McNally's Alibi

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Certainly not with dinner,” I gasped.

  “Especially with dinner.”

  “So his name was Joey,” I stated.

  “And still is, unless he changed it to something more catchy, like Guy or Brad or, Lord forbid, Jeb. Joseph Gallo. No relation to the Napa Valley Gallos. Joey’s father was a mason.”

  “Serves you right for falling for an Italian,” I said, drinks in hand. Turning, I almost ran into the screen. I put down the glasses, folded the screen and propped it against the nearest wall.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “I can’t have you popping in and out from behind that screen all evening. As Gertrude Stein so cleverly put it, a kitchen is a kitchen is a kitchen. Also, I can see you don’t put arsenic in the saltcellar. Hmmm, something smells good.”

  “Thanks. It’s Liz Arden. Very expensive.”

  “I am talking about the aroma emanating from the oven.”

  “Oh, that. Cut up chicken, cut up potatoes and cut up onions. Sprinkle with olive oil and bake till tender. Garnish with basil and oregano. The potatoes go in first, because they take the longest.”

  “Sounds Italian. One of Joey’s recipes?”

  “No, Archy. My mother’s. She’s Italian.”

  “Like I just said, a lovely people, the Italians. Salute, bella.”

  “Cheers,” she toasted, then proudly proclaimed, “I uncorked my wine to let it breathe.”

  I looked at the label and told her it had breathed its last hours ago. “We’ll have the wine I brought.”

  “Archy McNally, you are opinionated—and pompous.”

  “I am an invitee. Be nice.”

  “An invitee who’s taken over my dinner party.”

  “Dinner party? I thought this was yet another business meeting,” I said, and was rewarded with that lovely neck-to-forehead blush.

  “It is,” she barked. “We can sit for a while. The chicken won’t be ready for forty minutes. I set the timer.”

  The living area was furnished with a settee, club chairs, coffee table and lamps, comfortable but nondescript. Georgy said, as we took our places, that the cottage had come furnished. “I never got around to changing anything except the bedroom furniture, which you will never see.”

  “Then I won’t show you mine,” I quipped and got the blush. Oh, I could play her like a Stradivarius.

  Until Georgy began giving me a summary of Whitehead’s statement to the police I had almost forgotten the reason I was here. To make amends for this dereliction of duty, I listened attentively and could find no discrepancy in what the man had said to me and what he told the police.

  “What do you think?” Georgy asked when she was finished.

  What followed was a give-and-take very similar to the one I had had with father that afternoon. When done, we were no closer to a solution than when we started. As Binky might say, we were spinning our wheels.

  “How can your boss hand over Harrigan or Whitehead to the District Attorney? Where’s his proof that one of them murdered Swensen?”

  “It’s circumstantial,” she said, “but it’s all we have. They were both involved in the sale of the manuscript to Fortesque, and they were both in the motel room with the dead man. Harrigan even admits to giving Swensen the dope.”

  “I was also involved in the manuscript deal, even though I didn’t know it at the time, and I was in the motel room,” I told her. “Why isn’t Delaney drinking of arresting me?”

  “You’re not off his list, Archy. I told you that. You three were the only ones to have been in the murder room, which makes you all prime suspects. Your saving grace, for now, is your good standing in the community and your lack of motive. But that could change. There’s no witness to say you were mugged and the manuscript taken. You have no alibi on that score.”

  “I had a bump on my head, but it’s disappeared. Goodbye alibi.” Getting up to freshen my drink, I held out my hands. “Put on the cuffs, officer.”

  Refusing a refill, Georgy said, “Captain Delaney would have a fit if he knew I was collaborating with you. My job is on the line, Archy.”

  When I came back I promised, “I might yet make you the envy of the squad, Georgy girl.”

  “How so?”

  “Listen and be enlightened. Do you see how we keep arranging and rearranging three cards, like a shark running a game of three-card monte? The three of us in the motel room. The three of them dealing with Fortesque. We’re so intent on watching the cards, we forget to keep an eye on the dealer.”

