McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  “The weapon you used to murder Hiram Gottschalk?” I asked, and my voice sounded quavery even to me.

  He didn’t reply. He was close enough to thrust at my midriff but not so close I wasn’t able to knock his arm aside and grapple. For a moment or two we hugged, straining and swaying. Then he put a heel behind one of my knees, pushed violently, and dumped me onto the ground. He leaned over, stiletto poised, and I regretted I hadn’t apologized to Consuela Garcia for any real or fancied hurt.

  It was at that precise instant Hobo came charging, paws scrabbling at the gravel. He was a smallish terrier but he attacked like a fifty-pound pit bull. Marvelous, wonderful, magnificent dog! And the sounds he was making! Bloodcurdling, ferocious growls, lips drawn back, fangs showing. I do believe he was slavering in anticipation.

  He launched himself upon my assailant, apparently with the intent of ripping out his throat. Ricardo gave a shrill cry of fear and stumbled back, raising his arms to protect himself. The knife fell from his grasp. I scrambled to my feet and kicked it away. I watched with satisfaction as Hobo’s assault continued. Chrisling had fallen and was churning and writhing on the gravel to avoid those ravening jaws.

  Finally I shouted, “Hobo! Enough!”

  He stopped his attack but remained astride his recumbent victim and began barking and snarling ferociously. He sounded murderous but made no attempt to bite.

  The ruckus was enough to disturb everyone within hearing distance and so it did. My father came to the back door wearing a maroon velvet smoking jacket and carrying one of his James Upshall pipes. He surveyed the scene and uttered a classic line I shall never forget.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  With a great effort of will I refrained from hysterical laughter. “Father,” I said, “I have just been the victim of a knife attack by Ricardo Chrisling. May I request you call nine-one-one and ask them to send police officers as soon as possible. Also, I would appreciate it if you’d phone Sergeant Rogoff—he’s presently at headquarters—and tell him what happened.”

  I thought my voice was steady. Papa wasn’t going to outcool me.

  He nodded and went back inside. His place was taken by mother clad in nightgown and robe, fluffy mules on her feet. Then came Ursi and Jamie Olson from their apartment over the garage. Jamie was carrying an iron crowbar and I had no doubt he’d use it as a lethal weapon if necessary.

  I can only describe the next hour as organized confusion. Two squad cars appeared, followed soon after by Al Rogoff in his pickup. Eventually there were ten of us surrounding Ricardo, who was still lying supine on the gravel, eyes closed. His face was remarkably calm.

  No one wanted to touch him. But when Rogoff arrived he hauled Chrisling unceremoniously to his feet. He was searched, handcuffed, and taken away in one of the squads. Meanwhile Hobo had been shooed back to his house and I had recited an abbreviated report of what had occurred at least three times, the last to the sergeant.

  He nodded. “You’ll have to dictate a statement,” he told me.

  “Delighted.”

  He had taken possession of Chrisling’s snickersnee and he fiddled with it, levering the slender blade back into the bone handle and then pressing the button to watch the steel spring out and lock into striking position. It looked as skinny as an ice pick.

  “Could be,” he said, looking at me.

  I knew what he meant. “Not could but is,” I said firmly.

  “No proof,” he said. “There’s got to be a thousand shivs like this in South Florida.”

  “Anything from Sonia?” I asked him.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “She claims Ricardo hired her just to get you up to her place. She didn’t know what for—she says. So where does that leave us? The two slobs are letting their lawyers talk for them. Maybe we can cut a deal, maybe not. Anyway, we’ve got Chrisling for assault with a deadly weapon with intent to commit murder. That’s something. He’ll do time.”

  “Not enough,” I said angrily.

  “You’re right,” Al agreed. “Not enough. It still leaves me with three open homicides. Archy, please don’t call me again tonight. Your life is beginning to resemble The Perils of Pauline.”

  Finally everyone departed. The only reminder of the hullabaloo was Yvonne Chrisling’s Cadillac still parked in the center of our turnaround. I looked about and there was Hobo sitting quietly outside his mini-mansion. I went over and looked down at him. He looked up at me.

