McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

“Any instructions for delivery?”

  “Nah. I should just have the cash ready. They’ll tell me when and how to get it to them.”

  “I better come over and pick up the letter,” I said. “Will you be there, sir?”

  “No, I won’t be here,” he said aggrievedly. “I got a meeting I’m late for already. I’ll leave the letter with Laverne. You get it from her.”

  “Please tell her not to handle it.”

  “All right, all right,” he said angrily, “I’ll tell her. Listen, Archy, you’ve got to work harder on this thing. As far as I can see, you’re spinning your wheels.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I have a very important lead I can’t discuss on the phone.”

  “Yeah?” he said. “Well, it better pan out or I’m hiring me a professional private eye. And I might even pull my business from McNally and Son unless I get some results.”

  And with that naked threat he slammed down the phone before I had a chance to reply. The response I had ready would have shocked my father. He believes a soft answer turneth away wrath. Sometimes it does. And sometimes a knuckle sandwich is required.

  I went upstairs to exchange my puce beret for the white one because I feared the puce would clash with a flag-red Miata. (Genius is in the details.) Then I drove toward the Willigans’ estate. My spasm of fury at our client’s insulting treatment ebbed as I noted the sun was shining brightly and the sky looked as if it had just come from the tumble-dry cycle. A splendid day!

  The door of the Willigan hacienda was opened by Leon Medallion, glum of countenance, eyes bleared by whatever allergy was affecting him that morning.

  “Another ransom note, Leon,” I said.

  He nodded gloomily. “The old man was in a ferocious temper. When he starts shouting up a storm like that, I disappear. He can be mean.”

  “I’m supposed to pick up the letter from Mrs. Willigan. Is she here?”

  “Out by the pool toasting her buns. You can find your way, can’t you? I’m still polishing the effing silver, trying to get the tarnish off. This climate is murder on silverware, brass, and copper.”

  “Maybe we should all switch to plastic,” I suggested.

  He brightened. “Fair dinkum, mate,” he said.

  It hadn’t been an exaggeration to say Laverne was toasting her buns. She was lying prone on a padded chaise pulled into the sunlight. She was wearing a thong bikini, and I was immediately reminded of a Parker House roll. She raised her head as I approached. It was wise of her not to rise farther since she had unhooked her bra strap.

  “Hi, Archy,” she said breezily. “Love your tam.”

  “Beret,” I corrected, “and I thank you. I hope you’re using a sunscreen.”

  “Baby oil,” she said.

  “You won’t roast,” I told her, “you’ll fry. May I pull up a chair?”

  “Sure,” she said. “And if you’re a good boy I’ll let you oil my back.”

  She was at it again, and I decided she was a lady who enjoyed playing the tease. There is a coarse epithet for women like that—but I shall not offend by repeating it.

  I placed a canvas director’s chair close to her chaise, but not within oiling distance, and sat where I could see her face.

  “Another letter from the catnappers,” I said.

  “That’s right. Harry said to give it to you. It’s on the taboret in the hallway. They want him to get the cash ready.”

  “So I understand. I imagine the next letter will give instruction for delivery.”

  “Archy, do you have any notion of who might have swiped Peaches?”

  “A few frail leads,” I said, “but nothing really definite. Laverne, I have a fantastic idea I’d like to try out on you. Do you know what a psychic is?”

  Her face was half-buried in the padding, and I couldn’t observe her reaction.

  “Sure,” she said, voice muffled. “People who are supposed to have second sight. They claim they can predict the future and things like that.”

  “Things like locating missing persons and objects,” I said. “My idea is to contact some local psychic and see if he or she can get a vision of where Peaches is now.”

  Laverne raised her head to stare at me with an expression I could not decipher. “That’s the nuttiest idea I’ve ever heard,” she said. “You don’t believe that voodoo stuff, do you?”

