The couple moved into a “cottage” on Ocean Boulevard and stocked it with his-and-hers Rolls Royces, a fifty-two-foot Hatteras and three live-in servants. The only clouds on this marital horizon were in the shape of pretty young ladies in thong bikinis. Vance couldn’t keep his mind off them and didn’t confine his adulterous ways to impure thoughts. What Vance saw is what Vance got. His wife finally gave him the ultimate ultimatum, “One more bimbo, buster, and you’ll be living in Pompano, driving a Chevy and traversing Lake Worth with the aid of two oars.”
Vance toed the line for an entire week and then ran into a bit of trouble in a dive in West Palm called Bar Anticipation. The bit of trouble began to make ugly noises and Archy saved Vance from a fate worse than death—poverty.
The butler, Roland, told me that Mr. Tremaine was at his club. I called the Bath and Tennis and had Tremaine paged. “Archy?” he said when he came on the line, sounding surprised.
“Who were you expecting?” I asked.
“Not you.”
Hurt but determined, I asked him if it were true that Serge Ouspenskaya was going to find Judge Crater at the Tremaine digs this evening. After a pause, Tremaine said, “You know, Archy, some wise guy once said that there was nothing known to man faster than the speed of light. He was wrong. The gossip mill up and down Ocean Boulevard makes the speed of light look lethargic. What’s your interest?”
“Curiosity. I’d like to attend.”
“No matter where you step you always come up smelling like Chanel Number Five. We just learned that Russell Fitzwilliams came down with the flu—it’s going around—and we need an extra man to partner Mrs. Fitzwilliams. Ouspenskaya likes an odd number at the table, him being the odd man out, so the group has to be an even number. We sit at ten and all we’re serving is drinks, so eat before you come.”
“Your generosity, Vance, has me all choked up. I’ll be there.”
“By the way, do you know the Fitzwilliamses’ girl?” he asked.
“Elizabeth, known locally as Fitz. We’ve met,” I informed him.
“She’s a beauty. Do you know if she goes for older men?”
“To her, Vance, thirty would be old, and I assume you’re going to be fifty, once again, this year.”
“You really know how to hurt a guy, Archy.”
“It’s a gift, like being double-jointed or able to play the piano by ear. Ta ta, till then.”
I like to swim at least two miles a day. Not out and back, that’s for those with medulla oblongata deficiency syndrome. I swim north and south, parallel to the shore and not more than twenty yards out. This is my only form of exercise, if one doesn’t count going a few rounds with Connie Garcia, and it does wonders for the appetite.
I put on a pair of simple trunks (lavender with iridescent silver stripes), sandals and a snow-white terry robe. The Atlantic laps the shore just across Ocean Boulevard from our house, making crossing the A1A the most perilous part of my journey. I had my swim and returned to my rooms to shower, begin logging the rudiments of “Serge the Seer” in my journal and dress in time for the family cocktail hour.
Thanks to the seigneur we are a family of tradition, one of them being gathering for cocktails prior to dinner where Father mixes martinis that are not as dry as I would like them but, like the rent on my suite, they’re free. When I appeared, Father knitted his brows, which is quite a skein of yarn, and uttered, “When do we view the remains?”
In keeping with the theme of my date later in the evening, I had elected to dress all in black. Jacket, trousers, turtleneck, socks and loafers. Mother, bless her, noted, “You look just like Errol Flynn in The Mark of Zorro.”
“That was Tyrone Power, Mother, but I’d be happy to be mistaken for either.”
Mother’s given name is Madelaine and she is a warm and loving person who, at near seventy, is as radiant, if a little stouter, than the day she became Mrs. Prescott McNally. I know, because I have seen her wedding photos and I am an expert on female pulchritude, as witness the photo of Thelma Todd I consider my prize possession. Her complexion is florid, thanks to her high blood pressure, and I am still her precious little Archy, thanks to her good sense.
“How are you progressing on the Ouspenskaya business?” Father asked when he had served us his idea of a martini (three parts gin to one of vermouth).
“In fact, sir, I am meeting him tonight, in situ as it were. A séance at the home of Vance and Penny Tremaine.”
