McNally's Alibi

by Lawrence Sanders

  We had finished eating. Filling my glass with what was left of my soda, I took out my English Ovals and offered one to Whitehead. He refused, but that didn’t stop me from lighting up. Oh, what bliss.

  I held up a hand to stop Whitehead and asked, “What was your share?”

  “Half,” he said, “not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Rather steep, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t,” he shot back. “It was my find. My chance to score. Swensen was a pothead, a wino, and a junkie. That’s why he needed cash quick. He was up to his chin in debt with his suppliers. Whatever he got would have gone to them sooner or later. The way I see it, I was doing the guy a favor.”

  I guess one could rationalize anything if one tried hard enough. It seemed Rodney Whitehead didn’t have to try at all.

  “Second. Why didn’t you deliver the cash and take the manuscript?”

  That got me a sardonic laugh from the old manuscript expert. “In the world of collecting, Mr. McNally, you are a babe in the woods. Claudia Lester would not trust me to get my hands on the money and the manuscript at the same time, and rightly so. Had she, I would be in Costa Rica right now sipping a piña colada with the girl who makes my bed—pun intended. Get it?”

  I got it, all right. “You needed a third party, with no interest in the deal, to make the transaction so neither you nor Lester was ever in possession of the cash and the manuscript at the same time. Are you saying that’s why I was hired?”

  “Of course,” he said as if he were talking to an idiot.

  I was getting to like Rodney Whitehead less and less. “Claudia Lester said I was hired at your suggestion because you thought Swensen might want to play rough.”

  Whitehead rolled his eyes in disgust. “Those bastards conspired to deal me out and walk off with the candy store. I got to the motel and found Swensen dead, which makes me a suspect. Claudia is saying Harrigan went to the motel, did in Swensen, made the exchange with you and then beat it with the money and the manuscript he took back from you in the parking lot.”

  “And Harrigan,” I quickly rebutted, “is saying Lester crossed him and has the candy store, as you call it. That’s why Harrigan is here and not in Costa Rica.”

  “Don’t you see?” he cried. “It’s a sham. They’re shouting at each other while pointing the finger at me. Claudia will keep the money and try to sell the manuscript again. Knowing her, she already has a customer or will try to wheedle more out of Fortesque.”

  “Do you know anything about a sting operation, Mr. Whitehead?” I questioned.

  “A what?”

  “A Grand Sting Operation, as Harrigan labeled it. The three of you plotted to drug Swensen, take the manuscript, keep the money for yourselves and give Fortesque what he paid for.”

  Whitehead’s face was flushed with anger. “That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Why would I go for a three-way split when I had already negotiated for half?”

  That had crossed my mind. “When you got to the motel you found the door to Swensen’s room off the lock?”

  “Yes. How else would I have gotten in?”

  How else, indeed.

  “Tell Mr. Fortesque,” he pleaded, “they have his money and the manuscript. I’m out of a job, and given the facts there isn’t an auction house in the country that will take me on. If I go into business for myself I will need customers like Fortesque, and I want him to know I play fair.

  “Now I have to tell the police my story and hope they will believe me. Why would I kill a man who was drugged and had nothing to steal but the clothes on his back—and then notify the cops?”

  Why, indeed.

  15

  MY LUNCH WITH RODNEY Whitehead was not unproductive. After listening to what he had to say I was certain of one thing: either everyone was lying or no one was telling the truth.

  Rub-a-dub-dub, two guys and a gal in a tub—each trying to drown the other in the dirty bathwater. To be sure, only Rodney was crying conspiracy, accusing Lester and Harrigan of stinging him, while the other two were stabbing each other in the back. But, as Whitehead had noted, it was he who was set up to discover the body and get himself listed as a suspect. But then, so is Harrigan a suspect, as is the bag man, Archy.

