McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Gottschalk?” Jamie repeated. “Nope. Never heard of them.”

  “They have a live-in Oriental couple, Got and Mei Lee, chef and maid. Do you know anyone who might be acquainted?”

  He relighted his charred pipe. My father also smokes a pipe. His tobacco is fragrant. Jamie’s is not.

  “Mebbe,” he said finally. “I know Eddie Wong, a nice fellow. He buttles for old Mrs. Carrey in West Palm. You want I should ask Eddie if he knows—what’s their names?”

  “Got and Mei Lee. Yes, please ask him. I’d like to know if the Gottschalks have a happy home. And if not, why not.”

  Jamie nodded. “I’ll ask.”

  Before I left for the office I slipped him a tenner. Pop would be outraged, I knew, since the Olsons were more than adequately recompensed for keeping the McNally ship on an even keel. But I didn’t feel their salaries included Jamie’s personal assistance to yrs. truly in my discreet inquiries. Hence my pourboire for his efforts above and beyond the call of duty.

  I had two messages awaiting me when I arrived at my cul-de-sac in the McNally Building. I answered Sgt. Al Rogoff’s call first.

  “Heavens to Betsy,” he said. “You’re at work so early? Why, it’s scarcely eleven o’clock.”

  “I do work at home, you know,” I replied haughtily. “Sometimes with great concentration for long hours.”

  “You also sleep at home. Sometimes with great concentration for long hours. But enough of this idle chitchat. You know a guy named Peter Gottschalk?”

  I hesitated for a beat, then: “Yes, I know Peter. Distantly. He’s a member of the Pelican Club.”

  “That figures. Is he off-the-wall?”

  “I really couldn’t say. From what I’ve heard, he’s been known to act occasionally in an outré fashion.”

  “Outré,” Rogoff repeated. “Love the way you talk.”

  “Why are you asking about Peter Gottschalk?”

  “Because early this morning, about two or three, he outréd his father’s car into an abutment on an overpass out west.”

  “Holy moly. Anyone hurt?”

  “Nah. He didn’t hit anyone. Just plowed into the concrete doing about fifty. All he got were a few bruises and scratches. God protects fools and drunks—which makes you doubly blessed.”

  “What about the car?”

  “Totaled. A new Cadillac Eldorado. His blood test showed alcohol a little above the legal limit. Nothing definite on drugs. Maybe he just fell asleep.”

  “Maybe,” I said, not believing it for a minute.

  “Uh-huh. Archy, the guy doesn’t have any suicidal tendencies, does he?”

  I swallowed. Sgt. Rogoff is no dummy. Trust him to come up with an explanation for Peter’s accident that matched my own.

  “Not to my knowledge, Al,” I said faintly.

  “Well, his license has been pulled but he didn’t hurt anyone and his father isn’t preferring charges, so we’re squashing the whole thing. But I think the kid needs help.”

  “Could be,” I said cautiously, and that was the end of our conversation.

  I sat there a moment, shuddering to think of what might have happened but didn’t. I wondered just how long Peter Gottschalk could go his mindless way depending on God’s mercy. Not too long, I reckoned. Ask any gambler and he’ll tell you there’s one sure thing about luck: it always changes.

  Since I’m firmly convinced life is half tragedy and half farce, I decided I needed a bit of the farcical and so I answered the second message. It was from Binky Watrous, my very own harlequin.

  “Why aren’t you at work?” I demanded.

  “Because I clean cages only four days a week,” he explained. “Hey, Archy, I like that job.”

  “And the fringe benefits, no doubt. Super party last night, wasn’t it?”

  “I guess. Bridget enjoyed it.”

  “Oh-oh,” I said. “Do I detect a slight note of discord?”

  “Well, that’s why I called. Bridget wants to get married.”

  “To whom?”

  “To me,” Binky said gloomily.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Archy, I don’t know what to do and I need your advice. I am smitten but do you think a man can be satisfied with one woman?”

  “At a time?” I said. “Surely.”