  “But one of the cards is the dealer,” Georgy said.

  “A card can’t be a dealer. A card is nothing more than a device. A means to an end.”

  “But all we have are those three,” Georgy insisted.

  “Really? I believe, and I’m sure Delaney does, too, that two of our three darlings are working together. One, working alone, could not have created all the mischief that took place the night I made the exchange at the Crescent Motel.

  But which two?

  “Something I heard this afternoon made me think there might be a joker in the deck. With your help I would like to flush it out.”

  She seemed leery. “My help? What did you have in mind?”

  “A C.S.O.”

  “A what?”

  “A Counter Sting Operation. Are you game?”

  “Will it get me fired?”

  “My dear, it may just get you a medal.”

  She was still dubious, but curious. “I’m listening.”

  The oven timer told us our forty minutes was up.

  “It can wait till after dinner,” I said. “Time, tide and a cut-up chicken wait for no man.”

  “Succotash,” she announced, displaying the steaming bowl with pride. “From scratch. I scraped the corn off the cobs, and the limas are fresh.”

  It was delicious. As was the platter of chicken surrounded by crisp potatoes and onions. It was a down-home meal, and, amazing myself, I felt very much at home. We drank enough wine to make us scintillating and clever, but not enough to dull our senses. The evening, after all, was before us. I learned that Georgy is an Aquarian. I told her I was a Pisces.

  “We go together like fish and water,” she exclaimed.

  Like I said—scintillating and clever.

  19

  THE ONLY THING BINKY had seen on his evening vigil was Tommy Ambrose and friends.

  “What were they doing on Dunbar Road at that hour of the night?”

  “Coming from a party and on their way to the next one,” Binky said, now without a hint of envy in the delivery. “You know that crowd.”

  I knew that crowd very well and cared for them not at all. Locals referred to the clique as Tommy Ambrose and Co. I called them the Nighthawks, a name borrowed from the famous Edward Hopper painting. For those not familiar with the term, Nighthawks are a strain of our breed who emerge after the last bar closes to gather in all-night diners, sipping coffee and puffing on unfiltered Camels. Where they emerge from and where they flee to at the first sign of dawn is questionable, but theories abound.

  In Hopper’s work we see them through the glass facade of the diner; a study in quiet desperation, forlorn and forsaken, they seem to be focusing their attention on the clerk behind the counter, his hands engaged in a task hidden by the counter’s top.

  An artistic entrepreneur with a flair for the macabre redid the work, substituting the faces of dead film stars for Hopper’s threesome, adding the figure of the late James Dean peering futilely in the window as if wondering, as he did in life, if this was where he belonged. The poster enjoyed a vogue far exceeding Hopper’s original, proving that we get what we deserve.

  No, I don’t care for Tommy Ambrose, and since he began taking book on my love life I find him even more insufferable. Knowing it was hopeless, I said to Binky, “I hope you didn’t tell him what you were doing there.”

  “I had to say something,” came the expected reply.

  “And...”

  �
�I said I had read about the light in the window of the Beaumont house and was curious. I didn’t say I was on a case or mention any names.”

  Except the name of the house, which said it all. Well, what difference did it make? All of Palm Beach knew that Tyler Beaumont was in our midst, and those who hadn’t seen the article in the newspaper had certainly heard about it by now. I would bet my personally autographed photo of King Kong that Binky would have company on tonight’s watch.

  “Did Tommy give you the latest odds on my bout with Alejandro?”

  “He said there was a lot of action after you showed up with the blonde. When the odds began dropping in your favor, Tommy put out the word that you got the blonde from an escort service.”

  I was sorry I had asked. The best way to handle Tommy Ambrose and his ilk was to ignore them. Anything more only encourages them.

  I told Binky that after tonight we would call it quits on Dunbar Road, as it was an exercise in futility. Binky readily agreed. He deposited a pathetically small packet of mail on the desk and, backing out of my space, told me, “Al Rogoff is back.”