  It would seem logical that it would take two of them to pull off the caper and walk away with the whole enchilada. However, in spite of the safeguards instituted by the partners in crime, it was only Harrigan who had his hands on the money and the manuscript at the same time. Yes, it was a short time, but when the manuscript left the room he had only to follow it out and get it back—which he, or somebody, did. This results in the same weary question: if Harrigan had it all, why did he return to Palm Beach?

  Nor did I miss the more salacious tidbits Whitehead quoted from the Capote book to verify his find. He must have passed most of them on to Claudia Lester, and she, in turn, used them to bait poor Decimus Fortesque. After Lester’s sales pitch poor Deci must have had his tongue, as well as his checkbook, hanging out.

  As I drove to Royal Palm Way I put together what few pieces of the puzzle I could call fact. There was no question that the events leading up to Whitehead’s discovery of the manuscript and Claudia’s striking a deal with Fortesque as narrated by the trio was true. Because Lawrence Swensen had rented the room at the Crescent Motel, where he met the grim reaper, I would say that Whitehead had told Swensen to look in there with the manuscript and wait there that night for the arrival of the money. Swensen may have been a junkie, but he was not about to let the manuscript out of his hands before he had his mitts on the cash. So, that rainy night, the doomed than sat in unit number nine with a bottle of hooch, rolling funny cigarettes and dreaming of solvency. Then he went where no bill collector would care to follow. Swensen was drugged, then murdered.

  I got to the motel about nine, made the exchange with Harrigan and saw no sign of anyone else in the room. I left ten or fifteen minutes after nine with the manuscript, was mugged in the parking lot, and when I awoke, about ten, I went back to the room and tried the door. It was locked. Some fifteen minutes later, Whitehead arrives on the scene and says he found the door open. The latter, by the by, is not a fact.

  Swensen’s car was in the visitors’ parking area and Harrigan’s car was in Swensen’s space when I arrived, and gone when I returned.

  As good old Al Rogoff would say, “And them is the facts.”

  Lester says I was hired at Whitehead’s suggestion, in case Swensen proved difficult. Whitehead says I was hired to keep all parties from never being in possession of the book and the money at the same time. Harrigan says I was hired so I could tell Fortesque the exchange was made should the duped Swensen run to Fortesque or the police crying foul when he woke up with nothing to show for his trip north but a hangover.

  I say Harrigan comes closest to the truth. As I had long believed, I was hired to bear witness that the exchange was made as agreed by all parties concerned. Why? Because someone knew that once I had done my job, everything would go haywire and everyone could claim their innocence.

  Harrigan admits to drugging Swensen as part of the sting operation. But why murder him, too?

  If Harrigan’s G.S.O. story is true, there would be no reason for Whitehead to go to the motel after the exchange, as they now had the book and the money—nor would Whitehead agree to a three-way split when he was going to get fifty percent from Swensen. So it isn’t true.

  If Claudia Lester’s story is true, Harrigan would have kept running with the book and the money. So it isn’t true.

  If Whitehead’s story is true, that Lester and Harrigan have the book and the money, we are back to square one. Harrigan would have disappeared with the cache, rendezvoused with Lester when things cooled off, and tried to sell the book to another buyer or bilk more out of Fortesque. So it isn’t true.

  Fact. Everyone is lying and no one is telling the truth.

  I arrived at the McNally Building just in time to put the pieces ba
ck in the box upon which a picture of the completed jigsaw puzzle did not appear.

  Tyler Beaumont was standing at the window, looking down on Royal Palm Way. When he heard the door open he turned to face me.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long, Mr. Beaumont, but I was unavoidably delayed.”

  “Not at all,” he said with a congenial smile. “I’m grateful that you were able to see me on such short notice.”

  We both maneuvered our way around the long table that separated us and shook hands when we met. “If you haven’t had lunch, I could send out for something,” I offered.

  “Thank you, no. I’m at the Colony and had a bite there before coming here. I also had tea with your father when I arrived. He remembered doing some work for my father when I was a wee boy. How kind of him to remember us.”

