McNally's luck (mcnally)

by Lawrence Sanders

  I obviously dozed off because when the phone rang I discovered my head was down on the desktop, cradled in my forearms. I roused and glanced at my Mickey Mouse watch: almost two-thirty a.m.

  "Rogoff," he said. "Why should you be sleeping when I'm not?"

  "You still at Gillsworth's house, Al?"

  "Still here. If I take a breather and run up to your place, do you think you could buy me a cup of coffee?"

  "You bet. How about a sandwich?"

  "Nope, but thanks. Just the coffee, hot and black. I won't stay long."

  I went down to my parents' bedroom and knocked softly. Father opened the door so quickly that I guessed he hadn't been sleeping, even though he was wearing Irish linen pajamas: long-sleeved jacket and drawstring pants.

  "The sergeant called," I said in a low voice, hoping not to disturb mother. "He's coming for a cup of coffee."

  "May I join you?" the pater asked.

  That was so like him. I mean it was his home, he was the boss, he could have said, "I'll join you." But he had to couch it as a polite request to sustain his image of himself as a courtly gentleman. He's something, he is.

  "Of course," I said. "Decaf for you?"

  He nodded and I went on down to the kitchen. I put the kettle on and set out three cups and saucers, cream and sugar, spoons. In less than ten minutes I heard tires on our graveled turnaround and looked out the window to see RogofFs pickup.

  He came in a moment later, looking weary and defeated. He collapsed onto one of the chairs without saying a word. He put a heaping teaspoon of regular instant into his cup and I poured boiling water over it.

  Then my father came in. He had changed to slacks, open-necked shirt, an old cardigan, and older carpet slippers. The sergeant stood up when he entered. I admired him for that. The two men shook hands, wordlessly, and we all sat down. Father and I had instant decaf with cream, no sugar.

  "He is dead, sergeant?" the senior asked.

  "No doubt about that, sir," Rogoff said. "The exact cause will have to wait for the autopsy. I'm no medic, but I'd say it was loss of blood that finished him."

  "Exsanguination," I remarked.

  Al looked at me. "Thank you, Mr. Webster," he said. "Well, there was enough of it in the tub."

  "How do you interpret it?" father asked.

  "I don't," Rogoff said. "Not yet. There are too many questions and not enough answers. Let me set the scene for you. The people next door were having a barbecue on their patio. One of the guests spotted flames behind the window of Gillsworth's kitchen. The men ran over there but the back door was locked. Meanwhile the women called nine-one-one. When the firemen arrived, they had to break down the back door. It was locked, bolted, and chained. They also broke through the front door of the house. That was closed with a spring lock but not bolted or chained.

  He paused to blow on his coffee and then sipped cautiously. It wasn't too hot for him, and he took a deep gulp. Father and I sampled ours.

  "That's significant," I said. "Don't you think? The front door on a spring lock but not bolted or chained?"

  "Maybe," Rogoff said. "Maybe not. Anyway it wasn't much of a fire. There was a big frying pan on the range. The pan had grease in it-butter or oil, it hasn't been determined yet. But it caught fire and spattered, igniting the curtains and cafe drapes. The range coil was still on High when the firemen got there."

  "Then he was preparing dinner," my father said, a statement not a question.

  "It sure looked like it, sir. There was a plate of six big crab cakes on the countertop, ready for frying. And in the fridge was a huge bowl of salad, already mixed."

  "Any booze?" I asked.

  "Yeah, an open liter of gin on the countertop, about two slugs gone. Also a highball glass still half-full. Looked like a gin and tonic. It had a slice of lime in it. And there was a six-pack of quinine water in the cabinet under the sink. One of the bottles was half-empty."

  I shook my head. "That doesn't compute. A man is making dinner. He has a drink, mixes a salad. He gets ready to saute his crab cakes. Then he decides to slit his wrists instead. Do you buy that, Al?"

  "Right now I'm not buying anything. Could I have another cup of coffee? I'm not going to get any sleep tonight anyway."

  I fixed him another regular and another decaf for myself after my father put his palm over his cup.

  "Please continue, sergeant," he said. "How was Gillsworth found?"

