McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  I opened the door and entered, fearing I would be greeted with a cacophony of squawks and an odor that might loosen my fillings. Nothing of the sort existed. The interior was clean and uncluttered, the cool air smelled faintly of a wild cherry deodorizer, and rather than indignant screeches, all I heard was a subdued peep now and then, leading me to wonder if a wee bit of Valium might not be added to the daily diet of that multicolored aviary.

  Just inside the door a large, pure-white parrot was perched on a well-pecked branch of soft wood. It was uncaged and untied. I paused to stare at it and the fowl turned its head to stare back. It had beady, red-tinged eyes, reminding me of my own after I have inhaled three brandy stingers.

  I was approached by a salesperson, a plump, attractive young lady who was less parrot than robin redbreast.

  “May I help you, sir?” she chirped.

  (It always depresses me to be addressed as “sir” by a nubile lass. I dread the day when it may become “pop.”)

  “This bird,” I said, gesturing toward the unfettered white parrot. “Why doesn’t it fly away?”

  “His wings have been clipped,” she explained. “It’s a completely painless procedure.”

  I found that hard to believe. I know I’d suffer if my wings were clipped.

  “My name is Archy McNally,” I told her. “I have an appointment with Mr. Gottschalk. Would you be kind enough to tell him I’ve arrived.”

  “Just a moment, please, sir,” she said, and left.

  I wandered about examining the extraordinary selection of parrots being offered for sale, some in individual cages but many in communal enclosures where they seemed to exist placidly together. There were also racks of bird feed, grooming aids, books, cages, perches, and toys. It was truly a psittacine supermarket, with one glassed-in corner apparently devoted to the grooming and treatment of birds with the sniffles.

  The perky clerk soon returned to conduct me to Mr. Hiram Gottschalk’s private office at the rear of the store. It was a smallish chamber with steel furniture and a computer installation on a separate table. The only item rarely found in commercial offices was a large, ornate cage on a stand. Within was a single parrot of a gray-blue color. It turned its head to watch me warily as I entered.

  Our client was a short, stringy man sporting a nattily trimmed salt-and-pepper Vandyke. I guessed his age at about seventy, give or take, but his features were so taut I imagined additional years would wreak little damage to that tight visage. His eyes were hazel and alert. Exceedingly alert. A sharp customer, I reckoned.

  We introduced ourselves and shook hands. His clasp was dry and firm. He saw me glance at the caged parrot behind his desk.

  “Name is Ralph,” Mr. Gottschalk said. “Give him a hello.”

  “Hello, Ralph,” I said pleasantly.

  “Go to hell,” the bird said.

  I glared at him and he glared right back.

  “Did you teach him that?” I asked Hiram.

  “Not me,” he said. “Unsociable critter. No manners at all. Pull up a chair.”

  I sat alongside his desk, trying not to look at Ralph, who continued to eye me balefully.

  “Tell me something, Hi,” I said. “Do parrots mimic human speech naturally or must they be taught?”

  “Generally,” he said, “they require endless repetition. Audiotapes help. But then, occasionally, they’ll surprise you by repeating something they’ve heard only once.”

  “A word or phrase? Something simple?”

  “Not always,” he said. “Here’s a story for you.... A few years ago a very proper matron came in with a blue-fronted Amazon. Nothing wrong with the bird—it was gorgeously colored—but she had purchased it from a seafaring man in Key West, and apparently he had thought it a great joke to teach the female parrot to say, ‘I’m a whore.’

  “Naturally the new owner was much disturbed and asked if there was any way to rid her pet of this distressing habit. I told her it was doubtful but by a curious coincidence we were boarding two macaws belonging to a man of God who was then on a religious retreat in Scranton. The minister’s two birds were extremely devout and spent all their time reciting prayers they had obviously learned from their owner.

  “I suggested to the matron that her profane bird be placed in the same cage with the two pious macaws, where she might learn to temper her language. The matron eagerly agreed, and that’s what we did.

