McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  “All right,” she said, her voice tense, “here is what happened...”

  She had left Hiram’s bedroom to return to her own adjoining bedchamber. It was true she and her employer were having an affair but they slept separately. She heard sounds coming from Hiram’s room: footfalls, a gasping cry. She hurried back, fearing he might be ill, perhaps suffering a heart attack.

  She found her stepson, dripping knife in hand, retreating from the room, leaving behind the body of Hiram Gottschalk, his eyes bloodied.

  “I was shocked,” Yvonne wailed. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  Ricardo, she claimed, was as distraught as she. He seemed totally disoriented and she was forced to take command even though she was torn between horror at what he had done and her desire to protect a stepson she loved. And so she had helped him to escape from the house. They had, in their agitated state, broken the glass of the patio door, hoping the police would think the murder had been committed by an intruder.

  It was, she admitted, a foolish thing to do. Then, after Ricardo had departed, she waited perhaps thirty minutes, weeping, before she called the police and roused the household.

  “And that’s exactly what happened,” she concluded, putting a hand on my arm. “You believe me, don’t you, Archy?”

  “Of course I believe you,” I said. Did I? C’mon, do you take me for a dunce? The lady’s story had more holes than a wedge of Emmentaler and the police would spot them as easily as I did.

  How had Ricardo gained entrance to the Gottschalk home? There was no reason for him to have a key. Why hadn’t the other residents—the twins, Peter, the staff—been awakened by the sounds from Hiram’s bedroom Yvonne had described, as well as her conversation with Ricardo? And why hadn’t she called 911 immediately in hopes of saving Hiram? How did she know he was dead? She had said nothing of examining the victim’s condition.

  Oh, her story was not a complete falsehood, you understand, but it was a half-truth. She had put her own spin on reality in an effort to protect herself. It was understandable but would be wasted on Sgt. Rogoff just as it had been on me.

  What had actually happened? You know, don’t you? Of course you do. The two of them, stepmother and stepson, lovers, were in it together. The crime had been planned. Yvonne had unlocked the front door to allow Ricardo to enter, after making certain Hiram and everyone else in the house was asleep. The murder was perpetrated noiselessly. The smashing of the patio glass was a mistake but a minor one. The killer departed as silently as he had arrived. Yvonne gave him time to get away and then called the police and went into her grief-stricken act.

  Their motive? Remember the song “Money, Money” from Cabaret? The lyrics state “money makes de vurld go round.” And so it does. With Hiram Gottschalk dead Ricardo would inherit a successful business and a convenient outlet for his nefarious activities. Yvonne would have a home of her own and the two of them would live happily ever after. Why did they need the old man?

  “May I call Sergeant Al Rogoff now?” I asked her gently. “He’s a friend of mine and I’m sure he’ll treat you with respect.”

  She nodded. She wanted respect. I used her phone and eventually was put through to Rogoff.

  “You again?” he said, groaning. “You promised no more calls tonight.”

  “Sergeant,” I said formally, “I am with Yvonne Chrisling at the moment. She wishes to come to headquarters and make a voluntary statement.”

  He picked up on it immediately, realizing the woman was present and listening to me.

  “A voluntary statement?” he repeated. “Regarding the Gottschalk homicide?”

  “Correct.”

  “Bring her in,” he said, and could not hide the exultancy in his voice. “I shall await your arrival with open arms.”

  I was about to say, “That’s better than with bated breath,” but said nothing and hung up. I gave Yvonne a small smile. “Let’s go,” I said.

  I drove her to headquarters in my Miata. We did not speak during the trip. Rogoff and a female officer were waiting for us. Just before Yvonne exited she leaned forward to kiss my ear.

  “When this is all over and I am free,” she said in a sultry voice, “you and I must spend a wonderful night together. Not so, Archy, darling?”

  I was tempted to ask, “A down payment on a lifetime of ecstasy?” but again I bit my tongue and said only, “Of course.”

  Then I turned her over to the cops.