  "The firemen figured things didn't look kosher and went searching for him. They found him in the tub of the downstairs bathroom, the one next to his den. He was fully clothed. There was a bloody single-edge razor blade on the bath mat alongside the tub. Both his wrists were slashed."

  "Both?" I said. "If you slit one wrist, do you then have enough strength in that hand to grip a razor blade and slit the other wrist?"

  "Don't ask me," Rogoff said. "I've never tried it. We're going to need a forensic pathologist on this one."

  "Did the body show any other wounds?" father asked.

  The sergeant looked at him admiringly. "Yes, sir, it did," he said. "On the back of the head, high up. The hair was matted with blood. But after he slashed his wrists he could have slipped down in the tub and cracked his head on the rim. In fact, there's a bloody mark on the rim that looks like he did exactly that. It's" one of the questions the ME will have to answer."

  "What's your guess, Al?" I said. "Suicide or homicide? I'm not asking what you're absolutely certain about, but what's your guess?"

  He hesitated for just a brief instant, then he said, "Homicide."

  "Of course!" I said triumphantly. "No one is going to slit his wrists in the middle of preparing dinner-unless he finds worms in the crab cakes."

  "That's not my main reason for calling it homicide," Rogoff said. "Suicides sometimes do goofy things before they work up their courage to take the final exit. No, it's something else that makes me think someone cut Gillsworth's wrists for him. Archy, do me a favor. Show me how you'd slit your wrists if you were determined to shuffle off to Buffalo."

  I stared at him. "You want me to pretend to slash my wrists?"

  He nodded. "Use your spoon."

  I picked up the spoon from my saucer. I held it in my right hand, gripping it by the bowl, the handle extended. I held out my left forearm and turned it palm upward. I was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt; my arm was bare.

  "I feel like a perfect fool," I said.

  "Nobody's perfect," Al said, "but you come close. Go ahead, slit your wrists."

  As my father and the sergeant watched intently, I drew the spoon handle swiftly across my left wrist, just hard enough to depress the skin. Then I transferred the spoon to my left hand and made the same slashing motion down across my right wrist. I admit the playacting gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  "Uh-huh," Rogoff said. "That's what I figured."

  "What did you figure?"

  "You cut from the outside of your wrist down to the inside. You did it on both wrists."

  I looked at my forearms and then tried slashing with the spoon handle from the underside of each wrist up to the top.

  "Of course I did," I said. "It wouldn't be impossible to cut in the other direction, but it's awkward and you wouldn't be able to apply as much force. It would be like a backhand tennis stroke versus a forehand."

  "For sure," Rogoff said, nodding. "I've seen slit wrists before, on suicides and would-be suicides. The slash is always made from top to bottom. But the cuts on Gillsworth's wrists looked like they had been made from the underside of the wrist to the top. That was my impression anyhow, but I admit I could be wrong. But there's another thing: Gillsworth's wrists showed no hesitation marks. Those are scratches and shallow cuts a suicide sometimes makes before he finally decides to go for broke. Gillsworth's wrists had single deep slashes. Hey, I've got to get back. Thanks for the coffee, it juiced me up."

  "Thank you, sergeant," father said, "for being so forthcoming. I assure you that Archy and I will keep what you've told us in str
ictest confidence."

  "Yeah," Rogoff said, "I'd appreciate that."

  They shook hands, and I accompanied Al out to his pickup.

  "Got just a few more minutes?" I asked him.

  He looked at me a sec, then grinned. "Something you didn't want your father to hear?"

  "That's right," I said. "Or he'd have me committed."

  "Sure, I got a few minutes," Al said. "Gillsworth isn't leaving town."

  I climbed into the cab of the pickup with him. He pulled out a cigar and I pulled out a cigarette. We got our weeds burning, and I turned to face him.

  "Remember before you took off from your place last evening I said I had something important to tell you? Well, I went to a seance at the Glorianas' on Wednesday night."

  He didn't seem surprised. "So? Did you talk to your old friend Epicurus?"

  "No, but I talked to Lydia Gillsworth. The medium contacted her through Xatyl, a Mayan shaman. He's Hertha's channel to the spirit world."

  "Uh-huh. Makes sense to me."

