McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

Hertha and Meg seemed to vie with each other in casting snide references to the conjunction of colors I was wearing. Even worse, the medium suggested I’d do well to ask her husband for tips on how to coordinate hues and fabrics in order to present a pleasing appearance.

  “It’s an idea,” I said with a glassy smile, hoping the gnashing of my teeth was not audible. “And where is Frank this evening?”

  My innocent question resulted in a convulsion of laughter by both, and it continued until our salad was served and the wine uncorked. I never did receive a reply to my query, though it was obvious that both my dinner partners knew the answer. Is there anything more maddening than an inside joke to which one is neither privy nor offered an explanation?

  My essays at light-hearted conversation were similarly rejected. Both women remained po-faced in response to the truly hilarious tale of how Binky Watrous and I, somewhat in our cups, stole a garbage truck and drove it to Boca Raton. Nor did they seem interested in my favorite anecdote about Ferdy Attenborough, a member of the Pelican Club, who was debagged by his cronies and thrust into the ballroom during a formal dance at The Breakers.

  As a matter of fact, the ladies didn’t seem interested in me at all. But they spent a great deal of time whispering to each other—a shocking breach of good manners—and I recalled my uneasy feeling when I saw them sitting close and holding hands after the séance on Wednesday night. I began to get a disconcerting picture of who the third wheel really was.

  Eventually that calamitous dinner came to an end, and I definitely did not suggest we go on to a nightclub for a bottle of bubbly and a spot of dancing. At the moment I felt biodegradable and ready for a New Jersey landfill.

  We went back to Meg’s apartment, with Hertha sitting on Meg’s lap as she had before. I had no desire to linger, since it was painfully obvious that my presence was lending nothing to the festivities. And so, pleading an early morning engagement with my periodontist, I made my escape. The protests of the two women at my early departure were perfunctory, their farewells just as mechanical.

  I drove away more thoughtful than angry. You may find this difficult to believe, but there are times, many of them, when my duties as chief of discreet inquiries for McNally & Son take precedence over the Sturm und Drang of my personal affairs.

  So, in the wake of that discomfiting evening, I pondered less on the outrageous behavior of my two dining companions than on the present whereabouts and activities of Frank Gloriana. I didn’t have to be Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin to deduce that Frank and Laverne Willigan had what Jamie Olson once referred to as a “rappaport.”

  To test my theory I decided to make a quick return trip to the Jo-Jean Motel on Federal Highway. This time I pulled into the motel area just long enough to confirm that Laverne’s pink Porsche was parked outside Cabin Four.

  Then I drove home, deriving some amusement from imagining Harry Willigan’s reaction if he was to learn of his wife’s involvement in the catnapping of Peaches. I had no intention of snitching on her, of course. It was simply not something a gentleman would do.

  I arrived at my burrow to find a scrawled message slipped under the door. It was from Ursi Olson and stated that Sgt. Al Rogoff had phoned early in the evening and requested I call him back.

  I tried him first at police headquarters but was told he had left for the night. I then phoned him at his mobile home, and he picked up after the third ring.

  “McNally,” I said.

  “You’re home so early?” he said. “What happened—the girlfriend kick you out of bed?”

  “You’re close,” I said. “What’s happening, Al?”

  “A lot. I finally got the FBI report on the Gillsworth and Willigan letters.”

  “Printed on the same machine?”

  “Yep. I also have a preliminary report from the Medical Examiner and some stuff from the lab. There are more tests to be made, but things are beginning to get sorted out. We better meet.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I have something to tell you, too. I know who swiped the cat.”

  “Don’t tell me it was Willie Sutton.”

  “No,” I said, laughing. “Even better. When do you want to make it?”

  “Tomorrow morning at ten,” he said. “At Gillsworth’s house.”

  “Why there?”

  “We’re going to reenact the murder. You get to play the victim.”

  “My favorite role,” I said. “I rehearsed this evening.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  I poured myself a small marc and spent a few hours reviewing my journal, paying particular attention to the entries dealing with Laverne Willigan, her feelings about her husband, her reactions to the snatching of Peaches, and the gossip Jamie had relayed about her alleged lover.

