McNally's Alibi

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Well, well, well,” she remarked, “if it isn’t the PI and the flatfoot. You still looking for the guy who clobbered you, Mr. Spade?”

  “Would you marry me?” Al asked as if he meant it.

  “Depends,” Priscilla told him.

  “On what?”

  “Your bank balance.”

  Al shook his head. “Right now I’m overdrawn, but I get paid tomorrow.”

  “Stop it, both of you,” I cut in. “Sergeant Rogoff is bemused by Russian music and not responsible for what he says. I know for a fact that he does not get paid tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll have to decline, Sergeant Rogoff. Would you like to see a menu instead?”

  “No need,” I answered for Al, “we’re eating at the bar. Leroy’s burgers, more rare than medium, a side order of fries, very crisp, and a few kosher dills, sliced.”

  “Two death-wish specials coming up,” Priscilla proclaimed, and marched off.

  “She’s probably right,” Al lamented over our lunch order.

  “Would you rather have Jell-O over a mound of cottage cheese?”

  He winced. “God forbid.”

  “Then shut up.” If one goes, one may as well go all the way.

  I asked Al what he knew about the murder at the Crescent Motel. Not being in his jurisdiction, and having been away for two days, he didn’t know much, but thanks to his neighbor, Binky, he was up to snuff on all the vital statistics concerning Georgia O’Hara. “Some dish, quote and unquote, Binky Watrous,” Al said.

  “That she is, Al.” Being in need of a confidant, I told him what was happening with Georgy and me socially, not professionally.

  Al grimaced, which, on his mug, was frightening. “I told you I didn’t want to discuss the case with you because you were a suspect, and now you’re telling me you’re dating the officer in charge of the investigation.

  “Cripes, I don’t know who’s being more loco, you or the dame.”

  “What’s the big deal? You and I have worked cases together.”

  “Never when you were a suspect, pal, and we never dated.”

  “Are you bragging or complaining, Al?”

  “Come off it, Archy. You know what I’m talking about. What does her boss have to say about it?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “That’s what I thought. If I was you, I would can it or at least wait till the case was closed.”

  Hoping to have closure in a few days, I nodded as if in agreement. Of course, Al was right and I was wrong to make him privy to my indiscretion. Coming from a discreet inquirer only compounded the issue. Sensing this was as far as he wanted to go with the subject, I dropped it and reminded him that he had something he wanted to discuss with me. “What is it, Al?”

  “The Beaumont house. Binky tells me you have him on a midnight watch but he won’t tell me why. Will you?”

  “Why do you want to know, Al?”

  “Because the more I think about it, the more I’m certain I saw a light in that upstairs window. Now I read in Spindrift’s column that the Beaumont boy is here in Palm Beach. What gives, Archy?”

  Here I was up against that old dilemma. How far could I go without breaking my client’s trust, however bizarre the confidence. I owed Al something, and if he now believed there was a light in that window, I owed my client Al’s professional opinion. Avoiding telling Al who Tyler thought was playing with the light switches in the house, I settled on telling him what I had told Ursi and Lolly, which wasn’t exactly a fabrication but a slight distortion of the truth. Tyler Beaumont had heard about Al’s sighting and asked me to investigate the possibility that someone was prowling around the place.

  “How come his parents didn’t come, too?” Al commented.

  “His parents are in England, playing the ponies with princes and earls.”

  “You serious?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die. The Beaumonts do things like that, and some people sit through War and Peace set to music.” I told Al that the family had had the house looked at this past summer when they heard similar reports, but nothing was found. “I’m doing this as a favor to the boy,” I said. “The only thing Binky saw last night was Tommy Ambrose.”

  “Tommy Ambrose? Now, ain’t that interesting,” Al reflected.

  Priscilla arrived with the death-wish specials just as Mr. Pettibone positioned our place mats. Al was as reluctant to discuss the light in the Beaumont window as he was to hear about my relationship with Georgia O’Hara. In the game of give-and-take, we had both given a little but took nothing in return—except a scrumptious lunch. This evened the score, and, hey, you can’t have everything.

