McNally's Secret

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Could you tell me what shape Mr. Wolfson was in when you met for a drink?”

  “Oh, he was in a dreadful condition. It was an extremely hot day. He was exhausted, obviously in pain, and I had to hold his arm while we waited for Kenneth to come get us. Why do you ask?”

  “He was upset?” I persisted. “Disturbed? Unusually so?”

  She considered a moment. “Yes, I would say so. Pale and trembling. I remember suggesting he might wish to see a doctor immediately, but he’d have none of that. Again, why do you ask?”

  I shook my head. “I really don’t know. We’re still trying to solve the theft of your mother’s stamps, and this may possibly have something to do with it. Miss Stanescu, I thank you for speaking to me so openly. I hope I may see you again under happier circumstances.”

  She smiled—and this time it was the McCoy. “I hope so, too, Mr. McNally,” she said. “I enjoy your company. You are so pleasant.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and left her.

  Do you recall my telling you that on the previous night, Sunday, I had reviewed my notes on the Inverted Jenny Case and no light bulb had suddenly flashed above my head? Well, now the bulb was there. It wasn’t burning brightly, but it was glowing dimly and flickering.

  I remounted the Miata and was heading out when the bronze Jaguar pulled in. I stopped, and Lady Horowitz braked the Jag next to me. I was mortified: a schlump in a rubber dinghy moored alongside the USS Iowa.

  “Hello, lad,” she called. “What are you doing here—still snooping around?”

  I was offended. “I came to express my condolences,” I said. “On the death of Angus Wolfson.”

  “Well, people do die, you know,” she said blithely. “One way or another.”

  She seemed in a radiant mood. The periwinkle scarf was gone, and her white hair, wind-whipped, formed a springy halo as if she had stuck her big toe in an electric outlet.

  “Something I’d like to ask...” I said. “Did you know Wolfson was ill?”

  “Was he?” she said. “Well, I can believe it. The idiot just didn’t take care of himself. I once saw him swallow a live goldfish. He was drunk, of course—Angus, not the goldfish—but that’s no excuse. I’m going to live forever; I’m too mean to die.”

  I thought her levity in poor taste, but I knew it was foolish to expect delicate sensibility from that woman. Might as well expect a curtsy from King Kong.

  “Lady Cynthia,” I said, “what was Wolfson doing down here? A vacation?”

  “Of course,” she said quickly. “A holiday. The poor man couldn’t afford Antibes so he grabbed at the chance to spend a few weeks on the Gold Coast.”

  “Couldn’t afford?” I asked. “I thought you told me he was well-off.”

  “Did I?” she said. “I don’t think so. I probably said he wasn’t hurting. Meaning he wasn’t rooting through garbage cans or anything like that. But he did have to count his nickels and dimes. Why this sudden interest in his finances?”

  “I was just wondering if he was on his uppers. And if he was, if he pinched your stamps.”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He liked the lush life but just couldn’t buy it. Fortunately I can. But I’ve paid my dues. My life would make a book.”

  “I can imagine,” I said.

  “No, you can’t,” she said. “Ta-ta, lad. I’ve got to grab a bath.”

  I drove home. The light bulb was still glowing. But the flickering had ceased.

  I had plenty of time for a swim before the family cocktail hour. And the ocean was calm and brilliant under the westering sun. So why did I feel such a disinclination for plunging into those warm waters? Because, I realized, I was unnerved by the persistent image of the pale corpse pulled from that same sea.

  But if I didn’t conquer that fear, I might never dare the ocean again, and that would be shameful. So I resolutely changed, went down to the beach, and doggedly completed my two miles. I can’t say I enjoyed it, and when I emerged, the image of the dead Angus Wolfson had not been banished. Never would be, I acknowledged.

  It was a strange dinner that night. My father and I were in a rather subdued mood, but mother was almost hyper, laughing and yakking on and on about a flower show she had attended that afternoon. She had served as one of three judges, and apparently a contestant (an also-ran) had thrown a snit and loudly accused the judges of racial prejudice against African violets.

