I am not a stranger to violent death, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. I hope not. I looked around, then stepped carefully over the corpse to a back office that was large enough to hold a big double-doored safe. No one was in sight and no one was crouched behind the desk ready to leap out and shout, “Boo!” The tiny lavatory was also empty.
I used the phone on Rubik’s desk, handling it lightly with my silk foulard pocket square. I called the PBPD, praying Al would be in. He was.
“Sergeant Rogoff,” he said.
“Archy McNally,” I said. “I’m in Rubik’s Stamp and Coin Shop. He’s on the floor waiting for the meat wagon. Someone smashed in his skull.”
Al didn’t miss a beat. “All right,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
“Make it fast, Al,” I urged. “I’m lonely.”
“Don’t touch a thing,” he ordered. “Go outside and wait for me on the sidewalk.”
“I know the drill,” I said crossly, but he had already hung up.
I went back outside and stood guard at the door. I stuck my hands in my pockets to hide the tremble. There were pedestrians moving lazily along, and some of them gave me a friendly nod the way people do in Florida. One old codger said, with a perfectly straight face, “I don’t think it’s too cold, do you, partner?” I wanted to top him by casually mentioning, “Hey, partner, there’s a murdered man in this store.” But I didn’t.
It seemed like an eternity but it probably wasn’t much more than ten minutes before I heard the sound of an approaching siren. What a sweet song that was! Then the police car pulled up with a squeal of brakes. Al and another uniformed officer climbed out, taking their time. The other cop was a stranger to me, but he seemed awfully young, which means I’m getting awfully old—right? Anyway, he was trying to look stern and purposeful, and he kept his hand resting on his gun butt.
We all moved inside and looked down at the crumpled remains of Bela Rubik.
“Thanks a lot, Archy,” Al said to me. “And it’s not even my birthday.”
The young officer squatted by the corpse and fumbled at the neck. I don’t know what he thought he was doing—probably feeling for the carotid. He looked up at Rogoff. “He’s stiff, sarge.”
“No kidding?” Al said. “Are you sure he’s not faking it?” He turned to me. “Go back to your office, Archy,” he ordered, “and don’t leave it even to take a pee. After I get the wheels turning here, I’ll give you a call and you come over to the palace and dictate your statement.”
I nodded. “That paperweight—” I offered. “It’s called a millefiori. It’s made by cutting cross sections of glass rods of different colors and shapes.”
“Thank you, professor,” the sergeant said. “That certainly is a valuable clue. Now beat it.”
I didn’t go directly back to my office. I stopped at the nearest bar and had a double Pinch. My shaking finally stopped. When I arrived at headquarters, I went to my father’s office, but Mrs. Trelawney said he had left for lunch with a client. So I retired to my cubbyhole and lighted my first English Oval of the day. I thought I deserved it.
I sat there for more than an hour, counting the walls and trying not to think about anything. But it didn’t work. I couldn’t stop reflecting on chance. If Mrs. Trelawney hadn’t phoned me about that expense account check, I wouldn’t have come into the office that morning. And if I hadn’t come into the office, I wouldn’t have received the message that Rubik had called. And if I hadn’t wasted time trading jokes with Mrs. Trelawney, I’d have left sooner. And if I hadn’t paused to deposit the check but hustled over to Rubik’s shop immediately, I might have walked in on a horrendous murder.
But what was the use of imagining. Life is all ifs, is it not?
Then Sgt. Rogoff called. “All right,” he said, “come over now. We’re ready for you.”
I drove over to the building on County Road Al liked to call the “palace.” His office was larger than mine (whose wasn’t?), and the decor was Police Station Moderne. I sat in an uncomfortable wooden armchair and dictated my statement into a tape recorder, with Al and two witnesses in attendance.
This time I omitted absolutely nothing. I told of my first meeting with Bela Rubik and how he had agreed to ask other dealers if a block of four Inverted Jenny stamps had suddenly come on the market. Then I stated how he phoned me that morning, saying he had something of importance to tell me that he didn’t want to discuss on the phone.