“Very good, Archy. I must say you’ve moved with remarkable speed on this one.” Coming from Father this was tantamount to being awarded the Nobel, Pulitzer and Oscar all rolled into one. Mother beamed her approval for Mrs. McNally’s favorite son.
“I will have more to report in the morning,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel, having no idea what the evening would bring. What it brought were enough surprises to keep my flabbergasted for a millennium of leap years. And mon père, not Ouspenskaya, began the beguine.
“Archy,” he said, “your mother and I have decided on a second honeymoon.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“Oh,” my mother cried, all in a dither, “he means we’re going on vacation.” But it was clear that she liked the idea of calling it a second honeymoon.
When I had recovered sufficiently to speak, I said, “This is awesome, as the young say, and for good reason. Congratulations, sir, and it’s long overdue. I’ll miss you both but if you’re not taking Ursi and Jamie, I’ll survive. When are you going, and where?”
“We’re going to cruise the Caribbean for two weeks. When depends on what ship we decide to cruise with. The Pearl of the Antilles or the Atlantis”
Father was a crusty old thing who liked nothing better than to work and rule his domain, be it home or office, with an iron hand. But beneath the crust and pomposity was a genuine love for his wife and I suspected he was doing this with the hope that a carefree two weeks on the high seas would improve her hypertension, a condition that had us both more concerned than we cared to admit. From the look of pleasure on her lovely face, I would say he was getting off to a fine start.
I got up to kiss Mother, drawing two red patches on her velvety cheeks.
Father produced a dozen colorful brochures detailing the amenities of the cruise ships he had mentioned and as we pored over them the McNally family enjoyed one of the happiest happy hours of our illustrious history.
Ursi, our cook-housekeeper, fed us scallops sautéed in a mixture of garlic-scented olive oil and clarified butter, accompanied by porcini risotto and steamed sugar snap peas with lemon zest. The lord of the manor uncorked a fine bottle of muscadet to go with the repast Dessert was a ripened honeydew whose time had come, along with a plate of crisp cat’s tongue wafers tipped with melted Valhrona chocolate. Surfeited, I was ready to face the unknown.
THREE
ROLAND WELCOMED ME AT the front door with a nod and a polite, “Good evening, Mr. McNally.”
“Good evening, Roland. Did Jamie tell you I was coming tonight?”
“No, sir. Mr. Tremaine gave me the guest list.”
In the detective business, you win some and you lose some.
Roland had a British accent and a countenance that explained why it was always the butler who was suspected of having done it. In the Town of Palm Beach, authentic British butlers were at a premium and paid accordingly. If they had worked for a “title,” they often received a bonus just for agreeing to leave foggy London for sunny Palm Beach. And, if they had so much as opened a door to a member of the royal family, their salary and perks began to take on the proportions of those enjoyed by the wunderkind of Silicon Valley.
Needless to say, authentic British nannies were also sought after on this side of the Atlantic, and were in even scarcer supply. However, in Palm Beach, young children were as scarce as authentic nannies, so the situation was less desperate than the scramble for a bona fide butler.
As I followed Roland through an entrance hall whose furnishings would make
Marie Antoinette Bourbon look like a minimalist, I asked, “Is everyone here?”
“All except Mr. Ouspenskaya, sir.”
“Do you know Ouspenskaya, Roland?”
“No, sir. But I’ve heard of him.”
“From who?”
“Jamie Olson, sir.”
And the circle was complete.
While still digesting Ursi’s dinner and Father’s news, I was dealt the second surprise of an evening that seemed to have an endless supply. Roland announced me and upon entering the Tremaine drawing room the first thing to meet my gaze was the gorgeous Fitz in gold toreador pants and matching halter. Olé.
Besides the host and hostess, I was greeted by Emily Fairhurst and her secretary, Arnold Turnbolt. The Fairhursts, John and Emily, were landed aristocracy of the Plymouth Rock variety who had never employed a British butler or, when their children were tots, a British nanny. Mr. Fairhurst was not a social animal, as they say, so in their senior years Mrs. Fairhurst had discovered the advantages of employing a “walker,” the name assigned, for obvious reasons, to men who escort rich ladies of a certain age.
