McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

“It’ll be a cold day in Key West when I apologize for thinking you’re cheating on me or planning it.”

  “Your delusions are your problem. My conscience is clear.”

  “Like the Miami River,” she said. “Don’t call me; I’ll call you—which may be never!” She hung up.

  I replaced the phone with a quavery hand. Connie and I had engaged in many squabbles in the past; most of them concerning my real or imagined infidelities. But none had the virulence of our latest controversy, and it left me shaken.

  It was such a complex enigma. I was honest in claiming I had not misbehaved with one or both of the Gottschalk twins and had no firm plans to do so. Connie was correct in divining that I had lust in my heart. But if males can be punished for their illicit fantasies, there aren’t enough prisons in the world to hold us all.

  When I went to bed that night I punched the pillow angrily several times. It wasn’t my light-o’-love Consuela Garcia I was striking. It was an ineffectual attack against sardonic, implacable destiny. Men are men and women are women, and never the twain shall meet.

  Who said that? I did.

  CHAPTER 9

  I WISH I COULD WRITE Friday morn dawned bright and clear. Actually it dawned dull and murky with a sky resembling a sodden bath mat. The kind of day designed to convince one of the utter hopelessness of rising and facing life’s demands.

  But when duty’s bugle sounds the charge, McNally is not found skulking. I resolutely completed the usual morning drill and arrived at my office less than an hour late after stopping at our cafeteria for a container of black coffee and two glazed doughnuts. My abstemious breakfast at home (one skimpy scone) hadn’t dulled hunger I feared might be the first indication of serious malnutrition.

  I lighted an English Oval for added nourishment and phoned Lolly Spindrift.

  “Lolly,” I told him, “let me be perfectly frank.”

  He giggled. “Darling, I’ve known two Franks in my life and neither was perfect, believe me.”

  “Then let me be perfectly honest,” I said. “I need to tap your inexhaustible reservoir of inside skinny but at the moment I have nothing to offer in return.”

  “The story of my life,” he said, sighing. “All right, luv, what do you need?”

  “Do you have anything on a dazzling bloke named Ricardo Chrisling?”

  Brief pause. “No, I—wait half a mo. The name rings a distant bell. I know I don’t have him in my personal file but let me dig into the paper’s database.”

  I sipped my coffee, nibbled a doughnut, puffed my ciggie, and tried to relax while Lol made his computer search.

  “Got him!” he said triumphantly. “Which proves the Spindrift total recall is not weakening. Probably due to those memory pills I pop every morning.”

  “Memory pills? What are they called?”

  “I forget. Anyway, about a year ago there was an imbroglio at one of our local boîtes. A private party of six South American gents. Voices were raised, fists were brandished, and eventually a pistol was drawn and fired several times. When the police arrived one of the sudamericanos was dead, thoroughly riddled. Our reporter asked an investigating officer how the deceased had perished. ‘From an excess of holes,’ the cop said. Isn’t that delightful? All the other partyers were questioned. One of them was your boy, Ricardo Chrisling. But apparently he wasn’t held or charged—just questioned. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Thanks, Lolly,” I said. “I owe you one.”

  “Keep it firmly in mind,” he advised. “You know what happens to people who stiff me, don’t you? I reveal their innermost secrets in print.”

  “Makes me shudder. I shall eventually pay my debt. I am, after all, a man of honor.”

  “Hah!” was all he said.

  I hung up with the conviction I had been correct in deciding Monsieur Chrisling deserved intensive investigation. Not that attendance at a private party resulting in a homicide condemned him, but it did make one question the traits of his friends and associates. I have been present at many, many parties, as I’m sure you have, at which the waving of a pistol and the resulting ventilation of one of the guests would be considered bad form. I mean it’s just not done, is it?

  Part of my interest in Ricardo Chrisling, I reckoned, came from an innocent faith common to us all that beautiful people, women and men, possess natures as felicitous as their physical attractiveness. It always comes as a shock, does it not, when these gorgeous folk turn out to be wicked wretches.

