McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Heavens to Betsy!” I exclaimed. “Would you wait half a mo while I make a note of that.”

  Another short silence. He was actually pausing to enable me to jot a record of his disclosure. What a dweeb!

  “And how many species of parrots do you estimate are in existence?” I asked seriously, keeping my prank alive.

  “Oodles,” he said. “Just oodles.”

  It was fun diddling Binky but I felt it had gone on long enough. “And this information on the variety of our feathered friends is the reason for your call?”

  “I thought you’d be interested,” he said somewhat aggrievedly. “It might help our discreet inquiry, mightn’t it?”

  “A remote possibility.”

  “Actually,” he blathered on, “there’s another reason. I phoned Bridget Houlihan at Parrots Unlimited. Just to chat, you know. We’ve become close.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Very close,” he said in a tone so smarmy his shins would have been endangered had he been within kicking distance. “We’ve been working on our act where Bridget plays the tambourine accompanying my birdcalls. We thought we might try it out at nursing homes. Bring a little jollity to the oldsters. What do you think, Archy?”

  My first reaction was to cry, “Have you no mercy?” But I restrained myself. “A generous impulse,” I said.

  “Anyway, Bridget told me this morning Ricardo Chrisling had two visitors. Ricardo has moved into Mr. Gottschalk’s private office and the poor man isn’t even buried yet. Also, Ricardo told the clerks to put Ralph, Hiram’s personal parrot, up for sale. That seems rather unfeeling, doesn’t it, Archy?”

  “You’re right, Binky; it does.”

  “Well, Ricardo had these two visitors, apparently friends or business acquaintances. He gave them a tour through the store and then took them into his office and closed the door—something Hiram never did. Bridget said she didn’t like the looks of the two strangers.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Too much flash. That’s Bridget’s word—flash. Shiny silk suits and lots of gold jewelry. Also, they spoke a foreign language with Ricardo. Emma Gompertz thought it was Spanish but Tony Sutcliffe said it was Portuguese.”

  “Esperanto?” I suggested. “Or perhaps pig Latin.”

  “Bridget said that after the visitors left, Ricardo called the staff together and told them he planned to increase the variety of parrots offered for sale, concentrating on rarer, more expensive birds. He said he would give them instructions on their care and feeding. That guy is really taking over, Archy. Can he do that?”

  “I don’t know the ins and outs of the situation, Binky. I don’t know who inherits Parrots Unlimited. I presume it’s one of the assets left to his children. If that’s true and they want Ricardo to continue managing the store, then he can do whatever he pleases providing it’s lawful.”

  “I guess,” he said. “But Bridget doesn’t like it and neither do Emma and Tony. They’re all upset.”

  “Change affects some people that way.”

  “So you think it’s okay?”

  “I didn’t say that. As political pundits like to predict, time will tell. You’re working at the store tomorrow?”

  “Yep. Nine to five.”

  “Keep asking questions,” I instructed. “You’re doing fine.”

  “I am?” he said happily. “Archy, when can I go on salary as your paid assistant?”

  “Time will tell,” I told him. “Meanwhile, consider your fringe benefits. You met Bridget Houlihan, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said soulfully. “My very own mavournik.”

  “Your what?”

  “Mavournik. You know—a lovely Irish missy.”

  “Binky,” I said gently, “the word you seek is mavourneen.”

  “Whatever,” he said dreamily.

  I gave up.

  CHAPTER 16

  I HAD A SLOW AND solitary luncheon at the Pelican Club during which I indulged in some heavy ratiocination. Oh yes, I am capable of that occasionally even though you may think me just another pretty face. I came to no startling conclusions, mainly because I had so little to go on. But I was convinced Mr. Gottschalk had been put down by a member of his household. And I was certain mischief had been afoot prior to his demise and might well be continuing even after the poor man met his quietus.

