McNally's Gamble

by Lawrence Sanders

  The comment seemed to displease him. He made a grimace almost of distaste. I could not understand his reaction; it was an innocent remark.

  “Debatable,” he said finally. “The whereabouts of perhaps eight Imperial eggs are unknown. They may have been destroyed or stolen and hidden to this day. Those were violent, lawless times in St. Petersburg when the Bolsheviks took over. Much of the gold and silver jewelry belonging to royalty was seized and melted down. Oil paintings were vandalized, palaces ransacked, priceless antiques carted off to the hovels of the rabble, and libraries of rare books burned to heat those hovels. So it’s understandable how several Imperial eggs disappeared. Peter Carl Fabergé was lucky to escape alive. Nicholas and Alexandra were not as fortunate.”

  The old man seemed genuinely moved by this recital of history. He removed his pince-nez, took the handkerchief from his cuff, and wiped the glasses slowly. The Russian Revolution was as ancient to me as the Punic Wars but Mr. Smythe acted as if the execution of the Romanovs happened yesterday.

  “Fascinating stuff,” I said, to let him know I appreciated his efforts. “Could you give me a rough idea of what you think the Fabergé egg in our late client’s estate might be worth? Just a ballpark figure.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot do that, dear boy. It depends on the provenance and authenticity of the egg as well as its design, the surprise within, and its physical condition. I suggest you have an appraisal made by someone more expert than I. If you wish I can recommend several reputable and knowledgeable people.”

  Something he had said alerted me. “Its authenticity?” I repeated. “Are you implying it might be a fake? A forgery?”

  “The possibility does exist,” he said, nodding. “There have been a few attempts to sell a fraudulent Fabergé Imperial egg. All have failed. No one has been able to reproduce the exquisite workmanship of Carl Fabergé’s artisans. And you know, most of them were quite young—in their early twenties.”

  “Amazing,” I said, tried to think of more questions to ask and couldn’t. “Mr. Smythe, I want to thank you for giving me so much of your time.”

  “Do I seem busy?” he said with a faint smile. “I enjoy talking about antiques and their history.”

  “Well, you’ve been a big help, sir. If my father approves of having the egg appraised I may return to ask for your recommendations. Or, I warn you, I may come in just to learn more about the House of Fabergé and their marvelous eggs.”

  “Anytime,” he said genially, and we shook hands.

  I exited into the steely December sunlight, slid into my barouche, and sat a few moments reviewing what I had just heard. Interesting. Top-notch grist, one might even say. The salient fact, I decided, was the attempts to sell counterfeit Imperial eggs. If it had been tried before, it was quite possibly being tried again—with Mrs. Edythe Westmore the intended victim of the forgery. She didn’t seem to me worldly-wise enough to insist on an expert’s appraisal before purchase.

  I headed for West Palm Beach wondering how I might finagle a tȇte-à-tȇte with Mrs. Westmore or, better yet, a kaffeeklatsch with the entire Westmore family. I like to know the people I’m defending. Sometimes they reveal strengths or weaknesses, or even just predilections that make my job easier. Besides, I’m a sociable bloke. I can endure solitude but I much prefer companionship, chatter, and perhaps a wee bit of malicious gossip.

  I pulled into the parking area of the Pelican Club, happy to see it almost deserted. It meant the luncheon crowd had not yet arrived, and Binky and I would be able to snag a table in the dining room.

  I was one of the founders of the Pelican, a private club, and it remains my favorite south Florida rendezvous. It provides food, drink, a dartboard, and on most nights enough wassail to satisfy the most demanding roisterer, female or male.

  Management is in the capable hands of the Pettibones, a family of color. Father Simon is bartender and majordomo, mother Jasmine serves as den mother, son Leroy is our chef, and daughter Priscilla does her own take on how a waitress should behave. They are a merry crew and had rescued the Pelican from the shoals of Chapter 7. (That’s total bankruptcy, not the seventh section of this tome.)