  In any event, I imagined that while Hiram Gottschalk was a client of McNally & Son, it was possible Ricardo Chrisling was a client of Skull & Duggery.

  I was still musing on the role Ricardo might or might not be playing in the program of threats against Hiram when I received a phone call from Yvonne Chrisling. It made me wonder if it was mere coincidence or if I was being played as the schnook du jour by a gang of slyboots for reasons of which I was totally ignorant.

  “Archy,” she said in her brisk contralto, “Mr. Gottschalk and Ricardo are flying up to Orlando to attend a convention of exotic bird dealers. The twins are going to a charity dinner and one simply can’t depend on Peter. So I fear I must dine alone, which always depresses me. I was hoping it might be possible for you to join me tonight. Short notice, I admit, but if you can make it I’d love to see you again.”

  “Delighted,” I said without hesitation. “What time?”

  “Seven-thirty?”

  “I’ll be there. Not formal I trust.”

  “No,” she said, laughing, “definitely not formal. Thank you for responding to the plea of a lonely old lady.”

  We disconnected. Responding to the plea of a lonely old lady? And I am Richard Coeur de Lion. The Gottschalk party proved Yvonne had a plenitude of friends and neighbors she might have called in to assuage her alleged loneliness. But she had selected moi. Even my gargantuan ego could not accept that. It wasn’t my ineluctable charm, tousled locks, or Obsession cologne that inspired her invitation; Madam Machiavelli had a dark motive for wishing to feed my face.

  Doodle was flapping at the Chez Gottschalk.

  I spent the next hour scanning ads in the Yellow Pages and phoning kennels and pet shops requesting information on how I might acquire a canine of pleasing disposition but with an inborn prejudice against marauding raccoons. I discovered I could purchase any breed, ranging from Afghan to Rottweiler, which met my requirements. And all, I was told, were purebreds possessing AKC diplomas.

  Finally it occurred to me a purebred wasn’t absolutely necessary. I mean I’m not a purebred. Are you? So then I called a few charity pounds offering stray, lost, and cast-off dogs for adoption. They weren’t selling their boarders but asking for a contribution. They assured me the would-be adoptees were healthy, with all the proper inoculations. I selected one particular shelter to visit only because the young lady who answered my queries sounded exactly like Jean Arthur.

  The pound, a mile or two west of I-95, turned out to be a reasonably clean establishment devoted only to finding homes for vagrant dogs; no cats, rabbits, monkeys, snakes, or gerbils need apply. The husky-voiced lady I had spoken to on the phone turned out to be a bit older than I had anticipated but quite attractive in a healthy outdoors way. She had a bronzy suntan (her nose was peeling) and wore a rumpled khaki safari suit: jacket and shorts. Her bare legs were muscled and magnificent. We investigators are trained to observe such things.

  She introduced herself as June August—which made me hope her middle name might be July. We got along famously. She led me down row after row of cages, all mercifully shielded from sun and rain, and pointed out the fenced area where her tenants were taken for a run or a frolic. There was a lot of barking, yapping, and howling going on but the decibel rate didn’t seem to disturb June.

  “Where have they all come from?” I asked her.

  “Some are runaways,” she said. “Or just lost. Some were deserted by owners who relocated. A few are brought in by young couples who can’t handle a big dog anymor
e because they have a new baby. Sometimes they’re dropped off by old people who are going into a hospital or nursing home. They cry. It’s very sad. Listen, my partner is off today and I want to stay close to the phone. Why don’t you just look about and see if you can find the hound of your dreams.”

  She flashed me a toothy smile and strode back to the ramshackle office. I did as she suggested and wandered down the rows of cages inspecting the inhabitants. I reckoned there were few purebreds present, if any, but all the mutts seemed in good health, with clear eyes and glossy coats.

  As I came close I was occasionally snarled or growled at, but most of the dogs reacted as if they were delighted to see me. They jumped up against their cage doors yipping or, once or twice, whimpering piteously. I interpreted this behavior as the “Take me!” Take me!” syndrome you’ve probably noticed if you ever looked at a pack of eager puppies in a pet shop window.

