McNally's Alibi

by Lawrence Sanders

  And how odd that I should liken our Priscilla to the ingénue in a show written by Truman Capote. It seems that voice from the grave will not shut up.

  “The bookies,” she repeated, “who are taking bets on who will win the hand of Consuela Garcia. Come on, Archy, you must know the place has been buzzing with rumors since Connie dined with Alejandro at this very table the other night while you got sloshed at the bar.”

  I did not get sloshed at the bar, and the place was always buzzing with rumors. I admit that I had often buzzed with the rest of ’em when it wasn’t me ducking the potshots. Now that I was the fish in the barrel I found idle gossip a bore and a danger to national security. There oughta be a law.

  To acknowledge the talk would only give it credence. However, I had to know, “Who is favored in this bit of illegal gambling on our hallowed premises?”

  “Alejandro is the odds-on favorite. You’re the long shot at a hundred to one. We’re talking big money, Archy.”

  Hiding my chagrin behind a yawn, I asked, “And why am I pegged as the also-ran?”

  Priscilla took a deep breath that went a long way in raising the colors. “Because Alejandro is younger than you, handsomer than you, sexier than you, braver than you, and may just be the next mayor of Miami. And remember, you asked.”

  I could not take this sitting down. Pride forced me to hint at coming events while not giving away my battle plan. To wipe that smug look from Priscilla’s pretty face, I confided, “Heed this handicapper, missy, and reserve this table for me tonight at eight—and put your money on the long shot. With those odds it will finance your way out of the prêt-a-porter league and into a Worth Avenue boutique.”

  As hoped, this got her attention. If Priscilla put out the word at lunch that something was afoot, the Pelican regulars would storm the doors this evening. I had conceded round one to the challenger, but I would even the score when the bell heralded round two of Archy vs. Alejandro—and we would be playing to a full house.

  “We don’t reserve tables and you know it, so what are you planning?” she demanded.

  Putting aside the menu, I said with a dash of ennui, “I am planning lunch. Nothing more and nothing less. Will Leroy make me up a platter of the Potpourri Pelican?”

  Annoyed, she said, “Depends if we have the ingredients on hand.”

  “And you can bring me a Rob Roy,” I ordered as she picked up the menu and flounced off.

  The Potpourri Pelican was created by Leroy at my suggestion. Based on the Italian antipasto and the French hors d’oeuvres divers, it came into being the day I lamented that I could have only one appetizer when, at times, they all appealed. Ordering two or more might prove a bit unwieldy, if not downright gluttonous. The solution was to present a sampling of all Leroy’s starters served over a bed of crisp iceberg lettuce and garnished, if desired, with an oil-and-vinegar dressing.

  The dish consists of shrimp, hearts of artichoke, roasted peppers, deviled egg, anchovies, a generous sliver of the house pâté, a wedge of Camembert, chickpeas, black and green olives, capers and one king crab claw. With a slice or two of a warm semolina and a glass of white wine (an Orvieto Classico if available), it makes for a satisfying lunch or a fun way to start a dinner date.

  When my Rob Roy arrived I drank a silent toast to the happy events of this very busy morning. I had delivered Matthew Harrigan to the police feeling like a bounty hunter, but as there was no price on Matthew’s head my reward was not of a monetary nature. Young Swathmoore was nonplussed when I introduced my companion. He immediately got on the intercom with Georgy girl, who came bounding out from someplace in the rear of the building accompanied by two officers of the male persuasion.

  Poor Harrigan looked as if he was going to be sick when the two men led him to what I presumed was one of the interview rooms where I had first met O’Hara. As I noted yesterday, the officers in the room hardly gave the activity at the front desk even a passing glance. Computer screens flickered, printed matter got passed from “in” to “out” boxes and the commercial copy machine was collating a column of pages like a robot who had learned a new trick.