  “I don’t believe and I don’t disbelieve. But it’s worth trying, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, I would not say,” she said with what seemed to me an excess of vehemence. “It’s crazy. Don’t do it, Archy. If Harry finds out you’ve gone to someone who reads tea leaves or whatever it is they do, he’ll fire both you and your father.”

  “Yes,” I said regretfully, “I guess you’re right. As I said, it was just a wild idea. I better forget it.”

  “That’s smart,” she said, settling down again. “By the way, I heard from Meg. She’ll be back sometime this week. She’s got her own apartment now in Riviera Beach. Will you be glad to see her again, Archy?”

  “Of course. She’s a very attractive lady.”

  Her head came up again, and this time she grinned at me. “I think you ought to make a move there,” she said. “I think Meg is ready.”

  I was happy to learn that Meg didn’t tell Laverne everything.

  “Laverne!” I said as if shocked. “She’s your sister!”

  “That’s why I want her to have fun. Give her a break, darling. It doesn’t have to be heavy. Just for laughs.”

  “I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “I’m not sure she has eyes for me.”

  “Try it,” Laverne urged. “It would do her a world of good. I realize she’s a skinny one, but remember: the nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat.”

  Yes, she did say that. Was there a more vulgar woman in Palm Beach? If there was, I hadn’t met her and had no desire to.

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” I said and stood up. “I better pick up that letter and see if it’s any help in finding the catnappers.”

  “And you’ll forget all about going to a psychic?”

  The first two rules of successful deception are keep it short and never repeat. Ask me; I know. Laverne was obviously an amateur at deceit.

  “I’ve already forgotten,” I assured her. “Don’t get too much sun or you might start peeling.”

  Her reply is unprintable in an account that may possibly be read by impressionable youngsters and innocent oldsters.

  I found the second ransom note on the taboret in the hallway. I handled it carefully by the corners and slipped it into my jacket pocket. No one was about so I let myself out and drove home, still smiling at Laverne’s final comment and wondering why she felt it necessary to conceal her acquaintance with the Glorianas.

  At home, I went immediately to my rooms, sat at the desk, shoved on my reading specs. I unfolded the second ransom note carefully and examined it. It appeared to be printed in the same font as the first and the missives sent to Lydia Gillsworth. The right-hand margin was justified. The ink and paper stock seemed identical in all the letters.

  The message itself was as Harry Willigan had stated. I was amused by the casual mention of Peaches being in good health but crying a lot. That was clearly intended to pierce the heart of the cat’s owner who might have the personality of a Komodo dragon but was obviously sappy with love for his obnoxious pet.

  I added the second ransom note to my photocopy of the first, slid both into a manila envelope, and started out again. This time I left my new beret at home but took along my reading glasses tucked into a handsome petit point case that mother had made and given to me on my 36th birthday.

  Before leaving, I phoned Mrs. Trelawney, my father’s private secretary. I asked if she could persuade the boss to grant me at least fifteen minutes from his rigidly structured daily schedule. I was put on hold while she went to inquire. She came back on the line to tell me His Majesty had graciously acceded to my request if I arrived promptly at eleven-thir
ty.

  “On my way,” I promised.

  The McNally Building on Royal Palm Way is a stark edifice of glass and stainless steel—so modern it makes my teeth ache. But it’s undeniably impressive—which was why my father had approved the architect’s design even though I knew he would have preferred a faux Georgian mansion.

  But the esquire had drawn a line at his private office. That was oak paneled and furnished in a style that would have earned the approbation of Oliver Wendell Holmes. The main attraction was an enormous rolltop desk—an original, not a reproduction—that had, by actual count, thirty-six cubbyholes and four concealed compartments that I knew about.

  Father was standing in front of this handsome antique when I entered, looking like a handsome antique himself. He glowered at me, and I was happy I had left the linen beret at home.

  “This couldn’t have waited?” he demanded.

  “No, sir,” I said. “In my judgment it is a matter that brooks no delay.”