  There was one fellow who caught my eye. He wasn’t making any noise but as I passed slowly by he grinned at me. You think animals can’t grin? Nonsense. Dogs grin, cats grin, dolphins grin, and as for chimps—gold medal winners.

  I completed a tour of the occupied cages and returned for another look at the peaceable one. He was still sitting on his haunches, apparently content with the world and his fate. I looked at him and he looked at me. A mixed breed, no doubt about it, but I thought he might have a lot of Jack Russell in him. Definitely a terrier type, with dark brown ears and head, white muzzle, chest, and legs, and dark brown patches on his short-haired back suggesting a map of the British Isles.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” I said to him politely. “Enjoying life, are you?”

  He yawned.

  I was still marveling at his aplomb when June August came up and laughed. “You found Hobo, did you?” she said.

  “Is that his name—Hobo?”

  “That’s what we call him. State troopers picked him up trotting north along I-ninety-five.”

  “Probably heading for the Westminster Kennel Club show in New York. No one advertised his loss or distributed fliers?”

  “Not to our knowledge, and we always check those things.”

  “How old do you guess him to be?”

  “The vet we use estimates two or three years. Not a pup but not full-grown either. The vet says he probably won’t get much taller or longer but he’ll fill out through the chest and shoulders.”

  “Fixed?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, he’s been neutered.”

  “No wonder he looks so content. Would you object if I asked you to let him out so I may see how he moves?”

  “Not at all. We’ll take him to the run.”

  She began to unlatch the cage door, and I said, “Won’t you need a collar and leash?”

  “Nah,” she said. “Not for Hobo. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

  Cage opened, the dog jumped down onto the ground and enjoyed a slow, languorous stretch. June and I headed for the fenced exercise enclosure and he came along. He didn’t precede us or follow but trotted alongside as an equal. I thought he moved smoothly with no sign of an infirmity. His head was up and his trot was almost a bounce. A very pert hound.

  Once inside the fence, he paused to look up at the leaden sky, apparently decided it was of no interest—which it wasn’t—and began to wander about sniffing at the sand and at spots where other dogs had marked their territory. He moved nimbly and once, startled by the appearance of a small chameleon, he leaped suddenly sideways, then returned to paw at the intruder a few times until it scuttled away.

  He gave us a glance over his shoulder and then began running as if to prove what he could do. I mean he really raced around the interior of the corral, flat out, ears back and legs pumping. What a display of speed that was! He skidded to an abrupt stop and resumed his placid sniffing, not at all winded by his exultant dash. He halted at a far corner of the run.

  “Call him,” June August suggested.

  “Hobo!” I yelled. “Here boy!”

  I held up a hand; he looked and trotted over to us immediately. I leaned down. He nosed my fingers and allowed me to fondle his ears. He seemed to like it. I know I did.

  “Did you train him to do that?” I asked June. “To come when called.”

  “Nope,” she said. “He caught on from the start or maybe he had been trained by a previous owner. Whatever, he’s one brainy dog.”

  “I agree,” I said. “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse. I can’t take Hobo at the moment because the final decision rests with my parents. I’ll persuade them to come out here as soon as possible and take a look at him. I’ll give you twenty dollars now as a sort of option. You keep Hobo until a final decision is made. If he’s rejected, you keep the twenty. If he’s accepted we’ll make an additional hundred-dollar contribution to your organization. Done?”

  “You’ve got it,” she said happily. “Come back to the office and let me fill out some papers. I have to ask questions about your ability to care for one of our orphans.”

  Hobo was returned to his cage with no obvious objection on his part. June and I repaired to her disordered office, where I handed over my business card and a double-sawbuck. I also provided the names of two references and described the McNally property: a few partially wooded acres on Ocean Boulevard in Palm Beach.

  “With a doghouse already on the premises,” I added. “It’s a comfortable condo formerly occupied by a golden retriever we owned who passed away from the ravages of old age. But his home still exists and is large enough to shelter Hobo, I assure you.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” she said, sighing. “I do hope your parents like Hobo.”

