McNally's Alibi

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Well, well, well,” I greeted, “if it isn’t Diamond Jim Watrous, the man with champagne tastes and a beer wallet. I’m surprised you weren’t drinking it out of Connie’s slipper. It’s a darn sight bigger than those flutes.”

  “Can it, Archy. The fuzzy wine gave me a sour stomach and a headache.”

  His complexion did look sallower than usual, which is saying a lot, but nothing more than what he deserved. Without mercy, I told him as much. “And your head will ache even more when you get the bill,” I warned.

  “You said you weren’t lying,” he sniveled.

  “Well, I lied about not lying. It’s my nature.”

  He paled even more. “All my credit cards are maxed out,” he told me as if I cared. Binky may look like Bambi, but he whines like a stuck porky. Since attaining gainful employment he had applied for, and was given, every piece of plastic available to those who live beyond their means. Intent on reaping a zillion air miles, he went on a spending spree for the necessities of life. Binky now owns everything preceded by the word “digital” and dozens of cashmere sweaters. If he resided in the North Pole, I’m sure he would have stocked up on Bermuda shorts and bathing trunks.

  “You told Connie I was paying for the dinner,” I stated rather than asked.

  “It might have slipped out.”

  “Slipped out?” I cried. “And did the events of last night you passed on to Mrs. Trelawney also just happen to slip out? Like England, we have our own BBC. The Binky Broadcasting Company. How many times must I tell you that your job is to deliver the incoming mail, take away the outgoing mail and mind your own business?”

  With that, he began to back himself and his cart out my door. “I have no mail for you, Archy,” he announced.

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I came for a social visit, not to be attacked after I got myself sick and hungover doing your bidding. Next time you take a state trooper to dinner, you can do it without Connie and me in attendance.”

  Did I hear right? Was nothing sacred? “Just a moment, young man. Halt or I’ll shoot. How did you know my lady friend was a state trooper?”

  A white-on-white complexion is a ghastly sight. Without looking directly at me, he mumbled, “I think Al Rogoff told me.”

  “And when did you chance to speak with Sergeant Rogoff?”

  “I stopped by his trailer this morning to borrow a teaspoon of sugar for my coffee.”

  This was truly too much. I expect the only reason Binky is alive to tell about it is that Al wasn’t wearing his gun belt when Binky came begging with an empty teaspoon. “And you thought it necessary to give him a blow-by-blow of your intemperance at the Pelican?”

  “It may have slipped out,” he admitted.

  “Really? With the way things slip out of your mouth, I think you should apply a gag to stop the flow.”

  Binky described my date to Al, and Al immediately recognized the policewoman I had described to him earlier. If I weren’t a gentleman, I would describe my two best friends as trailer trash.

  “She’s a beauty, Archy,” he said.

  Angling for a return on my hefty investment, I casually said, “Well, now that you mention it, may I ask what Connie thought of my date?”

  “You told me not to gossip,” came his maddening answer.

  Binky was being intentionally obtuse, no doubt on orders from Connie. She knew what I was up to the minute Binky told her how eager I was to have her dine at the club last night. Her response was to rack up a huge tab and, enlisting Binky’s help, pretend not to notice me and my date. One could say my ally, Binky Watrous, was now a double agent.

  I counted to ten, backwards, then bellowed, “Tell me what Connie said or I’ll throttle you.”

  “She said it was a cheap trick.”

  “Cheap? I don’t call champagne and tournedos of beef cheap. It was an expensive, if tawdry, trick. Does that suit you?” Getting no reply, I asked, “Was the champagne her idea?”

  Without a missing a beat, he said, “No, it was my idea.”

  The lie brought a little color to his cheeks. I must say you had to admire the guy for the way he had just taken the blame for that bit of extravagant tomfoolery. Chivalry was not dead, and Binky was here to prove it. But that didn’t excuse him from telling me what I wanted to hear. “What did Connie think of my date?”

  “She said you were robbing the cradle.”