  I drove home in a pensive mood, not as eager for sleep as I thought I’d be, considering the hour and the harrowing events of a tumultuous day. When I was safe in my own sanctum, slowly disrobing, I was still pondering the role I had played in bringing to justice the killer or killers of three innocent people. I wished I could have done more but I was satisfied with what had been accomplished. The final solution now rested with Sgt. Rogoff and his colleagues.

  They had two prime suspects in custody and I knew how they would proceed. They would interrogate Yvonne and Ricardo separately of course, suggesting to each that her or his partner in crime was talking freely and condemning the other. “Yes, Yvonne, but he says...” “Yes, Ricardo, but she says...” The two would find their “love” shriveling away as they attempted to save themselves. The same would be true of their legal counselors, who would urge each to shift the guilt as much as possible in order to cut a more advantageous deal. Justice can be messy. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

  There was one final puzzle in need of a solution: Who strangled Dicky, the mynah? I thought I knew, but had no intention of mentioning it to my father or Al Rogoff. Both would think I had gone completely crackers. But I shall tell you because I hope you may be more understanding and agree, “Yes, it could have happened as you say.”

  I believed Ricardo killed the bird because of its repeated squawk, “Dicky did it, Dicky did it.” Not only was the use of the diminutive an affront to Ricardo’s amour-propre, his insistence on the use of his full first name, but “Dicky did it” was also a constant, disturbing reference to the crimes he was committing and those he planned to commit.

  It was a theory but I thought it valid. Ricardo’s misdeed was senseless. But we all occasionally act in a manner others may find irrational. I myself have been known to add sliced radishes to a bowl of sour cream.

  CHAPTER 35

  DID I SLEEP IN ON Sunday morning? Late, later, latest! By the time I awoke, my parents and the Olsons had departed for their churches. I put together a skimpy breakfast: a couple of toasted muffins with slices of sharp Muenster and two mugs of black caffeine. Okay but dull; definitely not animating.

  I was still feeling logy and decided I needed a Bloody Mary to get me up to speed. I very rarely drink anything alcoholic before noon but this, I told myself, was a special occasion. A discreet inquiry was being resolved and I deserved a small reward. But the drink didn’t get my corpuscles dancing; I was still feeling feeblish when my parents returned.

  I cornered my father before he could settle down with his five-pound Sunday newspaper. “A few moments, sir?” I asked.

  He nodded and led the way into his study. He was not, I could tell, in a sunshiny mood.

  “What a ridiculous sermon,” he said angrily. “Archy, do you really believe ‘Ask, and ye shall receive...’?”

  “It hasn’t worked for me,” I said, and he laughed. “Father, I want to give you a summary of the investigation into the murder of Mr. Hiram Gottschalk. I’ll make it as brief as possible.”

  I delivered an account of everything that had occurred since my last report. I told him Yvonne and Ricardo Chrisling were presently being held by the police and I strongly suspected they were both guilty of homicide. Ricardo could certainly be convicted for his attack upon me and his involvement in the smuggling and illicit trade in endangered birds.

  The pater interrupted. “Have you been able to determine if our security was invaded by the computer at Parrots Unlimited?”

  “No, sir, I have not yet heard from Judd Wilkins. Bu
t I think it’s now moot. I believe the police will ignore the smuggling charge and the felonious assault and go for a murder-one indictment.”

  He nodded. I expected him to say, “A dreadful affair,” but he said, “A dreadful matter.” Well, I was close.

  “I shall be in touch with the authorities,” he stated, “and determine how these arrests, charges, indictments, and so forth may affect the probate of Mr. Gottschalk’s last will and testament. Thank you for your assistance, Archy.”

  He began to shuffle through his New York Times and I was dismissed. I went back upstairs and because I had made no golf or tennis dates for the day I set to work completing my journal record of the Gottschalk case, relieved my psittacosis was ended.

  I was interrupted only once, by a phone call from Al Rogoff, and marveled he could still be awake and in such a buoyant temper.