  “The moment the three birds were joined, the female blue-fronted Amazon screeched, ‘I’m a whore, I’m a whore.’ And you know, one of the macaws turned to the other and said, ‘Glory be, Charley, our prayers are answered.’”

  Mr. Gottschalk stared at me, absolutely po-faced. “Isn’t that a fascinating story?” he asked.

  “Remarkable,” I said, just as solemnly. “Quite remarkable. And did the three parrots live happily ever after—an avicultural ménage à trois, so to speak?”

  “Something like that,” he said, and we nodded thoughtfully at each other.

  “Got a lot of parrot stories,” he went on. “Things you might find hard to believe. They’re very intelligent birds. Some can imitate a dog barking or a faucet dripping. Many researchers think they’re smarter than chimps or dolphins. I’ve known budgerigars who could recite nursery rhymes or indecent limericks. My daughters are in Europe right now—they’ll be home in a few days—and they wrote me how amazed they were to find parrots who spoke French, Italian, or Spanish. What’s amazing about that? The birds will imitate the sounds they’re taught. I once heard of a lorikeet who could mimic a police siren. But enough about parrots. That’s not why you came to see me, is it, Archy.”

  “No, sir,” I said. “My father tells me you feel your life is in danger.”

  “Not just feel it,” he said decisively. “I know it. No threatening letters or phone calls, you understand, but several things I don’t like.”

  “Such as?”

  “My dear wife departed this vale of tears three years ago. I kept a framed photograph of us on my bedside table. It was taken at an outdoor cafe on the Cap d’Antibes. We were both young then, laughing, holding our wineglasses up to the camera. A lovely photo. I cherished it. The last thing I saw before sleep and the first thing I looked for in the morning. About a month ago I returned home to find the glass shattered and the photograph slashed to ribbons.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Ugly,” I said.

  He nodded. “A week later I opened my closet door to find a mass card taped to the inside. You’re familiar with mass cards?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You Catholic?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I am. Not a good one, I fear, but once tried, never denied. In any event, the name of the deceased on the mass card was mine.”

  I winced. My father had warned me our client was “slightly eccentric,” and after his ridiculous anecdote about the devout macaws I had begun to suspect he might be a total goober. But now, listening to the disturbing events he related, I became convinced he was an intelligent man despite his quirky sense of humor. I believed he was troubled and telling me the truth. I mean, who but a professional novelist could dream up such bizarre incidents as the slashed photograph and the taped mass card?

  “One final thing,” Mr. Gottschalk said. “When we bought our house my wife very definitely forbade me to bring in any parrots. She thought they were dirty, selfish, and cantankerous—and indeed some of them are. She finally allowed me one male mynah, only because its coloring matched her decorative scheme for our Florida room.”

  “Surely mynahs are not parrots.”

  “Of course not,” he said crossly. “Members of the starling family. But I love all birds and mynahs are lovable, this one especially so. His name was Dicky and he was beautiful. Extremely intelligent. Mynahs are superior to parrots in mimicking human speech, you know. Dicky could faultlessly recite the first verse of ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ In addition, he had a delightfully apologetic manner. If he soiled his cage, upset
his water, or made a mess of his feeding cup, he’d duck his head and cry, ‘Dicky did it.’ He said it so often it became a family joke, and if any of us had a minor mishap—spilled a glass of wine or broke a plate—we’d say, ‘Dicky did it.’ What a wonderful bird! My wife loved him. I thought we all did.”

  He paused. I said nothing, dreading the finale of his tale.

  “Last week I went down for breakfast,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and not succeeding. “Didn’t hear Dicky chirping as he usually did early in the morning. Went into the Florida room to take a look. The door of his cage was open. He was lying dead. Someone had wrung his neck.”

  We were both silent a long moment, wrenched. I couldn’t look at Mr. Gottschalk but gazed up at Ralph behind his desk. The bird appeared to be sleeping.

  “Sir,” I said finally, “I don’t wish to come to any premature conclusion from what you’ve related but it seems obvious to me—as I’m sure it is to you—that these acts of what I can only term terrorism could not have been committed by an outsider. The culprit must be a member of your household.”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice muted with an ineffable sadness. “I’m aware of that. It hurts.”