  Don’t ask why, but in his presence I sometimes began to speak like a character from his beloved Dickens. I knew it but couldn’t help myself. We sounded like a couple of barristers discussing Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce.

  “Harry Willigan received a second ransom letter from the catnappers,” I told him.

  “I am aware of that,” he said testily. “Willigan phoned me this morning. In a vile temper, as usual.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, “but I don’t believe you’ve seen the two letters. I’ve brought them along. The first is a photocopy, the second is the original. Please take a look, father.”

  I spread them on his desk. Still standing, he bent over to examine them. It didn’t take him long to catch it. I heard his sharp intake of breath, and he straightened to stare at me.

  “They appear to resemble the poison-pen letters received by the late Lydia Gillsworth,” he said stonily.

  “More than resemble,” I said. “Same type font. Justified right-hand margins. Apparently the same ink and the same paper.”

  He drew a deep breath and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “Where are the Gillsworth letters now?”

  “Sergeant Rogoff has them. He’s sending them to the FBI lab for analysis.”

  “Does he know about these letters?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I’ve told him nothing about the disappearance of Peaches.”

  Hands still in pockets, he began to pace slowly about the office. “I see the problem,” he said. “The client has specifically forbidden us to bring the catnapping to the attention of the police.”

  “And we are obligated to respect our client’s wishes and follow his instructions,” I added. “But by so doing, are we not impeding an official homicide investigation? That’s assuming all the letters were produced on the same word processor or electronic typewriter, as I believe they were.”

  He stopped his pacing to face me. “And do you also believe they were all composed by the same person?”

  “I think it quite possible.”

  He was silent a moment. Then: “I don’t like this, Archy; I don’t like it at all. As an officer of the court I don’t relish being put in a position where I might fairly be accused of withholding evidence.”

  “Possibly vital evidence,” I said. “In the investigation of a particularly heinous crime.”

  He took one hand from his pocket and began to tug at his thick mustache, a sure sign of his perturbation. When he’s in a mellow mood, he strokes it.

  “May I make a suggestion, father?”

  “You may.”

  “I think civic and moral duty outweigh ethical considerations in this case. I believe the police must be told of the Willigan letters. Perhaps they have nothing to do with the Gillsworth murder, but we can’t take that chance. Let me show them to Sergeant Rogoff, for his eyes only. I’ll impress upon him the need for absolute discretion on his part. Al is certainly no blabbermouth. I think we can safely gamble that Willigan will never learn we have told the police about the catnapping.”

  “It’s not so much Willigan I’m concerned about, it’s the catnappers. If they learn the police have been informed, it’s quite possible they will carry out their threat to kill Peaches. And then McNally and Son may well be the target of a malpractice suit brought by our contentious client. It would be difficult to defend our conduct: a clear breach of confidentiality.”

  We were both silent then, pondering all the ramifications of the problem. The decision was not mine to make, of course. It was my father who might have to take the flak, and it would be presumptuous of me to urge him to any particular course of conduct.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “Show the Willigan letters to Sergeant Rogoff, explain the circumstances of the catnapping, and try to convince him that the future of Peaches depends on his circumspection.” He paused to smile wryly. “To say nothing of the future of McNally and Son.”

  “I’ll convince him,” I said, gathering up the letters. “I think you’ve made the right decision, father.”

  “Thank you, Archy,” he said gravely. “I am happy you approve.”

  I think he meant it. Irony is not the governor’s strong suit.

  I was exiting through the outer office when Mrs. Trelawney beckoned me to her desk. My father’s secretary is one of my favorite people, a charming beldame with an ill-fitting gray wig and a penchant for naughty jokes. She was the first to tell me the one about the American, the Englishman, and the Frenchman who visit a—but I digress.

  “What have you been up to, young McNally?” she said accusingly. “Romancing married women, are you? And if you are, why wasn’t I first on your list?”

  “I am not,” I assured her, “but if I were, you would certainly be first, last, and always. Also, my dear, just what, exactly, are you talking about?”

