McNally's Alibi

by Lawrence Sanders

  I got the Mischa gawk and, “Really? How extraordinary.”

  On the way out Sam handed me a small brown paper sack.

  “For me?” I exclaimed.

  “A dozen minis, sir.”

  I thanked him profusely, adding, “My doggy bag, as requested. You’ve made my day, Sam.”

  Zimmermann bowed his head piously. “Beware of answered prayers, sir.”

  12

  IT WAS NEARING THREE when I got back to the McNally Building. How tempus does fugit when you’re having fun. Herb gave me the high sign, but Mrs. Trelawney would have to wait as I had to see Binky Watrous on urgent business. I found him in the mail room, a suite twice the size of my claustrophobic firetrap, reading a paperback novel, which he quickly slipped into the top drawer of his cluttered desk.

  Binky is a closeted romance novel aficionado who fancies the historic offerings of the genre. I believe he sees himself as the guy on the colorful cover, often named Thor, a Viking with a stomach that resembles your grandmother’s old washboard and a chest that is often continued on the back cover. Binky, in the guise of Thor, raids towns and ravishes beautiful women from Ireland to Spain and back again in a century somewhere between the fall of ancient Rome and the rise of the Protestant Reformation. As you can see, this is not healthy reading for a man a dozen years past puberty, but I must say it is a more literate endeavor than his perusal of Victoria’s Secret catalogues.

  “Binky, my boy, I am in need of your help.”

  He was immediately on his feet. “On a case, Archy?”

  “You might say that,” I confided.

  “Has it got anything to do with the blonde who came to see you the other day?”

  “You might say that, too,” I went on, baiting the hook.

  “Do you want me to spy on her, Archy?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, Binky, I want you to take Connie to dinner at the Pelican tonight.”

  Binky ran a forefinger across his upper lip, a gesture he picked up after I had convinced him to shave his mustache. Much to Binky’s surprise, no one commented on the missing bit of corn silk, mostly because no one knew it had ever existed in the first place. “What’s taking Connie to dinner have to do with the blonde?” he asked rather accusingly.

  I rolled my eyes in the manner of an irate professor. “How many times must I tell you that in the detective business things are not always what they seem? There are boxes within boxes, masks behind masks and motives within motives. When Hercule Poirot takes a beautiful woman out to dine, half the restaurant drops dead of arsenic poisoning. Who knows what tonight will bring. Live dangerously, Binky, and reap the rewards.”

  He clapped his hands a few times and said, “Not bad, Archy. What do you do for an encore, ‘O Solo Mio’?”

  What cheek. It was that damn computer—that infamous information highway that was encouraging the young of the land to castigate their betters. There oughta be another law. I was down, but not out, so I looked deep into Binky’s soulful eyes and sighed. “Forget it, Binky. And while you’re at it, forget the fact that I got you this job, that I sponsored you for the Pelican Club, that I’ve stood by you through thick and thin—mostly thin—and defended you whether you were right or wrong—mostly wrong. I also, free of charge, apprenticed you in the detective trade. As someone once said, Et tu, Binky. Et, tu.’ ”

  Silence. I didn’t know if I had brought tears to his eyes, because Binky’s eyes always look on the verge of spilling over. Finally, he moaned, “What do you want me to do, Archy?”

  “I want you to enjoy a pleasant dinner with a beautiful woman, nothing more. Is that asking so much after all I’ve—”

  “Can it, Archy. I heard you the first time. This has something to do with Connie and Alejandro or my name isn’t Watrous.”

  “Your name is Watrous,” I assured him.

  Looking me up and down, Binky frowned and said, “Everyone knows you’re green with envy, Archy, but don’t you think you’ve gone a little too far this time?”

  “You don’t know the lengths I will go to defend my honor and come out the long-shot winner. You’ve heard that we now harbor a betting parlor at the Pelican?”

  “I’ve heard,” he answered rather reluctantly.

  “Who’s running the book?”

  Even more sheepishly, he said, “Tommy Ambrose.”

  “That delinquent? I might have known. Now I’m more determined than ever to break the bank. Who have you placed your tenner on, Binky, my boy?”

