She shook her head. “They weren’t just in an envelope or anything like that. They were between clear plastic pages in a little book about the size of a diary. A thin book bound in red leather specially made to hold the Inverted Jennies. It’s not something you’d easily misplace. Also, I’ve torn the house apart looking for it. It’s just gone.”
“Would you object if I asked how you came into possession of those stamps in the first place?”
“No,” she said, “I wouldn’t object. Go ahead and ask.”
I laughed. “Lady Cynthia, you’re pulling my leg.”
“I’d love to, lad,” she said, leering like Groucho Marx, “but people might talk. I received those silly upside-down stamps as part of my divorce settlement from my first husband, Max Kirschner. Dear old Max. He loved to wear my lingerie, but he really knew how to manage a bank. He bought the stamps in Trieste. I think he paid ten thousand American for the block of four. But of course that was years and years ago.”
“Was he a stamp collector?”
“No, he just liked to own rare things. Like me.”
I wasn’t making great progress—perhaps because she seemed to be treating her loss so lightly. But that was her way—the dictum of haut monde: Never complain and never explain.
“All right,” I said, “if the stamps weren’t misplaced, let’s assume they were nicked. Anyone in particular you suspect might have sticky fingers?”
The question troubled her. “I’d hate to think it was one of my staff. They’ve all been with me for years.”
“But you said the butler and one of the maids quit. Was this before the stamps disappeared or after you became aware they were missing?”
She thought about that a moment. “No, the stamps were still here after the butler and maid left. I remember now: They quit, and the next day Alan DuPey showed up with his bride. Felice had never seen the stamps, so that night at dinner I brought them down to show her. Then, after dinner, I took them back upstairs and put them in the wall safe. That was the last time I saw them.”
“Any signs around the house of a break-in? Jimmied doors or broken windows—anything like that?”
“No. And after the gate is locked at night, Mrs. Marsden always turns on the electronic alarm system.”
“Are you certain she turns it on every night?”
“Absolutely. If it’s not turned on by midnight, I get a phone call from the security agency to remind me.”
“What do you do when you have a party that lasts until the wee small hours?”
“I always hire one or two guards for the occasion. Then, after everyone has gone home, the guards leave, the gate is locked, and the alarm activated.”
“Very efficient,” I observed, and looked into my half-empty glass. No clues there. “Okay, let’s put aside the idea of a break-in or someone on your staff pinching the stamps. Now what about your houseguests?”
“Don’t be silly,” she snapped at me. “My God, lad, they’re family. Except for Angus Wolfson, and I’ve known him for ages.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And are they all well-off?”
“Not one of them is hurting.” She paused to finish her drink, then crunched the ice between her teeth. “But of course when it comes to money, enough is never enough—if you know what I mean.”
I nodded. “Lady Cynthia, if you expect McNally and Son to make a complete investigation of this matter, you’ll have to tell your staff and houseguests about the theft.”
She stared at me, outraged. Then: “Shit! If I do that, it’ll be all over Palm Beach within two hours.”
“True,” I agreed, “but that can’t be helped.”
“But that’s why I didn’t go to the police. I wanted to keep the whole thing private.”
“Can’t be done,” I said, shaking my head. “How on earth can I make discreet inquiries if people don’t know what I’m talking about?”
She considered that. “I guess you’re right,” she said finally, sighing. “But it means cops, reporters, and maybe the TV people. What am I going to tell them?”
“Lie,” I said cheerfully. “Tell them the stamps weren’t stolen at all but have been sent to a New York auction house for appraisal.”
She laughed. “You’re a devious lad, you know that? All right, I’ll tell the staff and guests.”
“Good. Then I can get the show on the road.” I put my empty glass on the umbrella table and stood up. “One more request: I’d like to take a look at the so-called scene of the crime, if I may. Do you mind if I go poking about in your bedroom for a few minutes?”
“Go ahead and poke,” she said. “You know your way around the place, don’t you?”
“Only the ground floor.”