  I almost said father does not forget millionaires but invited Tyler Beaumont to sit instead. He was a handsome young man in his early twenties with brown eyes and reddish-blond hair that appeared to fall haphazardly across his forehead, but, as life among the very rich taught me, it had been expensively cut to do just that. By dint of either nature or his trust fund, his smile displayed a row of perfect white teeth. He wore jeans, a nondescript white shirt with open collar and a gray linen jacket. In short, he looked like a native, but I’m sure Tyler Beaumont would look like one of the regulars in any of the rich watering holes here and abroad. It’s what he was brought up to do.

  As we settled in, I couldn’t help but remember that just three days ago I had confronted Claudia Lester as I now sat vis-à-vis with Tyler Beaumont. That earlier meeting had kicked off a case I had dubbed, as you know, “A Voice from the Grave.” After hearing what the Beaumont boy had to say, I would find that title spine-tinglingly suitable for this new assignment.

  “It’s been some time since your family has been here,” I said when we were seated. “Forgive the gossipy prattle, but after all, this is Palm Beach.” His smile told me that I was on safe ground. “I know the house is closed, but do any of you visit the area and stay elsewhere?”

  He shook his head. “We left twenty years ago, when I was four, and never returned. We still have the house on Gin Lane in Southampton, which is only slightly less antediluvian than the one in Bar Harbor. The locals call it Disneyland, because it really does look like the dreadful castle you see on the TV adverts. Twenty-six bedrooms and ocean view, in case you’re interested in renting.”

  I imagine the spiel was supposed to be humorous, but it somehow came off as an apology on behalf of the landed gentry, who must be forgiven because they were born that way. Sad to say, but I got the impression that Tyler Beaumont didn’t know how to laugh. Even that congenial smile lacked warmth. He was not condescending. Far from it, in fact. He was polite to a fault and—I searched for the word and finally found it—preoccupied. Tyler Beaumont was preoccupied. His expressive eyes seemed to look right through me, but what they saw I hadn’t a clue.

  “We are not known for quaint Cape Cods and raised ranches in Palm Beach,” I said. “Are you planning on opening your house here?”

  This got a reaction that was more engaging than blasé. He actually started. “How do you know I’m here because of the house?” he asked as if my ESP was showing. Was this guy weird or had that celery soda gotten to my noggin?

  “Well, Mr. Beaumont,” I told him, “there was a story about your family house in our local press just the other day, and almost immediately you blow into town wanting the help of a discreet inquirer. Being distrustful of coincidences, you could say I took an educated guess.”

  He looked either hurt or disappointed. “You think I’m strange?”

  Now he was a little boy who didn’t know why he was being punished—and I was losing patience. “What I think is strange is that you flew all the way down here from New York, made an appointment to see me, and now that we’re both in the same room at the same time you want to play word games. What do you want from me, Mr. Beaumont?”

  Without missing a beat he answered, “For one thing, I would like you to stop calling me Mr. Beaumont. My name is Tyler. Friends call me Ty.”

  “Okay, Ty. Now what do you want?”

  He leaned forward in his chair and began to speak, carefully articulating every word, like one who had rehearsed for a long time and was now ready for his audience. “I had a twin brother,” he said.

  Seeing no reason to feign surprise, I responded with a nod.

  “What do you know about him?” he asked.

  Now, that was weird. This attractive, personable young man seemed to vacillate between the sublime and the ridiculous, with no stops between. “I know that he’s dead. An accident, I believe, and soon after your parents closed the house and left Palm Beach.”

  “He fell down the marble staircase that led from the entrance hall to the second floor,” Tyler said.

  This, I recalled, was our Jamie’s version of the accident.

  “My mother loved that staircase,” he went on in a sort of reverie, as if he were describing something to a blind man. “She used it to make her grand entrances at the balls she and father were forever giving. Maddy, that’s my brother, Madison Jr., and I used to sneak out of the nursery and watch from upstairs till nurse found us and ordered us back to bed. Father said mother missed her calling and should have joined the follies. I think he meant the ones orchestrated by Mr. Ziegfeld.”