  The rear dining area was vacant and I grabbed the relatively secluded corner table Connie Garcia and I customarily select. Priscilla was nowhere to be seen but I was hardly seated before Binky Watrous came bustling in. He always arrives promptly for a free meal. Not that he’s a moocher; he’s just continually tapped out.

  “You saved my life,” he told me, flopping into a chair. “The Duchess wanted me to escort her to a flute recital. But I told her I had an important business meeting with you. She wanted to know when I start drawing a salary. When, Archy?”

  “Binky,” I said, “I thought after a period of on-the-job training you intended to go into business as a private investigator, the Philip Marlowe of Palm Beach.”

  “Well, yes, that’s my plan. Do you think I’m ready?”

  I didn’t say, “Never!” I said, “Almost but not quite.”

  I was saved from dashing more balder when Priscilla came sashaying from the kitchen. She was wearing what appeared to be a denim muumuu painted with signs of the zodiac.

  “Very fetching, Pris,” I said. “Where did you get it—army surplus?”

  “Keep it up, kiddo,” she said, “and you’ll need a stomach pump after lunch. You two nits want a drink?”

  “Splendid idea,” I said. “Vodka rocks for me. Binky?”

  “I’ll have a Jameson straight, no ice. And please, Priscilla, would you ask Simon to add three drops of Irish Mist.”

  “I think his dropper is broken,” she said, “but I’ll try.” And she bopped away.

  “His dropper is broken?” Binky said, bewildered.

  “Forget it,” I advised. “It was just sass. So you’ve switched to Irish whiskey, have you? Thinking about Bridget?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said dreamily. “She’s probably wandering through the shamrocks right now, wishing I was there.”

  “Or quaffing a pint of Guinness Stout and trying to remember your name. Why don’t you marry the girl, Binky?”

  “Why don’t you marry Connie?” he countered.

  We glowered at each other, a nice pair of poltroons.

  Binky is a palish lad with fair hair and a wispy blond mustache in need of a good dose of Miracle-Gro. He is of short stature and small-boned, so there is not much to him physically. Or mentally, I might add. I recall he once tasted the vichyssoise he had ordered and complained indignantly to the waiter, “My soup is cold!”

  But he’s a good-hearted chap, no malice in him, and the fact that his gears may have slipped a notch or two doesn’t diminish my affection for him. I mean, he’s really an innocent with a limited comprehension of the brute world. Some women react to his naïveté with a desire to mother him. Binky is not so ingenuous as to let those opportunities for a more intimate relationship slip by.

  Priscilla returned with our drinks. “What’s on the menu?” I asked her.

  “Stains,” she said. “But if it’s food you want, Leroy is pushing knockwurst, sauerkraut, and baked beans.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said. “Binky?”

  “All right,” he said doubtfully. “But will it give me gas?”

  “It might,” Pris admitted. “If it does, please wait until you’re out in the parking lot.”

  And she went into the kitchen cackling.

  CHAPTER 5

  WE NURSED OUR DRINKS while I gave my Dr. Watson a rundown on the role he was to play in the new Discreet Inquiry.

  “There’s a man in West Palm,” I started, “who claims to be an investment adviser, financial consultant, money manager—whatever. Apparently he makes his living by handling other people’s money.”

  “I’d like a job like that,” Binky said.

  “And you may be as well qualified as he. Anyway, I have his name, address, and phone number. What I’d like you to do is call him, try to set up an appointment, and if you
succeed, go see him.”

  “Won’t he ask where I got his name?”

  “Sure he will. Tell him you were at a cocktail party and heard one of the guests singing his praises and so you decided to look him up. I think he’ll buy it.”

  “But why am I looking him up?”

  “Because you have some money to invest.”

  “Cool,” Binky said happily. “How much do I have—a million?”

  “Let’s start small. Tell him you have about fifty thousand dollars in CD’s and money-market funds but you’re looking for higher yields.”

  “But I haven’t got fifty thousand, Archy.”

  I sighed. “I’m aware of that, Binky. But tell him you have to get his reaction.”

  “And that’s all you want—his reaction?”

