McNally's Gamble

by Lawrence Sanders

  “A Yankee Doodle dandy. And the assistant you spoke to on the phone—was he present?”

  “Yep. Name is Felix. No last name mentioned. Tall, skinny guy. I mean really tall and really skinny. Never smiles. Wearing a white suit, black shirt, white tie.”

  “The return of George Raft,” I said. “Did he go to dinner with you and Clemens?”

  “No. He chauffeured us to the restaurant in a maroon Bentley and then picked us up later. I don’t much like Felix.”

  “Why not?”

  “He scares me. I think he’s a wrongo.”

  “Because of the way he dresses?”

  “And he stared at me. Not a nice stare. Cold. Also he uses a fruity cologne. Also one of his fingers is missing.”

  “Which finger?”

  “Index on his right hand.”

  “At least he can’t pull a trigger,” I said. “Unless he’s sinistral.”

  “Archy, I’m getting sleepy. Can I go to bed now?”

  “No, you cannot,” I said. “You’re doing fine and I need to know more. Especially about Clemens. How old a man is he?”

  “Fortyish. Hard to tell exactly. I think he does facials and manicures. I mean he shines.”

  “Not oily?”

  “Oily? No way. A splendid chap. Sort of Spencer Tracyish. A fast man when it comes to picking up a tab. And tips like a zillionaire.”

  “Sharp dresser?”

  “Not sharp but rich. Wearing a flannel suit you’d kill for. Had on cuff links like miniature gold ingots. Archy, you should see the way he was shaved. I wish I could shave like that. I always seem to leave patches.”

  “I gather you approve of the man.”

  “I do, I really do. Sterling character. No front to him. True-blue.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Did he offer any suggestions on how to invest your fifty grand?”

  “He says I should buy three-month Treasury bills.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. “No oil wells or tin mines?”

  “Nope. He said I’ll sleep better at night with T-bills. And he offered me a job.”

  “A job?”

  “Well, not a regular nine-to-fiver. He wants me to recommend people I know who might be interested in investment advice. If he lands anyone as a client, I get a hundred bucks as a finder’s fee. A soft touch, huh, Archy?”

  “You’re going to do it?”

  “Sure I am. I already gave him a short list. You’re at the top.”

  “What! You actually gave him my name?”

  “I couldn’t see any harm. If he calls, you can turn him down or go see him.”

  I was about to scream at him but then I thought he might have stumbled into a seemingly clever way for me to meet Clemens. I wouldn’t seek him out; let him come to me. It would surely be as circumspect an introduction as my father required.

  I recalled Mrs. Westmore telling me how difficult it was to persuade the investment adviser to enroll her as a client. “He doesn’t just accept everyone.” But here he was paying Binky to lasso new customers. I began to appreciate the thespian talents of Frederick Clemens.

  “Sleep,” Binky said pleadingly. “I beg you, Archy, let me sleep now.”

  “All right,” I said. “Off you go. It was a stellar performance, old boy, and I thank you.”

  I hung up, pleased with the background info Binky had provided. Not earthshaking, you understand, but basic stuff that would help me limn an accurate picture of Clemens and his operation. Nothing I had learned so far proved the man a legitimate investment counselor or a charlatan eager to make a big score.

  I had intended to scrawl an immediate journal precis of Binky’s report but found I was brooding on a completely different subject. All afternoon and evening I had held it at bay, feeling there were more important tasks to be accomplished, more important thoughts to be thunk. But now I simply had to recollect and try to find meaning in that incredible escapade with Natalie.

  If I saw Mrs. Edythe Westmore as a Percheron of a woman and Mrs. Helen Westmore as a lustful soubrette, how was I to characterize Nettie, encapsulate her personality in a phrase? I could not. The conflicting clues in her behavior perplexed me.

  Did the spells of apathy spring from weltschmerz or was she indifferent to everyone and everything about her because she was so intensely self-centered? She had certainly proved herself capable of physical passion but had regained control by setting the terms of an encore—if there was to be one.