  She looked down at a note she had jotted on a telephone message form. “While you were with your father, you received a call from a Mrs. Irma Gloriana, who demanded to speak to you personally. From her voice I would judge her to be of what is termed a ‘certain age.’ She insists you phone her immediately. What’s going on, Archy?”

  “A professional relationship,” I said haughtily. “The lady happens to be my acupuncturist.”

  Mrs. Trelawney laughed and handed me the message. “I’m glad someone’s giving you the needle,” she said.

  I had intended to phone Sgt. Rogoff the moment I was in my office, but this call from Mrs. Irma Gloriana seemed more important and more intriguing. I sat at my desk and punched out the phone number. It was not, I noted, the number of the Glorianas’ office on Clematis Street.

  My call was answered on the second ring.

  “The Glorianas’ residence,” a woman said sharply. A deep voice, very strong, with a rough timbre. Almost a longshoreman’s voice.

  “This is Archibald McNally,” I said. “Am I speaking to Mrs. Irma Gloriana?”

  “You are, Mr. McNally,” she said, the tone now softened a bit. “Thank you for returning my call so promptly. Hertha has informed me that you wish to arrange a private séance.”

  “That’s correct,” I said. “My understanding is that it would be attended by Hertha, her husband, you, myself, and a friend who accompanies me. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Mr. McNally,” she said, and I marveled at that voice so deep it was almost a rumble, “I prefer to meet personally with new clients before making plans. You must understand that many people who apply to us simply cannot be helped by Hertha’s unique talents. It saves us a great deal of time—and would-be clients a great deal of money, of course—if we might have an interview during which I describe exactly what happens at our séances, what we hope to achieve, and what we cannot do. I must know what you hope to accomplish. I trust this preliminary screening doesn’t offend you, Mr. McNally.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I can understand why—”

  “You see,” she interrupted, “we are sometimes approached by people who seek the impossible or who are motivated by idle cu
riosity and have no real interest in sharing the truth of spiritualism.”

  “That seems to be a—”

  “And there are those who come just to mock,” she said darkly. “My daughter-in-law is much too sensitive and vulnerable to be forced to cope with stupid and arrogant disbelief.”

  “I assure you that—”

  “When may I expect you, Mr. McNally?” she demanded.

  “I can come over now, Mrs. Gloriana,” I said. “I could be there in a half-hour.”

  “That will be satisfactory,” she said crisply. “Please make a note of this address. You should also be aware that smoking is not permitted in our home.”

  So I made a note of her address, hung up, and immediately lighted a cigarette. I smoked it down before venturing out to meet this termagant with the foghorn voice.

  On the drive across the bridge to West Palm Beach I tried to make sense of what Mrs. Irma Gloriana had told me. Her insistence on a preliminary screening of would-be clients seemed suspect. Why should the medium and her entourage question the motives of potential customers? Their ability to pay the tariff demanded would seem to be the only necessary requirement.

  But then I realized there might indeed be method to this madness. Mrs. Gloriana wanted to know what I hoped to accomplish at the séance. Suppose I told her I wished to contact the spirit of Sir Thomas Crapper. Thus forewarned, Irma, Frank, and Hertha could easily discover that the gentleman in question was the inventor of the water closet, and they could call up a ghost familiar with the workings of that justly famed device.

  Similarly, these preliminary interviews could reveal names, dates, even intimate personal details that would be of value in convincing a séance attendee that the medium possessed extraordinary psychic gifts.

  This was, I admit, a very jaundiced view of extrasensory powers. But at that stage of the investigation I believed a healthy dollop of cynicism was justified. “Innocent until proven guilty” is the cornerstone of our law. But most detectives, myself included, prefer the dictum “Guilty until proven innocent.” That’s how crimes are solved.

  The building in which the Glorianas’ condo was located was not as “ratty” as Al Rogoff had described, but it was surely no Trump Plaza either. It had an air of faded elegance, with cooking odors in the hallways and frazzled carpeting.