  “Of course not. I want a physical description of the man himself. Is his address a home, or an office? Is it a shabby joint, or impressive? Does he have an assistant or a secretary? How is he dressed? In other words I want to learn as much as possible about him and his business.”

  Binky took a deep gulp of his drink and was pleasantly surprised. “Simon did add the Irish Mist,” he said. “Archy, is this man a criminal or even a suspect?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to determine.”

  “Why don’t you go see him yourself?”

  “This is a very complex inquiry, Binky,” I said earnestly (I can do earnest), “and there are many other leads I must follow. I’m depending on you to investigate Clemens. That’s his name: Frederick Clemens.”

  “Should I tell him my name?”

  I thought a moment, sipping my own plasma. “I don’t see why not,” I said finally. “If he runs a trace he’ll find you’re the closest relative of a wealthy dowager. It will help convince him you really do have fifty thousand bucks to invest.”

  Priscilla brought our platters and, with Binky’s approval, I ordered two steins of draft beer. Lunch looked enormous and we attacked it vigorously.

  “What if he asks for the money?” Binky said. “I have eighteen dollars in my bank account.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I pleaded. “You’re splattering me. I don’t think he’ll want the cash immediately. He’ll probably check you out first. He may suggest some investments he thinks are suitable for you. If he does, remember what they are. I’d like to know.”

  “Archy, what is sauerkraut?”

  “Cabbage.”

  “It is?” he said, astounded. “I hate cabbage—it’s so smelly—but this is delicious.”

  “Binky, stop talking about cabbage and listen to me. When you visit Clemens, dress conservatively—no T-shirt or sandals. And be careful of what you say. You’re supposed to be a well-to-do young man, possibly heir to a fortune, who is serious about increasing his income. Do you think you can play the part?”

  “A piece of cake,” he said. “I’m an excellent actor. I once went to a reception for the president of France and pretended I was the American ambassador.”

  “Did you get in?”

  “No. But only because the ambassador was already there—a woman.”

  “Good preparation on your part,” I remarked. “Try to do better with Frederick Clemens. And I suggest after you leave him, you make notes of the meeting so you don’t forget anything you heard or observed.”

  “I don’t have to make notes; I have an excellent memory.”

  “Do you? What day is this?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Binky, it’s Friday.”

  “What happened to Thursday?” he said, much aggrieved.

  I gave up, convinced now I was committing a horrible blunder in assigning this simp to make the first contact with Clemens. But then I consoled myself with the hope Binky’s nuttiness might make him attractive to the financial consultant. If he was a professional con man he’d recognize Binky as a perfect pigeon, ready for plucking.

  We finished lunch, too stuffed for dessert, and I signed the tab. I gave my goofy henchman the scrap of paper with Clemens’s name, address, and phone number.

  “Why don’t you call him today, Binky,” I said, “and try to set up a meet for early next week. Please let me know how you make out.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” he said. “Thanks for the feed.”

  We parted in the parking lot and went our separate ways. I drove toward the McNally Building. But I changed my mind before I arrived and headed home instead, hoping mother had returned from her shopping trip.

  She had. I found her in our little greenhouse talking to her begonias, as usual. Mother’s plants have won several awards at flower shows and she is convinced speaking frequently to the begonias is the reason for their health and beauty. “They are happy plants,” she once told me—and I believe it. What living things could resist her TLC? Not me.

  Hobo was curled up on the floor in a patch of sunlight. He raised his head when I entered, gave me one tail thump, and resumed his snooze.

  “Mother,” I said, “could you spare a few minutes? I need your help again.”

  “Of course, Archy. What is it?”

  “You know Father is concerned about Mrs. Edythe Westmore’s dealings with her investment adviser. You heard him telling me to look into the matter but very discreetly. Mrs. Westmore is not to know of the inquiry.”

  “Well, I certainly won’t tell her,” mother said firmly. “If that’s what worries you.”

  “Not at all,” I assured her. “I know you don’t tattle. But I find myself temporarily stymied because I know so little about the Westmore family. I was hoping you could fill me in.”