  “You’re something you are,” I said. “The smartest, spunkiest dog who ever lived.” I got down on my knees, leaned close, put a palm on his head. “How can I repay you?” I asked him. “Broiled tournedos with green peppercorn sauce? No? A raw sirloin? No? How about your very own package of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies?”

  He yawned. I laughed and lightly touched my nose to his. Sickeningly sentimental? Of course it was. But I had to restrain myself from hugs and kisses. I owed him a big one, just as I owed Al Rogoff. I was becoming a habitual debtor.

  But I could repay my marker to the sergeant and knew how to do it. The night’s events—two escapes from an early demise—had given me the confidence of P. T. Barnum and his reliance on flimflam. I went up to my barracks and exchanged my Technicolored threads for a suit of navy tropical worsted. Definitely a somber costume. Almost funereal in fact. Exactly the impression I wished to convey.

  I phoned Yvonne Chrisling. It was then shortly before midnight.

  “Yvonne,” I said in solemn tones, “this is Archy McNally. Please forgive me for calling at such a late hour. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “No, no. I’ve been reading a novel. What is it, Archy? You sound so serious.”

  “It concerns a serious matter. About an hour ago your stepson attempted to stab me to death.”

  “What?!”

  I repeated my statement. I thought her shock was genuine.

  She mewled. “Are you injured?”

  “Fortunately not.”

  “Where is Ricardo now?”

  “In police custody.”

  She sighed. “He is such a hothead; you wouldn’t believe. I’ll call the authorities first thing in the morning.”

  “I’m afraid it might be too late. You may be involved. You know what police interrogations are like.”

  I hoped to spook her with visions of thumbscrews and truncheon blows to the kidneys. Apparently it worked, for her voice became shaky.

  “Why should I be involved?”

  “Because he used your car to come to my home and assault me. The Cadillac is still parked in our driveway.”

  “The fool!” she cried wrathfully. “Can you bring it back here and then I’ll drive you home.”

  “No, Yvonne, I cannot do that. The police are presently checking the registration and will want to photograph the car in position to prove it was used in the commission of a vicious crime.” All pure fudge of course.

  Silence. Then she wailed, “What shall I do, Archy?”

  “I suggest I come over to your place now and we discuss the situation. Perhaps we can find a solution to your predicament.”

  “Oh yes!” she said, instantly relieved. “Come to me immediately, darling.”

  I hung up grinning. Zorro strikes again!

  I had trouble maneuvering the Miata from the garage; Yvonne’s phaeton was blocking the way. But I finally slid free and drove slowly to the Gottschalk home, slowly because I needed time to rehearse my role. And if my tardy arrival made the lady anxious, so much the better.

  But she was not my first encounter with one of the dramatis personae. I parked, approached the entrance, and found Peter Gottschalk slumped on the top step. He looked up at me.

  “Archy!” he said. “Just the man I wanted to see. I was going to phone you but I lost my nerve.”

  “It doesn’t take nerve to call me, Peter,” I said. “A whim will do. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m getting there. I’ve been walking the straight and narrow. No booz
e, no grass. I’m taking my medication and I go twice a week to get monitored.”

  “Bravo!” I said. “Keep it up.”

  “Listen, I guess you thought I was bughouse, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t believe that,” I told him. “You were seriously ill and acting irrationally.”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of heavy thinking lately,” he went on, “and now I can see things clearer than I ever saw them before.”

  “Such as?”

  “My dear sisters. They were trying to keep me wacko so they could control my share of pop’s estate. Am I right?”

  I knew he was but I said nothing.

  “At first, when I realized what they were up to, I wanted to kill them. Then I figured they weren’t important enough to kill. Just a couple of greedy bubbleheads. The best revenge is to get healthy and let them keep buying junk until they run out of funds.”

  “Yes,” I said. “A wise decision.”