“My bedroom is on the second. South wing. It stretches the width of the house. The east windows overlook the ocean and the west windows look down on the pool and patio. There...”
She gestured, and I looked to the second floor where opened windows, screened, were framed by French blue shutters.
“You can pry into anything you like,” she said. “Nothing’s locked.”
“It won’t take long,” I promised. “Thank you for the drink.”
I started away but she called, “Archy,” and I turned back, surprised that she had used my name. Usually I was “lad” or, when speaking of me to others, “Prescott’s son.”
She stared at me a moment, and I waited. “Last night you dined at L’Europe,” she said, almost accusingly. “With Jennifer Towley.”
“Oh-ho,” I said, “the grapevine has been working overtime.”
“Are you seeing her?” she demanded.
“Not yet.”
“Watch your back, lad,” she said. “There’s more to her than meets the eye. If I were you, I’d bring that association to a screeching halt. The lady could turn out to be a problem.”
I grinned at her. “One never knows, do one?” I said.
I continued on to the house, wondering just what the hell she was implying—and deciding it was merely Palm Beach gossip.
The interior of the Horowitz home was gorgeous, right out of Southern Accents, and all the more impressive because I knew the mistress had done the decorating herself. It was an eclectic mix of Victorian, Louis Quinze, Early American, and even a few Bauhaus touches. I know that sounds like a mishmash, but everything fit, nothing clashed, and the predominant colors were rich wine shades, a welcome relief from the sorbet pastels of most South Florida mansions’, many of which resemble the lobby of a Miami Beach hotel.
Lady Cynthia’s bedroom was large enough to accommodate an enormous four-poster bed lacquered in claret red, a tall wardrobe of carved pine, an escritoire painted with gamboling putti, and much, much more.
There were three huge crystal vases of fresh flowers, one in her dressing room. The walk-in closet contained enough costumes to outfit the female cast of My Fair Lady, and the racks of shoes would have made Imelda Marcos gnash her teeth. The bathroom was golden yellow: tile, tub, sink, John, bidet—everything. The faucets were tarnished gold: a nice touch, I thought. One strives for careless elegance, doesn’t one?
I didn’t search through the desk or turn over chair cushions—nothing like that. I was interested only in the wall safe, and that was easy to spot since it was not concealed behind a painting or camouflaged in any way. It projected slightly from the wall just to the left of the canopied bed. It was nothing special: single dial, single handle. The door opened easily and noiselessly. Inside were several manila envelopes tied with what appeared to be old shoelaces. I didn’t inspect the contents, but closed the safe door again, latching it with a twist of the stainless steel handle.
What I was interested in was the distance from the bedroom door to the wall safe. I paced it off. Fourteen long steps. I estimated an intruder could slip into the bedroom, open the safe door, extract the small red leather book containing the Inverted Jennies, close the safe door, and whisk from the bedroom within a minute. Two at the most. It was a cakewalk.
But who took the walk?
Then I found another problem. On a bedside table, almost directly below the wall safe, was a large suede jewel case. I lifted the lid: It was like looking into a Tiffany display case. Question: What self-respecting crook would swipe the stamps and then not pause a sec to grab up a handful of those glittering gems? A puzzlement.
Hands in my pocket, I strolled about the bedroom, thinking it was spacious enough to swallow my entire suite at the McNally manse. I believe I was whistling “I’ve Never Been in Love Before” when I wandered to the west windows and looked down.
Lady Cynthia was paddling around in the swimming pool, obviously naked but still wearing her panama hat and sunglasses. Mrs. Marsden stood waiting on the tiled border of the pool, holding a big bath towel. As I watched, Lady C. came slowly wading out, white body gleaming wetly, and I saw how extraordinary she was.
Usually in the presence of great beauty, one has the urge to leap into the air accompanied by the clicking of heels. But now, seeing that incredible nude emerging from the pool—Venus rising from the chlorine—I felt only an ineffable sadness, realizing I had been born forty years too late.
