McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  No one was present and I presumed Ursi and perhaps mother were on a shopping expedition to replenish our larder. I opened the fridge and inspected the contents to see what I might use to concoct a modest, nutritious lunch.

  A bag of Walla Walla sweet onions caught my eye. When Vidalias are not in season we send for Walla Wallas or Texas sweets. Admirable onions, no doubt, but I still prefer the distinctive flavor of Vidalias. But one must make do and so I constructed a toasted bagel sandwich holding a thick slice of Walla Walla slathered with Dijonnaise. You’ve never had an onion sandwich? The mother of all sandwiches. Especially when accompanied by an icy bottle of lager.

  I ate slowly with much pleasure, resolutely refraining from thinking about my conversation with Yvonne Chrisling. I finished after stoutly rejecting an urge to make and devour a duplicate—and stoutly is the right word. I then phoned the office, spoke to Mrs. Trelawney, and found my father would be absent all afternoon conferring with a client in Lantana. It meant my necessary meeting with him would have to be postponed until the evening. I must admit I was relieved.

  I uncapped another bottle of lager, took it upstairs to my atelier, and settled down for a deep think. Yvonne Chrisling...

  I recognized she had heavy, heavy motives for initiating our chat on the beach. Her ploy of asking legal advice for a friend was a transparent fraud. She was pleading her own case. And unless she considered me a complete dolt—and I trusted she didn’t—she knew I identified her as the troubled woman involved.

  But why devise such a Byzantine plot to enlist my sympathy?

  It took me almost an hour and the second bottle of lager to arrive at what I considered a logical reason. The lady was, in effect, attempting to cop a plea or cut a deal. She realized or sensed the running wolves—in the shape of Sgt. Al Rogoff and yrs. truly—were baying at her sleigh and coming closer.

  “Save yourself” was the belief, the faith governing her existence. Now, feeling threatened, she was moving boldly and shrewdly to protect herself. I didn’t want to but I had to admire her effort. It is no easy task for anyone to claim innocence, even the guiltless.

  I was convinced I had her pinned. It gave me no joy. It would be simplistic to label the people involved as weak. They were not weak. They were strong, venomous characters who had made a cold, reasoned choice of corruption and its rewards.

  Saddened by the perfidy existing in one family, I began to reread my entire scribbled record of the affair. And I arrived at what I believed to be a reasonable (and depressing) explanation of all that had occurred in the Gottschalk nest of vipers.

  I intend to complete this penny dreadful as quickly as possible. I know you want to go to bed.

  CHAPTER 31

  MY FATHER IS MORE GOURMAND than gourmet and so I was delighted our Friday night dinner was pot roast with potato pancakes—his favorite. I hoped it might put him in a felicitous mood during an interrogation I simply had to make. Sometimes in our Q&A sessions he adopts a prickly you-have-no-need-to-know attitude which makes me want to run away from home.

  “Could I have a few moments of your time, sir?” I said as we left the dining room after a dessert of lemon sorbet and pralines.

  “And what is your definition of a few moments?” he asked genially enough.

  “Ten, perhaps fifteen minutes.”

  “Concerning what?”

  “My inquiry into the death of Hiram Gottschalk.”

  He nodded and led the way into his study. “A peg of brandy?” he inquired.

  “That would be welcome, thank you.”

  He did the honors, pouring each of us a small snifter. It wasn’t his best cognac but I made no complaint. He didn’t ask me to be seated and he also remained standing. It was his way of ensuring our meeting would be brief.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Father, I have been reviewing my notes regarding the Gottschalk case, beginning with the initial assignment. At that time you mentioned you had discussions with him regarding the creation of a foundation in order to reduce his estate tax. Am I right?”

  One hairy eyebrow was hoisted aloft. “Archy, I admire the thoroughness of your records. Yes, you are correct. I had several conversations with Mr. Gottschalk concerning the establishment of a nonprofit foundation.”

  “Could you tell me what he had in mind?”