  “What’s not to like?” I said. “The kid’s a charmer.”

  Before I departed I returned to Hobo’s cage to take another look. He was still awake, sitting placidly, observing the world and thinking dog thoughts. We stared at each other a moment, and you may think me a complete nut but I swear he winked at me. He did, he really did.

  What a rascal!

  CHAPTER 10

  I DECIDED TO DRIVE HOME rather than return to the office. After all, it was Friday afternoon, not a period when any self-respecting entrepreneur initiates new projects or even furthers the old. It is a time for exhaling and contemplating a weekend of relaxation, entertainment, wassail—whatever turns you on.

  But en route I was suddenly stricken by a fearsome hunger, a craving for calories that could not be denied. I stopped at the first fast-food factory I encountered, parked, and rushed inside. I ordered their half-pound hamburger, medium rare. A mistake. It was touted on the menu as being made of one hundred percent top-grade ground beef. After one bite I was convinced it was one hundred percent top-grade minced galoshes.

  I ate less than half of this abomination, tried a few spears of greasy french fries, took one sip of an acidic cola, and then fled. I continued my journey homeward in a surly mood. I realized my taste buds had taken a terrible whumping that day and I could only hope the dinner offered by Yvonne Chrisling would restore the McNally palate to its customary vigor.

  It seemed to me a leisurely ocean swim might help dispel the morning’s gustatory longueurs, and I was donning beach duds when Binky Watrous phoned from Parrots Unlimited. He was in exuberant spirits.

  “Ricardo and Mr. Gottschalk have gone to a bird show in Orlando,” he explained. “So today I’m selling along with Bridget and Tony and Emma. I’ve already flogged a macaw, three parakeets, and a peach-fronted lovebird. Isn’t that fantastic!”

  “Excellent,” I said. “This could become a lifelong career for you, Binky.”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” he said cautiously. “When Ricardo returns I’ll be cleaning cages again. I don’t much dig that guy, Archy. He has all the charisma of Grant’s Tomb.”

  “Well put,” I told him. “My sentiments exactly.”

  “Listen, the reason I called is that Tony and Emma are having an after-dinner open house Saturday night. It turned out they are living together and th
ey’re having this informal party. BYOB. Bridget and I plan to be there and I asked if I might invite you and they said of course, the more the merrier. Would you like to attend?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Maybe you could bring Connie.”

  “I don’t think so. She and I are not communicating.”

  “Oh?” he said. “A tiff?”

  “The mother of all tiffs.”

  “It’ll pass,” he said breezily. “Now grab a pen and I’ll give you the address. Anytime after eight o’clock tomorrow night. Archy, bring a good vodka, will you? At the moment I seem to be tapped out.”

  I jotted down the information. Binky went back to extolling the merits of budgies and I went to immerse myself in the Atlantic Ocean. My slow swim had the desired effect: it calmed me, soothed me, and convinced me that one day I might learn to write haiku or play the bagpipes.

  At the cocktail hour that evening I informed my parents I would not be joining them for dinner since I had accepted an invitation to dine with Ms. Yvonne Chrisling, housekeeper for Mr. Hiram Gottschalk.

  “That’s nice, Archy,” mother said.

  Father gave me a swift glance but said nothing.

  I then described my visit to the animal shelter that morning and how I had selected a dog which, with their approval, I felt would make a happy addition to our household.

  “Pedigreed?” father asked.

  “No, sir. A mixed breed; he has no papers. Terrier type. I’d guess he’s part Jack Russell. Brown and white. Very trim. Very attractive. Strong and fast.”

  “What’s his name?” mother said.

  “Hobo,” I replied, and waited for one of the pater’s hirsute eyebrows to elevate. It did.

  “Ah,” he said. “An aristocrat.”

  “Please,” I urged, “take a look at him. I think you’ll be as impressed as I am.”

  “He doesn’t chase birds, does he?” mom asked anxiously.

  “He won’t if we tell him not to,” I assured her. “This is a very intelligent canine; he knows which side his kibbles are buttered on.”