McNally's Risk

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Sounds good to me," I said. "Heavy on the garlic, please."

  "You've got it," he said.

  I returned to the dining room and told Theo what we were having for lunch. I suggested a glass of dry red zin might go well with the steak salad.

  "Not for me, thanks," she said. "You go ahead but I'll have another marty."

  I went out to the bar and relayed our order to Mr. Pettibone. He nodded and prepared the drinks.

  "Dangerous lady," he commented. It was just an observation; there was no censure in his voice.

  "Yes," I agreed, "she is."

  I toted the fresh drinks back to our lonely table. It was not the one at which Connie Garcia and I usually dined. I had deliberately avoided seating Madam X there. Don't ask me why. Probably dementia.

  We raised glasses, sipped, said, "Ah!" in unison, stared at each other.

  "Archy," she said, "I'm caught."

  "Caught?"

  "In a pattern," she said. "My life. And I can't get out. Don't you find your life is a pattern?"

  "More like a maze," I said. "But I must like it because I have no desire to change."

  "You're fortunate," she said wistfully.

  I wanted to learn more about her being caught but then Leroy brought our salads and a basket of garlic toast.

  "Looks delish," Theo said, giving him one of her radiant smiles. I could see he was as smitten as I.

  "Plenty more," he said. "If you folks want seconds, just yell."

  It was as good as it looked: Boston lettuce, cherry tomatoes, hunks of cold steak, radishes, shavings of feta, cucumber, thin slices of red onions, black olives—the whole schmear.

  "Garlicky dressing," Theo said.

  "My fault," I confessed. "I asked for it."

  "I'm not complaining," she said. "I love it."

  I snuck glances at her as she ate. Mr. Pettibone was right; beauty is power. I mean she was so lovely that one was rendered senseless. I could understand why the Chinless Wonder would sign anything to win her, to have and to hold, till divorce doth them part.

  "Do you think I'm wanton, Archy?" she asked suddenly.

  That puzzled me because I thought she had said wonton and I couldn't see how she could possibly resemble Chinese kreplach. Then I guessed she had said wantin' as Leroy had just asked, "You wanting?" Finally I decided she had really meant wanton: lustful, bawdy. I think my confusion is understandable. Wanton is a written word. Have you ever heard it spoken?

  "No, Theo," I said, "I don't think you're wanton. Just a free spirit."

  "Free?" she said with a crooked grin. "Don't you believe it. It costs."

  Did she mean it cost her or cost others? I didn't know and couldn't guess. This woman never ceased to surprise and amaze. I was no closer to kenning her essential nature than I was the first time we shook hands at the Pristine Gallery.

  "Theo," I said, "something is obviously troubling you. Would you like to tell me about it? Perhaps I can help."

  "No," she said immediately. "But thanks. I can handle it. I always have."

  "You're very independent," I told her.

  "Yes," she agreed, "and I think that's my problem. It just kills me to have to rely on other people. I know I have to do it, but I don't like it."

  "You're referring to Chauncey?"

  "Chauncey. His mother. My father. You."

  "Me?" I said, astonished. "What on earth do you rely on me for?"

  "A four-letter word beginning with F."

  I pondered. "Fool? Fuss? Fill?"

  She laughed. "You know what I mean. I wish we had time this afternoon. But there will be other afternoons. Right, Archy?"

  She was more riddles than I could count but the largest made me groggy when I tried to solve it. Was she aware of my role in her affairs and enlisting my support by letting her blue butterfly soar? Or was she genuinely attracted to me and needed my enthusiastic cooperation as an antidote to the numbing company of CW and his forbidding mama?

  The enigma I faced was hardly original or unique. It faces every man when a woman acquiesces. Is it from profit or desire? The Shadow knows.

  We sat quietly in that deserted room for another half-hour. I had a second glass of wine, but Theo declined a third martini. I don't recall what we spoke of. I have a dazed memory of murmurs, small laughs, a few sad smiles. I had a feeling, totally irrational, that this afternoon in a waning light was a farewell. I can't explain it but I had the sense of a departure, a leave-taking.

  I believe Theo had the same impression, for just before we rose to leave she reached across the table to pat my hand.