  “No, no. I mean one woman, the same woman, forever and ever.”

  “Ah, now you’re entering the realm of philosophy—if not cosmology.”

  “I suppose,” he said. “I was never much good at that sort of thing.”

  “Think about it, Binky,” I advised, “before you come to any decision.” I knew full well that urging this dweeb to think was similar to cheering on a three-toed sloth in a decathlon. “First of all you must consider if you are financially able to provide for a wife and perhaps eventually a family on the income from tidying up parrot cages.”

  “Yes,” he said, “that is a problem, isn’t it? I don’t know how the Duchess would react to my getting hitched. She might even turn off the cash faucet. That would hurt. I’ve got to rack the old brain about this, Archy.”

  “Do that,” I said. “But don’t forget the only reason you’re working at Parrots Unlimited is to assist me in a discreet inquiry.”

  “What?” he said. “Oh. Sure. I remember.”

  “For the nonce, I’d like you to concentrate your snooping on Ricardo Chrisling. That handsome lad interests me. See if you can find out where he lives and with whom, if anyone. Does he have a consenting adult companion, or does he play the field? Any unusual habits or predilections? I want you to provide a complete dossier on Ricardo. I suspect he may be more than just another pretty face. Find out.”

  “Listen, Archy,” my henchman said distractedly, “do you think it’s really necessary I marry Bridget? I mean, couldn’t we, you know, uh, what’s that word?”

  “Cohabit?” I suggested.

  “Yes!” he said eagerly. “Couldn’t we cohabitize?”

  I groaned and hung up. If I were a cat Binky would be a hair ball.

  CHAPTER 8

  I HAD DRESSED WITH SPECIAL care that morning, preparing for my luncheon with the Gottschalk sisters. I hoped they might be impressed by careless elegance, so in addition to a silver-gray jacket of Ultrasuede, black silk slacks, and a faded blue denim shirt I sported an ascot in a Pucci print and used a four-in-hand as a belt, à la Fred Astaire. No socks of course.

  I had suggested the twins dress informally and so they did: one in a rumpled suit of white sailcloth, the other in a magenta leotard under a gauzy blouse and open skirt. They looked smart enough but I had the impression they were dressing down and their garments had been adapted from street styles by frightfully pricey French designers. They were wearing trendy costumes as foreign to their taste and nature as the sari.

  The arrival of these lovely look-alikes at the Pelican Club occasioned startled reactions from members in the bar area. Even Priscilla in the dining room was so surprised by the entry of doubles she tempered her sassy impudence and treated us with solicitous politesse. I imagined the sisters were accustomed to the stir their appearance caused and took it casually as their due.

  I wish I could describe our luncheon in lip-smacking detail but I confess my remembrances are vague. My recollections are hazy since all my attention was concentrated on how they looked, what they said, and trying to follow Dr. Gussie Pearlberg’s injunction to pry and ask questions.

  Mike #1 swung about to examine our surroundings. “Rather grotty, don’t you think?” she asked her sibling.

  “Yes but comfortably so,” Mike #2 replied, and they both gave me pixieish grins.

  They surely must have noted my discomfiture, for I truly believe the Pelican to be the ne plus ultra of all private clubs in the Palm Beach area. Grotty, yes. Raffish, undoubtedly. Unconventionally stylish, true. But where else could I leap upon a table late Saturday night and attempt to sing “Volare”?

  “Archy,” one of the sisters said, “this game has gone on lo
ng enough and we’ve decided to come clean with you. I’m Julia.”

  She was wearing the sailcloth suit.

  “And I’m Judith,” the other said.

  She was wearing the magenta leotard.

  They both looked at me as if expecting gratitude.

  I dimly recall we were drinking Kir Royales at the time. And I definitely remember their stares of wide-eyed innocence. I didn’t totally believe them or totally disbelieve them. I was willing to suspend judgment since I had an ace in the hole or rather—from what Hiram Gottschalk had revealed—a mole in the hole.