  “Moi?” I was as close to a seizure as one could be and remain standing. Separated from Binky by his cart, I rattled it instead of his head. “She’s five years younger than Alejandro.”

  “You’re ten years older than the blonde,” he responded, pulling the cart out of my reach. “Stop spinning your wheels, Archy. If you don’t want to make a move, maybe Connie does and all you’re doing is blocking her way.”

  When one gets rational advice from Binky, one’s number is up. I was not only spinning my wheels, I was also spinning the mail cart’s wheels. “Did Connie say anything last night that makes you think she’s made a decision?”

  “She said nothing, but the way she avoided the subject of you and Alejandro made it clear she was thinking of nothing else.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. I must remember never to denigrate Binky’s sagacity. Or was my problem so obvious that it took less than a whiz kid to sum it up and spit out the answer?

  Binky then counseled, “You both need a push.”

  But in which direction? To or fro? “You’re right, Binky, and I’m sorry I got you involved in this. I will bite the bullet, pay for your dinners and apologize to Connie. My only excuse is that I’m involved in a couple of cases that defy resolving and they seem to have exhausted my common sense.”

  “I read about one of them, Archy,” Binky commiserated.

  It was so easy to sway him that even my somewhat exaggerated excuse had me feeling guilty.

  “Is Claudia Lester the blonde who came to see you a few days ago?” I gave him a nod. “That’s what I thought. I passed her on the Esplanade the other day and recognized her. She was with her girlfriend.”

  That was interesting. I didn’t know Claudia Lester knew anyone in Palm Beach except the two male members of her sting team. However, I was presently too flummoxed to give it much thought, and more’s the pity for that.

  “Were you and the policewoman discussing the case last night, Archy? I mean, it’s kind of unusual to compare notes with the police over dinner.”

  This was just what Georgy had feared. If it got around that she was playing footsie with a PI her boss would not be happy, and it was me who had put her on display at the Pelican Club. Let’s face it, I was a heel. Avoiding the question, I told Binky, “Her name is Georgia O’Hara, and she’s called Georgy.”

  Being loyal to Connie, I could see that even this introduction by proxy embarrassed him—think what it was doing to me. He scooted around that one by asking, “Do you know who did in the Swensen guy?”

  “Not a clue, Binky.”

  Next came the inevitable. “Did you read the manuscript, Archy?”

  “No, Binky, I did not. I had it in my hands but was forced to let go.”

  He began his retreat, saying, “If you need any help with your cases, just yell.”

  “Thank you, Binky, but I don’t need...” And the little bulb in my head went POP and lit up the sky. “Perhaps there is something you can do, if you have the time.”

  He pounced, as I knew he would. “To work on a case I’ll make the time. What is it, Archy?”

  “Do you remember the article in the paper the other day? The one that began where Al Rogoff thought he saw a light...”

  17

  “SUCCOTASH,” SHE ANNOUNCED WITH the élan of Georges Escoffier presenting his boeuf Wellington to a panel of hungry epicures.

  As I entered these words in my journal I smiled at the recollection of the amusing dish and the chef who was a namesake of the renowned Frenchman. I am alone in my garret a few hours before dawn, and, in case no one
has noticed, in a poetic frame of mind.

  After rendezvousing once again with Officer O’Hara to discuss further developments in the ongoing investigation of “A Voice from the Grave,” I am transported back in time to when we children would pick a daisy from the earth and pluck its petals while chanting, “She loves me; she loves me not.” The line that coincided with the last petal would seal our fate with the pigtailed enchantress of our daydreams.

  Stuffed with succotash, tipsy on a pretentious wine and not yet recovered from a good-night kiss that gave new meaning to the word lingering, I am the embodiment of a charming lyric from my favorite Broadway show, “... full of foolish song.” And, mayhaps my fate is sealed, but before the cement sets let me digress to the events that led to this rapture before it cools in the warmth of the rising sun.

  I engaged Binky as a ghost breaker, and, I’m afraid, he showed little enthusiasm for the role.

  “It’s creepy,” he complained when I explained his assignment.