  “He was rather vague about it but it seemed he was interested in financing a sort of aviary in which research and breeding would help ensure the continued existence of endangered species of birds, particularly parrots.”

  “If he had lived long enough to set up such an institution, it would have reduced his net worth?”

  “Naturally. And given him the tax advantages of a sizable charitable contribution, I might add.”

  “If the foundation had been in place prior to his death would it have limited his bequests to his heirs and beneficiaries?”

  He pondered a long time, taking two tastes of his cognac. “Perhaps limited is the wrong word,” he said finally. “Heirs and beneficiaries would have profited handsomely even if the foundation was in existence. Specific sums would be bequeathed. If the foundation did not exist at Mr. Gottschalk’s death, as it does not, those bequests will be larger.”

  “Much larger?” I persisted.

  “Appreciably,” he said dryly.

  “Father, do you know if Mr. Gottschalk informed his heirs and beneficiaries of his intention to establish a charitable foundation?”

  I think he was puzzled by my question. “I have no idea. Why don’t you ask them, Archy?”

  “I doubt if I’d get a straight answer. Will you venture a guess, sir. Did he tell them or didn’t he?”

  Again he mulled, finishing his brandy. “I’d guess he told them,” he said at last. “Our late client was a very outgoing man. Eccentric but trusting. Is that all?”

  “A final question. ... In the event an heir is deemed incompetent for mental or physical disabilities to handle his or her personal and financial affairs, who is appointed guardian?”

  “A court of law would make the decision on the heir’s incompetency after hearing testimony from physicians and other relevant witnesses. If the heir is adjudged mental and/or physically unable to handle his or her affairs, I’d say the most likely guardian to be appointed by the court would be the closest family member.”

  “Or members,” I said.

  “Or members,” he acknowledged.

  “Thank you, father,” I said, draining my brandy. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  “I hope to,” he said. “Is this disagreeable business winding down, Archy?”

  “I believe it is, sir. With good luck.”

  “Luck?” he repeated. “We make our own luck.”

  “Not always,” I informed him. “Sometimes we benefit from other people’s bad luck.”

  Profound—no? But I wasn’t sure what I meant.

  I went upstairs full of beans. After what father had told me, I exulted, I had everything. It wasn’t long after that—a short session at my desk flipping through my journal did the trick—I realized I had nothing. Oh, I conjured a marvelous hypothesis elucidating all—including the 5th Problem of Hilbert. Watertight, one might even say, and I do say it. But I had no proof, and without what Al Rogoff calls “hard evidence” it was all smoke and mirrors.

  What I needed, I concluded disconsolately, was a deus ex machina. And because I live a clean life and have a pure heart it arrived about an hour later in the form of a telephone call from the crusty sergeant himself.

  “You’re awake?” he said. “And sober?”

  “Of course I’m awake and sober,” I said. “And working I might add. ‘Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.’”

  “You work for the post office?”

  “It’s Herodotus, Al.”

  “Thank you. I won’t forget it for at least five minutes. Listen, about the bimbo you asked me to check out.” />
  “Sonia. What’s her last name?”

  “She’s got about six of them. Take your pick.”

  “She told me her ex-husband is a naval architect.”

  “The last time we had her in she told us her ex is a brain surgeon. I think he used liposuction on hers.”

  “You mean she’s got a record?”

  “Archy, she’s a toughie. Many, many charges. Probations without end. And she did six months for loitering.”

  “Loitering for what?”

  “For the purpose of singing hymns, idiot boy. She’s a friend of Ricardo Chrisling?”

  “Right now,” I said, “I think she’s more an employee than a friend. Al, where are you calling from?”

  “Headquarters, about to leave.”

  “Have you had dinner?”

  “Of course.”

  “What kind of pizza?”

  “Anchovy.”

  “Then you must be thirsty. How about stopping by my place on your way home.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Two cold bottles of Rolling Rock.”

  “Be there in about thirty minutes,” he said.

