McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

  “You were a friend of the late Mr. Gillsworth?” he inquired.

  “A close personal friend,” she said defiantly, lifting her chin. “Especially after his dear wife passed over. I believe my family and I provided him with spiritual comfort.”

  “My son tells me your daughter-in-law is a medium.”

  “She is. And very gifted, I might add.”

  “Did Mr. Gillsworth attend the séances I understand are held at your home?”

  “Occasionally. He attended with his wife.”

  Father nodded and seemed to relax. He looked down at the papers he was holding, rolled them into a loose tube, tapped them gently on his knee. He didn’t speak, and his silence obviously perturbed Mrs. Gloriana.

  “Is there any reason why this will cannot be filed for probate immediately?” she said. “It is absolutely authentic.”

  “Well, naturally that must be determined,” he said smoothly. “The testator’s signature must be verified, as well as that of the certifying notary public. A search must be conducted to locate immediate survivors—family members—if such exist. In addition, I wish to review the statutes of the State of Florida dealing with holographic wills.”

  That last, of course, was complete nonsense. My father knew Florida law as well or better than any attorney practicing in the State. He knew the music, knew the lyrics, and could sing you verse and refrain. He was simply stalling this would-be client.

  “How long will you need?” Irma asked. “I know that probating a will takes months, so I want to get it started as soon as possible.”

  “Very understandable,” he said. “And I shall attempt to expedite the process as much as possible. Where are the originals of these documents now?”

  “In my safe deposit box.”

  He nodded. “And do you have any evidence, Mrs. Gloriana—personal letters from Mr. Gillsworth, for instance—that might attest to your friendship with the testator?”

  “Why should that be necessary?” she asked indignantly. “Take my word for it, we were close friends.”

  “Oh, I do take your word,” he said. “But sometimes probate judges make inquiries to establish to their own satisfaction the relationship between testator and beneficiary.”

  “Well, yes,” she admitted, “I do have some letters from Rod. And a few unpublished poems he sent to me. And autographed copies of two of his books.”

  “Excellent. And where is this material at present?”

  “Also in my safe deposit box.”

  “I suggest you have photocopies made of anything that relates to your friendship with Mr. Gillsworth and have the copies delivered to my office.”

  “Must I do all that?”

  “I strongly urge it. It is my duty to anticipate any questions the presiding judge might have and be prepared to answer them. Do you have any notion of the size of Mr. Gillsworth’s estate, madam?”

  That last was asked suddenly in a sharp voice, and I could see it flustered her for a brief moment.

  “Why, no,” she said. “Not exactly. At the time Rod wrote out his will, he said he didn’t have much.”

  That at least, I acknowledged, was the truth.

  “And did he give you any reason why he was making a holographic will rather than coming to me, his attorney of record, to have his last testament revised?”

  She was obviously ready for that query; her answer was immediate and glib: “He said that because you also represented his wife, he didn’t want to run the risk of Lydia learning he had changed his will.”

  That implied Prescott McNally might be guilty of unethical conduct, but father voiced no objection. He stood and waited until she had gathered up handbag and suede envelope.

  “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Gloriana,” he said cordially. “If you will supply me with copies of the personal correspondence in your safe deposit box, I will start preparing an application for probate as well as initiating those other inquiries I mentioned. Please feel free to phone me if you have any further questions or desire a progress report.”

  She nodded coolly. I wondered if they would shake hands on parting. They didn’t. He opened the office door for her and she swept through, head high, indomitable.

  Father returned to his swivel chair, and I collapsed onto the couch, weary from standing erect for so long.

  “As you said, Archy,” the sire remarked with a wry smile, “a disturbing woman.”

  “Sir,” I said, “is a handwritten will legal in Florida?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, “if it is properly prepared, as this one apparently is. In addition, the attached affidavit serves as self-proof of the authenticity of the will.”

  “And is a witness allowed to inherit?”