  She continued watering the plants lightly with a bulb spray and I followed her down the narrow passages between rough wooden tables and racks.

  “As you know,” she started, “Edythe is a widow. Her husband died about five years ago, I think it was. I never met him but everyone says he was a very nice man. Always smiling. He fell out of a tree, broke his hip, and died of pneumonia. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Exceedingly,” I said. “What was he doing up a tree?”

  “Edythe says he just liked to climb trees. And of course he wasn’t a young man when he fell. I’ve heard gossip he was a heavy drinker and that might have had something to do with it.”

  “Quite possibly,” I said, making a silent vow never to climb a tree. “But I gather he left his widow well-off.”

  “Oh, yes. She has a beautiful home just south of us and drives a white Cadillac she trades in for the new model every year.”

  “What kind of a woman is she?”

  “Very outgoing. I do think she’s put on too much weight in the last few years but I must say it hasn’t slowed her down. She’s quite active in local charities, a little theater and music recitals.”

  “No shortcomings at all?”

  Mother paused to consider. “Well, sometimes I think she does brag too much.”

  “What does she brag about?”

  “All kinds of things. How much she paid for a new evening gown, the sale of one of her daughter’s paintings, a grant her son won—just a lot of different things.”

  “All relating to money,” I observed.

  Mother turned to look at me. “You know, Archy, I never thought of it. But you’re right; she does talk about money a good deal.”

  “What about her children? She has a son and daughter?”

  “Correct. I’ve only met them a few times, so I can’t tell you much. The daughter, Natalie, is in her middle twenties and single. She’s a strange young woman, very quiet and withdrawn. She does watercolors.”

  “Of what?”

  “Mostly flowers. But they’re not real flowers. They’re imaginary flowers, if you know what I mean. I saw a few of them. Some are pretty and some are just blah. In my opinion anyway.”

  “And Natalie—is she pretty or blah?”

  “Oh, Archy,” mother said reprovingly, “you shouldn’t talk that way. I wouldn’t call Natalie pretty but she has an interesting face. Almost foreign
-looking. It’s hard to describe. I’m sorry I can’t be more exact.”

  “You’re doing fine, dear. Now how about the son?”

  “His first name is Walter and he’s about ten years older than his sister. Around your age I’d guess. I only met him once, more than a year ago. He won a grant to go to Africa. I think he’s due to come back any day now.”

  “What is he doing in Africa?”

  “Edythe said he’s searching for bones. Old bones.”

  “An anthropologist,” I ventured. “Or perhaps a paleontologist.”

  “What is that?”

  “A scientist who searches for old bones. Did he look like a scientist to you?”

  “Oh, yes,” mother said, giggling. “I mean he was wearing these horn-rimmed glasses with very thick lenses and he had four ballpoint pens sticking out of his shirt pocket. Also there were food stains on his necktie.”

  “Definitely a scientist,” I declared.

  “He’s married, you know,” she went on. “His wife’s name is Helen and she lives in Edythe’s home. She refused to go to Africa with Walter.”

  “And what can you tell me about Helen?”

  “Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say it but I do think she wears her skirts too short. But then she’s younger than Walter, maybe even younger than Natalie. Helen is very attractive.”

  Something in her tone prompted me to ask, “But...?”

  The mater hates to speak ill of anyone. She was silent a long moment, considering her answer.

  Finally she said, “But I do think she’s more attractive to men than to women.”

  And I knew that was all she’d say about Helen Westmore.

  “Mrs. McNally, you’ve been of enormous assistance. I’ve been jostling my brain trying to devise a way to meet the Westmores without revealing my true purpose. I’ve got to get inside the Westmore home on some pretext or other so I can make the acquaintance of everyone.”

  “Why, Archy,” mother said, sounding astonished, “why don’t you just phone Edythe, identify yourself, remind her the two of you met at The Breakers, and tell her I mentioned her speaking of her investment adviser at the bridge club. Say you are interested because you have some money to invest and would like to learn more about the man handling her financial affairs. I’m sure she’ll be happy to invite you to visit. You said yourself she likes to talk about money.”