  The guv and I listened to this account with small smiles. I think we were both happy to have mother monopolize the conversation. If it hadn’t been for her, it would have been a dinner of grunts and mumbles, and Mrs. Olson might have wondered if we were dissatisfied with her poached salmon and dill sauce. Far from it.

  After coffee and a dessert of fresh strawberries marinated in white crème de menthe, my father drew me aside.

  “Are you planning to go out tonight, Archy?” he asked.

  “No, sir. I’m staying in.”

  “Good. I brought some work home, but I should be finished by ten o’clock. Could you stop down? There are a few matters to discuss.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised.

  I went upstairs and worked on my journal awhile in a desultory fashion. Then I took off my reading specs and stared at the far wall. Not much inspiration there, but I didn’t expect any. One thing bothering me was that Lady Cynthia had been so quick to agree that Angus Wolfson might have stolen her stamps. She had identified him as an “old friend.” Surely she knew as well as I that the man was incapable of the crime. He may have been many things, not all of them noble, but I was convinced he was not a thief.

  And I kept recalling that unlocked jewel box close to the rifled wall safe. Surely any crook, man or woman, would have paused long enough to lift the lid and grab up a handful of gems.

  There was a third puzzle I had not yet brought to the attention of Sgt. Al Rogoff. It concerned the murderous assault on Bela Rubik. Kenneth Bodin was a likely suspect, since apparently the purloined Inverted Jennies were now in his possession, or girlfriend Sylvia’s.

  But as I well knew, the stamp dealer kept his door locked and carefully inspected visitors before allowing them entrance. Would he have unlocked for Bodin, who even in his chauffeur’s uniform looked like an 800-pound gorilla in a purple Nehru jacket?

  But even those three questions, important though they might be, paled before an enigma that had troubled me since I had uttered, “Yes, this is the body of a man I knew as Angus Wolfson.” To wit: Did he really commit suicide, or did his nakedness, neatly stacked clothing, and the unused condom all indicate a sex scene that had gone awry, ending in murder instead of rapture?

  But I was not such a beginner at criminal investigation as to believe that all riddles can be solved, all snarls untangled, all questions answered. Ask any law enforcement officer and he or she will tell you that some mysteries remain so forever—mysteries. I went downstairs a few minutes after ten. I found the lord of the manor seated behind the desk in his study. He looked weary but, as usual, he was dressed as if he expected a visit from a Supreme Court justice at any moment. As I entered, he was replacing files in his Mark Cross calfskin briefcase.

  “Perfect timing, Archy,” he said with a pinched smile. “I’ve done all I can do tonight. Interesting case. It concerns the estate of the late Peter Richardson. Did you know him?”

  “No, sir. But I know Eddie Richardson. I think he’s the youngest of three sons.”

  Father nodded. “Three sons and two daughters. All are contesting Peter Richardson’s bequest of approximately two million dollars to a California organization that allegedly freezes the recently deceased in liquid nitrogen with the claim that they may be thawed and restored to sentient life at some future date. The children are denouncing the claim as fraudulent and petitioning that the bequest be ruled invalid.”

  “What is your opinion, sir?”

  “Oh, we’ve just started,” he said. “This will require extensive research.” He smiled coolly. “And many h
ours of billing. I think I deserve a glass of port. Will you do the honors, Archy? And help yourself, of course.”

  A few moments later I was seated in a leather armchair alongside his desk. We raised glasses to each other, then sipped. I thought the port was a bit musty but made no comment.

  “As we anticipated,” my father began, “I received a phone call from Lady Horowitz early this morning. She informed me of the death of her house-guest, Angus Wolfson. I already knew it, of course, from your report, but didn’t feel it necessary to tell her that. She gave me the name, address, and telephone number of the next of kin and requested that McNally and Son handle all the ‘gruesome details.’ Those are her words.”

  “She just can’t be bothered,” I said.

  “I suspect you’re correct. In any event, the next of kin is an unmarried sister, Roberta Wolfson, who shared an apartment with her brother in Boston. She is flying down to identify the body, claim the personal effects, and make funeral arrangements.”