  “While I’m letting my hair down,” he continued, putting a hand over his eyes, and I wondered if it might be to hide his weeping, “I might as well tell you it was me who slashed the photograph of my mother and father. And then I broke the phonograph record she had given him. Because I loved my mother so much, and I didn’t like the way he was behaving. I know now what I did was totally goofy.”

  “You were ill,” I consoled him. “Wild mood swings. Did you tape a mass card inside your father’s closet door?”

  “No, I didn’t do that.”

  “Did you strangle the mynah?”

  “Dicky? Not me. I liked that bird.”

  I nodded and started toward the door but he held up a hand for a final confession.

  “I told you I hated my father, Archy. Maybe I did at the time. But I don’t hate him now. He was just human, wasn’t he? I mean he wasn’t a god without sin or without weaknesses. None of us are.”

  Except moi of course.

  “You’ve got it,” I said. “I’m going to call you and we’ll have a nonalcoholic lunch and trade X-rated jokes.”

  He smiled weakly, wiping his eyes. “I’d like that.”

  I left him there, sitting alone on the steps of what had formerly been his father’s home. I hoped he was recovering from his illness, but he seemed so forlorn. His physical condition might be improving but his spirit seemed sodden. I thought I might call Dr. Gussie Pearlberg to ask if there was anything she could do to rejuvenate his joie de vivre.

  I was grateful for our brief conversation but he had really told me little I hadn’t already guessed. I knew his sisters, Julia and Judith, were willing victims of the most common of the seven deadly sins: covetousness. The avaricious twins were quite capable of posting the mass card after they learned of their father’s plan to establish a foundation. And for the benefit of parrots! Horrors! He was going to give away their inheritance. It was not to be endured and he had to be warned of the danger of retribution. Stupid? Of course it was. But that’s the power of greed.

  Most interesting of all were Peter’s comments about his father. He had slashed the photograph and shattered the phonograph record, he said, because he loved his deceased mother and didn’t like the way his father was behaving. More grist for the McNally mill.

  I rang the bell of the Gottschalk home—soon to be the Yvonne Chrisling home—wondering if I might qualify for a Nobel prize awarded for Unprovable Conclusions.

  CHAPTER 34

  SHE WAS WEARING A KHAKI pantsuit of military twill. I was surprised it didn’t sport epaulets, a name badge, and two rows of campaign ribbons. I mean the lady was dressed in a uniform. Give her a swagger stick and she’d have made a splendid drill instructor at Sandhurst or Parris Island.

  She clutched my hands. “Archy!” she exclaimed. “Sweetheart! My savior!”

  A bit much wouldn’t you say? I disengaged myself and gave her a sad smile. At least I hoped it was a sad smile and not a smirk, for I was in a smirky mood.

  There are two things I must tell you from the outset about the conversation to follow in the disordered living room. First, we both remained standing and neither suggested things might go more smoothly if we were seated instead of confronting each other like warring gamecocks.

  Second, I was aware she paused a brief instant before answering my questions. Her hesitations didn’t last long, just a beat or two, but I reckoned they gave her time to consider her replies. She was too brainy to be a blurter. Every action, every speech was calculated.

  “Archy, have you any idea why Ricardo attacked you?”

  “Of course, Yvonne. He knew I had discovered he was dealing in endangered and smuggled parrots. Surely you knew of his criminal activities.”

  “I wasn’t sure but I suspected. I know so little about business.”

  That should have earned her a hearty guffaw. She knew as little about business as she did about breathing. She was a shrewd bottom-line lady.

  “He’ll be fined and may serve time for parrot smuggling,” I went on. “I doubt if you will be accused of involvement in that scheme. Of course it would help if you provide what corroborative evidence you can.”

  She was puzzled. “But when you phoned tonight you said I might be involved.”

  “You are,” I told her. “But in a much graver matter. Dick will probably be charged with the murder of Hiram Gottschalk and possibly the slaying of Anthony Sutcliffe and Emma Gompertz.”

  I had used Ricardo’s diminutive deliberately in hopes of eliciting a response and I won.