  I poured a second marc and lighted a cigarette. Absorbing alcohol and inhaling nicotine with carefree abandon, I mused on Laverne’s motive for assisting in the catnapping, for I was certain she was involved up to her toasted buns. I scribbled a few notes:

  1. Laverne is a sensual young woman with a jumbo appetite for the pleasures of the good life.

  2. She is married to Harry, an ill-natured dolt much older than she but with the gelt to provide the aforementioned delights.

  3. She meets a rakishly handsome immoralist, Frank Gloriana. He is married to the psychic, Hertha, but has no scruples about cheating on his wife, especially when the possibility of a payoff exists. (Or perhaps the medium is aware of his infidelity and couldn’t care less, being as amoral as he.)

  4. Laverne and Frank become intimate, enjoying each other’s company with absolutely no intention of leaving their respective spouses.

  5. But Frank suffers from a bad case of the shorts. (Bounced checks, etc.)

  6. Question: Did Laverne or Frank dream up the idea of swiping Peaches for a good chunk of walking-around money?

  7. Answer: My guess is that it was Frank’s scam, but Laverne merrily goes along since it causes distress to her boorish husband, he can easily afford the bite, and not to aid Frank might result in her losing him.

  8. She sneaks the cat out of the Willigan home in its carrier and delivers it to Cabin Four.

  9. Frank slides the ransom notes under the Willigans’ front door.

  10. Laverne returns the carrier when she learns from her sister that I have noted its absence.

  11. All that remains to be done is the glomming of the ransom and the return of Peaches to her hearth.

  12. Everyone lives happily ever after.

  I reread these notes, and everything seemed logical to me—and so banal I wanted to weep. I went to bed reflecting that there are really no new ways to sin.

  If you discover any, I wish you’d let me know.

  Saturday morning brought brilliant sunshine and a resurgence of the customary McNally confidence. This high lasted all of forty-five minutes until, while lathering my chops preparatory to shaving, I received a phone call from Consuela Garcia.

  “Archy,” she wailed, “our orgy tonight—it’s off!”

  The bright new day immediately dimmed. I had consoled myself, in typical masculine fashion, that despite my rejection by Meg Trumble on Friday night, there was always Connie awaiting me on Saturday. I had envisioned a debauch so profligate that it might even include our reciting in unison the limerick beginning, “There was a young man from Rangoon.” But apparently it was not to be.

  “Connie,” I said, voice choked with frustration, “why ever not?”

  “Because,” she said, “I got a call from my cousin Lola in Miami. She and Max, her husband, are driving up to Disney World and want to stop off and spend the night in my place.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “I know, but I’ve got to let them, Archy, because I spent a weekend with them at Christmastime.”

  I sighed. “At least we can all have dinner together, can’t we?”

  “Archy,” she said, “Max wears Bermuda shorts with white ankle socks and lace
d black shoes.”

  “No dinner,” I said firmly.

  “But I want to see you,” she cried. “Can’t the two of us have lunch even if there’s no tiddledywinks later?”

  “Of course we can,” I said gamely. “Meet you at the Club noonish.”

  “You are an admirable man,” she proclaimed.

  “I concur,” I said.

  A zingy breakfast did wonders for my morale. Being of Scandinavian origin, the Olsons had a thing for herring. Ursi kept a variety on hand, and that was my morning repast: herring in wine, in mustard sauce, in dilled cream, and one lone kipper. I wolfed all this with schwarzbrot and sweet butter. I know iced vodka is the wash of choice with a feast of herring, but it was too early in the morning; I settled for black coffee.

  Much refreshed and happy I had been blessed with a robust gut, I tooled the Miata southward to meet Sergeant Al. It was a splendid day, clear and soft. If you’re going to reenact a murder, that was the weather for it. The glory of sun, sea, and sky made homicide seem a lark. No one could possibly die on a day like that.

  Rogoff was waiting for me in the flowered sitting room of the Gillsworth manse. I thought his meaty face was sagging with weariness, and I made sympathetic noises about his strenuous labors and obvious lack of sufficient sleep.

