McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  I finished my expense account and dropped it onto the desk of Raymond Gelding, our treasurer.

  “Oh, goody,” he said. “Just what I wanted. I haven’t read any really exciting fiction lately.”

  “To quote a former president of our great republic,” I said loftily, “I am not a crook.”

  “And you know what happened to him,” Ray said. “But I must admit I admire your chutzpah, Archy. You are the only employee of McNally and Son who has ever attempted to charge the firm for a purchase of Extra-Strength Excedrin.”

  “A legitimate business expense,” I assured him, turning to leave. “Headaches are an occupational hazard.”

  “What about my ulcer?” he yelled after me.

  I arrived at the Pelican Club at precisely the same moment Binky’s battered Mercedes came chugging into the parking area. He and Bridget alighted by sliding out the door on the driver’s side, the one closed with a loop of twine. The passenger’s door was so tightly jammed only a small explosive charge might have opened it—but I doubt it.

  I greeted the kids and we all entered the club and went directly to the dining area. Priscilla came sauntering over to take our order. I asked for Kir Royales for the three of us.

  Pris winked at Binky. “You’ve got a live one today,” she told him.

  “I hope so,” he said. “Bridget and I have just been fired.”

  “Some people have all the luck,” she sighed, and went off to fetch our drinks.

  I asked Binky for more details of what had happened but there was little he could add to what he had already related. Ricardo Chrisling appeared an hour after the store opened, called Bridget and Binky into his private office, and canned both of them forthwith. He promised each two weeks’ severance and requested they leave immediately.

  “What was his mood?” I inquired. “His manner?”

  Bridget answered. What a charming young woman she was: saucy, energetic, with a brisk wit. She reminded me in many ways of Connie Garcia. You remember Connie, don’t you, McNally? Of course you remember, you poltroon!

  “Ricardo was an icicle,” Bridget said decisively. “All business. Binky and I were just numbers in a ledger. And bad cess to him. He needed us more than we needed him.”

  “Hear, hear,” Binky murmured.

  “The new people,” I said. “What are their names... Martin and Felice? Yes. They know nothing about parrots?”

  “They know,” she admitted. “But they treat the birds like products. A box of cornflakes. No warmth there, no sympathy. They had no favorites and sometimes they could be mean.”

  “Plebs,” Binky added. “Definitely plebs.”

  But then our drinks arrived and I raised my glass in a toast. “To your freedom,” I said.

  They responded most heartily and I was happy to see they were not at all disheartened by their sudden termination. Relieved, as a matter of fact. I wondered if they envisioned a future on the Las Vegas stage as a duet featuring birdcalls with tambourine accompaniment.

  If you’re interested in matters gustatory, and I presume you are, our lunch was a gargantuan seafood salad served in a wooden bowl large enough to hold a hippo’s hip. In addition to the greens, onions, black olives, bell peppers, mushrooms, and radishes, it contained shrimp, crabmeat, lobster, scallops, and a few chunks of pepperoni for the fun of it. Leroy had prepared a creamy lemon-and-dill dressing. Excellent. We had a chilled bottle of Sancerre. Also excellent.

  As we gorged on this healthful repast, Bridget and Binky regaled me with the tale of an incident I found diverting and hope you will too even though it has little connection with the discreet inquiry inspiring this narrative.

  It concerns a remarkable happening at a nursing home in Stuart where The Busy B’s were entertaining the residents. Binky was giving the coo of the mourning dove and Bridget was spanking her tambourine when an oldster lurched from his wheelchair, hobbled to the center of the floor, and began to perform an arthritic jig in time to the “music.”

  His impromptu dance elicited such an enthusiastic response that Bridget and Binky determined to revise their repertoire and reproduce or suggest dance rhythms in their act. The results were startling they assured me. At subsequent nursing home performances they had geriatrics attempting jigs, clogs, waltzes, polkas, even a slow-motion Charleston.

  You may think this activity by the elderly as exciting as group flossing but I find the idea of gaffers and gammers kicking up their heels invigorating. I trust when I am toothless and spavined I will have the spirit to essay a rumba.