  "Thank you, Archy," she said softly, "for all you've done for me."

  I was grateful for her sentiment, of course, but it did nothing to unravel the mystery of Theodosia Johnson.

  I signed the tab at the bar and we went out to our cars. I think there was much we both wanted to say and neither had the courage. But perhaps I was fantasizing. There's a lot of that going around these days. I wondered if we would kiss on parting but we didn't; we shook hands.

  I drove back to the beach in a dullish mood. It seemed to me that our luncheon conversation had been inconclusive to the point of incoherence. I had to admit I simply didn't know Madam X. And so, when I arrived home, I reacted as I customarily do when confronted with a world-class brainteaser: I took a nap.

  It was an uneventful evening at the McNally manse. Casual talk during the cocktail hour and dinner was mainly concerned with Lady Cynthia Horowitz's buffet on Tuesday night. Her engraved invitation had specified informal attire, and I declared that permitted Bermuda shorts and no socks. Naturally my father objected strenuously to such an interpretation. His idea of "informal attire" is appearing in public without a vest.

  I returned to my cell after dinner to prepare for my ten o'clock brannigan with Hector Johnson. I was tempted to phone Sgt. Rogoff and remind him of his assignment as a confederate concealed in the McNally garage. But on further reflection I decided not to call. Al hates to be nudged. He said he'd be there and I knew he would.

  I spent the remaining time rehearsing my lines, attempting to imagine Hector's responses, and devising my rebuttals. It all seemed so simple, so logical and neat, I saw no way he could escape the trap I was setting for him. I might as well have pledged allegiance to the Easter Bunny.

  When my phone rang about nine-thirty I plucked it up, hoping it was Rogoff calling to confirm our arrangement. It was Hector Johnson.

  "Arch?" he said. "Listen, I think we better change our schedule."

  "But you—"

  "I just don't feel comfortable driving around at night with this much cash in the car."

  "We could—"

  "Too many outlaws on the road these days," he charged ahead, ignoring my attempted interruptions. "The best thing is for you to come over to my place. Theo is having dinner at her guy's home so we'll be able to have a one-on-one and maybe a few belts to grease the wheels of commerce, if you know what I mean. So you just drop by at ten o'clock."

  "Heck, I don't—"

  "I'll be waiting for you," he said and hung up.

  I sat stunned, my battle plan reduced to shredded wheat. I now had no doubt whatsoever that Hector had never intended to replay our first meeting. His last-minute change of setting was made to insure that he would not be caught in a snare, which was exactly what I had planned for him. No dummy, our Mr. Johnson.

  It appeared to me that I had few options. I could phone him back immediately and postpone our get-together. But to what avail? We could set a different time, a different place, but Hector would surely make yet another revision at the last moment. I might curse his strategy but I had to admire it. Skilled one-upmanship.

  Naturally I phoned Sgt. Rogoff. I tried his home first and received a curt reply from his answering machine. I left a message. Then I called police headquarters. He wasn't in his office and the duty officer informed me his present whereabouts were unknown. But if he called in, I was assured, he would be told to contact yrs. t
ruly at once.

  Snookered.

  Deep, deep thoughts. Pros. Cons. The odds. The risks. Did I dare? Reuben Hagler was in the Fort Lauderdale clink so Johnson would be my sole antagonist. Could I take him? Could he take me?

  I suspect you may think me an epicene lad with an overweening interest in wine, women, and song. (Not too heavy on the song, and I could live without wine.) It is true I am something of a coxcomb but I am not completely incapable of self-defense or violent physical action should it become necessary. I have played lacrosse at New Haven and rugby in South Florida. What I'm trying to convey is that my muscles are not spaghettini even though my brain may be Silly Putty.

  And so I sallied forth to dance a pas de deux with Hector Johnson, papa of the unknowable Madam X.

  The first thing I did after exiting was to search our three-car garage, hoping to find Al Rogoff lurking in the shadows. He was not. And during the early moments of my drive I tried to spot Al's parked squad car or pickup. No luck. I was on my own.

  The Johnsons' condo was brightly lighted and Hector opened the door before I knocked. He was grinning, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me inside with a great show of boisterous good-fellowship.