  “It’s going as planned,” he reported happily. “Sonia, the two punks, Yvonne, Ricardo—everyone’s singing. We really need a choral director. They all want to cut deals.”

  “Al, do you have enough to convict?”

  “I think so. Maybe no one will fry but Yvonne and Ricardo will do hard time. It’ll be a while before we decide who takes the heaviest hit. The mills of the law grind slowly.”

  I sighed. “The correct reference is to ‘the mills of God’ but I’ll accept hard time for those disgustful creatures.”

  “Yep,” he said cheerily. “Me, too. Stay tuned.”

  Al’s call should have lightened my spirits but it did not. And I knew the cause of my depression. When I was lying defenseless on the gravel, Ricardo’s dirk at my throat, I did not think, Mother-of-pearl, is this the end of Archy McNally? No, what might have been my last thought was regret I had not made amends for my disagreement with Consuela Garcia, the cause of which was lost in the mists of history.

  I did not gird my loins—not knowing exactly how it was done—but I dealt my ego a sharp blow to the solar plexus and summoned up the courage to phone her, unable to endure my despondency another moment.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Garcia?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Archibald McNally.”

  “I don’t recognize the name,” she said coldly. “What is this in reference to?”

  “It is in reference to a poor, miserable wretch calling to express his most abject apologies and plead for your forgiveness.”

  “Plead,” she said, still chilly but thawing.

  “I have acted like a complete rotter,” I said. And then overcome by the pleasure of confession I added, “An utter scoundrel. There is no reasonable excuse I can make for my execrable conduct. It was folly and all I can do now is ask for mercy. I know you are a kindhearted woman and I pray you will be generous enough to pardon my stupidity and give me another chance to prove my fidelity.”

  Short silence. Then: “Perhaps. What did you have in mind?”

  “I would appreciate the opportunity of apologizing to you in person rather than over the phone. And I feel it should be a meeting à deux, not in a restaurant or at a bar. I would like to come to your apartment as soon as possible. I would also enjoy bringing sufficient provisions for a light but nourishing Sunday dinner.”

  “Very well,” she said. “Come ahead. But I am still very cross with you, Archy.”

  “As you have every right to be,” I assured her, and hung up, mad with delight.

  I had neglected to shave that morning but I did so then. I also changed to more informal duds, including a linen shirt of alternating aqua and lavender stripes which I knew Connie admired. During these preparations I thought of playing a tape of Louis Armstrong singing, “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love.” Then I decided, under the circumstances, the sentiment expressed was just too hokey. So I put on Satchmo’s rendition of “I’ve Got the World on a String.” Much better.

  Let’s see, what else did I do in the following hour? I phoned Leroy Pettibone at the Pelican Club, hoping he would be there preparing the luncheon menu. He was present and I explained my problem: I wanted to buy five pounds of stone crabs but knew local retail fishmongers would not be open on Sunday.

  “No problem, Archy,” he said. “Our wholesale supplier works on Sunday getting ready for Monday deliveries. I’ll give him a call and tell him to take care of you. He’ll probably charge you retail price and it wouldn’t hurt if you slipped him a few extra bucks.”

  “I’ll give him an additional fin,” I promised. “Perfect for a fish dealer.”

  “I’ve heard better jokes than that,” Leroy said.

  “Who hasn’t?” I said, and he gave me the address of the supplier.

  I went down to the kitchen and found Ursi Olson preparing our Sunday dinner. I told her I would not be able to join my parents and she was disappointed.

  “Oh, Mr. Archy,” she said, “it’s a leg of lamb with fresh thyme.”

  “One of my favorite legs,” I said, “but duty calls and I regret I cannot share the feast. But if there are any leftovers, Ursi, be sure to save them for me. I may be in dire need later tonight.”

  I rummaged through our pantry and found a bottle of a decent muscadet and a jar of mustard sauce. It was a commercial product and not half as good, I knew, as the homemade but it would do. I packed both wine and sauce in the insulated bag with plenty of ice cubes and was on my way.