  At times she had seemed to me perpetually angry, carrying chips on both shoulders and atop her head. Yet she had also displayed loving tenderness and a puppy’s desire to please. As for her outlandish flower paintings—some sexually explicit—I had absolutely no idea what they might signify.

  No doubt about it: she was a fey young woman, and I went to bed with the conviction that a continued relationship with her could only mean trouble for yrs. truly. But such a foreboding had never dissuaded me from previous romantic gambles. As a matter of fact, I have found the presentiment of danger frequently acts as a stimulant, just as pleasure is heightened by a sense of guilt.

  Of course it could be this is all folderol and I merely suffer from a chronic case of swollen glands.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE SUMMONS ARRIVED SOONER than expected. On Tuesday morning I was seated in, my cubbyhole in the McNally Building, doodling on my desk blotter and imagining with some amusement the reaction of Mrs. Edythe Westmore if I gifted her daughter with a new folding cot. When my phone rang I picked it up idly, guessing it might be Connie Garcia eager to relay the latest Palm Beach gossip.

  But it was a masculine voice: deep, resonant, with a smooth texture.

  “Mr. Archy McNally?” he inquired.

  “This is he,” I said. “Or him if you prefer the vernacular.”

  I was rewarded with a small chuckle. “My name is Frederick Clemens,” he started. “I am an investment adviser located in West Palm Beach although I have several clients in the Town of Palm Beach whose names I would be happy to furnish—with their permission of course. Mr. McNally, a mutual friend has suggested you may be interested in diversifying your portfolio to take advantage of special situations with a higher yield or tax benefits not offered by conventional investments. If I am mistaken or if you would prefer to continue dealing with your present brokers and/or financial counselors, then I apologize for this intrusion and shall not contact you again.”

  I admired that speech. Somewhat verbose, I admit, but it flowed suavely in his rich baritone with nary a hesitation or change of tempo or volume. I thought it quite possible he was reading from a script. Telemarketers frequently do.

  “What is the name of our mutual friend?” I asked.

  “Mr. Binky Watrous.”

  “Oh yes, I know Watrous,” I said. “An amiable chap. Life of the party and all that. And what exactly is the nature of the special situations you mentioned?”

  “There is a variety available,” he answered, not missing a beat. “Ranging from those as risk-free as any investment can be to those offering higher returns but definitely on the chancy side. I always try to tailor my advice to clients in accordance with their desire for growth, income, or both, and with their tolerance for risk.”

  Oh lordy, he was good. Being no stranger to glibness myself, I can recognize a spielmeister when I hear one, and Clemens was a world-class champ.

  “What I would like to do,” he continued in his mellifluous voice, “is to meet with you personally to explain my investment philosophy and methodology in greater detail. No obligation on your part of course. But if we find ourselves compatible and sharing the same financial goals perhaps we can initiate an association of benefit to both of us.”

  “I don’t suppose it would do any harm to discuss what you have to offer,” I said cautiously, playing the role of a wary investor. “Naturally I would like to increase my investment income without the danger of heavy losses.”

  “Very understandable,” he said soothingly. “That is
my aim for all my clients. Now then, where and when can we meet?”

  I had no desire to invite him to visit the cramped locker in which I toiled. Nor did I think it wise to reveal I was the son of McNally & Son, with our own imposing building on Royal Palm Way. Clemens would learn my identity soon enough—it would be impossible to fake it—but I wanted to remain incognito as long as possible, especially during our first meeting when I hoped he would be unaware of my vocation: conducting Discreet Inquiries for a firm of attorneys.

  After a short discussion it was decided I would come to his office at two o’clock that afternoon. He gave me his address and directions on how to get there with a minimum of traffic tie-ups.

  By the time we concluded our conversation we were on a first-name basis, Archy and Fred—at his suggestion. He really was a dynamite salesman, wasting no time in establishing a warm, personal rapport with a potential customer. I do believe before he hung up he could have convinced me I was in desperate need of an encyclopedia or a vacuum cleaner.