  Al Rogoff had told me there are two main motives for homicide: sex and money. In this case I suspected money took precedence since it was difficult to imagine the elderly Hiram was the victim of a crime of sexual passion. But one never knows, do one?

  I arrived at the Cafe L’Europe on the dot, figuring I’d have a twenty- or thirty-minute wait before Julia Gottschalk appeared, fashionably late. But she was already present, sitting at the bar and sipping a flute of a vintage champagne while nibbling a bit of toast heaped with sturgeon roe. My expense account took a sudden liftoff.

  I paused a moment before making my presence known. The grieving daughter of a slain father was wearing a ruby velvet jumpsuit belted with a flowered Hermès scarf. She also flaunted white leather boots and a necklace of multihued Lucite chunks in cages of gold wire. Not exactly sackcloth and ashes, was it?

  She turned to greet me. “Hi, Archy,” she said with one of the twins’ elfish grins. “I started without you.”

  “So I see,” I said, and motioned to the barkeep to provide me with a duplicate of her mini-banquet. “I’m glad to see you’re bearing up under the sorrow of your father’s death.”

  I tried to keep the sardonicism from my voice and apparently I succeeded for she said, “Well, things have been in a tizzy but life must go on, mustn’t it?”

  “Indeed it must,” I agreed.

  “I think it’s hit Peter more than Judith and me. The boy is lost, won’t talk to anyone, keeps mumbling nonsense and drinking far too much.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Pity.”

  “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. Do you remember when we told you how strangely daddy had been acting before he died?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Did you tell your father what we said?”

  “No, I did not. Didn’t have the opportunity.”

  “Good,” she said, and her relief was evident. “Because it’s unimportant now, isn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “So we can just forget about the whole thing—right?”

  “Right,” I affirmed.

  “Good,” she said again, much assuaged. She motioned and we finished the bottle of bubbly with another spoonful of fish eggs on toast points.

  “One other thing,” she said, nibbling thoughtfully. “Do you know what’s in father’s will, Archy?”

  I was startled. “Of course not. How on earth would I know something like that, Julia?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die. I’m certain you’ll learn the details shortly. Probably within a week or so. Why don’t you phone my father and ask?”

  “We could but we don’t want to seem pushy.”

  It was difficult to refrain from hooting. Pushy? Yes, I would say the twins suffered from a severe case of chronic pushiness, wouldn’t you?

  Moments later she finished her costly snack and grabbed up her blue leather Louis Vuitton shoulder bag. I received a small cheek kiss. Then she was gone. I was left wondering what her purpose had been in scheduling our brief meeting. Wondering if she really was Julia and not Judith, knowing there was no way of knowing unless she unzipped the jumpsuit and proved she possessed no small abdominal mole.

  And wondering, as I examined the tab presented to me, how I could convince Raymond Geldin, treasurer of McNally & Son, that vintage Krug and beluga caviar were a legitimate business expense.

  The perplexities of that day had not yet ended. I was in my lair after dinner, scribbling in my journal while listening to a tape of Louis Armstrong playing such wonders as “Anybody Here Want to Try My Cabbage?” and “I’m a Ding Dong
Daddy (from Dumas),” when my phone rang. I grabbed it up eagerly, hoping it might be Connie Garcia calling with a wailing apology—which would make me a ding dong daddy from Palm Beach.

  It wasn’t Connie. It was Ricardo Chrisling.

  “Hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said in a tone implying he couldn’t care less if he was.

  “Not at all,” I said. “I was saddened to hear of Mr. Gottschalk’s death. Dreadful business.”

  “Yes,” he said. “We’re all stunned. Trying to function, you know, but still shaken. A fine gentleman.”

  “He was,” I agreed.

  “Archy, the last time we met I happened to mention how crazily Hiram had been acting recently. Really batty. Did you report what I said to your father?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said, his voice warmer now. “Because with the old man gone it’s of no importance, is it? I mean, what’s that expression of speaking nothing bad of the departed?”