  "It does? Anyway, Al, I heard Lydia talking. I know the words were being spoken by Hertha, but I could have sworn it was Lydia. But Hertha knew her well, and if the medium has a gift for mimicry, which she obviously has, she could have imitated Lydia's voice."

  "That does make sense. What did you and Lydia talk about? Did you ask who offed her?"

  "Of course."

  "And what did she say?"

  "She became hysterical. She screamed, 'Caprice! Caprice!' over and over again."

  That shook him. He turned his head slowly to look at me, and his expression was a puzzlement.

  "You're sure that's what she said?"

  "I'm sure. First it was screamed in Lydia's voice, then Hertha kept shrieking 'Caprice!' in her own voice. You know what she meant, don't you?"

  "Yeah, I know. Mrs. Gillsworth's car was a Caprice. She drove it from the seance to her home the night she was murdered."

  "That's right. How do you figure it?"

  Al was silent a long time. He turned away to stare fixedly through the windshield.

  "I'll tell you something, Archy: I suspected Roderick Gillsworth might have killed his wife. He says he talked to her from your place, was told she had just arrived, and immediately drove home to find her dead. He called nine-one-one, and I got there about fifteen minutes later. Tops. After I heard his story, I went out to the garage and felt the engine block on her Caprice. I didn't think it was as hot as it should have been if she had just driven home from the seance. But that was a subjective judgment. Also, she was killed on a warm night, and no one in South Florida drives around in late June without turning on the air conditioning. The interior of Lydia's Caprice wasn't as cool as it should have been if she had just arrived home-another personal judgment. It was nothing I could take to the State Attorney, but I began to wonder about Roderick Gillsworth."

  "What about the grandfather clock that was toppled and stopped at the time of death?"

  "Doesn't mean a thing, Archy. Anyone could have set the clock at any time desired and then pushed it over to stop it ticking. An easy alibi to fake."

  "So far, so good," I said. "But he did call his wife from my father's study."

  "I know he did," Al said almost mournfully. "There's no getting around that. And then, last night, Roderick gets iced-if it was homicide, and I think it was. That helps eliminate him as a suspect, wouldn't you say? It looks like someone, for whatever reason, crazy or not, wanted to wipe out the entire Gillsworth family, wife and husband. But now you tell me the psychic, speaking in the murdered woman's voice, yelled, 'Caprice! Caprice!' So I've got to start thinking again if Lydia's car really does provide a clue to her killer. Maybe I was right in the first place about the lack of engine heat and no air conditioning inside the car. Listen, Archy, I've really got to get back to the Gillsworth place. There's still a lot to do."

  "Sure," I said and started to climb from the truck cab. But he reached out a hand to stop me.

  "I'm going to be tied up with this thing for the next few days at least. Will you check on Otto Gloriana and the catnapping?"

  "I intend to."

  "Good. One more thing: that Atlanta detective said Otto is a nasty piece of work."

  I was indignant. "And what do you think I am- Little Lord Fauntleroy?"

  "Just watch your step," he warned.

  I went back into the house, locked up, and climbed the stairs to bed. I tried to sleep but my mind was a kaleidoscope of scary images, and it must have been five a.m. before I finally conked out. I awoke a little before noon, and I was under the shower, all soaped up, when, in accordance with tradition, my phone rang.

  I went dashing out uttering a mild oath-something like "Sheesh!" — and grabbed up the phone only to have it drop to the floor from my slippery grasp. I retrieved it after much fumbling and finally cupped it in both hands.

  "H'lo?" I said.

  "What the hell's going on?" Harry Willigan demanded. "You drunk or something?"

  I started to explain, but he had no time or inclination to listen. He said he was about to leave on a flight to Chicago for a business meeting. He would be gone until Tuesday, and if I had any news about Peaches I was to phone Laverne; she knew where he could be reached. He hung up before I could tell him I was hot on the trail of his beloved.

  I finished my shower, dressed, and phoned Meg Trumble again. Again there was no answer. Very frustrating. I went downstairs for breakfast-lunch and found Jamie Olson seated at the kitchen table. He was munching on a thick sandwich that seemed to be mostly slices of raw Spanish onion between slabs of sour rye. It looked good to me so I built one for myself, heavy on the mayo. I sluiced it down with a bottle of Buckler beer (non-alcoholic, if you must know).