Chapter 3
OF ALL THE COUNTIES in Florida, Palm Beach is the Ace of Clubs. There is a superabundance: golf clubs, tennis clubs, yacht clubs, polo clubs. Probably the most elegant and exclusive social clubs on Palm Beach Island are the Bath & Tennis and the Everglades. But about five years previously, I got together with a bunch of my wassailing pals, and we agreed what the town needed was another club, so we decided to start one. We called it the Pelican Club in honor of Florida’s quintessential bird. Also, most of the roistering charter members resembled the pelican: graceful and charming in flight, lumpish and dour in repose.
We found an old two-story clapboard house out near the airport that we could afford. It was definitely not an Addison Mizner but it had the advantage of being somewhat isolated: no close neighbors to complain about the sounds of revelry. We all chipped in, bought the house, fixed it up (sort of), and the Pelican Club opened for business.
And almost closed six months later. We were lawyers, bankers, stockbrokers, realtors, doctors, etc., but we knew nothing about running a club bar and restaurant. We were facing Chapter 7 when we had the great good fortune to hire the Pettibones, an African-American family who had been living in one of the gamier neighborhoods of West Palm Beach and wanted out. All of them had worked in restaurants and bars, and they knew how an eating-drinking establishment should be run.
They moved into our second floor, and the father, Simon Pettibone, became club manager and bartender. Son Leroy was our chef, daughter Priscilla our waitress, and wife Jas (for Jasmine) was appointed our housekeeper and den mother. Within a month the Pettibones had the club operating admirably, and so many would-be Pelicans applied for membership that eventually we had to close the roster and start a waiting list.
The Pelican Club was not solely dedicated to merrymaking, of course. We were also involved in Good Works. Once a year we held a costume ball at The Breakers: our Annual Mammoth Extravaganza. All the proceeds from this lavish blowout were contributed to a local home for unwed mothers, since so many of our members felt a personal responsibility. In addition we formed a six-piece jazz combo (I played tenor kazoo), and we were delighted to perform, without fee, at public functions and nursing homes. A Palm Beach music critic wrote of one of our recitals, “Words fail me.” You couldn’t ask for a better review than that.
It was to the Pelican Club that I tooled the Miata after my stimulating morning with Lady Horowitz. It was then almost eleven-thirty, but traffic crossing Lake Worth on the Royal Park Bridge was heavy, and it was a bit after noon when I arrived at the club.
No members were present when I entered the Pelican, but Simon Pettibone was behind the bar, polishing glasses and watching the screen of a television set displaying current stock quotations.
I swung onto a barstool. “Are you winning or losing, Mr. Pettibone?” I inquired.
“Losing, Mr. McNally,” he replied. “But I prefer to think of it as a learning experience.”
“Very wise,” I said. “A vodka-tonic for me, please, with a hunk of lime.”
He began preparing the drink, and I headed for the phone booth in the rear of the barroom. Did you guess I intended to call Jennifer Towley? You will learn that when duty beckons, there is stern stuff in the McNally male offspring; I phoned the Palm Beach Police Department. I asked to speak to Sergeant Al Rogoff.
“Rogoff,” he answered in his phlegmy rasp.
“Archy McNally here.” I said.
“Yes, sir, how may I be of service?”
When Al talks like that, I know someone is standing at his elbow—probably his lieutenant or captain.
“Feel like a nosh?” I asked. “I’ll stand you a world-class hamburger and a bucket of suds.”
“Your Alfa-Romeo is missing, sir?” he said. “I’m sorry to hear that. It will be necessary for you to file a missing vehicle report. Where are you located, sir?”
“I’m in the barroom at the Pelican.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I am familiar with that office building. Suppose I meet you there in a half-hour, and you can give me the details of the alleged theft.”
“Hurry up,” I said. “I’m hungry.”
I returned to the bar where my drink was waiting on a clean little mat. I took a sip. Just right.
“Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “life is strange.”
“Bizarre is the word, Mr. McNally,” he said. “Bee-zar.”
“Exactly,” I said.