I described how the sign attached to the outside of the glass had aroused my curiosity. I said I had entered after seeing Rubik’s broken glasses on the floor. I noted that when I first visited the shop, the door had been locked and apparently the proprietor would not admit anyone he didn’t know who appeared threatening.
I said I had touched nothing but the doorknob and the phone on Rubik’s desk. I had seen no one leaving the shop as I approached. I had smelled no perfume, cologne, or any other scent inside the store. The stamp dealer had mentioned nothing to me of prior robberies or assaults. And that was all I knew.
The tape was taken away to be transcribed, and Sgt. Rogoff and I were left alone. He pulled out a cigar, sliced off the tip with a penknife, and began to juice it up.
“You come up with some doozies, you do,” he said. “You figure it had something to do with the Inverted Jennies?”
“I think that’s a reasonable assumption,” I said. “Unless it was plain and simple robbery. Was anything missing?”
“Didn’t look like it. The showcase was locked and intact. So was the safe in the back office. Rubik still had his wallet, untouched.”
“Al, was he married?”
“Yeah,” the sergeant said softly. “His wife’s in a nursing home. Alzheimer’s. He’s got one daughter with the Peace Corps in Africa. We’re trying to notify her. He had two sons but both were killed in a light-plane crash last year. ‘When troubles come, they come not singly but in battalions.’”
“Why, Sergeant Rogoff,” I said, “that’s beautiful. But you’ve got it wrong. It’s ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.’”
“Troubles or sorrows,” he said, “what’s the diff? So you figure it was someone he knew?”
“Someone he recognized,” I said. “Someone he had dealt with before.”
“What do you think was important that he wanted to talk to you about?”
I shrugged. “I asked him to find out if any Inverted Jennies were being offered for sale. Maybe he found out.”
“And was killed for it?”
“It’s possible.”
Al grinned at me. “Anything is possible,” he said. “It’s even possible that you’re holding out on me.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I protested. “Not about murder.”
Rogoff thought a moment. “How are you coming along with the Horowitz clan?” he asked suddenly.
“Still at it. Nothing to report.”
“Stick with it,” he said. “You handle the stamp theft—those people will tell you more than they’ll tell us—and I’ll concentrate on the Rubik homicide. How does that sound?”
“Makes sense,” I said. “And I think eventually we’ll discover we’re working the same case.”
“You think someone in the Horowitz group offed Rubik?”
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t you?”
But “Could be” was all he’d say. The stenographer came in with my typed statement: original and four photocopies. I signed them all, and Rogoff gave me one of the copies for my file.
“If you think of anything else,” he said, “let me know.”
“I just did,” I said. “That sign on the door—did the killer bring it with him? I mean, was the whole thing planned?”
The sergeant shook his head. “I doubt it. There was a stack of cardboard like that in the bottom drawer of Rubik’s desk. He probably used it to stiffen envelopes when he mailed stamps. He also had a roll of masking tape.”
“So it was a spur-of-the-moment th
ing?”
“I’d say so. He and the perp got in an argument about something, and it ended up with him getting his skull cracked.”
“And the killer hung out the sign to give himself more time to get far away?”
“That’s the way I see it.”
“Did they dust the sign? The tape? The paperweight?”
“They’re still at it,” Al said. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“May I go now?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “You better go home, have a belt, and lie down. You don’t look so great.”
“I don’t feel so great,” I said. “Thanks for your prompt assistance, sergeant. Sorry I had to dump this on you.”
“If not this,” he said, sighing, “it would be something else. It never ends.” He paused a moment. Then: “I didn’t much like Rubik, did you?”
“No,” I said. “Still...”
I drove slowly and carefully back to the McNally spread. I wondered why I was driving in that Medicare fashion and realized it was a whiff of mortality that had inspired my caution. One never knows, do one?