  Then, quite suddenly, he picked up speed and the reverie became a nightmare. “Maddy tripped and fell down the marble steps. He tumbled over. His head bounced off each step till it split open and you could see the blood everyplace....”

  He was near hyperventilating, and I reached out a hand to stop him. “Tyler, I get the picture. There’s no need to go on.” I poured out a glass of ice water from the carafe Mrs. Trelawney had thoughtfully placed on a tray beside two glasses. “Would you like some water?” He waved me off, and short of calling for help I could do nothing but listen and stare. It was not a pretty sight.

  “I was in the hall. At the bottom of the staircase. I watched him fall. Saw the blood spout like it was coming from a fountain—”

  This was too much. I shouted, not caring who heard, “Tyler! Please stop! Right now, just stop! I don’t understand why you’re telling me this or why you’re doing this to yourself. Are you in Palm Beach alone? Where are your parents?”

  That did the trick. He stopped talking, his eyes glossed over, and looked contrite. The little boy again. The four-year-old who had witnessed his twin brother’s bloody fall to his death.

  “I’m here alone, Mr. McNally, and I’m perfectly capable of being on my own. Sometimes, when I talk about Maddy, I get carried away. And my parents are in London visiting with the nobility, where they are all no doubt reading racing forms and losing money.”

  He was himself again, but I wasn’t sure who that self was. I pushed the glass of water toward him, and this time he accepted it with a nod of thanks and drank.

  As much as I wanted to avoid the subject, there was no getting away from it. “You read or heard about the incident that took place in front of the house several days ago. Is that why you’re here? Why you wanted to see me?”

  “We still have friends down here,” he said. “The crowd that summers in the Hamptons. One of them called to tell us about the article in the paper. Yes, that’s why I’m here.” He took another sip of water. I wondered if I should offer him a cigarette—and have one myself. “The light,” he stated. “The policeman saw a light in an upstairs window. The nursery window.”

  “How do you know it came from the nursery?” I got in.

  “This wasn’t the first time someone reported seeing a light coming from an upstairs window. Friends from here told us what they had heard when they arrived in Southampton. Their description was very clear, and it was the nursery window. My parents had the house checked and everything was secure. No one had broken in and nothing was disturbed.”

  “Sometimes people see things that just ar
en’t there,” I said. “Especially at night. The moon, a passing plane winging too low, anything like that could have caused a reflection bouncing off the shutters. But once the rumor started, the more impressionable kooks and meddlers joined the chorus. The same crowd that spotted flying saucers nightly. Of course, your parents did the right thing and happily found nothing. Why are you so disturbed by it, Ty?”

  “This time,” he asserted with a great deal of feeling, “it wasn’t a kook or a busybody. It was a policeman. A trained observer. If he saw a light, there must have been a light.”

  Al Rogoff was a trained observer and a very good one, but, I said aloud, “Even the police officer said he thought he saw a light, and misled to the discovery of some perpetrators on the property and nothing more. The light, or what he thought was a light, was gone when he got out of his car for a closer look. I assume the electricity has been turned off all these years. Correct?”

  He was silent. Probably debating with himself whether or not to go on or leave. We were both skirting the issue and we both knew it, but I wasn’t about to break the ice. Not with this one. If he didn’t look so pathetically forlorn I would have stood up and ended the meeting. Tyler Beaumont was hard to walk away from, and he played it for all it was worth.

  Then he started to say what I knew was coming and, as feared, it came. “Maddy is in the nursery, Mr. McNally.”

  Give unto me a break!

  “That, young man, is too preposterous to deserve an answer. And, if you’ll excuse my presumption, maybe you should be seeing someone more qualified to deal with fantasy.”

  “Like a shrink or a seer?” he posed with a knowing smile that told me he had been down this path before. “I’ve been to both. One discourages me and the other encourages me, both at an hourly rate that many families could live on for a week.”

  “Good. Then you won’t faint when you get my bill.”

  “Will you please listen to me, Mr. McNally?”

  “I thought that’s what I was doing.”