McNally's Alibi
Page 11
This time he stopped in mid-aisle. “Accosted you? What the hell are you talking about, mister? I never laid a hand on you or Swensen. What’s Claudia saying?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” came the irate voice of a matron trying to get by us.
“Sorry, ma’am.” I tipped my porkpie in apology. “Can’t we go someplace where we can talk quietly?” I pleaded with Harrigan. “Why did you pick the Publix?”
“Right now I feel safe in wide-open spaces with a lot of people around, and this suits the need. I’m also new in town, and it’s the only market I saw when I was cruising around. If you prefer the A and P, I’m sorry.” He pulled a box of raisins off the shelf.
All the P&V that he had exhibited the other night at the Crescent was drained from Harrigan’s demeanor, as was the blood from his cheeks. I had thought the sleazy motel setting might have tainted my initial opinion of the man, but watching him furtively tossing groceries into his cart while looking over his shoulder confirmed my first impression of Matthew Harrigan.
He was a part-time gigolo and a small-time wiseguy who had got himself tangled in a big-time crime and was coping like a TV hood on the lam. I would place the odds at twelve to seven that his favorite film featured a couple of CIA and KGB moles exchanging atomic secrets while trying to decide which softener to soak their undies in.
Physically restraining him from removing a five-pound canned ham from the shelf, I said, “Before you get all puffed up over visualizing your picture on display in the Palm Beach post office, I think you should know that I am also a suspect in the death of Lawrence Swensen, as is your associate, Rodney Whitehead. We all seem to have been in the wrong place at the right time.”
That did the trick. He stopped shopping and looked at me with what I believed was hope in those watery blue eyes. He who said misery loves company knew of what he spoke. Harrigan was so happy to have a cohort aboard the paddy wagon to the electric chair, he gave me a welcoming smile.
“Now, if we’re going to help each other,” I continued, “let’s begin by getting out of this place and go where we can talk quietly and in private—like my car, which is in the lot outside.”
Without a moment’s hesitation he said, “Let’s go.”
With a nod toward our groceries, I asked, “Aren’t you going to put those back where you found them?”
He pushed the cart to an area where it wouldn’t block traffic and answered, “One of the clerks will do it.”
“You’ve done this before?”
He shrugged. “I used to work in a supermarket in the Village. Greenwich Village, that is.”
“Is that where Claudia found you?”
Reverting to type, he said, “Yeah, in the meat department.”
I was very much at home chatting covertly in the Publix parking lot. Rogoff usually chewed on a cigar during these conclaves, so I told Harrigan he could smoke if he wanted to. He refused, saying he didn’t smoke. That dashed my hopes of sneaking in an extra one before lunch, but you can’t say I didn’t try.
“Have the police questioned you?” was the first thing he wanted to know.
“Yes, but before we get into that, tell me whose idea it was to mug me and take back the manuscript.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I told you, I never laid a hand on you and I don’t know what you mean about the manuscript. No one took it back. You delivered it to Claudia.”
“No, I did not. I was mugged in the Crescent parking lot and the manuscript was taken from me.”
“Look, mister, one of us is nuts or lying, and it’s not me. When I got back to the Ambassador, Claudia had the manuscript. The one I gave you and you were hired to deliver to her.”
There was no doubt but that he was sincere. He believed I had delivered the manuscript to Claudia at the Ambassador. “Before we go any further, Harrigan, tell me what you and Claudia Lester were plotting and why I was hired to pave the way.”
“What did Claudia tell you?” was his comeback.
“You first, Harrigan. Then I’ll tell you what she said and what I told the police. Trust me, the information will help your cause. You don’t want to sit down with the police and look wet behind the ears.”
“Who says I’m going to sit down with the cops?”
“I do, but we’ll save that for later, too. Now let’s have it, verbatim.”
It didn’t take much coaxing. Like a man falsely accused, Harrigan was bursting to tell his side of the story.
The guy had been seething for two days and his time had finally come. Sparing no one, he let it all hang out. “Claudia told you how we heard about the Capote manuscript?”