I garaged the Miata and entered the house through the side door. My mother was standing at the sink in the kitchen, arranging cut flowers from our garden in a crystal vase. She looked up as I came in.
“Hello, Archy,” she said brightly. “Isn’t it a splendiferous day!” She paused a beat, doubting. “Did I use the right word?”
“Exactly the right word,” I assured her.
“Good! And what have you been doing today?”
“Oh,” I said, “this and that. Right now I’m going to change and take my swim.”
“Do be careful,” she said. “It’s rough out there. Now these are the last of the roses, Archy. The heat just eats them up.”
I watched a moment as she worked, bending over the sink and smiling as she clipped stems and placed the blooms in the vase just so.
“Mother,” I said, “how have you been feeling lately?”
“Tiptop,” she said. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Of course. Every day.”
I swooped suddenly to kiss her velvety cheek, and she looked at me with pleased surprise.
“Oh my!” she said. “What was that for?”
“I got carried away,” I said, and left her laughing with her flowers. She had a little girl’s laugh.
I changed, took up my beach bag and towel, and trotted across A1A to the ocean. I saw at once that mother had been right; it was rough out there, with a pounding surf and big patches of seaweed lifting and falling on the waves farther out. I decided not to dare it.
So I smeared on sunblock and sat on the sand in the latticed shade of a palm tree. I stared out at that turbulent sea and tried to review the events of the day. I did all right with my mental rerun until I got to the strip of film where I stood staring down at the crushed skull of Bela Rubik. And that became a freeze-frame; I couldn’t get past it.
I never thought I could shiver on a blazing late-May afternoon in South Florida, but I did. It required almost a physical wrench to dissolve that morbid scene from my memory. I did it by resolutely focusing my mind’s camera on more positive images. Jennifer Towley’s classic elegance. Consuela Garcia in a string bikini. And similar recollections of love, joy, and calm seas. All to keep the specter of sudden death at bay.
Listen, I’m no hero.
Chapter 7
MY PARENTS HAD A local couple in for a rubber of bridge that evening, and I didn’t have a chance to speak to my father. But after breakfast the next morning I asked if we could talk for a few minutes before he left for the office. He led the way into his study.
“What is it, Archy?” he asked rather testily. The governor hates to have his routine disturbed.
I told him about the murder of Bela Rubik. His face grew bleak. He pondered a long time.
“Distressing,” he finally pronounced. “Do you think the homicide is connected with the theft of Lady Horowitz’s stamps?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I’d bet on it.”
“Sergeant Rogoff also thinks so?”
I nodded.
He moved slowly about his den, picking things up and putting them down. “I hope he won’t reveal the possible connection to the media.”
“I doubt if he will, sir. Al is an intelligent man, and prudent when it comes to dealing with Beach millionaires. He’ll tell the reporters Rubik’s death was probably due to an attempted robbery. The stamp dealer put up a fight and was killed. That will protect Lady Horowitz and also give the perpetrator a false sense of security. Rogoff likes to come on as a heavy, but he can be foxy when it’s called for.”
“I’m glad to hear that. In view of the murder, do you wish to continue your discreet inquiries?”
I was offended. “Of course,” I said heatedly.
My father turned to face me. “I am not questioning your courage, Archy,” he said quietly. “I am merely suggesting that this case has taken on a gravity we didn’t anticipate. Our firm will do its best to protect our clients’ interests, but I am not certain that includes a homicide investigation.”
“Sergeant Rogoff will handle that,” I told him, “and I will try to solve the Inverted Jenny theft. Al and I agreed on that.”
Another long pause for heavy ratiocination.
“Very well,” the lord of the manor said at last. “Let’s do it that way. Please keep me informed.”
I nodded, and he started out, then paused to look back at me.
“Be careful,” was all he said, but I appreciated even that small expression of his concern.