  Officer O’Hara told me that she had been trying to locate me for the past two hours. I took it her quest had something to do with her interview with Claudia Lester, and I was right. Swathmoore eavesdropped on our verbal volley with keen interest and looked hurt when O’Hara told me to follow her to her office.

  After making the left at the copy machine, she took me into a room just opposite the one she had inhabited yesterday. As I had suspected, the four offices were shared by the troopers. Now I noticed a closed door at the far end of the corridor with a shiny brass plate that identified the occupant. This was where the head honcho hung his hat, but from this distance I could not make out either his name or his title. If this case should drag on too long for comfort, I was sure I would know both before the police were done with me.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me for delivering Harrigan?” I asked when the door was closed.

  No, she was not going to thank me for delivering Harrigan. In fact, all she wanted to do was berate me for withholding evidence.

  She: “Perjury is a capital offense.”

  Me: “Perjury? I don’t remember taking an oath, and I did not tell a he. You asked me what I was doing at the Crescent Motel, and I told you why I went there.”

  She: “Semantics.”

  Me: “The truth.”

  She complained because she thought she could trust me. I told her she could trust me with her life. She said I would be foolish to trust her with my life.

  “You knew when we spoke that the diary story Lester gave you was pure bunk. You also knew that Decimus Fortesque was a prime player in this case.”

  I reacted like a mother hen protecting her chicks. “Fortesque hired Lester to purchase the manuscript. He doesn’t know Harrigan, and he knows Whitehead only because Lester mentioned him as her contact, but Fortesque never laid eyes on him or the victim. You can’t link Fortesque to the murder.”

  We were both standing in the small room, squaring off face-to-face. Georgy, bristling, folded her arms across her chest and chided, “But of course. You are now working for Fortesque.”

  I told her how I had come to be hired by Fortesque. Claudia Lester had given her all the facts of the purloined manuscript, telling Georgy the same story she had told me from the time Claudia joined forces with Rodney Whitehead to the night Swensen was found dead in the Crescent.

  “She’s fingering Harrigan for the heavy, correct?” I said.

  Georgy nodded. “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

  “I don’t think she knows the meaning of the word,” I answered without hesitation. “But if you think you’ve got a puzzler now, wait till you hear Harrigan’s story.”

  “So you questioned him as well as Lester before handing them over to us,” she criticized. “I wish you would keep out of this, Archy.”

  A moment after she had articulated my given name, I could see the color creep ever so daintily from her neck to her ivory cheeks. I gave her a shy smile as she turned from me and went to stand behind the desk.

  “I would be more than happy to keep out of this, officer. It was you who invited me in when you put out an APB for the guy in the red Miata.”

  Flustered, she barked, “Where did you find Harrigan?”

  “In the produce section of the Publix on Sunset,” I stated.

  Those blue eyes glared at me for an instant, but before she tore into me the pout became a smile and, tossing back her head, she began to laugh with genuine glee. Naturally, I joined in.

  “You are crazy, Archy McNally,” she hooted.

  I assured her I was, but “I’m also infectious. When you get to know me you’ll find me hard to resist.”

  In the civilized world all relationships, especially between the sexes, begin on a formal basis and progress, either quickly or over time, to an easy camaraderie and then, perhaps, to something more intimate. The flip
side being the associations that regress from the formal to the fatuous. The turning point, for better or for worse, often takes place instantaneously with a word, a look or even the touch of a hand. When it happens, the pleased or woeful couple are simultaneously aware that they have been blessed or banished and must act accordingly.

  Do I go too far when I say that moment arrived for us when she spoke the word “Archy”? Is my conceit showing when I say her laughter was more a release of pent-up emotion than an expression of glee given the venue of my meeting with Matthew Harrigan? Who knows—and who cares? When a beautiful woman tosses you the ball, you are given a choice. You can drop it or run with it, and a butterfingers I ain’t.