  CHAPTER 3

  HE HAD OBVIOUSLY BEEN BROODING on the matter, for he had prepared a list of all the family members and staff of his home, their names and relationship to him or their duties. I glanced at it briefly.

  “A good beginning, Hi,” I said, “but I’ll really need to meet these people without their knowing of my assignment. Can you suggest how that might be done?”

  He pondered a moment, then brightened. “My daughters are returning from Europe tomorrow. We’re planning a welcome-home party on Wednesday night. Family, friends, and neighbors. Open bar and buffet dinner. Very informal. No starch at all. Begins around six or so and runs till whenever. Why don’t you show up simply as a guest, a representative of my counselors-at-law.”

  “Excellent suggestion,” I said. “I’ll be delighted to attend. Have you also invited the employees of your store?”

  He paused to look at me curiously. “I haven’t,” he admitted. “Do you think I should?”

  “How many workers do you have?”

  “Four full-timers. The manager, Ricardo Chrisling, and three clerks. And we’re trying to find a part-timer for scut work.”

  “Invite them all,” I advised. “I want to meet everyone you deal with on a daily basis. In addition, you’ll score brownie points as a kindly employer.”

  He gave me a wry-crisp smile. “I was right, you are a sharp lad. All right, I’ll ask them.”

  I pocketed his list and rose to leave. We shook hands again. This time I thought his clasp was weaker, as if the recital of dreadful events recently endured had enfeebled him.

  “Give Ralph a good-bye,” he said.

  “Good-bye, Ralph,” I said, knowing what was coming.

  The bird opened its eyes. “Go to hell,” it said.

  And on that cheery note I departed.

  There were several customers in the store and I waited until the young lady I had first encountered completed the sale of a bag of cuttlebone to a scrawny, bespectacled teenager who looked as if he might also profit from an occasional snack of calcium.

  “Hello again,” I said, giving her the 100-watt smile I term my Supercharmer, since I feared she was too innocent to withstand the power of my Jumbocharmer (150 watts).

  “Hello yourself,” she said brightly. “Arnold McIntosh, isn’t it?”

  How soon they forget! “Archy McNally,” I repeated clearly. “Now you know my name but I don’t know yours.”

  “Bridget,” she said. “Bridget Houlihan.”

  “Mellifluous!” I said admiringly. “Comes trippingly off the tongue. Bridget, I see you have a notice in the window advertising for a part-time assistant. I have a friend who might be interested. If he decides to come in, may I give him your name? Perhaps you could then direct him to the proper person for an interview and questions about his competence.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “Tell him to ask for me and I’ll take care of him.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “Have a grand day.”

  “I mean to,” she said pertly. What a delightful bubble she was!

  I exited into the sunshine and boarded the Miata. But before starting up I buzzed Binky Watrous on my cellular phone.

  “Save me!” he cried piteously.

  “Save you?” I said. “From what?”

  “The Duchess wants me to accompany her to a charity luncheon followed by a two-hour film on the mating habits of emperor penguins. Apparently the males incubate the eggs by balancing them on their feet.”

  “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” I said. “I really didn’t want to know. Listen, old boy, tell the Duchess you’ve received an emergency call concerning your on-the-job training to become the Nick Charles of Palm Beach. It’s of vital importance you meet with me immediately to discuss a case of criminal conspiracy threatening the very existence of Western Civilization.”

  “Gotcha,” he said happily. “Where and when?”

  “Pelican in half an hour. I’ll be at the bar.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Naturally.”

  The Pelican Club is a private home-away-from-home for many of the glossier thirty-somethings of the Palm Beaches. It is located in a decrepit freestanding building out near the airport and offers a bar area, dining room, dartboard alley, and all one could wish for in the way of raucous fellowship, generous drinks, and a menu that disgusts cholesterolphobes.