“She did. From Whitehead, the auction house rep.”
The beginning of Harrigan’s tale corroborated what Claudia Lester had told me. Whitehead came to her with his supposed find, and she contacted Fortesque on the advice of his ex-wife Vera Fortesque. Here their stories parted ways.
“On the plane ride down here we decided to pull off a G.S.O.,” Harrigan boasted.
“Translation, please,” I interrupted.
“A Grand Sting Operation,” he said. “It was really beautiful. Fortesque gets his manuscript, and we go back north with the fifty grand.”
It didn’t take much to conclude that Swensen and Whitehead got the shaft, and I said as much.
“Only Swensen,” Harrigan explained. “Whitehead was in on the deal. You see, Claudia was to get her ten percent from Fortesque, five G’s, plus expenses like plane fare and lodging.”
Harrigan went on to say that Whitehead was to get his share directly from Swensen, but that Claudia Lester didn’t know how much that share was. Whitehead told Claudia that Swensen had heard about the big prices being doled out at auction sales and hoped to make a hundred thousand on the deal. Once Claudia Lester had contacted Fortesque and ascertained that he would pay as much as fifty thousand for the manuscript, she passed Fortesque’s offer on to Whitehead.
Whitehead told the ingenuous Swensen that no matter how high the bid went for the manuscript, after the auction house and Uncle Sam took their cut he, Swensen, would be left with the short end of the stick. But if he sold the manuscript on the black market he could clear fifty thousand in cash, less a small stipend for Whitehead. Also, he could have the money in a few days and not have to wait for the auction house to authenticate the manuscript and prove provenance. In short, he scared the bejesus out of Swensen, who jumped at the chance to take the money and run.
Bored with Delta’s box lunch and no-smoking policy, Claudia twitted away the time by concocting a scheme to hijack the fifty thousand and split it three ways, with guess who getting the lion’s share.
Once in Palm Beach, Claudia went to see Fortesque to get the cash. She, at the Ambassador, had the money, and Swensen, guided by Whitehead, was in unit number nine at the Crescent Motel with the manuscript. What Claudia proposed was to get the manuscript from Swensen without surrendering the money.
“When we got here,” Harrigan said, “the three of us, Claudia, Whitehead and I, sat down for a war council.” The guy talked like a prince of the Mafia. With a name like Harrigan he should have known better. “Remember, Swensen’s only contact was Whitehead. He didn’t know Claudia and I existed. As far as Swensen knew, Whitehead was dealing directly with Fortesque.”
“Did Whitehead tell Swensen that Fortesque was the buyer?” I asked.
“Sure,” Harrigan said. “Thanks to all those marriages, Fortesque is one famous millionaire. The Fortesque name was the bait to lure Swensen into accepting Whitehead’s offer.”
I was beginning to see why their G.S.O. needed a bagman and Harrigan went on to confirm my suspicion. Swensen’s addiction to booze and funny cigarettes was so outrageous that Whitehead picked up on it shortly after his first meeting with the man. Hence, the conniving trio decided the easiest way to part Swensen from the money and the manuscript would be to slip him a mickey. (Harrigan’s locution, not mine. Honestly!)
Whitehead was supposed
to deliver me money to the Crescent and come away with the manuscript, but Swensen knew Whitehead and Whitehead’s employers. If Whitehead administered the mickey, Swensen would run to Fortesque (or the auction house or the police) the moment he awoke to find he’d been duped, so Whitehead had to be made above suspicion—and here comes Archy.
It was Claudia’s idea to hire a disinterested party, preferably one recommended by Fortesque himself, to count the money, deliver it and pick up the manuscript. When Swensen went crying to Fortesque, or anyone else, Archy McNally himself would vouch that the transaction had taken place. In short, it was a respected Palm Beach PI’s word against a pothead manager of a glorified male brothel.
“Clever, right?” Harrigan gloated.
Real clever, I thought, rubbing the bump on my head.