  Many thoughts were hatching in my noodle when I asked Officer O’Hara to break bread with me at the Pelican that evening. Some were naughty and some were nice, but all proclaimed with joy, “If you play this right, you can K two B’s with one S.” Was I being crass? No. I am a healthy American boy protecting his turf from the interloper. I am George Washington crossing the Delaware, Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic and John Wayne crossing Iwo Jima. If all is fair in love and war, I am the fairest of them all—and Georgy O’Hara is not exactly chopped liver.

  She refused to dine on the grounds that I was a suspect in her murder case. I told her that was gibberish in its purest form. I also remembered that when she heard Harrigan’s version of the events at the Crescent Motel it would not only contradict Claudia Lester’s tale, it would also impugn my story.

  If Harrigan insisted that I had delivered that blasted manuscript, it would mean that I was not unconscious in the motel parking lot when people were entering and leaving unit nine like it was fitted with a turnstile. It was imperative that I sit down with O’Hara and convince her that I, at least, spoke the truth.

  “After you talk to Harrigan,” I said, “you are going to have more questions in the hopper than hairs on your head. Why don’t we declare a truce and join forces. Between the two of us we might even start to make some sense of this opus.”

  She didn’t dismiss the idea completely but seemed to think aloud: “It would be helpful to compare notes on what Lester and Harrigan told you and what they reported here.”

  “Have you ever been to the Pelican Club?” I asked.

  “No,” she said rather coyly, “but I’ve heard of it.”

  “Good or bad?” I prodded.

  “It’s not the Bath and Tennis.” She laughed.

  “I’ll say it’s not,” I assured her, “and amen to that. Good food and grog in a convivial setting, as the guidebooks say. I’ll pick you up at half past seven for dinner at eight.”

  “Why can’t we talk here?” she insisted.

  “Because you’ll be with Harrigan for an hour, at least, and I can’t spare the time to hang around. Also, not being a member of the force, I think we should be more discreet in our assignations.”

  Capitulating, she warned, “This is strictly a business dinner, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” I vowed, then repeated, “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

  “In the red Miata?”

  “What else? Do you like the top up or down, madam?”

  “Up, please. I’m having a bad hair day.”

  When I asked where she lived she jotted her address, and phone number, on a piece of notepaper and handed it to me. The drawbridge had been lowered, and Archy, as usual, rushed in where wise men fear to tread.

  Leroy did have the ingredients for my potpourri and even tossed in an extra crab claw for my consumption. The wine was from the Orvieto region of Italia, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world according to Archy McNally.

  I had several things to attend to before I could head home for my daily swim, take my shower and assume the arduous task of selecting an outfit for my dinner with Officer O’Hara. It had to be something subtle yet bold, something that practically screamed “tasteful.” A tall and perhaps paradoxical order to be sure, but with my wardrobe, it would be a snap.

  Before leaving, I reminded Priscilla to keep my table free if she had to sit at it herself.

  “First come, first served,” she said with a shrug.

  It’s this personal service that makes me so fond of the Pelican.

  Sam Zimmermann met me at the door. “What’s cooking, Sam?” I greeted the butler/pastry maven.

  “I have several dozen mini-éclairs cooling in the kitchen, sir.”

  “Is a doggy bag possible?” I ventured.

  “With Jesus, sir, all things are possible,” Sam preached.

  I sidestepped that one and asked to be taken to the master of the house. Decimus Fortesque was in his library, another vaulted room overlooking Lake Worth, with towering mahogany shelves crammed with tomes in no discernible order. Beautiful leather-bound volumes abutted cloth and paperback editions, some stacked haphazardly, others properly shelved. There were comfortable leather chairs, side tables, lamps, a marble fireplace and a refectory table of museum quality upon which stood a lovely vase filled with a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers.

  There was even a wrought-iron circular staircase mounted on wheels for scanning the upper shelves. In mystery novels of yore, this prop was usually frightfully unsteady and could be counted on to send someone falling to their untimely death.

  All in all, it resembled the untidy but homey and comfortable lounge of a gentlemen’s club, circa turn of the (last) century, London. A room my father would gladly give his Dickensian collection to possess.