  Now, that was news. “Back from where?”

  “A quick hop to New York. Just one night. You think he has a girl up there?”

  He sure does. She’s a ticket broker who gets him choice seats to the opera, ballet or the kind of concerts that get sold out the minute the performing artist is announced. Not knowing what Al had told his cohorts in blue, I suggested to Binky that he direct the query to Al.

  “I did,” Binky said. “He told me to mind my own business.”

  Minding my own business was just what I was not going to do this sunny Palm Beach day. I put in a call to Decimus Fortesque and the first step in my C.S.O. was put in motion. The butler, Zimmermann, informed me that the master was at his club and was expected home directly after lunch. I said it was imperative that I see him this afternoon and would come to the house at three.

  “I’ll wait if he’s not home yet, and should he get there before me, keep him there,” I commanded Zimmermann.

  “Very good, sir.”

  I then put in a call to Al at home and got him there.

  “They ain’t arrested you yet?” Al said, sounding disappointed.

  “They have not, and I’m going to make sure they never do. Are you working tonight?”

  “The graveyard shift,” he said.

  “Can I buy you lunch at the Pelican?”

  “Are you still a suspect, pal?”

  “Like the thirteenth juror, I get called if someone falls out. The odds are a zillion to one they’ll put me in the pokey.”

  “Sounds like your chances of routing Alejandro from your harem.”

  “Binky Watrous has a big mouth.”

  “You’re telling me. I’ll meet you at the Pelican, because I want to see you on another matter. I’ll be there at noon but can’t stay more than an hour. I have to get a haircut, pick up my laundry and stock the pantry.”

  “If you had a wife, Al, you wouldn’t have to do anything but get a haircut.”

  “If I had a wife, pal, I wouldn’t need a haircut. I’d have pulled them all out.”

  I chuckled, told him we would indulge in a hamburger at the bar and signed off, having no idea why he wanted to see me. Having enough on my plate to keep me noshing all morning, Al’s tidbit could wait till lunch.

  Now for step two of the C.S.O. A bit premature, I’m afraid, as I had not completed step one, which was to get Fortesque’s permission to proceed. That would have to come after the fact, as time was of the essence. If he refused to go along, which I doubted, we would be back to square one and, perhaps more damaging, alert our trio to what was afoot. But the gist of a sting operation being cojones, I called my ex-client, Claudia Lester.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said when I identified myself. “Have you found me money and the manuscript?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you, Ms. Lester.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong place. Try Mr. Harrigan.”

  “You know he’s back and has been to the police?”

  “I can read, Mr. McNally. Are they buying his story?”

  “Right now they’re not buying any of your stories, but my client, Decimus Fortesque, is once again in a buying mood. Interested?”

  There came, as the hacks say, an audible silence, and I defy anyone to say it better. “Are you there, Ms. Lester?” I prompted.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, wanting not information but confirmation.

  “I mean he’s a foolish old man with more money than sense, but he is my client and I am doing his bidding. He’s willing to make another offer for the manuscript.”

  “To repeat, Mr. McNally, why call me? I don’t have it.”

  You had to hand it to her. A pro right down to the wire. Not even the promise of more loot was going to catch the lady off guard. She wouldn’t give an inch until she knew exactly what Fortesque’s offer entailed, which, alas, poor Decimus didn’t know himself at this juncture.

  “You say Harrigan has it. He says you have it. And Whitehead says you both have it. Deci Fortesque figures that one of you must have it, and he wants it.”

  “He’s in for fifty thousand,” she replied. “Isn’t he concerned where it went to?”

  “Sure he is,” I told her, “but in for a penny, in for a pound, as those who have beaucoup pounds like to say. He’s an avid collector, Ms. Lester, and in your trade I’m sure you know how tenacious they can be when it comes to getting what they want. Haven’t some been known to do murder as the means to that end?”

  “Are you saying Deci murdered Swensen, Mr. McNally?”