Whitehead called Swensen at the Crescent and told him he (Whitehead) had to fly back to New York on business immediately. Mr. Fortesque was sending his own man to the Crescent to look at the manuscript. If all was in order, the man would call Fortesque and shortly thereafter another of Fortesque’s people would arrive at the Crescent with the money.
“So I got there,” Harrigan said, “and Swensen was already three sheets to the wind, if you know what I mean. He thinks I’m Fortesque’s man and invites me to share a vodka and soda. I put the dope in his drink and he passed out. I put him in the bathroom and waited for you. Claudia made up the story of the diary and the ex-boyfriend. Clever, right?”
If Swensen had lived and talked, Claudia Lester would say she made up the diary story to protect her client, which Fortesque believed was the case. “But,” I said aloud, “if Swensen talked, I would say I had given the money to a young man, not to Swensen.”
“We thought of that,” Harrigan said, “but in Swensen’s line of work what would be more natural than a good-looking young guy being with him in a sleazeball motel?”
Aside from Harrigan’s inflated opinion of himself, he was probably right. Poor Lawrence Swensen didn’t stand a snowdrop’s chance in Beelzebub’s parlor. Harrigan said he followed me out of the room, got into his car and left the Crescent with the money.
“Is your car a rental?” I asked.
“Yeah. I picked it up at the airport as soon as we landed.”
“You were parked in the space reserved for that room. I learned Swensen’s car was parked in the visitors’ parking area. How come?”
Harrigan looked at me askance. “How should I know? Whitehead told me Swensen was in number nine, and I took the space outside the room. It was vacant.”
“Did you lock the room’s door behind you?”
I got the same puzzled stare. “I didn’t have a key, if that’s what you mean. I just closed the door behind me. If it didn’t lock automatically, I left it open.”
It was an old motel, so metal keys and not the newer plastic cards worked the door. Those ancient locks had a little lever on the inside knob that controlled the lock mechanism. In fact, many modern bathrooms still employ such locks. If Harrigan had opened it to let me in he could very well have left it in the open position, but it was locked when I tried it after I was mugged. In the time I was unconscious anyone could have entered the room, killed Swensen and locked the door when they left.
But Whitehead, who got there after I left, told the police he found the door open. How was that possible and whom should I believe—Harrigan, Claudia Lester or Whitehead? My head was spinning with questions as Harrigan droned on.
“Like we planned, I rode around long enough for you to get back to the Ambassador to give Claudia the manuscript. When I got there, Claudia had the manuscript.”
“Did you actually see it?” I questioned.
“No. What for? Claudia told me you had delivered it and she had it in a briefcase ready to take to Fortesque the next day. I went to my room to pack and get ready to check out, leaving the money with Claudia. When I got back, she gave me the attaché case and I took off for Fort Lauderdale, where I had a reservation for a flight back to New York.”
“And where was Whitehead at this point?” I cut in.
“Him?” Harrigan groaned. “I thought he had left for New York that afternoon. Now we both know he was at the Crescent Motel viewing the remains.” Harrigan took a tissue from his pocket, blew his nose and dabbed at his eyes. “When I got to the airport I turned in the car rental. Because of the new stringent security checks all carry-on bags have to be searched, so I had to transfer the money to my suitcase. Turns out it wasn’t necessary. The money had become a stack of magazines. You see, mister, the G.S.O. had boomeranged and got me right where I sit.” He again combed his hair with his fingers. “I trusted Claudia, and look where it got me.”
Not to mention where it got Swensen. Harrigan spent the night at the airport and the next day wondering what he should do. He took a motel room in Fort Lauderdale and heard about Swensen on the evening news. This morning he remembered my name, hired a car and motored to Palm Beach.
His story, like his associate’s, was plausible and nothing more.
As is now the custom, I thanked Matthew Harrigan for sharing and then told him how I had fared at the Crescent Motel the other night. His response was disbelief, insisting that Claudia Lester had the manuscript at the Ambassador.
“She had a briefcase,” I told him, “which was probably used to stash the money in while you were in your room packing.”
“So who has the manuscript?” he wondered aloud.
That being a no-brainer, I replied with confidence, “Whoever raised a bump on my head in the Crescent parking lot.”
