McNally's Chance

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Would you please pour me another dram, Archy, and help yourself to more if you like.” When I had refilled both our glasses the Gov, still nonplussed, ruminated, “An Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler.

  Remarkable.”

  Father was never a gossip, but he could not conceal his excitement over this intimate look into the lives of three of the richest men in the country. Tom Appleton keeps a mistress, Dick Cranston has a drinking problem, and Harry Schuyler is not long for this world,” he went on.

  “Each of them thinks he is the father of Sabrina’s daughter and without even knowing which one is, she beat them all out of a fortune. What an extraordinary woman.”

  “She was, sir, but not very timid, I’m afraid. She ruled her family like a czarina and harbored a great resentment against those three men in spite of beating them at their own game, and continued to goad them when they met again this past week. For all that she was special and, as you said, extraordinary.”

  “You’ve seen the daughter. Do her looks give the father, away?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. She doesn’t resemble her mother either, but then I’m told my sister looks like mother and I look like an orphan,;

  “You look like my father,” he said with foreboding.

  Having seen pictures of Freddy McNally I was aware of this, but as father likes to think the stork brought him (directly to Yale, I presume), I am mum on the subject. That I am a constant reminder of the McNally days on the burlesque circuit is a tough rood to tote around Palm Beach, believe me. Being tossed out of mein papa’s alma mater does not help my cause.

  “Who do you think did it, Archy?”

  “Cranston. He’s the most desperate and the murdering kind. Maybe he had one too many before his meeting with Sabrina.”

  “I cast my lot with Schulyer. As he said, he has nothing to lose.”

  Experience told me that the least likely suspect was usually the guy who done it. Sorry, Tom.

  “For all her faults,” I said, “I would like to see the one who did this pay for his transgression while upholding Sabrina’s end of the bargain.”

  Shaking his head as if to clear it of all I had told him, father returned to his abstemious self when he said, “I don’t think that’s possible, Archy.”

  “Sir?”

  He flicked his cigar ash in the tray on his desk and answered, “If Sabrina Wright was killed to prevent her from revealing the name of Gillian’s father, you are in danger of meeting the same fate.”

  “The thought had occurred to me and, apropos of this meeting, so are you.”

  “No one is aware of this meeting, Archy, but you and I, and I promise not to tell if you don’t.” He smiled at his own wit, which was indeed a rarity. “But there’s more to this than your imminent danger.”

  It’s rather startling to be prioritized and come in second.

  “I speak of our duty to assist the police in apprehending a murderer,”

  he lectured, ‘especially one who is poised to murder again. You know all the facts and it’s your duty to report them to the police and let them proceed from there. You are not capable of hunting down a murderer, especially one who is out to get you first. I don’t relish the idea of my son in the role of a moving target.”

  I did not remind him that I had apprehended a few murderers in my time, with great success, because I thought he might be genuinely worried about me getting in the way of a bullet. “If I go to the police, sir, two innocent men will go down with the guilty one.”

  “There are no innocent men in this scandal, Archy. There are only rotters and scoundrels who will get what they deserve.”

  Remember, he was speaking about those he revered the super-rich landed gentry but in the age-old battle between justice and privilege Prescott McNally would always side with the former and lament the errant ways of the latter. Pomposity is father’s style, not his religion.

  After a pause a bit theatrical I thought he continued, “This is not an order. When I put you in charge of Discreet Inquiries I did so without reservations. You’ve proved yourself worthy of that decision many times over and what I suggest now is not a matter of opinion but of law, the law we are all pledged to uphold.”

  He was right. No question about it, but I could not turn my back on the obligation I believed I owed Sabrina Wright. To this end I pleaded my suit. “I discuss all my cases with you not because I must, but because I value your judgment,” was how I began. “This case is no exception. When I learned of Sabrina Wright’s death this morning your return was the only light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I sought your counsel and you’ve given it.”

  “But there’s a caveat,” he anticipated.