  “All you have to do is check out the old Beaumont mansion a few times every evening between ten and midnight.” These hours were as arbitrary as everything else about this bit of nonsense, but before I sent Tyler packing I could honestly say we set up surveillance and found nothing.

  “Do I have to get out of my car?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt. A quick turn around the lawn and back to the safety of your armored tank.”

  Binky was not convinced. “Suppose I trip over people bonking?” he posed.

  “Excuse yourself, move on and keep your eyes on those upstairs windows. Really, Binky, this is a very simple commission.”

  Looking pensive, he challenged, “What if I see a light in one of those windows?”

  Now, that was something I’d not thought of because I didn’t believe such a light existed, and I told Binky so.

  “Then my assignment is to look for something that doesn’t exist,” he concluded.

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s nuts, Archy, and you know it.”

  “It’s not nuts,” I informed him, “it’s integrity. I will not tell my client I looked and found nothing unless I look and find nothing. He might be a disturbed young man, but he’s sincere and I intend to act in good faith.”

  “He’s also a rich young man,” Binky commented. “Ten to midnight is time and a half, and after midnight it’s double time.”

  What was this? Did he expect payment for his services? It was those damn credit cards that made him so mercenary as to forget his apprentice status. “Keep your eyes on those windows,” I ordered, “and off my billing sheet. After the champagne and tournedos, you’ll be indebted to me for the rest of your life.”

  Remembering his hangover, he began his retreat in search of ice water. “If I see a light,” he mumbled, “I’ll run.”

  “If you see a light, get on your cell phone and dial nine-one-one. They’ll relay the call to the nearest patrol car and in minutes you’ll have company. If Sergeant Rogoff is still pulling the graveyard shift, it may be your neighbor who comes to the rescue.”

  Relieved, Binky managed a sad smile, saying, “Thanks, Archy. That’s just what I’ll do.”

  Insisting on the last word, I reminded him, “You will then owe Al your life as well as a teaspoon of sugar.”

  Alone once more, I looked at my list of calls, all marked urgent. I put a tick next to the tick next to Lolly Spindrift’s name. That made it look as if I had called him twice. I put a line through the second tick and told myself that if I did not light a cigarette I was cured of the habit. Then I told myself that if I had one now and skipped the one after dinner I would still be true to my regimen. Here, I was saved by the bell. The telephone bell, that is.

  It was Mrs. Trelawney. My father was free and would like a word, if you please. Before I could oblige, the phone rang yet again, causing me to reconsider the installation of an answering machine. A ringing telephone is anathema to my nervous system, but I was immediately appeased when I heard the caller’s voice. It was Georgy girl. I opened my desk drawer, found the hidden pack of English Ovals and lit one.

  “My first call was a bread and butter,” she said, “and the second was to let you know that Rodney Whitehead was coming in to be questioned. This call is to tell you he’s been and had his say.”

  I remembered her cautioning me to lay off her suspects so kept quiet about the pastrami on rye I had shared with the man. Was it Euripides who wrote, “The gods wear many faces/And many fates fulfill, to work their will.” Loosely translated, God works in mysterious ways. My decision not to disclose my meeting with Whitehead got me a second date with my clandestine collaborator.

  “Would you like to know what he had to say?” she teased.

  “I’m all ears, officer.”

  “Not on the phone,” she said. “Are you free this evening?”

  Having nothing on my agenda that couldn’t be broken, I said I was free without consulting my calendar. “Do you want to meet in the dark corner of a disreputable pub? I’ll wear a beard and shades.”

  “And I’ll put on a black wig like Dietrich in Witness for the Prosecution,” she joined in. I must say she knew her flicks. “But it would be more comfortable at my place. If you promise to behave, I’ll cook.”

  “I’ll be there at eight, but I make no promises.”

  “Then I’ll have to take my chances.”

  “Is this a business meeting, officer?”

  “It is,” she said, sounding as if she meant it. “This case is dragging on too long for comfort, and my boss wants to give the papers something to shout about, like ‘Murder Solved’ in bold type, and I need your input. He’s close to reading Harrigan or Whitehead their rights.”