  “Julia and Judith,” I repeated, nodding to each in turn. “Yes, that does simplify things, and I thank you for your confidence in me. I swear I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Tell them what?” Julia asked.

  “Which of you is which.”

  “And how could you possibly do that?” Judith asked.

  This was, I believe, my first indication that I was not dealing with bubbleheads and that these two females had more than lint between their ears.

  I sighed. “You have a point,” I admitted. “Which means every time the three of us meet you must identify yourselves again. What a drag! Couldn’t one of you agree to a small tattoo? Perhaps the symbol of pi engraved on one earlobe.”

  They stared at each other, then stared at me.

  “Are you completely insane?” Judith demanded.

  “He is,” Julia said. “Absolutely bonkers.”

  I believe at the moment we were working on an enormous seafood salad and demolishing a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

  “Happy to be home from Europe?” I asked. “Or devastated?”

  “We had a marvelous time,” Julia said. “But we’re glad to be back. Aren’t we, Judy?”

  “Oh yes. Definitely. Daddy needs us.”

  It was at that exact point the tenor of our conversation changed. Up to then it had been breezy silliness, a lighthearted exchange of nonsense. But Judith’s comment, “Daddy needs us,” signaled a switch of gears. I began to wonder if this luncheon had been requested with a motive other than to examine the flora and fauna of the Pelican Club.

  “I’m sure your father was happy to see you return safely,” I said, deciding to let them reveal what they obviously intended with no urging from yrs. truly.

  It came out with a rush.

  Julia: “He worries us.”

  Judith: “He’s acting so strangely.”

  Julia: “He thinks his personal possessions have been stolen when he’s probably just misplaced them.”

  Judith: “He’s convinced there’s some kind of a crazy plot against him.”

  Julia: “But he’s not senile.”

  Judith: “Oh no, nothing like that. Just these absurd notions.”

  Then they looked at me as if I might be Dr. Kildare ready to deliver an instant and perceptive diagnosis.

  “You feel all his fears are delusions?” I asked.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Julia said.

  “No doubt about it,” Judith added.

  “It could be quite innocent, you know,” I said. “Your father is getting along in years and many older people suffer from short-term memory loss. But he seems to be functioning admirably as an efficient and successful businessman. Surely you don’t think he needs professional help.”

  “Oh no,” Judith said.

  “Definitely no,” Julia said. “He’s not that bad. Yet. But because you represent his attorney we thought you should be told of how irrationally he’s been acting lately.”

  “Oh yes,” Judith said. “Quite irrational.”

  “Could you give me some specifics?”

  “He thinks someone in the house destroyed an old photograph of him and mother.”

  “And most recently he claims someone broke an ancient phonograph record he treasured.”

  “I admit they don’t sound like much,” Judith said, “but they worry us.”

  “And he thinks someone killed our mynah,” Julia put in. “Poor Dicky died a natural death but daddy won’t admit it.”

  “I see,” I said, although I really didn’t. Not then.

  “Well anyway,” Judith said with a brave smile, “we thought you should know.”

  “About the way he’s been acting,” Julia said. “So you might tell your father.”

  “I’ll certainly do that,” I promised, and thanked them for their revelation. They seemed satisfied they had accomplished what they had set out to do.

  “If he does any more nutty things we’ll let you know,” Judith said.

  “By all means do,” I told them. “His actions may be a temporary aberration or may be an indication of a much more serious psychopathological condition.” I said this with a straight face. Is there no limit to my dissembling?

  The sisters looked at me with admiration. I had obviously reacted in the manner they had wished.

  We finished luncheon and moved to the bar, where I introduced them to Mr. Simon Pettibone. If he was awed by meeting such comely twins it didn’t interfere with his preparation of three excellent vodka stingers, enjoyed by one and all.

  I then accompanied them out to the parking lot. They were driving a new pearlescent-blue Mercedes-Benz SL500 coupe. I looked at it in amazement.

  “This incredible sloop is yours?” I asked, my founded being dumbed.