  As one of the founding members, I can testify we were close to bankruptcy when we had the great good fortune to put the fate of our club in the capable hands of the Pettibones, a family of color. Simon, the patriarch, became club manager and bartender. His wife, Jas (for Jasmine), was our den mother who saw to housekeeping chores, preserved limited order on unruly weekend nights, and was capable of gently ejecting members whose conduct exceeded her generous standard of decorum. Daughter Priscilla served as waitress and son Leroy as chef.

  Under the aegis of the Pettibones the Pelican Club had flourished and its fame had spread. We now had a long list of wannabes (m. and f.) eager to wear on their jackets the club escutcheon: a pelican rampant on a field of dead mullet. It had certainly become my favorite watering hole in South Florida, and if my monthly tabs were shocking I consoled myself with the reminder that I conducted more business there for McNally & Son than I did in my emaciated office. Thus I could rightfully claim a goodly portion of my expenditures for beer and cheeseburgers on my expense account. Our treasurer, Raymond Gelding, frequently disagreed—but we all know what treasurers are like, don’t we.

  It wasn’t quite noon and the club was deserted when I removed my panama, swung aboard a barstool, and relaxed in the dim, cool interior that always smelled faintly and delightfully of Grand Marnier.

  “Mr. McNally,” Simon Pettibone greeted me, “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

  “I know,” I said. “It must be almost forty-eight hours. Mr. Pettibone, it is unexpectedly warm and steamy out there—a theme park called Sauna World—and I am in dire need of something tall, frigid, and refreshing. Suggestions?”

  “You know,” he said, “last night a young lady asked for a Tom Collins. Haven’t mixed one of those in years. She seemed to enjoy it. Like to try one?”

  “The ticket!” I cried. “I knew I could depend on you. Please make sure the ice is cold.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, not changing expression. Mr. Pettibone and I have an understanding.

  He really is an expert mixologist and I watched with admiration as he constructed my Tom Collins and added the fruit.

  “No straw,” I warned.

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said.

  I sipped and rolled my eyes. “Elixir,” I said. “Mr. Pettibone, are you familiar with a member named Peter Gottschalk?”

  “I am,” he said shortly.

  “My father a
sked my opinion of him and I said I thought he was rather undisciplined. Do you think I was being unduly censorious?”

  “No,” he said. “On target. He’s a wild one. Jas has booted him out a few times. Not for intoxication, mind you. He doesn’t drink all that much. But occasionally he starts talking in a loud, irritating voice. Practically shouting. Butts in where he’s not wanted. Becomes a real nuisance.”

  “What does he shout about?”

  “Nonsense. Crazy stuff. No rhyme or reason. He just goes off. No control.”

  “Could it be physiological?” I asked. “Mental?”

  “Could be,” Mr. Pettibone said. “One minute he’s nice as pie and then suddenly he’s raving. Maybe it’s a brain thing and a pill could straighten him out.”

  “Maybe,” I said. But at that moment Binky Watrous came scuttling in and I was faced with the case of another man with a brain problem. Binky lacked one. He and a female companion had once been arrested for playing hopscotch in the Louvre.

  He slapped my shoulder and slid onto an adjoining stool. “I’ll have a fresh cantaloupe piña colada,” he declared.

  Mr. Pettibone and I glanced at each other. “Sorry, Mr. Watrous,” he said. “No fresh cantaloupe available today.”

  “No?” my pal said. “What a shame. In that case I’ll have a double Cutty Sark.”

  Typical Binky. The would-be Philo Vance was a complete goof.

  I ordered a refill and we carried our drinks to the dining room before the luncheon crowd came charging in. We grabbed a corner table for two and Priscilla sauntered over. She was wearing a T-shirt, splotched painter’s overalls, and a baseball cap with the visor turned jauntily to one side.

  “Well, well,” she said. “The Dynamic Duo. Batman and Robin.”

  “Enough of your sass,” I said. “What’s Leroy pushing today?”

  “Vitamins,” she said. “He’s on a one-day health kick. A gorgeous seafood salad with fried anchovies.”

  “That’s for me,” I said. “Binky?”