  20

  “DO YOU HAVE THE manuscript?” Fortesque pounced as soon I entered the library where he was seated.

  “Good day to you, too, sir,” I said. “I don’t come bearing the manuscript but a plan to get it.”

  “A plan? When Sam told me you had urgent business, I thought you found my property. Since the press and the TV got onto this thing I’ve been hounded by everyone, including the police and a New York publisher who seems to think that if the manuscript turns up it belongs to them. Wishful thinking, I told ’em.”

  Once again, father knew best. Thanks to the murder of Lawrence Swensen, the once clandestine discovery of the Capote papers was now in the public domain. If the manuscript ever did reappear and it was what Whitehead claimed it to be, Decimus Fortesque might just need a lawyer to hang on to his treasure. And there was nothing father liked better than a challenge attached to a hefty fee.

  In spite of Fortesque’s vexation with the publisher, one could see that he was very pleased to have, or almost have, a collectible that was causing a minor sensation. This might yet prove more famous than his collection of wives.

  On that subject, he ranted, “Whenever my name appears in print it’s followed by the names of all my brides. One rag even wrote that my monthly alimony bill equaled the average American’s yearly income.”

  I was impressed. “Is that true, sir?”

  “If it is, the average American is doing okay for himself. Now, what’s this plan? Is it guaranteed to get me the manuscript, or my money back?”

  “Nothing in this world is guaranteed, Mr. Fortesque, except death and taxes.”

  “And alimony,” he added.

  “Of course, sir. And alimony. May I sit?”

  With a protuberant gaze, he indicated a chair and waved me into it. “Sorry, but when I get worked up I forget the niceties. Can I offer you something? I’ll ring for Sam.”

  Knowing what Sam would bring, I declined, saying I had enjoyed a larger than usual lunch.

  “I ate at my club,” he reported. “Salad and a sip of white wine. Tiresome, but healthy. So what’s the plan? Does it involve the police? If it does, the answer is no. Don’t like the police, man. Nosy bastards. But I must say the one who came about the bloody manuscript was an eyeful. Nothing like that on the force in my day. If I hadn’t given up marrying for collecting, I would have signed her up for the alimony brigade.”

  I couldn’t wait to tell Georgy this. “What makes you think she would accept, sir?”

  “Why wouldn’t she, unless she’s a Communist and opposed to money and a life of luxury? One of my wives was a stewardess for a big airline. ‘Marry me and fly free,’ she said, and I took the bait. She quit her job and lost her privileges with the line. To keep her promise she bought a jet, hired a pilot and fell in love with him. I got custody of the plane, and she got custody of the pilot. You wouldn’t be in the market for a used jet, would you?”

  If Fortesque’s marriages had lasted as long as his diatribes, he might still be married to number one. “I’m not in the market for a jet, but if I hear of anyone who is, I’ll send them around. Now, about the plan...”

  “Yes. The plan. What about it?”

  “I invited the three principals in this affair to meet with you at nine this evening.”

  “Don’t know as I want to, man. One
of them is a murderer.”

  “There’s a possibility we may find out which one,” I said.

  “That’s a matter for the police. Why not tell them?”

  “Because you just said you don’t want anything to do with the police.”

  “So I did. Go on. What’s the deal?”

  I told him what I wanted, which was to offer the three another fifty thousand for the manuscript.

  “Funny,” he said. “A hundred thousand was the original asking price. I offered half and they accepted it.’ ”

  Or pretended to accept it, I was thinking. It was now clear that the scheme to get another fifty out of Fortesque was hatched the day he held firm on his offer.

  “This is a tough crowd and not easily fooled. You’re going to have to convince them that you are desperate to get your mitts on that book. You’re willing to forgive, forget and pay. Let’s keep Swensen’s murder out of it. It’s police business and might make them suspect that finding the murderer, not the manuscript, is our goal.”

  “And it’s all a sham,” he said.