“It wasn’t me, mister. I got out of there before you reached the parking lot, and Swensen was sleeping, not dead, when I left.”
“So who strangled him?” I asked.
Harrigan thought a moment before saying, “Whitehead?”
“Then reported it to the police?”
“No. That doesn’t make sense,” Harrigan said.
“Nothing makes sense,” I assured him. “If the guy who mugged me wasn’t the guy who did in Swensen, we had more men running around the Crescent that night than appear in a French bedroom farce.”
“You don’t think it was Claudia,” he reflected hopefully.
“No, I don’t. Why should she rob me of what I was about to bring her?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “but why should she say you delivered it when you never did?”
Round and round it goes, and where it stops nobody knows.
“Is the manuscript authentic?” I asked. “Is it the complete Capote work never published?”
“Beats me, mister. Whitehead is supposed to be the expert. I went on the ride for the money. Whether it’s real or phony is Fortesque’s problem.” He reflected a moment and added, “Do you think Fortesque is the wild card? Maybe he hired some thugs to get the manuscript and return his money at the same time.”
I thought of the pop-eyed Fortesque and his comfortable life with the pastry maven, Sam Zimmermann, and nipped that theory in the bud before proceeding to tell Harrigan what Claudia Lester had told me. “Which, I am certain, is the story she told the police today.”
“It’s a lie,” he protested. “One big lie. She’s telling the police that I killed Swensen and ran off with the money and the manuscript.”
“She’s certainly hinting that you did,” I said, “which is why you have to go to the police and tell your story. Claudia has had her say, and I imagine Whitehead will be tooting his horn next. You had better tell the police your side. If you’re a no-show, your partners win the day.”
He looked out the car window, and for a moment I thought he was going to make a run for it. “They won’t believe me,” he said, like a man who has been down that road.
“The longer you keep trying to evade them, the less they’ll believe anything you say. If you don’t turn yourself in, they’ll pick you up and treat you like a fugitive. I’m with a law firm,” I said to reassure him, “and I can arrange for you to speak to a lawyer.”
He nodded, his chin sagging to his chest. “Follow me out and I’ll take you there,” I ordered.
“They got me, mister. Claudia and Whitehead got me good.” He opened the door, not bothering to mop his eyes with a tissue.
11
I TREATED MYSELF TO a celebratory lunch at the Pelican Club. My victory, which had more to do with my love life than with my professional life, will be made clear anon. Simon Pettibone was behind the bar, his eyes glued to the television screen, which was tuned to the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The Dow tape with its hieroglyphic markings ran across the bottom of the screen. The resulting scene was slightly less baffling than the antics of an ant colony.
Our bartender/manager is a Wall Street wizard, and whether his “buys and sells” or “puts and calls” are sheer luck or founded upon a perceptive knowledge of the financial markets is a moot question. What matters is that those Pelicans who play along with Simon have fared better than those who are guided by their brokers or their favorite seers’ crystal ball.
It being a few minutes after high noon and too early for the hard-core lunch crowd, I was able to take possession of my favorite corner table in the bar area. Priscilla advanced upon me, menu in hand, almost before I had settled in.
“You look like a Lime Rickey on the hoof,” she sassed.
“Sticks and stones, Miss Pris, will not pierce my armor, and neither will your sharp tongue. Now, what does Leroy have to tempt us with this afternoon?”
“For starters, we offer a Cuba Libre followed by the Cuba Salad. The entree is a spicy Cuba Chile that is definitely not for the cobarde. It’s prix fixe at thirty bucks, with a sawbuck going to the bookies.”
After that not very clever spiel I knew I was asking for a kick in the kimono when I responded, “What bookies?”
“The bookies,” she snapped, hands on hips. Our Priscilla is an African American beauty in the mode of the young Diahann Carroll who caused a sensation on Broadway when she bowed in the musical House of Flowers. Today Priscilla wore jeans that showed nary a ripple nor a wrinkle and a patriotic red, white and blue striped tank top that made one want to enlist in whatever cause Priscilla spearheaded.