  “‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum.’ Freely translated: ‘Say nothing but good of the dead.’”

  “Exactly,” he said. “We’ll let it go at that—okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, have you tried that Mexican brandy I gave you?”

  “I have indeed. Very nice.”

  “Ready for another bottle?”

  “Good lord, no! I have plenty left.”

  “Well, I have a case of the stuff, so whenever you’re ready just give me a shout. Listen, Archy, I like you and hope we can get together for dinner some night.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said, hoping I effectively cloaked my astonishment.

  “Y’see,” he went on, very solemnly, “since Hiram was killed I’ve been doing a lot of deep thinking. Realizing how short life is and how we should get as much enjoyment as we can while we can.”

  Now I was doubly astonished. Suddenly he had become one of those grinches who saw life as a terminal illness. Very philosophical. But his superficial maunderings did not square with my impressions of the man. I did not believe him capable of “deep thinking.” I suspected he was governed more by physical appetites than by moral principles or reasoned enlightenment.

  I could be wrong of course. I have been wrong in the past. For instance, I once assured Connie I was quite capable of consuming two enormous bowls of fried calamari and an entire bottle of Barolo without suffering any ill effects. Fortunately we had exited to the restaurant’s parking area before I was stricken. I shan’t describe it. Surely you’ve heard of Krakatoa.

  I entered the details of my conversation with Ricardo in my journal—with the fey fancy that God might keep a similar record of us all—and then sat back to review the day’s findings.

  I started with my nutsy chat with Binky Watrous. Disregarding his moony comments about his Erin-go-bragh poppet, I found his report of some interest. Ricardo now seemed to be the honcho of Parrots Unlimited and was entertaining flashy visitors and speaking a foreign language. In addition, the inventory of birds was apparently to be enlarged by the addition of rare and more costly parrots.

  What all that signified, if anything, I hadn’t the slightest and put the whole matter on hold.

  My exchanges with Yvonne Chrisling, Julia representing the twins, and Ricardo were something else again. All three parties had been intent on convincing me of Hiram Gottschalk’s increasing irrationality prior to his murder, requesting I report their revelations to my father. And then, after Hiram’s death, all three had been just as eager to confirm I had not repeated their comments to his attorney.

  Their actions seemed incomprehensible. But I knew they were not stupid people. Venal perhaps, but not stupid. I mean they were obviously following plans that seemed logical to them. But I could not even guess what their motives might be. I reckoned it had to be greed: a hunger for a healthy share of the deceased’s estate.

  But whether greed was sufficient reason for his brutal murder I could not say. I doubted it since all concerned were living very well indeed while Hiram was alive. But then again one must never forget the first dictum of accumulating wealth: Enough is never enough.

  I went to the sheets that night with a very curious thought: Was I dealing with corrupt people? Corruption exists in a variety of modes of course, ranging from the depredations of Attila the Hun to stealing towels from a hotel. But I sensed the malignity in the Gottschalk household was not as flippant as the latter. After all, a man had been viciously put to death and someone in his entourage had committed the dirty deed. It bespoke of infamy that frightened me.

  Why can’t we all be nice and love one another? And why can’t we all have wings and thus eliminate department store escalators?

  I awoke on Wednesday morning in time to breakfast with my parents—and that turned out to be a mistake. Not because of the vittles, you understand. Who could object to mini-waffles with clover honey? Not me. But it was father’s mood that dulled the matutinal meal.

  He was not surly—he’s never that—but he was definitely grumpy, and his sour humor put the kibosh on what should have been a pleasant morning assembly of the McNally clan. The reason for his peevishness was explained when he stopped me in the hallway as we exited from the dining room.

  “Sergeant Rogoff called early this morning,” he said. “While I was dressing.” His tone was indignant, implying a gentleman should never be interrupted in the process of donning his balbriggan underwear. “Apparently yesterday evening Peter Gottschalk did not appear for dinner. The maid was sent to his chamber and discovered him lying on the floor in what was allegedly a comatose condition. The paramedics were summoned and Peter was taken to a hospital. There it was reportedly determined he was suffering from an overdose of barbiturates and alcohol.”