  “And you want me to squire the lady about?”

  “Very perspicacious of you, Archy. Yes, that is exactly what I wish. Lady Horowitz volunteered to pay all expenses, including burial costs.”

  “That was decent of her.”

  “Yes,” he said. “In some ways she is a very generous woman. Mrs. Trelawney has arranged a round-trip airline ticket for Miss Wolfson. I understand she is an elderly lady, a year older than her brother. I know you will offer what sympathetic assistance you can.”

  “Yes, sir. When is she arriving?”

  “Around noon tomorrow. Mrs. Trelawney will give you the details.”

  “Will she be staying with Lady Cynthia?”

  He was silent a moment. “No,” he said finally. “Apparently Miss Wolfson met Lady Horowitz once and was not favorably impressed. She prefers to stay elsewhere. Mrs. Trelawney has taken a comfortable suite at The Breakers for her use.”

  “Seems to me Mrs. Trelawney has been doing most of the donkeywork,” I said. “What about the undertaker? Won’t Angus have to be iced and boxed for shipment?”

  Father sighed. “Not the terminology I would have used. Miss Wolfson insists on cremation. She says that was her late brother’s wish and is so stated in his will. She will carry his ashes back to Boston.”

  “How did she sound, father? Tearful? Hysterical?”

  “No, she seemed remarkably self-possessed. As if she had been expecting a phone call like mine for some time. Very cool, very formal. A proper Bostonian. She treated me with what I can only describe as condescension.”

  “It figures,” I said, nodding. “Proper Bostonians believe anyone who lives beyond Beacon Hill is a peasant. All right, I shall meet and escort Miss Wolfson. How long does she plan to stay?”

  “As briefly as possible. She hopes to return to Boston on Wednesday.”

  I was dubious. “I’m not certain the police will release the body that quickly. I’ll check with Rogoff in the morning.”

  “That would be wise. Now then, the other matter I wanted to discuss with you is the theft of Lady Horowitz’s stamps and the murder of Bela Rubik. How is that investigation coming along?”

  I told him about Kenneth Bodin and Sylvia, Hilda Lantern, and the attempt to sell Inverted Jennies to a Palm Aire dealer who stated they were forgeries.

  Mein papa seemed stunned. When he spoke, his voice was not quite steady. “I think we could use another glass, Archy,” he said.

  While I poured, he rose and went over to the sideboard. He began to pack a pipe, his favorite James Upshall. His back was to me.

  “Have you told Lady Horowitz that her stamps are counterfeit?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?” he said sharply.

  “Because I don’t know for certain that they are counterfeit. All I have is hearsay. When the Inverted Jennies are recovered, an independent examination can be made by experts.”

  He came back to his chair and flamed his pipe. I took that as a signal that I could light up an English Oval, and did.

  “But what if the stamps are not recovered?” he asked.

  “I think they will be, sir,” I said, and explained how Sgt. Al Rogoff was alerting all the dealers along the Gold Coast.

  “I hope he’ll be successful,” father said, calming down as he puffed. “The reason I am so concerned is that Lady Horowitz has become insistent on filing an insurance claim. She mentioned it again this morning. But if the stamps are counterfeit, obviously no legitimate claim for a half-million dollars can be made.”

  “Can you stall her awhile? If the stamps are recovered and prove to be forgeries, she’ll have no claim. And if they are recovered and prove to be genuine, she’ll still have no claim since they’ll be returned to her.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” he said slowly. “I’ll try to convince her to hold off filing, but she is a very strong-minded woman.”

  “As well I know,” I said. “Something else about this case is troubling me, father, and I’d like your opinion.”

  He nodded.

  I described the passionate embrace between Angus Wolfson and Kenneth Bodin I had witnessed the night of Lady Cynthia’s party. Then I related how Wolfson had been found: naked, clothes neatly stacked, unused condom in pocket. These were details I had not previously told my father, and he listened intently.

  “Are you suggesting,” he said when I concluded, “that the chauffeur murdered Angus Wolfson?”

  “I’m suggesting it’s a possibility.”

  “Have you informed Sergeant Rogoff?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what was his reaction?”