  During the remainder of the luncheon I queried my guests on the daily routines at Parrots Unlimited: who fed the birds, who was responsible for totaling the day’s receipts, how often inventory was taken, etc. Their answers revealed nothing of significance. Several days passed before I realized I hadn’t asked the right questions. This is a frequent failing of detectives and suspicious wives.

  We finished, left the Pelican Club, and were standing in the parking area when I felt it necessary to warn them again.

  “Please,” I said, “do be careful. Emma and Tony were fired and I know I needn’t remind you what happened to them. Now you have been sacked. Be extra-cautious.”

  They assured me I had nothing to worry about; they were perfectly capable of ensuring their own safety.

  “If any bullyboy attacks us,” Bridget said, “I’ll bounce my tambourine off his noggin.”

  “And I shall befuddle him with the hoot of the barn owl,” Binky added.

  We all laughed and I watched them depart, wondering about the derivation of the phrase “babes in the wood.”

  I returned to my sepulcher at the McNally Building and found on my desk two messages reporting phone calls taken by our lobby receptionist. My first callback was to Sgt. Al Rogoff. He sounded desperate.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Nada,” I said. “Except Binky Watrous just got fired from Parrots Unlimited. There goes my mole.”

  “A perfect mole. They’re blind, aren’t they?”

  “Not completely but most of them wear bifocals.”

  “Very funny. Did you get any skinny from Watrous?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “But I wanted someone inside. Now I’m stymied. You?”

  “The same,” he said glumly. “In spades. The only news to report is Peter Gottschalk is back in the hospital.”

  It wasn’t a great shock. I think I had expected it. “When did this happen?” I asked Rogoff.

  “Early this morning. A call to nine-one-one. Too much booze, I guess. Not fatal but they’re keeping him under observation. What a saphead the lad is.”

  “But not a killer.”

  “I guess not,” the sergeant said. “But if not him, then who? Listen, Archy, you really think the Gottschalk homicide is connected to the blasting of those kids in the Everglades?”

  “I do and thought you did too.”

  “I did but now I’m beginning to wonder. Everything’s getting cold and we’re getting nowhere. You know how solution rates go down as time passes. Have you got anything you can throw me? A crumb?”

  I paused a moment, wondering if it was worth a gamble. I decided it was, because if it proved out I would benefit and so would the sergeant.

  “Want to take a chance, Al?”

  “A chance? Right now I’ll listen to some Gypsy with a crystal ball. Sure I’ll take a chance.”

  “You told me an eyewitness stated she saw Emma Gompertz and Tony Sutcliffe being hustled into a white car she couldn’t identify.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Show her a color photo of a white four-door Ford Explorer and ask her if it could be the vehicle involved.”

  “Who owns a white four-door Ford Explorer?” he demanded.

  “I’m not going to answer that; I don’t want to involve an individual who may be totally innocent. You wanted a crumb, I’m giving you one. Are you going to do it or not?”

  “I’ll do it,” he said, not at all happy.
“What choice have I got? There’s nothing else. But if this lays a big fat egg, you and I will pretend we never met. Okay?”

  “Suits me,” I said, and hung up as surly as he.

  I could empathize with the sergeant. He was a professional and I was merely a semipro but I shared his frustration. A devious criminal was outbraining us and I believe we both considered it a sneering attack on our investigative skills. Ego, ego, all is ego.

  But when Al said, “There’s nothing else,” he wasn’t speaking for me. I did have a few minor scents I hadn’t mentioned to him because they were too vaporous.

  Item: The hacking of McNally & Son’s computer after I had initiated an inquiry about parrots.

  Item: A diamond choker worn by Yvonne Chrisling that might or might not be a gift from her stepson.

  Item: What seemed to me a deliberate attempt by the Gottschalk twins to intoxicate their brother even though they were aware of his illness.

  But what would be gained if I reported such ephemera to Rogoff? I knew his reaction would be: “So what?” He wanted facts, sworn testimony, hard evidence. He wanted to cut knots open with knife or scissors. I had the patience to untangle, picking endlessly. I really had no choice, did I?