  “Yes, a witness to a last will and testament may also be a beneficiary, under Florida law. Archy, methinks the lady and Gillsworth had the assistance of an attorney in preparing this will and the accompanying affidavit. Some of the language she used was legalese, borrowed from the lawyer I’m certain she consulted. The question then arises: Why did she come to me? The will I prepared for Gillsworth has been superseded by this holographic will. And, in effect, I have been superseded. Mrs. Gloriana could just as easily have retained the attorney who assisted her and asked him to file for probate. But she came to me. Why?”

  “Father, I think she figured that by retaining you she would eliminate the possibility of your asking embarrassing questions, causing trouble, delaying her receiving what she considers her rightful due. And if you raise too many objections, she’ll offer to cut you in on her inheritance.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said, “I do believe you may be correct. The lady is using me, and I don’t relish it.”

  We sat in a moody silence awhile, chewing our mental cud, and then my father drew a deep breath.

  “Archy,” he said, “yesterday you told me you thought the Glorianas were involved in the murders of Lydia and Roderick Gillsworth but you had no idea as to their motive.” He held up the copy of the holographic will. “Now you have a motive.”

  I rose to my feet. “I better call Sergeant Rogoff,” I said. “Interesting morning, sir.”

  “Wasn’t it,” he agreed.

  On my way through the outer office Mrs. Trelawney took one look at my expression and evidently decided not to crack any jokes or make any reference to our recent visitor. Instead she silently handed me a message: Mrs. Laverne Willigan had phoned and I was to call her as soon as possible.

  I returned to my closet, phoned the Willigan house, spoke to Leon, and eventually Laverne came on the line. She told me she had heard from the bank, the fifty thousand was ready, and I could pick it up anytime. I thanked her and hung up at once, fearing she might ask questions about plans for delivery of the ransom.

  Then I phoned Sgt. Rogoff.

  “Al,” I said, “I’m in my office. Irma Gloriana just left, and you were right. But that bomb she dropped was a blockbuster. Can you come over?”

  “On my way,” he said. “Fifteen minutes.”

  He was as good as his word. He came barging in and plumped down in the uncomfortable steel chair alongside my desk. He lighted a cigar and took out his notebook. “All right,” he said, “let’s have it.”

  I gave him a complete account of what had transpired in my father’s office. When I started, he tried to keep up by scribbling notes, but then he became so entranced by my report that he left off writing, let his cigar go out, and just listened, bending forward intently.

  I finished, and he leaned back, relighted the cold cigar and stared at me. I lighted a cigarette, and within minutes my tiny office was fuggy.

  “A handwritten will is legal?” he asked finally.

  “My father says so. And a witness can be a beneficiary.”

  “And Irma gets everything?”

  “Everything but the original manuscripts.”

  He made a grimace of disgust. “Why did the idiot do it?”

  “That’s obvious,” I said. “Sexual o
bsession.”

  “I love the way you talk,” he said. “You mean he had the hots for her.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” I said.

  Then, when we both grasped the implications of the poet’s folly, I think we became excited—hunters on a fresh spoor. We couldn’t talk fast enough.

  “Look, Al,” I said. “Lydia was a lovely woman but something of a bluestocking. The gossip in Palm Beach was that the Gillsworths had a marriage in name only.”

  “Then Roderick goes to one of those cockamamy séances with his wife and meets Mrs. Irma Gloriana. Snap, crackle, and pop!”

  “Irma was everything Lydia wasn’t: voluptuous, dominant, and a wanton when it suited her purpose.”

  “And as rapacious as a shrike.”

  “So they have an affair. Rod learns there’s more to life than iambic pentameters, and Irma calculates this besotted fool might be the answer to her family’s money problems. Do you buy all that?”

  “Every word of it,” Rogoff said. “That’s why he began writing those erotic poems; the poor devil couldn’t control his glands. It happens to all of us sooner or later.”

  “But not many of us end up dead because of it.”

  “Thank God.”