  He shrugged. “Comes with the territory,” he growled. “How to be a successful cop: Work your ass off, be patient, and pray that you’re lucky. You smell of fish. What did you have for breakfast?”

  “Herring.”

  “I shouldn’t complain,” he said. “I had a hot pastrami sandwich and a kosher dill. Tell me about the crazy cat.”

  We sat in facing armchairs, and I recited all the evidence leading to my conclusion that Laverne Willigan and Frank Gloriana had conspired in the catnapping.

  Al listened intently and grinned when I finished. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll buy it: the two of them making nice-nice and cooking up a plot to swipe the old coot’s pet for fifty grand. I love it, just love it. You figure the cat is still out at the motel?”

  “There’s a cat in Cabin Four,” I said. “I heard it mewing. I can’t swear it’s Peaches, but I’d make book on it.”

  He thought a moment. Then: “It might make our job easier when push comes to shove. That Cabin Four sounds like the combat center of everything that’s going down. Otto Gloriana is staying there, and that’s where you saw Gillsworth’s Bentley and Laverne’s Porsche.”

  “And heard the cat,” I reminded him. “And also, the lady in the office said Otto drove off with a woman who could be Irma.”

  “Probably was.”

  “You want to raid the place, Al?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “The cat isn’t as important as the homicides. I’d hate to tip our hand and send all the cockroaches scurrying back in the woodwork. But I think I’ll put an undercover guy in one of the other cabins, just to keep an eye on things.”

  “All right,” I said, “you play it your way. Now tell me about the FBI report.”

  He took out his notebook and flipped pages until he got to the section he wanted. Then he paused to light a cigar. I waited patiently until he had it drawing to his satisfaction. Then he started reading.

  “The machine is a Smith Corona PWP 100C personal word processor with pica type. Paper is Southworth DeLuxe Four Star. Smith Corona ribbon used throughout. All letters written on same machine, probably by same operator.”

  “Interesting,” I said; “but what good is it? What do we do with it?”

  He smiled at me. “Archy, you’ve got to start thinking like a cop. I just had a rookie assigned to me. What I’ll do is have the guy go through the Yellow Pages and make a list of all the companies in the area that sell and service office machines. He hits every one of them and makes his own list of those that handle the Smith Corona PWP 100C. Then he gets the names and addresses of customers who have bought that machine or had it serviced. It’s a lot of legwork, I admit, but it’s got to be done, and I think it’ll pay off.”

  I thought a moment. “That’s one way of doing it,” I said. “The hard way.”

  Al looked at me, a little miffed. “Oh?” he said. “And what’s the easy way, sherlock?”

  “Give your rookie a twenty-minute crash course on word processors. Tell him to get a business card from a legitimate company. Send him to call on Frank Gloriana at their office on Clematis Street. The rookie is wearing civvies. He tries to sell Frank a Smith Corona PWP 100C. I’m betting Frank will say, ‘Sorry, we’ve already got one.’”

  The sergeant burst out laughing and slapped his thigh. “What a scamster you are!” he said. “Thank God you’re on our side or you’d end up owning Florida. Yeah, that’s a great swindle, and we’ll try it before the rookie starts pounding the pavement. You really think the letters are coming out of the Glorianas’ office?”

  “A good bet,” I said. “There are some doors up there leading to closed-off rooms I didn’t see. It’s worth a go.”

  “It sure is,” Rogoff said. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

  “You’re quite welcome,” I said. “Al, are you serious about reenacting the murder?”

  “Sure I’m serious. Look, we picked up some odds and ends of physical evidence. None of them are heavy by themselves, but taken together they add up to a possible homicide planned to look like a suicide. I’ll explain as we go along. Now I want you to go back to the kitchen. I’ll go outside and pretend I’m the perp. You try to act like you think Gillsworth did in the few minutes before his death.”

  I went to the kitchen, which still showed blackened scars from the grease fire. In a moment I heard the front doorbell ring. I paused a moment and then returned to the entrance. I peered through the judas window. The sergeant was standing there. I opened the door.