The fact that Turnbolt was also Mrs. Fairhurst’s secretary made this extra duty less apparent, and the fact that Turnbolt was charming, witty and clever made him a natural for the job. Last, but most important, the fact that Turnbolt was gay made the arrangement above suspicion.
Roland took my drink order, a tall vodka and tonic, at which point everyone spoke at once, assuring each other that they did not believe in psychic phenomena, reincarnation, UFOs, witches, ghosts or the healing powers of crystals.
“We’re here for a lark,” Penny said, holding fast to her husband’s arm. Penelope Brightworth Tremaine was as plain as homemade soap. Vance, who had been on every deb’s most-wanted list when he was an Eli, was blessed with the kind of good looks that improve with age. In the words of a Ziegfeld comedienne of yore, “The groom was prettier than the bride.”
If money couldn’t buy happiness, it could buy the most remarkable substitutes, and for a quarter of a century Penny had fought to protect hers. The strain was beginning to show. One wondered why she didn’t dump the satyr for a more reliable shoulder to lean upon. Could it be that she loved the guy? Indeed, it could very well be.
Vance was eyeing Fitz in the manner of a dog on a short leash who had just spotted a fire hydrant.
Arnold Turnbolt was saying, “A gypsy in West Palm read my tea leaves a few months back and told me a beautiful woman would soon end my bachelor days. I said, ‘Honey, if that’s the best you can do you should seriously consider a career change.’ ”
“Oh, Arnold,” Mrs. Fairhurst chided. “I’m going to ask Mr. Ouspenskaya if my daughter, who’s in the family way again, is going to have a boy or a girl.” Emily Fairhurst had not been a great beauty, but this was more than made up for by a charisma that was as enchanting as it was infectious. Like many great ladies, Emily was equally at home in the back seat of her Rolls or at the wheel of her station wagon.
“That would give him one chance in two of being right, Mrs. Fairhurst,” I told her. “We have to think of something more difficult for Ouspenskaya and something we can verify immediately, not nine months from now.”
“Six months, Archy. Sarah is three months along,” Mrs. Fairhurst answered.
“I would ask her obstetrician,” Vance said, “and I’m sure he’ll charge less than Ouspenskaya. What do you think, Fitz?”
With a smile that had Vance blinking, Fitz answered, “I’m going to ask him if I should accept an engagement ring from my Ensign suitor, just out of Annapolis, or a dreamboat just out of SMU who’s been drafted by the Dallas Cowboys.”
“I’ll take your discard,” Arnold called from the bar.
“Oh, Arnold,” Mrs. Fairhurst scolded.
When my drink arrived, I managed to corner Fitz. Eyeing me, she said, “You look like a shadow, Archy.”
“And you look like Fort Knox. So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
Fitz is a blue-eyed brunette with a creamy complexion. This was affixed to the prototype female form from which the word “nubile” derived its root and, when she looked into your eyes, she made you believe she was actually interested in what you had to say. From Fitz I learned that Mr. Fitzwilliams had passed his flu on to his wife, rendering them both housebound. Fitz was sent to us as a stand-in for her mother.
“And I’m here as a stand-in for your father. Do you believe in kismet, Fitz?”
“I believe that Mr. Tremaine is panting after me, Arnie is panting after Mr. Tremaine and Mrs. Tremaine is sorry she got herself into this mess.”
“Why did she get into this mess? Do you know?”
“My father—you know he’s on Wall Street—says a European cartel is after the Brightworth chain and Daddy thinks Mrs. Tremaine is trying to contact her father to ask him if she should hold on or let go.”
“Her father, I take it, has passed over.”
Fitz nodded. “He’s in hamburger heaven, Archy.”
You didn’t have to be on Wall Street, or psychic, to know there were big bucks at stake here and I said as much to Fitz.
“The opening bid is ninety million,” Fitz informed me.
“Dollars?”
“We’re not talking enchiladas.”
Penny was still holding firm to Vance as they chatted with Mrs. Fairhurst and Arnold. Vance kept looking our way and nodding at Fitz each time he caught her eye. This guy did not believe in the inviolable sanctity of the home.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Fitz complained.