  “Of course,” I assured him.

  “Good,” he replied, “because I won’t give them another cent, but they’re not going to admit they have it and hand it over just like that. If that’s your plan, forget it.”

  His acumen was right on target. Just when you thought you were dealing with a man who’s always out to lunch, he lets you know he’s playing with a full deck. I was now confident that he’d rise to the challenge and play the game according to my rules. After all, he was a zillionaire looking to get his money’s worth and woe be unto the interlopers.

  “There’s more to my plan than just the offer, sir. Trust me.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “After you make your offer, I will tell them how the exchange is to be made.” Here, I delineated just what I would say and do. He listened, eyes bulging with glee, and nodded his assent.

  “So the police are in on it,” he said when I had finished.

  “Strictly speaking, sir, they are not. I mean, should it work, they’ll make an arrest. Should it not, they’ll claim ignorance of our intentions.”

  “Who’s the murderer, Archy? And why kill if they had the money and the manuscript?”

  “Who? I don’t know. Why? Because they wanted more money, and now we’re going to give it to them, in spades.”

  “Answered prayers,” he said.

  “I hope so, sir.”

  When I took my leave, Fortesque asked me what I knew about Tyler Beaumont’s visit to Palm Beach. “It’s all the talk at the club today. Is it true he came down especially to see you?”

  Now so used to the story I had concocted, I dished it out to Fortesque with the ease of a politician on the campaign trail.

  “That house is cursed,” Fortesque said. “I suppose you know what happened there. The steps should have been carpeted, but I heard they never were because Sarah Beaumont didn’t want anything clashing with her fancy ball gowns when she made her grand entrances. I met Dmitri and Audrey at one of the Beaumont parties. He was a Romanov and she was an Emery. Not the first title-and-money combo to settle in Palm Beach.”

  I left Fortesque nodding in his chair, perhaps envisioning the night Sarah Beaumont came down those steps to have her hand kissed by the Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovitch.

  As Sam led me to the door, I recalled his comment when last he ushered me out. “You once told me to beware of answered prayers,” I reminded him.

  “So I did, sir.”

  “Will you tell me what you meant?”

  With the air of a sage counseling a monk in training, he lectured, “When Mr. Fortesque gave up marrying for collecting, I turned to baking and Prince Siddhartha, both very calming after having to adjust to eight mistresses in as many years. The Prince believes that everything is nothing, and therefore nothing is everything. So one should pray for nothing. I believe he had the edge on the Carmelite mystic by a few millennia. Mr. Fortesque’s quest for Answered Prayers has led to nothing but grief. Should he find the book, I imagine it will prove even more grievous. And tell me, sir, did the éclairs you wished for and got bring you joy?”

  “As a matter of fact, Sam, they didn’t. My housekeeper was very put out at having to serve someone else’s pastry for dessert, and I got the blame.”

  “Just as I thought, sir. Good day.”

  Before I got the door closed on me, I said, “Prince Siddhartha?”

  “Buddha, sir.”

  “Carmelite mystic?”

  “Saint Teresa of Avila, sir.”

  Seeing he was in an answering mood, I fed him, “Ethel Merman?”

  “A third cousin, once removed, sir.”

  As they say up the road a piece, all systems were go and the countdown had begun. When a case reaches this point it starts an eddy of adrenaline bubbling in my veins, and I was hard-pressed to keep my foot from gunning the Miata’s gas pedal to the floor. I went back to the office to give father a wrap-up but was too late. He had left for a business meeting and wasn’t expected to return. I put in a call to Georgy and told her that we were poised on the launching pad.

  “Tomorrow night?” she asked.

  “That’s what I’m hoping. I don’t see any reason to prolong it.”

  “In fact,” she said, “it’s not a moment too soon. We’re state troopers and not equipped or mandated for long-term investigative work. The case is about to be turned over to those who are. Also, Archy, we have to cover three sites.

  “I’ll take one, but who can I assign the other two when I’m not supposed to be in on this?”