  “I want a chance to talk with Appleton, Cranston, and Schuyler.”

  “That could be dangerous, Archy,” he put in.

  “One of them may have killed her, sir, but none of them are hardened criminals who would murder indiscriminately. Sabrina didn’t know the meaning of tact and may have driven her adversary over the edge in a moment of rage.”

  “He went to meet her with a loaded gun,” came the attorney’s rebuttal.

  “Perhaps to frighten her, but she wasn’t the type to kowtow even when facing a loaded pistol. I’m asking for a chance to meet with them and I want to see Sabrina’s husband and daughter. I want to know what they’re thinking and what they intend to do now that Sabrina is gone.

  Will her husband and daughter cooperate with the police? Will Gillian give up the search and go home? Did they really believe Sabrina went riding at night to think up romantic plots? They may possess crucial knowledge but don’t realize it because they know only half the facts.”

  “More like one-third of the facts,” father corrected with a sardonic air. “What are you asking, Archy?”

  “For time, sir. Give me twenty-four hours.” I looked at my watch.

  Mickey’s arms were wide open. Fifteen minutes past nine. “I will go to the police tomorrow evening regardless of what I turn up between now and then.”

  Father tugged at his hairy upper lip. Bad sign. Then he began to stroke it. A reprieve? “I will go along with it, Archy, not because I believe it’s right but because I don’t wish to live the rest of my life speculating on what might have been.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He began fingering a leather-bound copy of Great Expectations, and I knew I was being dismissed. “One moment,” he said as I prepared to get out of my chair. “That girl you were telling us about. Binky’s neighbor. Did you say her employer met with an accident in her pool? I think I recall reading about it before your mother and I left on our holiday.”

  “That’s correct, sir. Her name is Bianca Courtney and the woman was Lilian Ashman Gilbert.” I repeated the story I had told earlier, only now I included the saga of Lilian’s marriage and Bianca’s suspicions, which I had left out in deference to mother.

  “And he doesn’t inherit, you say?”

  “No, sir, he does not.”

  “Interesting. Very interesting.”

  But I didn’t know if he was talking about Tony Gilbert or Pip.

  Twenty-Three

  “Your father has already left,” Ursi informed me when I came down to breakfast.

  Good. It was why I had lingered over my ablutions. Ever diligent, I knew father would want to arrive at the office exceptionally early on his first day back at the helm. Mrs. Trelawney, as always, would be there to greet him when he walked in the door. I was more than a little apprehensive about the day ahead and I did not want to start out with father’s doubts, fears, and cautions ringing in my ears.

  “Just scrambled eggs and toast, Ursi, please,” I ordered. “It’s all I can take this morning.”

  “I have a lovely fruit cup,” Ursi tempted me, ‘with fresh pineapples and cherries.”

  Not wanting to offend I accepted the offer. “But no cream. Just the fruit.” The colorful array was cool, refreshing, and delicious, but I missed the cream.

 
“Jamie has gone to gas up the Ford and your mother is in the greenhouse. She’s been there practically since dawn.”

  I saw Ursi add a splash of milk to the bowl before she started scrambling the eggs. “I have those breakfast sausages you like. Should I put a couple in the skillet?” she asked.

  “Why not?” I would start my diet, once more, tomorrow, if I wasn’t shot dead before then. If I was, it wouldn’t make any difference if I had my eggs with or without the sausages.

  Busy at her stove, Ursi prattled, “The murder is the talk of the town, Archy. Everyone is guessing who the family is that poor Sabrina Wright was after. Neither her husband nor daughter has given the police a statement as yet, but when they do we’ll all know who it is.”

  Curiosity made me ask, “Who are the leading suspects?”

  “Harry Schuyler, hands down,” Ursi said. “He wasn’t called a terrible infant for nothing.”

  “I believe the expression is enfant terrible when you’re talking about the very rich. But what could one write about Harry Schuyler that hasn’t already seen print?”