  "Glad you could make it, Arch!" he shouted. "Sorry about the change of plans, but I figure it's better this way. Am I right?"

  "Sure, Heck," I said.

  He practically pushed me onto that cretonne couch of recent fond memory.

  "Hey," he said, looming over me, "I'm having a Chivas. How about you?"

  "No, thanks," I said. "I've been drinking wine and it's instant blotto to mix the grape and the grain. But you go ahead."

  "I was just pouring a refill when you pulled up," he said. "Be right back."

  He went into the kitchen. I didn't think he was sozzled, but he wasn't stone sober either. I wanted him to keep drinking, figuring it might impair his coordination if things turned nasty. He returned with a full glass and no ice cubes that I could see.

  "Your daughter is having dinner with her fiancé?" I asked.

  "Yeah," he said, plopping down in an armchair facing me. "She drove the Lincoln. That guy of hers is a real stiff, isn't he? What Theo sees in him I'll never know."

  "Maybe she sees five million dollars," I suggested.

  His expression didn't change, but he took a deep gulp of his Scotch. "I'm glad you brought that up, Arch," he said. "Listen, I got bad news. I know I told you I had fifty grand and I did, but now I don't. I was depending on a pal to help me out, but he's in a bind and can't come up with the gelt. Arch, I'm really, truly sorry about this, and you have every right to be pissed. I mean I think you're in the right to ask for a finder's fee and if I had it I'd be happy to hand it over with a smile. But like they say, you can't get blood from a turnip. I only wish there was some other way we could work this out."

  The opening I had hoped for . . .

  I was silent a moment, looking at him thoughtfully. "There may be, Heck. And it won't cost you any cash."

  He took another swig. "No money?" he said. "Then what do you want?"

  "That painting you bought from Marcia Hawkin."

  "What painting?" he cried. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Heck," I said, "let's stop playing games. I know Marcia sold you a painting."

  "Are you calling me a liar?" he said menacingly.

  "Of course not. I just think you're making a very chivalrous attempt to protect the reputation of that poor, unfortunate girl."

  He suddenly switched gears. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "That's exactly what I want to do. Louise has enough problems without that. How did you know?"

  Then I went into my rehearsed spiel, speaking slowly in a grave voice. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't con a con man. His ego is so bloated that it never occurs to him that anyone would even try to swindle him. Bankers have the same fault.

  "Heck, when I spoke to Marcia the afternoon before she was killed she made a confession. I didn't ask questions; she just wanted to talk. You know what a flake she was.

  "She told me she arrived home while the housekeeper, Mrs. Folsby, was on the phone reporting to the police she had just discovered the body of Silas Hawkin. Marcia went directly to the studio and saw that her father was dead. Murdered. She said he had been working on a nude portrait of her, acrylic on a wood panel, and she was so proud and happy that he wanted her to pose because it was the first painting he had ever done of her.

  "So, she admitted, she stole it. Just wrapped it in a drop cloth, carted it away, and slid it under her bed in the main house before the cops arrived. What she did was unlawful, of course: removing evidence from the scene of a crime.

  "But Marcia said she didn't care. She felt the painting belonged to her. Not only had she posed for it but it would be her only remembrance from her father. You can understand how she felt, can't you, Heck?"

  "Yeah," he said, finishing his triple Chivas. "Sure I can."

  "But then the hostility between Marcia and her stepmother became more venomous. After the death of her father Marcia had no money of her own; her only asset was the last painting by Silas Hawkin. So she decided to sell it. To you. Because she thought you were wealthy and would be willing to help her out. I tried to convince her that what she planned was illegal. She really didn't own the painting; after her father's death it became part of his estate and Louise was his beneficiary. But Marcia insisted on going ahead with it. How much did you pay, Heck?"

  The direct question shook him. He gripped his empty glass with both hands and leaned forward tensely. "She told you the painting was a nude of her?"

  "That's what she said."

  Then he relaxed, sat back, nodded. "I paid her twenty thousand," he said. "A bargain."

  "It certainly was," I agreed. "And now I'm going to offer you another bargain. I'll take that painting as a finder's fee instead of the hundred thousand dollars I asked. A nice profit for you, Heck."