  My second caller had been Ricardo Chrisling phoning from Parrots Unlimited. The person who answered was abrupt, almost churlish, and I began to question the efficiency of the new staff. But when Ricardo came on the line he couldn’t have been more congenial. Señor Charm himself. A definite change from his previous distant manner.

  “Sorry I missed you at the to-do last night,” he said breezily. “Had to go out of town on business. Good party, was it?”

  “Very enjoyable,” I lied.

  “Listen, Archy, I’ve been hoping to get together with you for some time now but I’ve been so busy since Hiram passed I haven’t had time to do what I want to do. I know this is short notice but could I treat you to dinner tonight? There’s a new Mexican restaurant on Dixie Highway. It’s called the Alcazar, which is a laugh because it’s really a hole-in-the-wall with no more than ten tables. But the food is something special. No tacos, enchiladas, or any other Tex-Mex garbage. This is classic Mexican cuisine and it’s really something. Also, they serve the best margaritas in Florida. How does that sound?”

  “I’m salivating already.”

  “Then you can meet me around seven?”

  “Sure.”

  “One drawback: I’ll have to cut and run by nine o’clock. Some friends are flying into Miami from South America and I want to be there to meet them. But we’ll have time for a nice leisurely dinner. Okay?”

  “Of course.”

  He gave me the address of the Alcazar and hung up before I had a chance to ask if I should wear a sombrero.

  It was a strange invitation, was it not? Totally unexpected, and setting a time limit for “a nice leisurely dinner” seemed to me rather infra d.

  This lad, I decided, had a strong penchant for things Hispanic. He had given me Mexican brandy, he was taking me to a Mexican restaurant, he was leaving early to meet friends flying in from South America. And suddenly I recalled Lolly Spindrift telling me Ricardo had been involved in an imbroglio at a local boîte. It had been a private party of sudamericanos. And there had been violence, someone had been shot. Now wasn’t that intriguing?

  But how could I condemn Ricardo Chrisling for his friendship with Latinos? Was not Connie Garcia, a Marielito, my very own light-o’-love? Even though she seemed determined to turn off the light.

  CHAPTER 29

  HE WAS RIGHT; IT WAS a hole-in-the-wall and required a spot of searching. I finally located the Alcazar at the rear of a mini-mall. It appeared to be a narrow establishment with no advertising other than the name in hammered iron script over a weathered oak door. I was only a few moments late but Ricardo was waiting for me at a tiny stand-up bar to the right of the entrance. He shook my hand heartily, a totally unnecessary long-time-no-see grip.

  I had given up hope of competing with his Armani elegance and wore my silver-gray Ultrasuede sport jacket with black gabardine slacks. I was happy to see he was just as informally attired, although his terra-cotta jacket and taupe trousers were both in a nubby raw silk. But the man was without a single wrinkle. I had a mad fancy he had his clothes pressed daily—with him in them.

  “Glad you could make it, Archy,” he said, and made it sound sincere. “Now you must try a margarita—the house specialty.”

  “I’m willing.”

  He ordered from a mustachioed bartender and turned back to me. “How was your day?” he asked. He was trying hard to be genial and I appreciated the effort. But I sensed it was exactly that—an effort.

  “My day?” I said, and flipped a hand back and forth. “Half and half. Rough and rugged until you called. Then I decided to pack it in. Went home, had a swim in the ocean, took a short and delightful nap, shared a cocktail with my parents, and here I am. Things are looking up.”

  “This will help,” he said as our margaritas were served in glasses large enough to hold a baby coelacanth. I took a sip and he looked at me expectantly.

  “Marvelous,” I said. “Absolutely top-notch.”

  He glowed as if he had mixed them himself. Actually they were excellent drinks but couldn’t equal Simon Pettibone’s margaritas, which were ne plus ultra. I think Mr. Pettibone’s secret was the sea salt he used to rim the glass but I may be mistaken. I am occasionally incorrect, you know. As when I persuaded Binky Watrous he could easily consume a platter of fried rattlesnake meat without suffering a gastric disaster. Wrong!