  “It’s ours,” Julia said lightly. “We like to travel first-class.”

  “Nothing but the best,” Judith said just as gaily.

  I was the target of two identical kisses and then they were on their way. I watched them depart, trying to analyze my reaction. Willie S. came to my aid as he so often does. He wrote: “Double, double, toil and trouble...”

  I drove directly home. The McNally nous was astir and I was eager to bring my professional diary up to date. A great many things had occurred since the last entry and I knew it would take an afternoon of scribbling to record events, conversations, impressions, and conjectures. Surprisingly, the anticipation of this donkeywork didn’t daunt me.

  I worked determinedly for more than three hours, skipping my usual ocean swim. I finished my journalism in time to shower, change my duds, and join my parents for the family cocktail hour.

  Father seemed in an expansive mood and I deemed it an opportune moment to bring up again a request I had made several times. The McNally household once had an additional member: a magnificent and noble-hearted golden retriever. Max had gone to the Great Kennel in the Sky but his doghouse still existed alongside mother’s potting shed.

  Since his demise I had suggested the McNally mini-estate would be enlivened by the patter of canine feet, but the only reaction I could extract from the Don was, “I’ll think about it.” Over martinis that evening I repeated my plea and added that a smart hound might assist Jamie Olson in locating the whereabouts of the rapacious raccoon raiding our trash cans.

  “All right,” father said unexpectedly. “Find a dog you like but don’t buy until mother and I get a look at it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said happily. “I’ll find a winner.”

  “Not a Chihuahua, Archy,” mother said firmly. “They always look so naked.”

  “Definitely not a Chihuahua,” I promised.

  Dinner that evening was far from haute cuisine but nontheless enjoyable. We had a down-home feast of grilled turkey franks, baked beans with brown sugar, and heaps of sauerkraut tinted with cumin. Cold ale, of course. Nothing fancy but lordy it was delicious. Ursi Olson provided warmed frankfurter rolls and a mustard from hell. You had to be there.

  I plodded groggily upstairs after dinner and began reviewing the notes I had jotted on the Gottschalk inquiry. My reading resulted in no epiphanies but did indicate three areas I felt deserved continued and intensified investigation. To wit:

  1. Why was such a handsome and apparently sophisticated chap as Ricardo Chrisling utterly without duende and working in a parrot emporium? And what was his personal relationship with his stepmother, the redoubtable Yvonne, housekeepe
r of the Gottschalk ménage?

  2. Why were the twins, Julia and Judith, so intent on convincing me of the growing looniness of their father? Were they correct, or did they have a veiled motive I wot not of?

  3. Was Peter Gottschalk so mentally and/or emotionally disturbed that he might be the perpetrator of all the acts of terrorism threatening his father?

  I was musing on these puzzles and a few minor ones—such as why Binky Watrous thought Johann Sebastian Bach was a dark German beer—when the ringing of the phone roused me from my reveries.

  “Not one but two!” Consuela Garcia said accusingly.

  Well, of course I knew she’d find out eventually—but so soon! I knew it hadn’t been Priscilla who tattled—she doesn’t blab—so it was probably one of Connie’s many informants who was present at the Pelican Club during my trialogue with the Gottschalk twins.

  “Connie,” I said sternly (I can do stern), “those ladies are the daughters of one of McNally and Son’s most valued clients. They requested a meeting to discuss personal family matters which I cannot and shall not reveal. But I assure you it was strictly a business conference.”

  “Including champagne cocktails, wine, and a stop at the bar afterward,” she said darkly.

  “I tried to be an accommodating host.”

  “Did you accommodate one by going home with her later? Or making plans for a cozy evening of three?”

  “That is an unjust suggestion,” I said hotly. “You are accusing me of behavior of which I am totally innocent.”

  “But you’re thinking about it, buster,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

  It infuriated me because, of course, it was true.

  “I resent your unreasonable suspicions,” I said, “and I refuse to endure them. I think you owe me an apology.”