  “Can’t you assign it to a couple of subordinates? What’s a lieutenant for?”

  “For taking the blame, that’s what for. I’ll try to come up with something. How is Fortesque taking it?”

  “With all the aplomb of an actor on opening night. By the by, Georgy, he was quite taken by your charms. He said he thought of making you number nine.”

  “Really? The last time Swathmoore and I sat down to chop suey my fortune cookie said, ‘The best times of your life have yet to be lived,’ and gave my lucky number as nine. If this all pans out, I’ll have it all.”

  “Everything is nothing, Georgy.”

  “Really? Says who?”

  “A very wise man, that’s who. What are you doing tonight?” I asked.

  “I’m going to watch Hotel Berlin. I’m in love with Helmut Dantine—posthumously, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s on tape?” I cried.

  “It is for me. A friend of mine has it on sixteen-millimeter and pulled a tape for me. You know it’s the campiest war film ever made.”

  What an extraordinary woman—and she could cook, if one liked succotash. “Would you marry me?” I proposed.

  “Only if Decimus Fortesque changes his mind.”

  Then I got an idea that I would later regret but, at the time, seemed inconsequential. “How would you like to meet a millionaire who’s younger and richer than Fortesque and handsomer and more alive than Helmut Dantine?”

  “Twist my arm,” she begged.

  “I can’t pick you up, drive you home and be back in time to be at Fortesque’s at nine, so meet me at the Colony at seven and say hello to Tyler Beaumont.”

  She squealed like a teenager. “The Tyler Beaumont?”

  “Is there any other?”

  “What should I wear?” she moaned.

  “As little as possible.”

  “You’re a dirty old man, Archy McNally.”

  After dealing with Georgy, I got ready to pack it in on Royal Palm Way and head for a swim before meeting with both clients this evening. Halfway out the door my phone rang. I vacillated in the doorway, stepped out, came back, shrugged and returned to answer it. On such trifling decisions are our fates decided? I fear they are. It was Connie.

  “Did I get you at a bad time, Archy?”

  “No, not at all. I was just getting ready to call it quits.”

  “Same here,” she
said, “but it’s been on my mind all day and I wanted to do it before I left.”

  “Do what, Connie?” I must say it was good to hear her voice.

  “Apologize for the champagne dinner. Binky said you might have to sell the Miata.”

  “I’d sell Binky first,” I told her. “Look, Connie, let’s say we both acted a little foolish and forget it happened.”

  “Okay. But some of us acted more foolishly than others.”

  She had to turn the screw one more time, but I was so happy she was still speaking to me I acquiesced by keeping my mouth shut.

  “If you’re free tonight,” she said, “I’ll take you to dinner at Café L’Europe and you can order champagne.”

  I was truly touched. “Connie,” I pleaded, “I would like nothing better and would even go dutch, but I have two client meetings this evening. Seven and nine. Can we do it some other time?”

  “Sure,” she said, and went on, “I’ve been reading about the Capote case. Lady C is telling everyone who’ll listen that she’s in the book. I hope you’re keeping out of dark alleys, Archy. We would hate to lose you. When you told me about the murder, I didn’t realize you were in so deep. Sorry if I sounded crass.”

  I was even more touched. It seemed I was being offered an olive branch. I think Connie was as undecided about our future as I and not burning any bridges. We parted with a promise of talking the next day.

  Georgy wore what I believe was once called a sack dress, and perhaps still is, in gray. This is a shapeless garment that hangs straight from the shoulder to the hemline, which, in Georgy’s rendering, was mid-knee. That print silk scarf, last seen around her neck, was now wrapped around her waist, shaping the dress to her lithe figure. She was shod in black low-heeled espadrilles.

  For my two, and diverse, engagements I had gotten into a pair of baggy flannels favored by rich gentlemen and British royalty, topping them with a navy hopsacking jacket with toggle fasteners. I must say we made a fetching couple.

  Tyler was already seated in the lounge and waved us over as we entered. “He is adorable,” Georgy whispered.