  “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” Originality is not Binky’s long suit.

  “Okay, I’ll not ask, but if you take Connie to the Pelican tonight the odds on the defender will drop radically. Hedge your bet, Binky.”

  He looked skeptical, which didn’t tell me much, as this is Binky’s natural demeanor. “What are you planning, Archy?”

  “If I told you it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Now, call Connie and invite her to the Pelican tonight.”

  “I can’t afford it,” he objected. “Since I rented my own pad I have to watch my pennies.”

  Like Bambi, his movie star look-alike, Binky was orphaned at an early age and raised by an aunt, known locally as the Duchess. After Binky’s long career as a trainee in multitudinous professions, the Duchess gave up hoping her ward would ever spread his wings and leave the nest. Then along came Archy and the offer of a steady position at McNally & Son. Here Binky was provided with a weekly stipend that enabled him to move into a box car on concrete blocks.

  Was the Duchess sorry to see him go? Prostrate with grief, she paid all his moving expenses and wrote out a check for his one-month security fee as well as his first month’s rent. She also gave him any pieces of furnishings she could spare and bought him the things she couldn’t spare. I ask you, was the Duchess sorry to see him go?

  “I’ll pay for the dinner,” I offered.

  “You mean it?”

  “Would I he?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  The boy was infuriating. “Do you want it in writing?”

  “No. I’ll trust you,” he finally agreed.

  “Do you know Connie’s number at the Horowitz mansion?”

  “I know it,” Binky answered.

  With raised eyebrows I said, “Really? Why do you know it, may I ask?”

  After brushing back a drooping forelock, he informed me, “Because I call her several times a week, that’s why.”

  “And what do you two talk about, may I ask?”

  “You may ask, but I’m not telling. Now I have to get back to work. Don’t you ever work, Archy?”

  My parting words were, “Don’t forget to call Connie. It’s imperative. And whatever you do, don’t tell her I instigated the invitation.”

  “Suppose she’s washing her hair tonight?” he grumbled.

  “Her hair, Binky, is squeaky clean, believe me.”

  Ye of little faith will think I had left a lot to chance in my ploy to get Connie into the Pelican this evening. Think again. My move was as calculated as the design for a labyrinth—and twice as shrewd. The moment I was out of the room Binky would be on the horn with Connie, telling her exactly what I had asked him not to tell her and repeating every word of our conversation with great relish and a good dash of embellishment.

  I could just hear him bellow, “He made me promise not to tell, and he even said he would pay for our dinners.”

  Connie would come to the Pelican tonight in her bedroom slippers and her squeaky hair in rollers if need be. Why? Because neither rain nor snow, sleet nor hail, or a Sherman tank, can keep a curious woman from her appointed rounds.

  Mrs. Trelawney was chomping on her tether. “So there you are,” she huffed and puffed as I stepped out of the elevator.

  “In person, ma’am, and at your service.”

  She gave me the fish eye and declared, “You look like an asparagus spear that got away. How do you manage it, Archy?”

  Never has my attire elicited so many
barbs. This went a long way in boosting confidence in my ability to nettle those I love. Experience has taught me that the best way to deal with criticism is to first consider the source and, should the source prove reliable, ignore it. “You’ve been looking for me, Mrs. Trelawney?”

  “Only because it’s my duty. Where have you been? The first day in weeks that you arrive here on time, and what do you do? You run off even before you’re out of your car.”

  I could see Herb had reported on my arrival and departure before I had cleared the exit ramp onto Royal Palm Way. I was sure Mrs. Trelawney was itching to know what was in the note Herb had been instructed to pass on to me. Turning the screw, I said, “I had an urgent call. And lest you forget I am not a pencil pusher like some I could name—I cover the town from lake to shiny sea.”

  Her gray wig appeared to unravel in places, shooting out here and there like corkscrews in search of a bottle of Chianti. She picked up a piece of paper upon which were her jottings in shorthand. Yes, Mrs. Trelawney still takes dictation and translates it on an IBM. One Christmas father gave her a quill pen and a brass inkwell. She was thrilled.