  Fortesque was seated, reading. “Ah, man, so there you are,” he called when Sam showed me into me room. “I’ve just been reading the most amazing thing.” He held up a small book bound in red cloth and proceeded to dish me the dirt.

  “Queen Victoria’s daughter, the princess Louise, married to become the Duchess of Argyll. She died in thirty-nine at the age of ninety-one. The apartment she occupied in Kensington Palace was given to the current princess Margaret when she married Armstrong-Jones. Well, it seems the door leading to the lovely gardens had been bricked up for decades. The reason, you see, was to prevent the Duke from slipping out to Hyde Park in the evening, where he would solicit the guardsmen who were domiciled there.”

  Fortesque’s eyes popped with delight as he recounted the story. “What do you think of that, man?”

  “I think, Mr. Fortesque, that princesses who marry beneath themselves get what they deserve. I also think that we would do better to turn our attention to the Crescent-Motel and let the royals in Kensington palace tend to their own gardens. You have heard about the murder, sir?”

  “Oh, that. Yes, Sam told me. I don’t follow current events, man.” He waved the little red book in my face. “As you can see, I’m a student of history. Did you know King Richard the Lion-Hearted favored boy minstrels?”

  I eased into a chair. “Mr. Fortesque, I am here to tell you that you will be getting a call from the police.”

  He squared his shoulders and gave me the Mischa Auer stare. Thinking long and hard, all he could come up with was, “Why?”

  “Why, sir? Because you hired a woman to buy a manuscript from a man for fifty thousand dollars; that man has been murdered; the manuscript and your money are missing; the woman is accusing her erstwhile partner of absconding with both the cash and the manuscript; said partner is accusing the woman of double-crossing him and being in possession of both; the auction house rep who was double-crossing the auction house discovered the body; the bagman who is your employee got crowned; finally, the police want to speak to the man who hired the woman—really, sir, do you want me to repeat—”

  “Oh, cool your heels, Archy,” he said. “I’m not as dotty as I pretend to be. I’m a rich old man who wants to be left to sniffing out collectibles and delving into other people’s dirty laundry. What you’re saying is that we’re in one hell of a mess.”

  “Exactly, sir,” and I recanted the events that had taken place since last we met and nibbled Sam Zimmermann’
s delights.

  “What’s your take on this, Archy?” Fortesque asked.

  “I still believe Claudia Lester hired me to witness that she was acting in good faith when she exchanged the cash for the manuscript. Which she did—or I did for her. What happened after that, I haven’t got a clue. All I know for certain is that someone killed Swensen, took the manuscript from me and made off with it and the loot.”

  Mulling this over, Fortesque offered, “This Harrigan is the most obvious candidate.”

  “Too obvious,” I said. “He’s a petty con artist out of his element. When the police led him away, he looked in dire need of the gents’ room.”

  Fortesque shook a finger at me. Amazing how he had gone from borderline senility to clever deducer so rapidly, which proves that hell hath no fury like a rich man who thinks he’s being cheated. “Listen to me, Archy,” he said. “I know the Matthew Harrigan type very well. All my wives had affairs with them. They’re always on stage and the curtain never goes down. Don’t count him out.”

  “I’m not counting anyone in or out,” I told him. “Are you saying you want me to continue with the case?”

  “Damn right I do,” he exploded. “I want my money or that manuscript.”

  “You know,” I reminded him, “now that the police are in on this, the auction house is bound to learn what Rodney Whitehead was up to. Who actually owns the manuscript now that Swensen is dead is debatable at best.”

  That got him where he lived. “If I don’t get my fifty thousand back I own it, and don’t you forget it. What should I tell the bloody police?”

  “The truth, Mr. Fortesque. Nothing but the truth.”

  “Hell, man. With all that’s happened, I forget what the truth is.”

  I spelled it out for him, and before leaving I whispered clandestinely, “King Richard’s favorite lute player was named Blondel.”