  The half hour gave me time to kick my cerebral cortex into high gear and decide to limit my revelations to Rogoff. There were things he needed to know to further his investigation of three homicides and things concerning only my own discreet inquiry. Admittedly the two intermixed to some extent but I hoped to keep them distinct. Hopeless hope.

  I was downstairs when his pickup skidded to a stop with a scattering of gravel. I uncapped two bottles of beer, brought them outside, and clambered into the cab alongside him. He had been smoking a cigar but mercifully laid it to rest in a huge ashtray attached magnetically to the dash. But the atmosphere remained yucky enough to spur me into lighting an English Oval in self-defense.

  He took a heavy gulp of his first beer and sighed. “Manna,” he said. Then: “What do you want?”

  “Al, why do you think I want anything?”

  “Why else would you be bribing me with a couple of brews?”

  “Well, it’s true I need your cooperation but in return I am about to give you a gift beyond compare.”

  “Yeah? And what might that be?”

  “Listen to this...”

  I must have talked steadily for at least ten minutes, detailing my certainty that Ricardo Chrisling was the murderer of Hiram Gottschalk and deeply involved in the killings of Emma Gompertz and Anthony Sutcliffe.

  1. Chrisling has close ties to Mexican and South American banditos engaged in the smuggling of endangered birds, particularly parrots, into the U.S.

  2. He serves as one of several retail dealers selling these expensive birds to collectors.

  3. Hiram Gottschalk became aware of what Ricardo was doing and vowed to expose him. And so Hiram was eliminated.

  4. Tony Sutcliffe and his companion met the same fate when they accused Chrisling of the prohibited trade in rare species.

  5. Ricardo uses the computer setup at Parrots Unlimited to keep track of his purchases, sales, and customers. The same computer was used to query the net on the subject of parrots, and Chrisling became aware of the interest of McNally & Son in the smuggling of the birds.

  I paused to light another ciggie as Rogoff started on his second beer.

  “I’ll buy it,” he said unexpectedly. “It ties in with Chrisling’s car being used to grab Gompertz and Sutcliffe. And among the papers I took from their apartment were copies of letters written to the Division of Law Enforcement of the Fish and Wildlife Service. They were about the smuggling of birds on the proscribed list, how the smuggling was done, ports of entry, penalties, and so forth. So Sutcliffe must have suspected something rancid was going on at Parrots Unlimited.”

  “He didn’t suspect,” I said, “he knew. And like the innocent he was, he confronted Ricardo and probably announced his intention of informing the authorities. And so he and Emma got their brains blown out in the Everglades. Pretty?”

  The sergeant took a deep breath. “It all listens,” he said. “A very neat solution and I believe every word of it. There’s only one thing wrong with it; it’s all ozone. You know? Not a thing we can take to the state attorney.”

  “Al, I’ve got an expert working on the invasion of McNally and Son’s computer. We may be able to prove the break-in originated at Parrots Unlimited.”

  “So what? Chrisling would claim an employee was doing a little unauthorized hacking just for the fun of it, and he’ll promise to fire the guy. Then where are we? Archy, we’ve got no proof of anything—let’s face it.”

  “I’ve already faced it,” I told him. “And there’s only one way to resolve this stalemate: entrapment.”

  “Don’t use that word!” Rogoff said. “It means my pension.”

  “All right, then let me put it this way: It’s a slim chance of snagging Ricardo Chrisling. It’s a gamble, I admit, but you’re a gambler, aren’t you?”

  “Would I be a cop if I wasn’t?”

  “I think ‘if I weren’t’ is the correct usage.”

  He sighed. “Always the professor. Okay, let’s hear your gamble.”

  “It involves Sonia, the hidebound vixen. From what you’ve told me about her I’m convinced she’s a pro. I’m also convinced Ricardo plotted what was apparently a chance meeting. The man warned me on the phone he’d have to leave early to drive to the Miami airport to greet arriving friends. But at dinner he said he must rush off to meet those friends at the Fort Lauderdale airport. An innocent slip or change of plans? I don’t think so. He was lying and he forgot his original lie. A good memory is absolutely essential for successful prevarication. Ask me; I know.”