  “Does that mean I’m out of the running?”

  “It means you’re on a back burner. If we get desperate, we’ll turn up the heat.”

  “Georgy, would you cook dinner for a suspected murderer?” I asked her.

  “If I thought I could nail him, I’d even let him stick around for dessert.”

  That pert answer was rife with innuendo, and I felt myself flush. Why do I always fall for women lacking in timidity? Freud would say it’s because opposites attract, reducing me to a Milquetoast. I say it’s because such women have humor, street smarts, are independent, exciting and a challenge. They might also know how to cook, but that remained to be seen.

  “Tell me,” I said, “why not Harrigan and Whitehead?”

  “Let’s toss that around over dinner. See you about eight.”

  I would rather toss it around over dessert.

  Father was in neutral, meaning he was neither stroking nor tugging at his whiskers. I hoped to keep him idling for the duration of my visit. As always, he was immaculately attired in a vested business suit, white shirt and a rep silk tie. Father abhorred anything garish in his apparel, and therefore the Old Glory lapel pin he now wore with pride was a conspicuous sign of the times.

  His desk was cluttered with briefs, perhaps a result of his last client meeting, but two newspapers took center stage. Even reading upside down, the names Capote and Fortesque stood out in both headlines.

  “This business has certainly taken on a life of its own,” he said when I was seated.

  “It’s the names involved, sir,” I responded, nodding at the newspapers. “The murder of a relatively unknown man in a shoddy motel would be relegated to page five, if nothing juicier turned up to knock it off the editor’s desk. The author and the playboy have always been gist for the tabloids’ mills.” Calling Decimus Fortesque a playboy had me suppressing a smile.

  “It’s just unfortunate that you had to get involved in this one,” father said.

  “As you know, sir, I wasn’t aware of what I was getting into when I agreed to help Claudia Lester.” This implied that had I known I would have refused the assignment, which was not true. There was nothing I liked better than a case that garnered public notice, especially when it extended beyond the borders of my county and state.
It boosted my image as well as my fees. Contrary to father’s more conservative opinion, I think it helped rather than hindered the cause of McNally & Son. However, this was neither the time nor the place to argue the point.

  “What’s your position now?” he asked. “I assume the murder investigation is being conducted by the police and that you are cooperating.”

  The last time I had discussed the case with father I had met with O’Hara and spoken to Claudia Lester at Bradley House. Now I brought him up to date with an account of my interviews with Harrigan and Whitehead. Being a lawyer, father is a good listener. Being a good lawyer, he jotted down a few notes along the way.

  When I was done, he leaned back in his chair and began, “It seems to me that the sole object of this escapade is to get more than fifty thousand for that manuscript by either selling it again to another buyer or forcing Fortesque to come up with more money if he wanted to hang on to what he almost had. Were they content with the original sum agreed upon, we would not be having this conversation. It seems someone is running a private auction with Fortesque and an unknown or unknowns vying for the prize.”

  I agreed, saying, “I think Fortesque made them an offer and wouldn’t go a penny more. If they canvassed the manuscript to other collectors and received a better offer, Fortesque would not now be minus fifty thousand and I would have been spared a bump on the head.”

  Unspoken was the fact that I would also not have met Georgy girl.

  I went on to say, “Fortesque was their target because they had inside information regarding his taste for the esoteric. I speak of his third wife, Vera Fortesque, a friend of Claudia Lester.”

  Gadzooks! The lightbulb did not merely pop—it exploded. That’s always the way with a case. The break comes when you least expect it. I wanted to jump up and clap my hands, but that would be uncouth. It would also be foolish. My epiphany could not be taken on faith alone. It needed proving, and stealth, not exposé, was the means to that end. I would have to play my hand close to the vest or it could cost me the game.

  Distracted, I heard but did not perceive all father said, but did manage to snap out of my silent musing in time to hear him ask, “Of the three, who do you think might be telling the truth?”