  "Jamie," I said, "remember my asking if Laverne Willigan had a little something on the side? You

  said there was talk she was putting horns on dear old Harry."

  "Yuh."

  "Hear any more on the grapevine about who he is?"

  "A dude."

  "A dude? That's all? Just a dude?"

  "Yuh. Dresses sharp."

  "But no name?"

  "Nope."

  "So all you heard is that Laverne's Consenting Adult or Significant Other is a dude-correct?"

  "Tall."

  "Ah-ha, a tall dude! Now we're making progress. Young? Old?"

  "Half-and-half."

  "About my age, you think?"

  "Mebbe."

  "Better and better. Now we've got a tall, half-and-half dude. Slender or fat?"

  "Thin."

  "Dark or fair?"

  "Darkish."

  "Handsome?"

  "Mebbe, I guess she thinks so."

  "Excellent," I said. I now had a tall, half-and-half, thin, darkish, handsome dude. There were many men in the Palm Beach area answering that description, including you-know-who.

  I slipped Jamie a tenner for his enthusiastic cooperation. Then I went into my father's study and looked up the number of the Jo-Jean Motel on Federal Highway. I phoned and was greeted by a woman's voice.

  "Jo-Jean," she said, and I wondered which one she was.

  "May I speak to Mr. Charles Girard?" I asked. "South row, Cabin Four."

  "I know where he is," she said crossly.

  There was a clicking, the connection went through, and the ringing started. Nine times, I counted, before the phone was picked up.

  "Yeh?" A man's voice, deep and thick.

  "Mr. Charles Girard?"

  "Yeh. Who's this?"

  "Mr. Girard, this is the veterinarian who recently provided medical care for your cat. It is my custom to make follow-up calls regarding the animals I have treated to make certain they have recovered satisfactorily. No charge, of course. Let's see, your cat's name is, ah, Gertrude?"

  "Peaches," he said.

  "Of course," I said. "It slipped my mind. And how is Peaches feeling, Mr. Girard?"

  "She's okay."

  "Glad to hear it. Well, remember we're he
re to serve and ready to provide emergency medical care for your pet should it ever be needed. Thank you, Mr. Girard, and have a nice day."

  "Yeh," he said and hung up.

  I was enormously pleased with the results of my discreet inquiries that morning. I reckoned that if my good luck continued, before nightfall I might find Judge Crater and identify Jack the Ripper.

  I boarded the Miata and started my journey to Federal Highway. I drove slowly, for I meant to beard Otto Gloriana in his den at the Jo-Jean Motel and needed to cobble up a believable scenario to justify my appearing on his doorstep. But I could think of no scam that wasn't sheer lunacy. I decided to trust my modest talent for improvisation.

  I parked in the same area I had used before and walked back to the Jo-Jean office through the midday heat. The same woman I had spoken to previously was perched on the same high stool behind the same counter, bending over a newspaper. But at least the tabloid was different. The headline was "Chef Slays Six With Spatula."

  "I beg your pardon," I said, "but is Mr. Girard in?"

  "You just missed him," she said, not looking up. "Him and the missus drove out a coupla minutes ago."

  "Drat!" I said. "He told me he was staying here. I haven't seen him in ages, and I came all the way from Fort Lauderdale hoping to surprise him. Is he still driving his Lincoln Continental?"

  "Chrysler Imperial."

  "Ah, he must have traded in the Lincoln. And is his wife still the same tall, striking blonde?"

  "Brunette. Chunky. Built like a bulldog."

  "Oh my!" I said, laughing merrily. "Then I guess old Charlie traded in his first wife too. Did he say when he'd be back?"

  "Nope."

  "Perhaps I'll just drive around awhile, see the sights, and return later. Thank you for your help."

  I thought I had been devilishly clever, but suddenly, without looking up, she said, "You got a lot of information for free, didn't you?"

  I sighed, took a twenty from my billfold, and placed it on the countertop. She plucked it away so swiftly that I swear the visage of Old Hickory seemed shocked.

  I went out into the hot sunlight and wandered down to Cabin Four, south row. It was larger than I had imagined, but it was surely a decrepit structure, badly in need of painting-or a hand grenade.