  He rolled his empty tumbler between his palms while he stared at me closely. "You're so generous," he said, not without irony. "Why?"

  "Because I like Silas Hawkin's work. I already own some of his watercolors. And I want to own his last painting, especially since it's on wood, something he hadn't done since he was a student in Paris."

  Johnson kept staring and I still wasn't certain he had bought my fairy tale. I added more.

  "If you're afraid of getting involved in the police investigation of Marcia's murder, forget it. I figure you paid her and she went out to celebrate with some of those crazy dopers and bikers she knew. They partied, things got rough, and she ended up dead."

  "Uh-huh," he said. "That's the way I figure it, too."

  "Another consideration is this . . . What we're talking about is stolen property. Marcia started by stealing the painting from her father's studio. You committed an illegal act by purchasing stolen property. But you get out from under by turning it over to me. Then I have the hot potato. Do you think I'm going to hawk it, lend it to an exhibition, or even show it to anyone else? No way! That nude goes into my private collection and stays private for the rest of my life."

  He was silent and I knew it was his moment of decision. Snowing him as I had was the only way to uncover the truth. And if what I suspected was correct, he would be forced to react.

  He pondered a long time, not speaking, and I didn't know which way it would go. Finally he said, "Clue me in on this, Arch. What's my downside risk?"

  That was Wall Street jargon and I remembered he had been a stockbroker cashiered for securities fraud.

  "Your downside risk," I told him bluntly, "is that the cops question me and I repeat what Marcia told me of planning to sell you a painting. The stained drop cloth was found in her Cherokee when they hauled it out of the lake. That implicates you. Also I'd feel it my duty to inform Chauncey's mother that her darling son intends to sign a five-million-dollar prenuptial contract with your daughter, contrary to my advice. There goes Chauncey's inheritance.

  "Your upsid
e potential is that the cops never learn from me what Marcia said, and I advise Chauncey to sign the prenup immediately. And everyone lives happily ever after. If I get the painting."

  He twisted his features into more grimace than smile. "I don't have much choice, do I?" he said.

  "Not much," I agreed.

  "I need a refill," he proclaimed hoarsely, hauling himself to his feet. "Be right back."

  He went into the kitchen. I waited patiently, satisfied that I had given it my best shot. If it didn't work I'd be forced to consider enrolling in a Tibetan monastery.

  It worked. Hector came slowly out of the kitchen, not with a drink but with a revolver. It looked like a .38 but I couldn't be sure. I don't know a great deal about firearms. Badminton rackets are more my speed.

  I rose to my feet. "Judgment day," I said. "And it's only Monday. I suggested to Mr. Pettibone it might be tomorrow."

  "What?" Johnson said, completely bewildered.

  You may not believe this but the sight of him carrying a handgun was a source of exultant gratification more than fright. For I knew I had been right, and what is more pleasurable than saying, "I told you so," even if they're your last words.

  He was holding the weapon down alongside his leg, not brandishing it, you know, but gripping it tightly. I took one small step toward the outside door.

  "Is that the gun that killed Shirley Feebling?" I asked him.

  Oh, but he was shaken! His face fell apart. Emotions flickered: disbelief, consternation, fear, anger, hatred.

  "You're a real buttinsky, aren't you?" he said, his voice an ugly snarl.

  "A professional buttinsky," I reminded him. "I get paid for it."

  I took another small step toward the door. He followed as I hoped he would. He was my sole assailant but little did he know that I had two allies: Desperation and Adrenaline.

  I took another step. He came much closer, raising the gun and pointing it at me. When I saw the muzzle I realized it wasn't a .38; it was the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel.

  "Don't try to make a break for it," he warned harshly. "I'd just as soon drop you right here."

  "And stain your beautiful shag rug?" I said.

  I took a deep breath and made my play, a fast feint toward the door. It was a singularly adroit move if I say so myself, and I do. His gun swung to cover my anticipated departure. I whirled back and rushed, knocking the revolver aside and embracing him. We hugged, straining, tighter than lovers. He was heavy and he was powerful. It was like pressing a grizzly to one's bosom.