  “Who murdered Lawrence Swensen is the concern of the police and of no interest to me or my client.” The lie I rolled off my lips with genuine conviction. “And we born know Mr. Fortesque didn’t murder anyone.”

  I could hear the match strike on the other end, followed by the delicious intake of the first puff. “So what’s the deal?” she said, exhaling.

  “He would like to meet with the three of you this evening at nine and make his offer. Will you come?”

  “Have Matthew and Rodney agreed to be there?” she wanted to know.

  “This is my first call, but I imagine they will.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  I had her. She couldn’t stand being left out if there was a chance her partners would attend. “Do you have Fortesque’s address?”

  “I have it.” And she rang off.

  Thanks to Georgy girl, I now had the numbers of the motels where Harrigan and Whitehead were stopping. I called both and gave them the same story I had given to Claudia Lester. They wanted to know if the other two would be there, and I assured them they would. Harrigan told me Claudia Lester hung up on him every time he called. “The bitch is made of ice,” he whined. “Do the police believe her or me?”

  “Not my business, Matt. I want that manuscript for my client, and when I get it you can all go to the devil.”

  “I didn’t kill Swensen,” he protested.

  “That, too, is not my business. See you at nine. Dress is informal.”

  Whitehead was the only one who betrayed his greed. “Well, we’re finally getting down to business,” he gloated. “If Fortesque is going to make an offer, I want not only my cut but my share of the fifty those conniving pirates stole.”

  This implied that there was no question of the manuscript’s surfacing should an offer be made. Encouraged, I said, “After you hear what Fortesque has to say, you can make your own arrangements with me pirates. See you at nine.”

  “Are they going to arrest Harrigan for the murder?” he quickly got in.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “After what I told the police, they should arrest both of them. One for murder and the other for conspiracy.”

  “You are not without blame, Mr. Whitehead.”

  “I was only trying to make a dishonest buck. Arrest everyone in this country who does
that and we’d need to build a wall around Texas to imprison them.”

  Not wishing to honor the inanity with a reply, I hung up on Rodney Whitehead and placed a call to Tyler Beaumont at the Colony. I told him I was just checking in, had nothing of note to report, and asked how he was getting along.

  “Just fine, Mr. McNally. I see the press knows I’m here.”

  I told him that was inevitable in a town like Palm Beach, especially after the incident at his parents’ home. “Are you seeing friends?”

  “Afraid not,” he said. “I’m being a recluse. Would you like to rescue me from boredom and have a drink with me this evening?”

  “I have an appointment at nine, but am free before. What about seven?”

  “Seven it is, Mr. McNally. The Colony on Hammon Avenue.”

  “I know where the Colony is, Ty. Till later.”

  We were Simon Pettibone’s first customers, taking him away from Wall Street via cable TV and to drawing a couple of lagers for Sergeant Rogoff and me. In uniform, Al Rogoff looks like Attila the Hun in uniform. In civvies, Al Rogoff looks like Attila the Hun in civvies. But don’t judge the man by the facade. Al is kind, gentle and cultivated.

  “So what did you see in New York?” I asked after tasting the beer, which was choice.

  “Voina y Mir,” he answered, as if recalling a particularly pleasant dream.

  I had to think about that one. “War and Peace? The one by Tolstoy?”

  “You’re pretty good, Archy. The book is by the count. The opera is by Sergei Prokofiev.”

  I was impressed, but when Al drops names I always am. “It’s a grand and very long tome,” I said.

  “So is the opera. Over three hundred supers and four and a half hours long with intermission. Magnificent from start to finish.”

  I assume he meant from the war to the peace. “A man named Ernest Newman,” I told Al, “said he didn’t know which would be better—an opera without an interval, or an interval without an opera. I might go for the latter.”

  “Your taste is in your mouth, Archy.”

  “I wouldn’t want it anyplace else,” I admitted. And speaking of which, I beckoned to Priscilla as she drifted by in a pair of white jeans that looked as if they had been painted on and a cotton T-shirt that looked on the verge of erupting.