  “An Officer O’Hara, from Juno Beach, called three times. She said it was urgent that you get in touch with her.” Looking up, she lectured, “Why don’t you get a cell phone?”

  Listen to Grandma Moses telling others to join the electronic revolution. “I have been in touch with Officer O’Hara,” I said, “and I don’t have a cell phone because I prefer to stay out of touch, thank you.”

  Adjusting her glasses, she continued, “Your father has been asking for you.”

  “I am here to report to him,” I told her.

  “Well, you’ll have to wait. He’s with a client and can’t be disturbed. Finally, you had a call from New York.”

  That was the only surprise in her tidings. I could not think of a soul in New York who would call me unless it was someone from Palm Beach off on a spree and in need of a bondsman. When she said the name “Tyler Beaumont” I thought I had heard wrong.

  “Did you say Tyler Beaumont?”

  “That’s what I said. He’s coming to Palm Beach, and he wants to set up an appointment to meet with you. Do you know him, Archy?”

  “I don’t know him, but I do know of him. Did he say why he wanted to see me?”

  Mrs. Trelawney shook her head, causing more corkscrews to erupt from the synthetic gray mass atop her head. “No, he did not. He expects to be in Palm Beach tomorrow and will call again when he arrives.”

  When is a coincidence not a coincidence? When the Beaumont house gets a mention in the local press, and the family gets discussed at our breakfast table, and the scion of the clan returns to Palm Beach after an absence of some twenty years seeking the help of a discreet inquirer—is when a coincidence is not a coincidence. A voice from the grave and a light, real or imagined, in an abandoned mansion. It made me want to run to my bed and pull the covers over my head, but, alas, I had other fish to fry, as the saying goes. I have always prided myself with the capability to put off till tomorrow what I should do today. Ciao, Tyler Beaumont—for now.

  Even father would have to wait for my briefing. I had earned my salary for today, such as it is, and had much to do before picking up Georgy girl in the provinces.

  Upon arriving home, I presented Ursi with ten mini-éclairs (two had disappeared en route) and told her to be sure to tell father they were made by the Fortesque pastry chef.

  Once in my room, I got out of my dress greens and into a simple Speedo of white sateen with green (and why not?) braided piping. I wrapped myself in my hooded terry robe and dashed across the A1A, bringing traffic to a halt. The Florida sun was still warm, even at four in the afternoon, and the sea warmish. I swam my two miles, one north, then back from whence I came, with the sandy beach always a few dozen strokes from my person.

  There has been much talk of sharks off our idyllic shore, but, touch wood, I have never met one either coming or going. Once, skinny-dipping with Connie, a crab did nip me in the most embarrassing place—let’s say it put a damper on what would otherwise have been a romantic evening—but other than that unfortunate incident I usually emerge from the sea as unblemished as I enter it. I trust this has much to do with the little prayer I offer up to Poseidon before entering the water. I still worship the old gods, because if there is life after death there’s no telling who awaits us on the other side of the River Styx.

  I showered and washed my hair, blow-dried it with my Turbocharger 2000, then combed it with part on the left. The final touch was to brush it back on both sides of the part in the style of Ronnie Reagan before he left the Brothers Warner for Washington. A dab of my favorite cologne, whose name I will not divulge, on the nape of my neck, and a squirt on each wrist for luck, and I was ready to cover my briefs and T-shirt in—what?

  I began with basic black. Black silk trousers and black tropical-weight wool turtleneck. Upon this palette, the jacket would have to carry the sartorial message, something classic but edgy. To this end silk blend glen plaid blazer, black on the barest of beiges, with a slight stubby nub to the fabric—and I was the new Bond. Who could resist? I’d soon find out.

  Black captoe lace-ups buffed to a high gloss completed the ensemble, and I was ready for my night of nights. My mirror image said “quiet but elegant,” and with that I went downstairs belting out an old Merman favorite—stopped dead in my tracks, hit my forehead with the heel of my hand and shouted, “Ethel Merman was born Ethel Zimmermann.”

