

  “Did he see your mother?”

  “He could have.”

  “Is your mother in Palm Beach?”

  “That’s as much as I’m saying about my mother, and you can tell Mr. Fairhurst I said so. You wanted to know how I got this job and I told you the truth, so don’t push your luck, Mr. McNally.”

  “Don’t push yours, Seth—and by the way, is that your real name?”

  “Yeah. Is Archy McNally your real name?” He dropped the cigarette on the concrete floor and ground it out with the toe of his shoe.

  I turned to go, paused, and turned back to face him. “Did you enjoy your chat with Veronica Manning at the Horowitz reception?”

  “Christ, man, are you living in my back pocket?”

  “Did you know she was Geoff’s stepdaughter?”

  “I knew she was the best-looking chick in the room, and that’s all I cared about.”

  “Don’t let Arnie hear that. He might lock his door the next time you go to his room to socialize.”

  He took a step toward me, one fist raised, but thought better of it and expressed his anger with a few well-chosen cuss words.

  Quitting while I was ahead, I waved bye-bye and was history.

  Aside from how the blackmailer might have learned the Fairhurst secret, I wasn’t a step closer to collaring the miscreant.

  I went back to the house to report to Mr. Fairhurst before leaving. Peterson led me to the den, where I found both Mr. Fairhurst and his wife busily engrossed in the afternoon newspapers. Lolly’s rag, I noticed, featured on its front page the blank outline of a woman’s face with a huge question mark where her nose should be.

  Mr. Fairhurst introduced me to his wife, who acknowledged me by removing her glasses and eyeing me stem to stern before saying, “How do you do, Mr. McNally?”

  Mrs. Fairhurst was what is often described as a handsome woman, meaning she was not now a beauty nor had she ever been. A bit horsey, one might say, with rather prominent teeth but a lovely complexion and a poise born of confidence in one’s self and her husband’s fortune. She wore the uniform of her class and generation—dark skirt, white blouse, and a beige cashmere cardigan.

  “Have you finished here?” Mr. Fairhurst asked.

  “Yes, sir, I have, but I’m afraid I have very little to report at this stage, aside from what I have already pointed out to you in the library.”

  “I didn’t think you’d learn anything from my staff, Archy. And I’ve told Mrs. Fairhurst about your discovery.”

  “Quite a shocker,” Mrs. Fairhurst admitted. “It was very clever of you to catch it, Mr. McNally.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” After glancing at the door, I asked if I could speak freely.

  “Of course,” Mr. Fairhurst quickly put in. “Our servants don’t listen at keyholes.”

  “You’ve mentioned your confidence in your staff before, sir, but I’m afraid I must remind you that someone in this house has surely been listening as well as looking.”

  Mrs. Fairhurst, who had been pretending to read her paper, dropped the pretense and looked up.

  “I don’t understand, Archy,” Mr. Fairhurst said.

  “Well, sir, as we discussed, our letter writer may have figured out that your grandfather did not die on the Titanic by comparing the dates on the portraits. However, that does not explain how he knows that your ancestor got off the boat in drag. I beg your pardon—disguised as a woman.”

  Mrs. Fairhurst began to fuss with her newspaper. Was it my crude language or something el
se? John Fairhurst III seemed oblivious to her reaction, but then, he seemed oblivious to everything that went on in his home—except, perhaps, the handsomely bound writing secreted away on the closed shelves.

  “Good lord,” he cried, “I never thought of that. Did you, Emily?”

  “No,” she said to her husband, “I didn’t.” After fidgeting a bit more in her seat, she added, “John, do you think we should drop this investigation?”

  “Drop it? Why, whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean,” she said, “drop it. Pay the horrible person the money and forget it ever happened.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mr. Fairhurst nearly shouted. “There’s no guarantee the man will stop with this one payoff. He’ll have us by the throat for the rest of our lives.”

  There was no question that Mrs. Fairhurst was looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Then let him go to the press and tell his story. What proof does he have but that brass plate? We can have it changed tomorrow,” she pleaded.

  “My dear Emily,” her husband explained, “my father’s birth date is a matter of public record. We can’t change that.”

  “But why has no one ever noticed the discrepancy before now?” she questioned.

  “Because, ma’am,” I cut in, “I imagine no one ever cared enough to compare those dates. What I mean is, whoever heard of checking the date of a man’s death against the birth date of his son? As long as they aren’t years apart, to be sure. In this case it’s a mere three months and the years coincide.

  “Now, a very devious person has gotten hold of the information and intends to grow rich on the knowledge. I must ask you both if at any time you discussed with anyone how your grandfather got off the Titanic?”

  “Never,” Mr. Fairhurst exclaimed.

  His wife did not answer. Did her husband speak for both of them?

  In deference to her, I asked, “Do you want me to continue with the investigation, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then,” I advised, “all we can do now is wait for the letter telling us where and when to deliver the cash.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as it arrives,” Mr. Fairhurst assured me.