  “With his kind I imagine what we know only scratches the surface. I think Sabrina Wright had something on him that no one in the world knows.”

  Out of the mouths of babes, I pondered. “And you think he did her in, Ursi?”

  “Him or the one she was after. Her daughter knows who it was. Why it’s like a Sabrina Wright novel without the romance.”

  My eggs and sausages were placed before me and, forgetting to tell Ursi I wanted dry rye toast, I was handed a generously buttered English muffin. Having been taught to eat what is served without making a fuss, I did just that.

  I went to the greenhouse to have a word with mother before I left. I do this as often as time will allow because I enjoy seeing her in the joyful serenity she derives from administering TLC to her beloved blossoms. The dappled light coming through the tinted glass cast her in a warm glow and when she looked up at my entrance I noticed a smudge of brown earth on her perpetually blushing cheek. Her apron was also stained, her hair slightly ruffled, and her smile endearing. It was a picture I would cherish all my life.

  “Oh, Archy, your new jacket, and it’s a perfect fit. I knew it would be.”

  I wore the raw silk yellow jacket with a dark brown shirt and chinos.

  “I dressed for you this morning, mother.” I said kissing her unsoiled cheek.

  “How flattering. And see how much better my begonias look since I’ve been back. I told them all about our cruise.”

  They did look rather perky on this lovely Palm Beach summer morning.

  Blue sky, bright sun, and a refreshing ocean breeze that promised not to forsake us by noon. “Father told me how much you enjoyed it.”

  She frowned. “Between us, Archy, it wasn’t all that wonderful. Too much to eat and too much to do. What they have against only three proper meals a day and a good old lounge chair, I’ll never know. But your father needed to get away and even if he did call the office every day he managed to relax and unwind a bit, and that made it all worthwhile.”

  Was this a marriage made in heaven? And how nice to be a by-product of the union. “He said he had a marvelous time, mother.”

  She looked at me wistfully. “What are your plans today, Archy?”

  “This and that. Nothing special.”

  “You will be careful, son, won’t you?”

  What was this all about? “I’m always careful, mother. Why the long face?”

  “You are involved in the Sabrina Wright murder, aren’t you?”

  I could not believe that father had told her and I have never known Ursi or Jamie to trouble mother with any gossip more malicious than reporting what Palm Beach matron had worn the same dress twice in one season. Seeing my quandary she said, “Your mother is not as sharp as she used to be, but she’s not ready for the recycling bin just yet.”

  “If they recycled you, mother, what would you come back as?”

  A begonia, what else?”

  “Do your begonias tell tales out of school?”

  She brushed back a stray curl and anointed her forehead with yet another smudge. “I saw Jamie whispering to your father when we were waiting for our luggage at the dock. Last night I decided to open up a few topics and see which I would not be allowed to pursue. Sabrina Wright’s murder was the obvious choice. Your father couldn’t be less interested in Binky’s housewarming than I am in growing roses.”

  I laughed. Long concerned with her short-term memory loss and her torpid interludes, I was more relieved at this sudden burst of astuteness than in her knowing the truth. “Okay, Miss Marple, I did some work for the lady when she arrived in town and she was alive and well when the job was done. I was not connected to her at the time of her death.”

  “Will the police want to question you?” she asked.

  “I imagine they will, mother.”

  Are you going to help them find the murderer?”

  I could honestly answer in the negative because what I intended to do I would do on my own. “I am going to tell the police what I know and leave it to them.”

  “I’m. so glad, Archy.”

  “So am I, mother.” I gave her another peck on the cheek and made my way out of the greenhouse.

  The stretch limo got on my tail the moment I pulled onto Ocean Boulevard. I picked up speed and raised my voice in song, “Three blind mice, three blind mice…”

  I was tempted to lead him to the scene of the crime, but I didn’t fancy being CNN’s morning news breaker Would the guy shoot me in the bright light of day? No, he would have his driver do it. Taking my time I drove to an outdoor juice bar in Lake Worth. I pulled into the limited parking area and the limo joined me. I did not get out of the Miata.