  “It’s the guest cottage of the big house you passed coming up the drive,” Georgy said as she led me into her charming home.

  Approaching it in the early-evening dusk, I thought I had come upon a gingerbread house in the woods and fully expected the Wicked Witch to lure me in. Instead, I was welcomed by a lovely green-eyed blonde who had gone out of her way to dress for a business meeting. She appeared in a straight skirt, just knee length, in crisp tan; a white blouse with a fetching print silk scarf knotted loosely at the neck; a tailored vest in the same color and fabric as the skirt; and black patent heels with squared-off toes.

  If the outfit was intended to obscure her femininity it failed on every level, and the presence of an elegant tortoiseshell clip in her cascading golden locks told me she never had any intention of succeeding.

  “Only the old lady is left in the manor house, as I call it,” she rambled on. “The children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren are spread all over the country. When she put it up for rent a dozen people bid on it, but I got it because of my uniform. The poor thing sees a terrorist on every street corner and likes the idea of having a police presence in her backyard.”

  The front room was comfortably furnished in a fashion that put me in mind of an old Sears Wishbook—pure Americana, cozy and familiar. A galley kitchen and breakfast nook were part of the room, and, I assumed, the bedroom and bath were beyond a darkened doorway.

  Having not been invited to sit, I stood and complimented, “It’s very nice and unique. It’s not easy to find a rental cottage in this neck of the woods.”

  “Are you in a condo?” she asked.

  “I live at home,” I confessed.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Would I kid about something like that? I’m the bat in the leaky belfry. No amenities, but then there’s no rent, either, which covers a multitude of drawbacks.”

  “Lucky you. When my roommate left I practically had to give up eating until I got promoted. Hold on, let me get my purse.”

  As she went into the darkened doorway I called, “Where did she go?”

  “Who?” she hollered.

  “Your roommate.”

  She came back into the room with a black leather Coach bucket bag slung over her shoulder. “Who said my roommate was a she?”

  “Ouch. That’ll learn me.”

  “No, it won’t,” she responded as if she meant it. “Is the club air-conditioned?”

  “Only in the winter. In the summer it re
sts.”

  She shrugged. “If I need a wrap, I’ll borrow your jacket.”

  I took her by the elbow and forced her to look me in the eye before protesting, “That’s the first plain, ordinary, familiar ‘he and she’ thing you said to me since I arrived. I feel like a salesman taking you out for a demo ride in a used Miata. And in case you haven’t noticed, you didn’t even invite me to sit.”

  “I did notice,” she wailed. “Archy, this is very difficult for me. I didn’t tell anyone that I was seeing you tonight. You are a suspect—yes, you are—and this is a business meeting.”

  “Did you justify our date by telling yourself you would grill me over the mixed grill?”

  “Yes, I did,” she blubbered.

  “Why, you silly, adorable creature. May I kiss you?”

  “If I scream, my landlady will call the FBI.”

  Well, at least the ice was broken.

  Outside we were welcomed by a zillion stars, and somewhere over the vast sea a sliver of a moon would soon be rising. I opened the car door for my lady before slipping around to the driver’s seat.

  “Tight quarters,” she noted, sniffing the air. “And nice cologne.”

  “My secret blend. Careful, it’s aphrodisiacal.”

  “It’s Boucheron,” she declared.

  13

  MY ENTRANCE INTO THE Pelican Club with a beautiful blonde on my arm was like a strut down the catwalk at a Versace fashion show. If the number of diners and the crowd at the bar were any indication, Priscilla had certainly spread the word. No one was uncouth enough to actually stare, but there was an almost imperceptible pause in the hum of conversation as Georgy and I sauntered in. Several people waved, and I waved back. It was all very much as I had anticipated, and I couldn’t have enjoyed it more.

  “Well,” Priscilla said, rushing up to us, “look what the cat dragged in.”

  “This is Ms. O’Hara,” I said.

  “Call me Georgy, please,” Georgy said with a smile. “And you must be Priscilla. Archy prepped me on the ride here. He said you were lovely, and I second the motion.”