  “Dick,” she repeated with a small moue of protest. “He hates that nickname. He wants always to be called Ricardo. As for killing Hiram and those other people, it’s just nonsense.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “You came to me not too long ago asking advice for a woman who had knowledge of a crime committed by someone close to her. The woman you described was obviously you. I urged you then to inform the authorities immediately. I now repeat my recommendation, Yvonne. Go to the police at once and make a voluntary statement. Ricardo is in custody and cannot harm you. But faced with a charge of homicide, he may hope to avoid the electric chair by cooperating with the state attorney and implicating you.”

  “He would never do that!” she cried.

  “Wouldn’t he?” I said, and we stared at each other.

  “Besides,” she said, and I thought I detected a note of franticness in her voice, “what proof do they have? They have no proof.”

  I improvised boldly. “His car was used to transport Gompertz and Sutcliffe to the Everglades when they were slain. The knife he used to attack me tonight is the same weapon he used to stab Mr. Gottschalk through the eyes.” I thought my repetition of “used, used, used” would spook her and it did.

  “But his motive,” she said desperately. “What could possibly have been his motive? Did he think Hiram suspected his connection with parrot smuggling?”

  “It may have been part of it,” I conceded, “but I doubt it. Mr. Gottschalk was not a suspicious man; he was a naive man. Even more, he was a good man and could not comprehend others might be evil. No, I think Ricardo’s motives were more complex.”

  “More complex?” she repeated. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sure you do. Now I must say things I would prefer not to say but I must. You were intimate with Hiram Gottschalk, were you not? You shared his bed.”

  She accepted my pronouncement calmly. This woman never ceased to amaze me. But she had no idea of what I had in store for her.

  “It is true,” she said equably. “Hiram and I were intimate.”

  “Believe me,” I said hastily, “I do not condemn you. I see nothing wrong in your comforting the waning years of a widower. But Ricardo knew what was going on and was jealous, was he not?”

  “Ricardo loves me,” she said simply. “And he is a very passionate boy.”

  “And too frequently his passion erupts in violence,” I added. “He was furious about your relationship with Mr. Gottschalk—correct? He knew Hiram had eyes for yo
u. He knew Hiram saw you naked in the bed alongside him. The vision enraged him.”

  She took a deep breath. “I told him he was courting disaster,” she said.

  “Courting disaster”? Don’t you just love it! I wondered what novel she had been reading.

  “There was more to it than just jealousy,” I said, playing my trump card. “There was also rivalry. For at the same time you were sharing Hiram’s bed you were also romping with your stepson.”

  She slapped my face.

  I trust you will recall that was the opening line of this narrative. And now a repetition. I had to wonder if I was becoming the favorite punching bag of the female sex. An unnerving prospect.

  “What a despicable thing to say!” Yvonne spat at me. “I told you Ricardo loves me and I love him. But it is an affectionate love. There has never been anything physical between us. You have no reasons for saying such a detestable thing.”

  No reasons? Well, perhaps no ironclad proof, but indications I found convincing.

  Item: The decoration of Ricardo’s apartment, which displayed a woman’s influence.

  Item: The diamond choker purchased by Ricardo and presumably given to Yvonne.

  Item: The report in Lolly Spindrift’s column of Ricardo’s romantic activities being merely a blind to conceal a secret infatuation.

  Item: Yvonne’s new Cadillac. Who had provided the funds for that bauble?

  “There is absolutely nothing sexual between Ricardo and me,” she repeated sternly.

  “If you say so,” I said, a wishy-washy comment if ever I heard one. I had hoped for a full confession but I was prepared for denial. “Disregarding Ricardo’s motives for the moment, consider the facts as they exist. Your stepson is accused of being a murderer. He is presently under arrest and is being questioned. I told you the evidence against him is strong. You don’t know what he might say in an effort to lessen his punishment. I urge you to forestall him by making your own statement to the police as soon as possible. Yvonne, save yourself!”

  She gave me a look dark and hard enough to stop an attacking hyena. Then she turned from me and began stalking about the room hugging her elbows, head lowered. She was obviously considering her options. I waited patiently, knowing this was make-or-break time. Finally she stopped her pacing and came forward to face me again.