  “Nothing immediate. Knowing Al, I’m sure he’ll dig into it. But unless he can find a witness or Bodin confesses—both highly unlikely—I doubt if the sergeant will be able to make a homicide case. Then he’ll label it suicide and close the file.”

  The master went into one of his reflective trances, and I waited patiently. I thought he would be offended by the story of Wolfson’s predilection, but when he spoke it was more in sadness than distaste.

  “I hope Rogoff does close the file,” he said. “What possible good could it do to make public that poor man’s past? He is dead now; I would not care to see details of his life exploited in the tabloids.”

  He surprised me. “And let a murderer escape?” I asked.

  “If he was murdered. You are not certain and, from what you say, the police will not be able to prove a homicide.”

  “They might,” I argued. “If the Medical Examiner’s report indicates an assault or a struggle, or Rogoff finds additional evidence to prove the presence of a killer.”

  He looked at me somberly. “Archy, don’t let your desire for justice overcome your good sense. It seems to me this is a matter to be quietly swept under the rug. We are all guilty of actions in our lives which, while not illegal, may be morally reprehensible and which we would certainly not wish to be made public.”

  I was shocked. My father is usually the most logical and coldly judicial of men when forming and expressing his opinions. Now it seemed to me his reasoning was confused and his pronouncements perilously close to blather. I could not understand this crumbling of his Olympian standards.

  “Homicide is illegal,” I reminded him.

  “I am quite aware of that,” he said. “I am merely pointing out that sometimes the law must yield to decency and the protection of human dignity. It is a fine line, I admit, but there is a gray area where the rights of society conflict with the rights of the individual. Try not to be too rigorous in the defense of society. The day may come, Archy, when you will plead for mercy for yourself rather than justice.”

  I grinned. “One never knows, do one?”

  “And that’s another thing,” he said testily. “I do wish you would stop saying that. Not only is it ungrammatical, but it is a superficial observation on the uncertainties of existence.”

  “I’ll try not to use it again in your presence, father,” I said gravely, wondering if
there had ever been such a stodgy man.

  I returned to my quarters, smiling at the final go-around with the pater. I don’t know why I derived such pleasure from stirring him up occasionally. Perhaps I fancied I was saving him from priggery. Or it may have been a very small declaration of independence. I was well aware that only my father’s largess enabled me to drive a snazzy sports car, dine young ladies, and wear silk briefs emblazoned with images of Tyrannosaurus rex. But even the lowliest of serfs must assert himself now and then. (But not too often and not too loudly.)

  I phoned Jennifer Towley, and to my horror I woke her up.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. Please go back to sleep and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “No, no,” she said. “I’m awake now, and I haven’t spoken to you in ages.”

  “I know,” I said. “Last Friday.”

  “Well, it seems like ages. That was a fabulous indoor picnic.”

  “The best,” I agreed. “How about dinner tomorrow night?” Pause. Then: “Oh, I can’t, Archy. I’m so sorry, but I promised a client she could come over and we’d select a fabric for her Louis Something-or-other love seat.”

  “What a shame,” I said. “May I call you late tomorrow? Maybe you’ll feel like dashing out to the Pelican Club for some light refreshment.”

  “Well...” she said doubtfully, “all right. I should be finished around nine o’clock.”

  “I’ll call,” I promised. “Sleep well, dear.”

  “You, too,” she said. This time she didn’t add “darling.” She hung up, and I sat there with the dead phone in my hand, the green-eyed monster gnawing away like a mastiff. But after a while I convinced myself she really was going to spend the evening with a client discussing the upholstering of a love seat.

  Did you say you had a bridge in Brooklyn for sale?

  Chapter 15

  AFTER MY FATHER DEPARTED FOR work on Tuesday morning, I moved into his study and sat in his swivel chair behind the big, leather-topped desk, feeling like a pretender to the throne.

  My first phone call was to Mrs. Trelawney. She gave me the number and time of arrival of Miss Roberta Wolfson’s flight from Boston. Also the number of the suite at The Breakers that had been reserved for her use.