  He paused. I disregarded his lawyerly “apparently, allegedly, reportedly.”

  “An attempted suicide?” I asked, my heart shrinking.

  “It may be so,” the squire said in his magisterial voice. “I suggest you contact Sergeant Rogoff as soon as feasible. Try to learn more details of this distressing matter, the boy’s present physical condition, and so forth.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. And speaking as unemotionally as he, I added, “I’ll attend to it at once.”

  “Good,” he said, then mentioned almost absently, “If the son dies it will complicate the settlement of Hiram Gottschalk’s estate.”

  Please don’t think my father was oblivious to the human tragedy possibly involved here. But he was not a man much given to an outward display of his feelings. An attorney specializing in wills and estate planning accepts the inevitability of illness, decrepitude, and mortality sooner than most of us and so, as a measure of self-preservation, learns to control his personal reactions. Usually it works. Not always.

  I waited until m’lord had departed in his black Lexus. Then I went into his study, sat in his chair, behind his desk, feeling as usual like a pretender to the throne. I phoned Al Rogoff at headquarters but his line was busy. I lighted a cigarette and waited patiently, resisting a desire to sneak a nip of papa’s best cognac. Early in the morning for a wee bit of the old nasty, I admit, but I was spooked by the news of Peter Gottschalk.

  I finally got through to the sergeant.

  “Your father tell you?” he demanded.

  “Yes. How is Peter doing?”

  “He’ll survive. Listen, it’s not so easy to croak on pills and vodka. Takes a load of both to do the trick.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.”

  “But you’re convinced it was a suicide attempt?”

  “What else? Another piece of evidence.”

  “Evidence of what, Al?”

  “C’mon, Archy, what’ve you got between your ears—succotash? The kid ices his father and then tries to end his own life because of guilt.”

  “Is that how you see it?”

  “What other motive for suicide could he have
?”

  “How about grief?” I said. “Ever think of that?”

  Rogoff sighed. “You’re a doozy, you are. You remind me of the federal judge riding along a country road with a friend. The pal says, ‘Look at that herd of sheep. They’ve just been sheared.’ And the judge says, ‘They appear to have been sheared on this side.’ That’s you—always questioning the obvious.”

  “Al, you’re evidently a devotee of Occam’s razor.”

  “Of what?”

  “Look it up. Where is Peter Gottschalk now—still in the hospital?”

  “No, he’s been released. He’s probably home. I don’t have enough on him for an arrest—yet.”

  “Would you object if I visited him?”

  Long silence. Then: “I can’t officially say no. But why do you want to visit him?”

  “I really don’t know,” I confessed. “Just to talk I guess. It can’t do any harm, Al.”

  “I suppose not. You’ll tell me what he says?”

  “It depends,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said disgustedly, “I figured that. Thank you for your kind cooperation.”

  CHAPTER 17

  IT WAS APPARENT SGT. ROGOFF believed Peter was his father’s murderer. Al is rarely wrong in his professional judgments but in this case I thought he was. I simply could not see that poor, disturbed lad as a stiletto-wielding patricide. A weirdo ja; a killer nein. But I had to admit the son’s attempted suicide could be interpreted as an indication of his culpability.

  I went back to the desk and phoned Dr. Gussie Pearlberg. Luckily I caught her between clients and we were able to exchange affectionate greetings.

  “Dr. Gussie,” I said, “I am in Dire Straits, a narrow body of turbulent water between Total Confusion and Utter Despair.” I was awarded a croaky laugh. “Is it at all possible you might see me sometime today?”

  “Only on my lunch hour, bubeleh,” she said. “If you are willing to sit and watch an old lady stuff her fat face, I can see you at one o’clock.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. “I’ll be there. Please, may I bring you lunch?”