Looking around the Tremaine drawing room I thought, “One man’s creeps is another man’s crepes.” If Ouspenskaya raised Louis Quatorze, Quinze and Seize, their majesties would think they were back at Versailles waiting for dinner to be announced.
What was announced was “Mr. Serge Ouspenskaya,” by our Roland with a supercilious air and a stiff upper lip.
Standing in the doorway was a vision best described as an extra from Passage to India. Shortish, plumpish, white turban, white Nehru jacket, white trousers and white shoes. If his namesake was the character actress Maria Ouspenskaya, his face bore a remarkable resemblance to the actor Turhan Bey who enjoyed a brief popularity in the forties, thanks to Uncle Sam, who had Hollywood’s leading men otherwise engaged. The skin was darker than olive and the eyes peering out of a moon-shaped face were a luminous black.
In short, it was all too corny not to be real. Serge Ouspenskaya was either the Prince of Fools or the Prince of Knaves.
He walked directly to his hostess with all the captivating pomp and swagger of a maharajah and bowed from the waist, keeping his hands firmly at his sides. As intended, this discouraged Penny from offering him her hand. Perhaps he thought it prudent not to appear overly anxious to grasp the hand that was about to grasp ninety million bucks. The night’s pickin’s could be very lucrative for this middle-aged Sabu and I couldn’t wait to hear what the dearly departed Mr. Brightworth had to say to his daughter. “Don’t sell short” came to mind.
To be sure that I have correctly described the magnetic powers of Mr. Serge Ouspenskaya, I will say now that for the first time since I entered the room Vance Tremaine had taken his eyes off Fitz in favor of the psychic. And that, believe me, is saying a mouthful.
“Mrs. Fairhurst, I know.” Ouspenskaya bowed to the lady as Penny led the introductions. “A pleasure, once more, madame.”
His English was perfect. So perfect that I could not detect a trace of an accent that bespoke his origins either here in America or abroad. Like his appearance and carriage, was this yet another indication of theatrical training?
Even Arnold, who was never at a loss for an acrimonious retort, was awed into silence as he was presented. It was interesting to note that as Ouspenskaya acknowledged each of us he made no attempt to amaze his audience with individual comments such as guessing one’s astrological sign, place of birth or the name of a pet cat or dog that had just passed
over. If it were all an act, he wasn’t playing to the balcony.
I got a curt nod. Was it my imagination or was Ouspenskaya giving me a wide berth, like a ship skirting an iceberg? Could it be my attire, which was the complete antithesis of his, that repelled rather than attracted and if so, was my choice of dress a harbinger?
When he came to Fitz he broke his silence and stated, “Ah, a classical beauty.”
“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Ouspenskaya?” Vance offered.
“Thank you, no,” he responded. “I take nothing before a sitting. If we are successful, however, I might bother you for a glass of champagne when we’re done.”
“And if we’re not successful?” I asked.
“Then, Mr. McNally, I will still insist on my glass of champagne.”
This, as intended, got a laugh, and Ouspenskaya pointed to the round table and seven chairs already in place at the far end of the room. “Shall we proceed? As you may know I discourage socializing before a sitting and arrive late not to make a grand entrance but to avoid the necessity of engaging in banal conversations. This only hinders the purpose of our meeting.”
Arrogant? Maybe. But very clever. The less said, the less one could accuse him of picking our brains for helpful hints the spirits might find useful later in the evening.
As we took our places as described earlier—clockwise, with Ouspenskaya in the number twelve position, we had Arnold, Mrs. Fairhurst, Vance, Penny, yrs. truly, and Fitz—Roland moved about the room turning off the ornate lamps. When we were settled, the butler left the room, dousing the ceiling light from a wall switch abutting the door. With the window curtains drawn, the room was now in total darkness.
“Let us all join hands,” Ouspenskaya instructed, “and empty our minds of all worldly thoughts. I will not take questions, but wait to see what comes to me—or through me, if you will. Think of me as a radio. You are going to mentally switch me on and tune me in. I hope you like what comes out, but like a radio I am not responsible for the content of the broadcast. I do not create, I convey. Now, please, let us all imagine a taper—tall, slim, its wick aglow. Concentrate on the flame, please.”
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