  I spent the next hour phoning buddies who worked at banks and stock brokerages in the Palm Beach area. I asked each the same question: “Ever hear of a guy named Frederick Clemens? Claims to be an investment adviser.”

  The replies were negative; none of the maîtres d’gelt I called had heard of my quarry. But all promised to consult their client lists and make inquiries at local professional associations. I had a feeling the results would be zilch. Señor Clemens seemed to be a newcomer who had appeared out of nowhere and was working hard to earn a reputation as a financial whiz.

  I headed for the Pelican Club hoping an injection of calories, liquid and solid, might provide inspiration in my pursuit of the real Frederick Clemens. So far I had only the contradictory judgments of Edythe and Natalie Westmore and Binky Watrous. Their opinions left me with a blurry portrait of this enigmatic man.

  I was early; the club’s bar area was empty except for Simon Pettibone behind the mahogany. He was watching a stock tape flicker swiftly across the screen of a portable TV set. Mr. Pettibone never plays the Florida lottery or goes to Las Vegas, claiming Wall Street is the biggest casino in the world. I do not believe his portfolio is plump but he is a keen market maven with enough sense never to offer recommendations. Ask him how to make money in common stocks and invariably he replies, “Buy low; sell high.” And prithee, who can argue with that?

  “Good news, Mr. Pettibone?” I asked him, climbing aboard a barstool. “The market is alive and well?”

  He flipped a hand back and forth. “Some up, some down,” he said. “As usual. What can I do for you, Mr. McNally?”

  I ordered a vodka gimlet, happy fresh lime was still available as a garnish. As I watched our mixologist work his wonders it suddenly occurred to me he might be able to suggest a solution to the problem bedeviling me.

  “Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “I need your help. You are a man of erudition and experience, especially in the world of investing, and I would welcome any assistance you can provide.”

  He set the gimlet before me. “Buy low; sell high,” he advised.

  “No, no. It is not a stock tip I seek; it is an equine of a different hue.” I paused to sip my drink. Elixir! I took a gulp and continued more briskly. “This afternoon I am to meet with a gent who claims to be an expert investment adviser or financial counselor—whatever. But I have reasons to question his competence and trustworthiness. To put it baldly he may be a felonious hustler out to make a quick buck and then skedaddle. As I’m sure you’re aware, I am the most naive of tyros when it comes to matters financial and particularly the arcane techniques of sophisticated investing. I was hoping you might suggest some questions I could ask this fellow to test his bona fides as a skilled manager of other people’s money.”

  Mr. Pettibone came a step closer and leaned forward across the bar. He was a handsome man with a sculpted face and a skullcap of tight gray curls. “That’s what he does for a living—invests for other people?”

  “Correct. I presume he charges his clients a set fee or perhaps a percentage of their income. I haven’t yet determined how he works.”

  “And you want to find out if he’s on the up-and-up?”

  “Exactly. I hope to start by trying to discover just how learned he is when it comes to what he calls the methodology of investing.”

  “Where does he put his clients’ money—stocks and bonds?”

  “Those certainly, including securities not listed on any exchange. Plus oil wells in Texas and a tin mine in Bolivia.”

  Mr. Pettibone straightened up and stared at me. “Uh-oh,” he said.

  I nodded and pushed my empty glass across the bar for a refill. “Are there any words or phrases I might use to help determine if he’s truly a financial expert or simply a con man?”

  Mr. Pettibone was silent until he had finished constructing my second gimlet and slid it in front of me.

  “There are questions you could ask,” he said. “Is this man in commodities? Currency trading? Futures? Options?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then there’s no point in quizzing him about hedges, straddles, butterflies, and shorting against the box. Besides, it would take too long to explain to you what those terms mean.”

  “How right you are. Can you suggest something simpler?”

  “What about bringing up the subjects of buying on margin or selling short? Splits? Stock dividends?”

  “Too simple,” I said. “Even I know what those are. He’s sure to know.”