  If Dickey Cranston wanted me he could come and get me. If he sent his driver to invite me in I would hold my ground.

  We played the brinkmanship game for a couple of minutes, which is a long time when you’re taking up space in an outdoor juice bar and not lapping up the papaya. I decided to give the future ambassador to the Court of St. James sixty seconds to make his intentions known, then I would be the man that got away. At the count of thirty the limo door opened, the passenger door that is, and Mohammed came to the mountain.

  “What do you know?” he grunted before he was seated.

  “I know that Sabrina is dead.”

  “Thanks. I got the news yesterday, shortly after midnight.”

  Had he made his first error? “Strange, because it didn’t hit the wire services until early yesterday morning.”

  “Stop playing the clever dick, Archy. Washington never sleeps and I’m never out of touch. What do you know about it?”

  “I know I had no reason to murder the woman,” I said.

  “Implying that I did? Sorry, but I didn’t.”

  Time and space precluded finessing around the bush. “Don’t tell me you weren’t relieved to hear that the only person who could name Gillian’s father was dead.”

  “You look very much alive to me, Archy,” he shot back, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

  He was correct, as far as the supposition went. With Sabrina gone I was the only person who could name the contenders. What I could not do was crown the champ. Neither could Sabrina, but that didn’t prevent her from getting a bullet in her head.

  Covering my back I told him, “I keep a journal, Dickey, and everything that passed between Sabrina Wright, you, and me, has been faithfully recorded. I willed it to Lolly Spindrift.”

  He lit up. The Miata is not a stretch limo, therefore I was forced to have my first secondhand cigarette of the day. I rolled down my window, but Cranston didn’t seem to notice. He sucked on the filtered tip like it was the first one he had had in a year and wasn’t likely to get another in the near future. His hand was trembling, his forehead was wet and shiny, and his knee had suddenly developed a spastic tic.

  Was he in the throes of withdrawal or scared out of his gourd?<
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  “I didn’t kill Sabrina,” he said, ‘although I would have liked to when last we met. Fame and good fortune only made her more arrogant. And I have no intention of killing you. I’ve done some foolish things in my life, Archy, but I am not a fool. Killing Sabrina, or you, only draws attention to the problem. It solves nothing.

  “With Sabrina alive there was a chance to ride this out. Now, every gossip in town is speculating on what she and her daughter were doing here. Looking for the girl’s natural mother? How long before someone trashes that myth? Then who is the girl looking for?”

  He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. As none of them were idiots I couldn’t understand why one of them had pulled that trigger. It had to have been done in a fit of rage and just because Cranston was stressing the stupidity of the act didn’t mean he wasn’t the guilty party. As stated, he was no fool.

  “What were you doing at Harry’s place?” he suddenly asked.

  Calling Casa Gran “Harry’s place’ was like referring to Buckingham Palace as “Lizzy’s pad.” “He told you I was there in lieu of my father.”

  “Spare me. Harry doesn’t need a lawyer unless he’s planning on making a new will which he isn’t.” He dragged on his cigarette and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “So?”

  I pleaded client confidentiality and he attacked. “When I saw you with Harry at Troy’s fund-raiser I remembered that I met Sabrina at a party Harry gave in his hotel suite in Fort Lauderdale that spring thirty years ago. Harry must know her, too.”

  Puff, puff. Wipe, wipe. “Sabrina hits town and contacts you. Her daughter starts snooping around and the next thing we know Harry Schuyler and I are chummy with Archy McNally. Coincidence?”

  It was just what Sabrina had rightly feared. Open a can of worms and there’s no stopping them from crawling out. Was Appleton at that party? How long before Cranston would place all three of them in the same hotel suite, at the same time? But it wasn’t Gillian who wielded the can opener. It was Lolly Spindrift’s blind item that had the three former preppies in a dither. And two anonymous calls? Coincidence?