  I found the fish supplier in West Palm Beach with little trouble and walked into a wild, noisy scene of rubber-aproned workers busily unloading newly caught fish from iced cartons and cutting, scaling, gutting, slicing, filleting, and repacking portions into plastic bags stuffed with ice. I was finally able to find the bearded foreman and identified myself.

  “Oh sure,” he said. “Leroy’s pal. You want five pounds of stone crabs—right? You want them hammered?”

  “Please,” I said humbly, having no idea whether or not Connie had the tools to break the heavy shells.

  So he swatted the thick claws enthusiastically with a wooden mallet on a butcher-block table. Then he bundled the cracked stone crabs into a plastic bag, which I added to my insulated carrier. I paid what he asked for and added what I considered a generous tip. He must have thought so too, for he winked at me.

  “Have a nice crab,” he said.

  I wasn’t certain how to interpret that but I thanked him and sped directly to Connie’s condo.

  She opened the door of her apartment wearing brief cutoff jeans and a T-shirt imprinted with a large crimson question mark. No smile. I thought she looked smashing. Her manner was a bit on the frosty side.

  But she could not resist the stone crabs with mustard sauce and by the time we finished half the muscadet things were going smoothly, and we had almost fully regained our former mateyness. Connie is not vindictive; she is a jolly woman who’d much rather smile than frown. But she does require continual stroking.

  I shall not repeat the details of our conversation that Sunday afternoon—some things are sacred. But when the wine was finished (with enough stone crabs left for a nibble later) she looked at me intently and asked, “Have you been faithful to me, Archy?”

  I was tempted to quote Dowson—“I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion”—but thought better of it. Instead I said, “I have been true-blue, Connie, and will swear to it on the Boy Scout Handbook.”

  She gave me a roguish smile and I reached for her.

  She didn’t slap my face.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Archy McNally Series

  CHAPTER 1

  HERE’S AN ANECDOTE YOU may find difficult to believe. Even I can scarcely give it credence although I was witness to what occurred.

  Early in December two Boston villains decided to jaunt to south Florida to escape the rigors of winter and enjoy the sunshine and thong bikinis of Miami Beach. It wasn’t long before they were tapped out, a rapid decline of their operating funds accelerated by a visit to the casinos in the Bahamas.

  Determined to avoid an ignominious and cash-po
or return to their hometown, they decided a criminal enterprise in Florida was the answer to their financial problems. The two wetbrains resolved to kidnap the young child of a wealthy Palm Beach resident, hold him or her just long enough to collect a sizable ransom, and then skedaddle northward.

  With no more planning they immediately launched their caper. They slowly toured the boulevards and back roads of the Town of Palm Beach, marveling at the endless rows of mansions they passed. I’m sure visions of sugarplums danced through their tiny, tiny minds, each sweetmeat printed with a dollar sign.

  On the second day of exploration they espied a young lad trudging along by himself on the verge of South County Road. No cars or witnesses being nearby, the two improper Bostonians brought their rental car to a screeching halt, grabbed the startled kid, and hustled him into the back seat, where he was threatened with instant annihilation if he uttered a single word or attempted to attract the attention of anyone to his plight.

  I imagine the moronic thugs figured if the boy lived in Palm Beach his parents must have a gazillion bucks. Wrong! The boy’s father, Maurice Franklin, was moderately well-to-do but a Croesus he was not. He owned a medium-sized pest control business and earned a steady annual profit, but nothing to justify a front-page article in The Wall Street Journal. His wife had died of cancer the previous year. His son, the kidnapped Timmy, was his only child.

  I knew these details because Maurice Franklin was a client of McNally & Son. When Timmy did not return from school, Franklin’s Haitian housekeeper called him at work. In turn he called Timmy’s school, his friends, and then, becoming increasingly worried, phoned the police and my father, Prescott McNally, sovereign of our law firm. The pater ordered me to liaise with the Palm Beach Police Department and keep him informed. I do not believe anyone was unduly concerned at that stage of the affair.