  “What do you think of the place?” Ricardo asked.

  I looked into the dining area. Definitely small. As he had said, no more than ten tables. It was a stark room with minimal decoration. There was a single bullfight poster on a whitewashed wall. The matador pictured, Belmonte, bore a striking resemblance to Chrisling: haughty, elegant, severe. Both man and poster gave the impression of repressed passion.

  “It’s a bit spartan,” I admitted, recalling the soft luxury of his apartment. “But I like the way the tables are dressed. Fresh flowers are always welcome.”

  “We may be eating them later,” he said. “Served with cilantro.”

  His wit wasn’t dry; it was desiccated.

  I shan’t attempt to describe our meal in detail since my palate is not discerning enough to identify subtle flavorings. I know we had a remarkable avocado salad with lime juice; mussels with scallions, white wine, and cream; and a main dish of salmon fillets with garlic and chilies. We agreed to skip dessert since we were both surfeited after more than ample portions of those luscious vittles.

  Our choices had been spicy but not too hot and the service was admirable. I told Ricardo how much I had enjoyed it and I hoped we might return to try other examples of Mexican haute cuisine. “Next time you’ll be my guest,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “But if I can’t make it and you want to ask someone else, just mention my name to get a table. The Alcazar has become an in spot.”

  I didn’t doubt it for by the time we finished, every table was taken and several patrons were waiting at the bar, each gripping one of those huge margaritas. Ricardo and I were draining final glasses of a flinty Mexican sauvignon blanc when he glanced at his Rolex.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I’ve got to run. Listen, Archy, if you’d care to stay and have a brandy at the bar, by all means do. I have an account here and I’ll tell the maître d’ to put it on my tab.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but I think I’ll leave as well. Thank you for a most enjoyable feast.”

  We both rose to depart and it was then the tenor of the evening changed. Later it seemed to me to consist of two distinct acts: the dinner and what followed. I had the notion of a curtain being lowered and being raised again on a totally different scene.

  A young woman pushed through the throng at the bar and came hurrying to confront us.

  “Hi, Dick,” she said breathlessly
. “You haven’t seen Paul tonight, have you?”

  I glanced at Ricardo and saw him wince. You may adjudge me a simpleton but at the moment I thought his discomfort came from being addressed as Dick. But why should he be dismayed? Ricardo is another form of Richard, and Dick is a generally accepted diminutive. My name is Archibald but I have no objection to Archy. However I do have an aversion to Arch, which I feel is more adjective than name.

  But then his obvious disconcertment may have been due to the lady’s physical appearance. She was attractive enough in a Betty Boopish kind of way, but it was more her costume than her looks or manner which might have caused Ricardo’s distress. She was clad in a tarty outfit of flaming red leather, jacket and skirt, the latter so short her bare knees were completely revealed, each a perfect image of Herbert Hoover.

  “No, Sonia, I haven’t seen Paul,” Chrisling said stiffly. Then, remembering his manners, he uttered a swift introduction. “Sonia, this is Archy. Archy, Sonia.” No last names.

  “Hi, Archy,” she said brightly.

  “Hi, Sonia,” I said just as brightly. Did I have a choice?

  “I’ve got to leave right now,” Ricardo said, “or I’ll never get to the Lauderdale airport in time to meet my friends. Archy, do me a favor, will you? Treat Sonia to a drink at the bar. And don’t forget to put it on my tab.”

  He fled and I was left with Ms. Miniskirt. “Would you care for a drink?” I asked gamely.

  “Why not?” she said. “I already et.”

  Most of the waiting customers had now been seated and we were able to find room at the zinc-topped bar. Sonia ordered a margarita of course but I asked for a brandy. I was served a Presidente, the same brand Chrisling had given me.

  “Have you known Ricardo long?” I asked casually.

  “Dick?” she said. “Sure, we’re old friends. He’s the handsomest guy I’ve ever met. Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

  “I do indeed,” I assured her. “But what about Paul? The man you’re looking for.” I meant it teasingly but she became suddenly morose.