  Mr. Pettibone suddenly smiled. “I’ve got one for you,” he said. “Every investment adviser knows what it means or should know. If your man doesn’t recognize it, I’d have serious doubts about how legit he is. It’s called the Magic of Seventy-two.”

  “Never heard of it,” I said. “But it sounds interesting. What is it?”

  “It’s a method of estimating how long it will take to double your money. It’s not accurate to the penny but it’s close enough. The whole thing is based on the number seventy-two. Suppose you invest a million dollars in some gilt-edged security earning ten percent a year. You divide seventy-two by ten and learn that in seven-point-two years you’ll have two million dollars. It works the other way too. Say you have a million dollars to invest and want to double it in five years. You divide seventy-two by five and learn you’ll have to get a yield of fourteen-point-four percent to do it.”

  “Crazy,” I said. “And this little trick works for any amount you want to invest, from ten bucks on up?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Explain it,” I urged. “Why the number is seventy-two and not, say, sixty-four or ninety-three.”

  Mr. Pettibone shrugged. “Beats me,” he said. “I’ve never been able to figure it out. All I know is it works only with the number seventy-two.”

  “And all investment advisers know about this?”

  “They should know,” he said. “If they don’t they better get in another line of business. It’s a very basic and useful rule of thumb. Every investor wants to know how long it will take to double his stake.”

  “Mr. Pettibone, I thank you. I think the Magic of Seventy-two will serve as an excellent ploy to test this fellow’s financial expertise.”

  “Let me know how you make out,” he said. “There are a lot of sharks in south Florida and they’re not all in the ocean.”

  Much buoyed by the arrow he had added to my quiver, I carried what remained of my drink into the dining area, where I lunched alone. I had one of Leroy’s special Canadian bacon cheeseburgers with a side order of thick garlic-flavored potato chips. I figured if the investment adviser wasn’t rattled by mention of the Magic of 72, my breath might do the trick.

  It was a leisurely lunch; I had time to devise a scenario I hoped Clemens would find believable. I decided to avoid any reference to Mrs. Edythe Westmore unless I was asked directly if I knew the lady. And I had no desire to reveal my interest in the Fabergé egg. I wanted to continue playing the role of an
amateur investor concerned only with seeking higher yields.

  I had little fear that even if the object of my Discreet Inquiry was a consummate confidence man he would be suspicious of my story and my motives. It has been my experience that professional swindlers are remarkably easy to swindle. It is because their egos are so monumental—even more Brobdingnagian than my own! Accustomed to regarding everyone as potential marks, it never seems to occur to them they might also be the target of a scam. Who in a world of dorks would dare attempt to defraud them?

  I would.

  CHAPTER 12

  BINKY’S PERCEPTION OF the physical layout of Clemens Investments had been accurate. If anything, my loopy helot was restrained in describing the condo-cum-office as posh and spacious. I found it vast, impressive, decorated with chilly elegance, and generally presenting a no-expense-spared appearance. It was difficult to believe it might in reality be an upper-class bucket shop.

  The apartment occupied an entire floor of a rather austere ten-story edifice which apparently offered only one residence per floor, plus a penthouse. When I emerged from the small elevator on the fourth floor, after having been buzzed into the building via the lobby intercom, the door of Frederick Clemens’s abode was wide open, offering entrance to a reception area larger than the McNally dining room.

  Standing behind a glass-topped desk was an individual who had to be Felix, the assistant Binky had claimed was really tall and really skinny. How right he was—but wrong in reporting Felix never smiled, for he greeted me with an expression I interpreted as a smile although it was more teeth than warmth and came close to being a grimace.

  “Mr. McNally?” he said, pronouncing my name MackNally instead of MickNally.

  “Yes,” I said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Clemens.”

  “My name is Felix,” he said, teeth still glistening, “Mr. Clemens’s secretary. He is on the phone at the moment but won’t be long. Meanwhile, please be seated and make yourself comfortable. May I bring you a coffee or anything else?”