Sgt. Al Rogoff owned that adjective. I had worked a few cases with him in the past—to our mutual benefit—and had come to know him better than most of his professional associates. He deliberately projected the persona of a good ol’ boy: a crude, profane “man’s man” who called women “broads” and claimed he would like nothing better than a weekend on an airboat in the Everglades, popping cans of Bud and lassoing alligators. He even drove a pickup truck.
I think he adopted this Joe Six-pack disguise because he thought it would further his career as an officer of the law in South Florida. Actually, he knew who Heidegger was; could quote the lines following “Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?”; and much preferred an ’82 Medoc to sour mash and branch water. He looked and acted like a redneck sheriff, but enjoyed Vivaldi more than he did Willie Nelson.
He hadn’t revealed the face behind the mask voluntarily: I had slowly, patiently, discovered who he really was. He knew it, and rather than be offended, I think he was secretly relieved. It must be a tremendous strain to play a role continually, always fearful of making a gaffe that will betray your impersonation. Al didn’t have to act with me, and I believe that was why he was willing to provide official assistance when my discreet inquiries required it.
By the time he came marching through the front door, uniform smartly pressed, the Pelican barroom was thronged with the lunchtime crowd and people had started to drift to the back area where a posted warning said nothing about jackets and ties but proclaimed: “Members and their guests are required to wear shoes in the dining room.”
I noticed a few patrons glancing warily at the uniformed cop who had invaded the premises. Did they fear a bust—or were they just startled by this armed intruder who was built like a dumpster? Al Rogoff’s physical appearance was perhaps the principal reason for the success of his masquerade. The man was all meat, a walking butcher shop: rare-beef face, pork chop jowls, slabs of veal for ears. And unplucked chicken wing sideburns.
I conducted him to the dining room where Priscilla was holding a corner table for me. We both ordered medium-rare hamburgers, which came with country fries and homemade coleslaw. We also ordered steins of draft Heineken. While waiting for lunch to be served, we nibbled on spears of kosher dill pickles placed on every table in mason jars. The Pelican Club did not offer haute cuisine, but Leroy Pettibone’s food adhered to the ribs.
“How muc
h time do you have?” I asked Rogoff.
“An hour tops,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I want to report a crime.”
“Oh?” he said. “Have you sexually abused a manatee?”
“Not recently,” I said. “But this may not be a crime at all. It is an alleged crime. And the alleged victim will not report it to the police. And if you hear or read about it and question the alleged victim, she will claim no crime has been committed.”
“Love it,” the sergeant said. “Just love it. Alleged crime. Alleged victim. And I’ve got to listen to this bullshit for a free hamburger? Okay, I’m not proud. Who’s the alleged victim?”
“Lady Cynthia Horowitz.”
He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “Mrs. Gotrocks herself? That makes the cheese more binding. She’s got clout. And what’s the alleged crime?”
“Possible theft of a valuable possession.”
“The Koh-i-noor diamond?”
“No,” I said. “Four postage stamps.”
He looked at me sorrowfully. “You never come up with something simple,” he said. “Like a multiple homicide or a supermarket bombing. With you, everything’s got to be cute. All right, buster, tell me about the four postage stamps.”
But then our food was served, and we were silent until Priscilla left. Between bites and swallows, I told him the whole story of the Inverted Jenny and how a block of four of the misprinted stamps was missing from the wall safe in Lady Horowitz’s bedroom. The sergeant listened without interrupting. Then, when I finished, he spoke.
“You know,” he said, “this hamburger is really super. What does Leroy put in the meat?”
“Probably minced Vidalia onion this time of year. Sometimes he uses chopped red and yellow peppers. The man is the Thomas Alva Edison of hamburgers. What about the Inverted Jennies?”
“What about them? What do you want us to do?”
“Nothing,” I said. “If you go to Lady Cynthia, she’ll tell you the stamps weren’t stolen but have been sent to a New York auction house for appraisal.”
“Uh-huh,” Rogoff said. “And who gave her that idea—as if I didn’t know.”
The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1 Page 3