I waited a few moments, watching out the window. When I saw the Lexus pull away, I dug out his telephone directories again. This time I consulted the Yellow Pages for North Broward County. There were a half-dozen stamp dealers listed. I tore the whole page out of the directory and stuffed it in my pocket.
This was my reasoning:
If Rubik had discovered that a block of Inverted Jennies was suddenly being offered for sale, there seemed to be no reason why another stamp dealer couldn’t do the same thing. But I didn’t want to endanger the skull of another local philatelist. I figured employing a dealer miles away from the scene of the crime would offer sufficient protection—unless I was followed, and I intended to make certain I wasn’t.
Usually the trip from Palm Beach to Fort Lauderdale along A1A is one of the most scenic drives in the Sunshine State. As you proceed south, the Atlantic Ocean is on your left, and on your right are the lavish dormitories of the rich rich. On one side: nature; on the other: civilization. But the depredation of the beachfront didn’t bother me. I figured that sooner or later nature would even the score with a juicy hurricane.
But that morning I had little time for environmental musings. As I drove along at a lively clip, I revised the agenda I had drawn up for my investigation. The brutal killing of Bela Rubik had shuffled my priorities and, despite my agreement with Sgt. Rogoff, I decided the homicide took precedence over the theft.
Incidentally, during my trip southward I passed through Delray Beach and made a mental note to get cracking on Kenneth Bodin, to prove or disprove that Mr. Deltoids was involved in this meshugass. I also remembered to check my rearview mirror frequently to see if I could spot a tracker. Nothing.
I had selected the Lantern Stamp & Coin Shop in Fort Lauderdale only because I found the name attractive. And when I found the place on East Commercial Boulevard, I was pleased to see an antique lantern hanging over the entrance. I approved of that since I am a great fan of Diogenes. But lettered on the plate-glass window in gilt script was the legend prop.: H. LANTERN. So apparently the store had been named for the owner, not the lamp.
The door was locked, and when I rattled the knob a formidable fiftyish lady came forward and peered at me through the glass. I held up my business card so she could read it. She unlocked the door and allowed me to enter.
“Yes?” she said.
<
br /> “May I speak to the owner, please?”
She stiffened. “I am the owner,” she said haughtily.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I assumed that—”
“I know what you assumed,” she interrupted. “That it’s impossible for a woman to own and run an independent business, and therefore I must be a salesclerk or the wife or daughter of the owner.”
“Nothing of the sort,” I said. “It’s just that—”
“Let me tell you something,” she carried on. “There are no secrets of business management known only to the male gender. There are many women who own and manage successful enterprises.”
“Very admirable, I’m sure,” I said, “but you are inferring a prejudice that simply doesn’t exist. I have known several stamp dealers in my lifetime, and without exception they have all been old, crotchety gentlemen. So naturally I was surprised to find a young, attractive female in the trade.”
And I gave her a 100-watt smile that had no effect whatsoever. She stared at me with narrowed eyes, obviously debating whether or not I was conning her, which, of course, I was. Finally she relented.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll accept your apology.”
I wasn’t aware that I had offered one, but didn’t dare tempt this gorgon’s wrath by mentioning it.
“Now then,” she continued, all business, “what can I do for you?”
I gave her the same song and dance I had given Bela Rubik: My law firm was handling the estate of a recently deceased Boca Raton real estate developer. Included in the inventory of his personal effects was a block of four Inverted Jenny postage stamps. For tax purposes we would like to establish the value of the stamps by determining the market price of a similar block currently being offered for sale.
H. Lantern shook her head. “Can’t be done,” she said decisively. “All stamps have different values, even those of the same issue. The value depends on the condition of the stamps.”
“You know that,” I said, “and I know that, but the IRS doesn’t know that. Quite frankly, we fear they are aware that a block of four Inverted Jennies was recently auctioned for a million dollars, and they are liable to insist that value be placed on the stamps included in the estate of our deceased client.”
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