  “You think Gillsworth knew Otto was Irma’s husband?”

  “I doubt that. I think she passed him off as her brother or a friend.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “How’s this scenario: Irma learns that Rod is practically penniless but his wife is loaded.”

  “And if she dies, her husband inherits the bulk of her estate.”

  “Who do you think made the first fatal suggestion?”

  “The husband,” Al said promptly. “If that was the price he had to pay to keep enjoying Irma, he was willing.”

  “Maybe Irma promised to marry him once Lydia was out of the picture. That’s assuming he didn’t know she was already married.”

  “And I’m betting Irma told him he wouldn’t have to do the dirty deed himself; her so-called brother or friend would take care of Lydia—for a price, of course.”

  “Maybe the price was Gillsworth writing out that holographic will, leaving everything to Irma. A lovely quid pro quo. But why the poison-pen letters, Al?”

  “Just to send the cops galloping off in all directions looking for a psycho who didn’t exist. By the way, I sent that rookie up to the Glorianas’ office to try to sell Frank a Smith Corona word processor. You were right; Frank already owns a model PWP 100C.”

  “You think he was in on the plot to murder the Gillsworths?”

  Rogoff pondered a moment. “I doubt it,” he said finally. “He obviously knew about it—he witnessed the will, didn’t he?—but I don’t think he was a partner. Frankie boy had his own plot in the works: the catnapping of Peaches with the loving assistance of Laverne Willigan.”

  “Who he probably met at a séance. Those séances are beginning to resemble the bawdyhouse the Glorianas operated in Atlanta.”

  “Archy, you figure the medium knew what was going down?”

  “Hertha? I don’t think she knew about the murder plan. She knew her husband was nuzzling Laverne Willigan, but she just didn’t care. Hertha isn’t guilty of any crimes, Al.”

  He looked at me, amused. “How about conduct that violates the ethical code of psychics?”

  “Well, yes, she may possibly be guilty of that.”

  He laughed. “Listen, let’s go through the whole megillah one more time from the top and see if we can spot any holes.”

  So we reviewed our entire scenario, starting, with Roderick Gillsworth meeting Irma Gloriana and falling in love—or whatever he fell into. It seemed a reasonable script with only a few minor questions to be answered, such as the date Otto Gloriana arrived in Greater West Palm Beach, where Irma and Rod consummated their illicit union, and why Lydia Gillsworth had opened her locked door to allow her murderer to enter.

  “We’ll clear those things up,” the sergeant said confidently. “Now that we’ve got a logical hypothesis, we’ll know what evidence to look for and what’s just garbage.”

  “Whoa!” I said. “I hope you’re not going to discard facts simply because they don’t fit our theory. That’s ridiculous—and dangerous.”

  “It’s not a question of discarding facts,” he argued. “It’s a matter of interpretation. Let me give you a for-instance. When Gillsworth’s body was found, there was a big meal he had been preparing in the kitchen: six huge crab cakes and an enormous salad. Now there were three interpretations of that humongous meal. One: He was famished and was going to eat the whole thing himself. Two: He was making enough food so he could have a leftover dinner the next day. And three: He was expecting a guest and was preparing dinner for two people. According to our theory, the third supposition is the most likely. He was expecting Irma Gloriana to join him for dinner. The doorbell rings, he looks through the judas window, sees her, and unlocks the door. Otto is standing to one side, out of sight, and the moment the door is open, he comes barreling in with his single-edge razor blade. Doesn’t that sound right to you? It’s what I mean by interpreting facts. They don’t become evidence until you can establish their significance. If you don’t have a reasonable supposition, you can drown in facts.”

  “Thank you, professor,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed your lecture enormously. Of course it’s based on the belief that our scenario is accurate.”

  “You believe that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I said. “It seems to me the only plausible explanation of what happened.”