  “All right,” Al said, “let’s assume he set up your meet with the hustler. What was his purpose? To provide you with a night of fun and games? Maybe he even paid her—a little after-dinner gift.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Ricardo has more pride than that. I think she was instructed to play Murphy’s game, as designed by Chrisling. I was to accompany the lady to her home, full of good food, Mexican brandy, and unutterable longing. At a designated moment one or more yobbos would appear and whisk me off to the Everglades, where I would meet the same fate that befell Gompertz and Sutcliffe.”

  “Very dramatic,” Rogoff said. “But why should Chrisling want to put you down?”

  “I told you,” I explained patiently. “Ricardo’s computer maven had already discovered McNally and Son was investigating the smuggling of parrots. Chrisling may be a villain but he’s no fool. He guessed why I was nosing around—to identify the killer of Hiram Gottschalk. And in addition I was now making inquiries about his criminal and very profitable business activities. He’s a direct man, Al; murder solves all his difficulties.”

  The sergeant fished his cold cigar from the ashtray and ignited it again. And so I had to light another cigarette to match him puff for puff, fume for fume.

  “Supposing you’re on target,” he said, “what’s your gamble?”

  “I want to phone Sonia, make an appointment for tomorrow night. I think she’ll leap at the chance because she struck out the last time. She’ll inform Chrisling and the original scenario will be resurrected. But you and your stalwarts will be waiting outside. Concealed of course. And when the ruffians march me out for a one-way trip to the Everglades you’ll be able to grab them. And Sonia as well.”

  He turned to stare at me. “You’re a complete and total loony,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Al, I told you it’s a gamble but I think the odds are in our favor. If it works you’ll have Sonia and the muscles in custody. You know the hoods will probably have sheets longer than Sonia’s. If you lean on them I wager one or more will spill to cop a plea. They’ll tell you Ricardo Chrisling was the boss and masterminded the whole schmear.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  “You mean Sonia turns out to be merely a hardworking entrepreneur eager to make a buck? I can h
andle that situation and beat a graceful retreat with my innocence intact. And you and your crew will have lurked a few hours in the darkness with no result. Is that so awful? You’ve been on unproductive stakeouts before, haven’t you?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. He was silent a long time and I didn’t know if his decision would be yea or nay.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll play your nutty game. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “How true, how true,” I said. “And a rolling stone gathers no moss.”

  “Go to hell,” he said. “You’ll set it up for tomorrow night?”

  “If I can,” I told him. “I’ll let you know as soon as my dalliance with Sonia is confirmed. Where can I reach you tomorrow? Will you be at headquarters?”

  “No,” he said. “At home. I start a forty-eight at midnight.”

  “Sorry about that, Al.”

  He shrugged. “It comes with the territory. Thanks for the beers.”

  CHAPTER 32

  I CLIMBED OUT OF HIS pickup and waited until he pulled away. Then I went upstairs to wonder if what the sergeant had called my “nutty game” had a chance to succeed. It did, I assured myself, it did, it definitely did. And so I phoned Sonia, the femmy fatally in this circus.

  I didn’t speak to the lady herself but I reported to her answering machine. “Sonia,” I said in what I hoped were fervid tones, “this is Archy. We were introduced by Ricardo Chrisling at the Alcazar—remember? I’d like very much to accept your kind invitation to visit you at your home. I’ll bring the refreshment. Could we make it at nine o’clock tomorrow? Nine on Saturday night. Please let me know. I hope you’ll say yes. It means so much to me.”

  I concluded by giving my unlisted phone number. It is not something I ordinarily care to do but I had no choice. I hoped she might return my call before noon the next day, when I had a golfing date with a trio of buddies including Binky Watrous. I prayed he wouldn’t wear his plaid tam-o’-shanter, which looked like a Spanish omelette flapping about his ears.