  “All right,” Rogoff said, “the victim probably does the same thing: glances through the window, sees someone he knows, and lets him in.”

  “Him?” I said. “Not a woman? Or maybe two people?”

  “Possible,” he said. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. “Now the perp is inside but doesn’t know Gillsworth has left a pan of oil heating on the range. And before the victim can tell him, the killer does this...”

  He leveled a forefinger at me thumb up, other fingers clenched.

  “Why the gun?” I asked him.

  “Because the killer wants to get Gillsworth into the bathtub so he can fake a suicide. A polite invitation just isn’t going to do it. Now put your hands in the air and turn around.”

  I followed orders. In a few seconds I felt a light slap on the back of my skull.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “The guy—or lady if you insist—slugs Gillsworth on the back of the noggin. The docs found it: a forcible blow caused by the famous blunt instrument. Could have been a gun butt. Heavy enough to render the victim unconscious. Now fall backward. Don’t worry; I’ll catch you.”

  Somewhat nervously I toppled. Al caught me under the arms.

  “My God,” he said, “what do you weigh?”

  “One-seventy.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Well, maybe a little more.”

  “Yeah, twenty pounds more,” he said. “Gillsworth weighed about one-fifty.”

  “That figures,” I said. “He was a scrawny bird.”

  “And a lot easier to drag than you,” Al said, moving backward down the corridor toward the bathroom, pulling me along with him.

  “We know it was done like this,” the sergeant said, “because the victim’s heels made furrows in the carpet. Photographed and the fibers analyzed. And guess what we found in the parallel tracks.”

  “What?”

  “Cat hairs.”

  “Oh-oh. The motel.”

  “You got it. So we went upstairs and vacuumed Gillsworth’s other clothes and shoes. More cat hair. He must have spent a lot of time in Cabin Four. The hair was silver-gray.”

  “Peaches,” I said. “Definitely.”

>   He made no comment, trying not to huff and puff as he dragged me past the poet’s den and through the door of the bathroom.

  “Okay,” he said, “you can stand up now. I’m not going to put you in the tub; it hasn’t been washed out yet.” He assisted me to my feet and glanced at his watch. “Less than three minutes from front door to bathroom. Then I figure the killer tugged Gillsworth over the edge of the tub and let him fall. That’s when the victim cracked his head on the rim. He had two separate and distinct wounds on the back of his skull: one from the gun butt, the other made when he was dumped in the tub and smashed, his head. You can still see the mark on the rim.”

  I stood erect and gazed down into the tub. Blood had dried and caked on the bottom and inner surfaces of the walls.

  “Was the drain closed?” I asked.

  “No,” Rogoff said. “But Gillsworth was wearing a crazy jacket. The tail blocked the drain enough so the blood didn’t run out freely. Now the victim is lying in the tub, face up, unconscious. The killer takes a single-edge razor blade and slashes both his wrists.”

  “In the wrong direction?”

  “Correct. And drops the blade on the bath mat to make it look like Gillsworth had let it fall there.”

  “Any prints on the blade?”

  “Nothing usable.”

  “Where did it come from? Did Gillsworth shave with single-edge blades?”

  “Ah-ha,” Rogoff said. “The beauty part. I wanted to make sure this wasn’t a burglary-homicide, so I called Marita to come over and check out the house. She said nothing was missing. She also said they had no single-edge blades; Gillsworth used an electric shaver. We found it in the upstairs bathroom. So the killer brought the blade with him. Which means the fake suicide was planned. It would make a nice headline: ‘Heartbroken Poet Takes Own Life After Tragic Death of Beloved Wife.’”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And your mention of Marita reminds me of something. The last time you and I met in this house—that was right after Lydia Gillsworth was killed—I saw Marita drive up. What was she doing here?”

  Al gave me a look. “You don’t miss much, do you? Well, after his wife was murdered, I asked Roderick to check out the house and see if anything was missing. He did and said nothing was gone as far as he could tell. But I called in Marita to double-check, figuring a housekeeper would know better whether or not anything was missing.”