  But that wasn’t the whole truth. Do you recall my mentioning a vague notion I had early on, something so tenuous that I couldn’t put it into words? Then, as more was learned about the homicides, I began to see an outline. Now, with the most recent revelations, the outline was filling in and taking on substance. If it proved valid, it would radically alter the script Sgt. Rogoff had adopted so enthusiastically. But I didn’t tell him that.

  “Al,” I said, “the bank has the ransom money ready. Will you go with me to pick it up? You’re the man with the gun.”

  “Sure,” he agreed readily. “Then I want you to come back to headquarters with me. We’ve got to go over the program for tonight’s payoff.”

  “I hope you’ve devised an effective plan.”

  “It should work,” he said.

  I sighed. “Can’t you be more positive than that? After all, it’s my neck that’s at risk.”

  “Well...” he said doubtfully, “maybe you better not buy any green bananas.”

  Then he laughed. I didn’t.

  Chapter 16

  I SPENT THAT ENTIRE afternoon with Sgt. Rogoff and an ad hoc squad of uniformed officers assigned to him. As the night’s action was outlined to me, and my own role described, I realized Al had done a remarkable job of organizing a complex operation in a short time.

  Of course, in accordance with Murphy’s Law, some things were bound to go wrong, and we spent much of our time brainstorming possible contingencies and planning how they might best be handled. I was satisfied that the overall plan was workable and, with a little bit o’luck, would achieve its objectives.

  I wanted to leave the ransom money with Rogoff, but he was loath to accept the responsibility. He did keep a copy of the list of serial numbers the bank had thoughtfully provided. But when I left the Palm Beach police headquarters, which looks like a Mediterranean villa, I was lugging fifty thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills. The bank had supplied a K-Mart shopping bag as a carrier. Why do all the great dramas of my life contain the elements of farce?

  Naturally my mother had not been informed that her dear little boy was engaged in a perilous enterprise that might involve violence. Father and I tried to make our family cocktail hour and dinner that night no different from the umpteen that had gone before. We talked, we laughed, we each devoured a half-dozen delightful quail, and I don’t believe mother had an inkling that I was—well, I won’t say I was scared out of my wi
ts, but I admit my trepidation level was high.

  After dinner, she left us to go upstairs to her television program, and I resisted the temptation to kiss her farewell. I mean I wasn’t going off to the Battle of Blenheim, was I? It was really just a small piece of law enforcement business from which I was certain to emerge with all my limited faculties intact. I told myself that. Several times.

  My self-induced euphoria was rather diminished when father invited me into his study for a cognac. I knew he meant well, but I considered offering me a brandy was somewhat akin to being supplied with a blindfold and final cigarette. But at least he didn’t say, “Be careful.” He did say, “Call me as soon as it’s over.”

  Then I went upstairs to change. Al Rogoff had suggested I dress in black, and when I had asked why, he replied, “You’ll make a harder target.” The other cops on his special squad thought that uproariously funny, but I considered their levity in poor taste.

  About nine o’clock I came downstairs, dressed completely in black and carrying my shopping bag of cash. I went out to the Miata and paused to look about. It was a warm night, the dark sky swirled with horsetail clouds. Stars were there, a pale moon and, as I stared heavenward, an airliner droned overhead, going north. I wished I was on it.

  I drove directly to police headquarters. Sgt. Rogoff and his cohorts were donning bulletproof vests and inspecting their weapons which, I noted, included shotguns and tear gas and smoke grenades and launchers. There was also a variety of electronic gizmos being tested. I wasn’t certain of their function and intended use.

  I stripped to the waist and a technician “wired” me, an unpleasant experience involving what seemed to be yards of adhesive tape. When he finished, I was equipped with microphone, battery pack, and transmitter. I put on shirt and jacket again, and we moved outside to test my efficacy as a mobile radio station.

  The sergeant instructed me to move a hundred feet away, turn on the power switch, and say something. I did as ordered, activated myself and recited the “Tomorrow, and tomorrow...” speech from Macbeth. Rogoff waved me to return. “Loud and clear,” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”