The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  Mother remarked how handsome I looked, father stared disgustedly at my acid green polo shirt, and I ingested my share of the martini pitcher’s contents. Then I bid them good night and departed for what I hoped would be an evening of a thousand delights. I didn’t forget Jennifer’s tennis racquet. Talk about Greeks bearing gifts!

  She lived across Lake Worth, south of the Royal Park Bridge. It was an old neighborhood of short streets west of Flagler Drive. The homes were small but pleasant, the grounds limited but neatly groomed. Jennifer rented the ground floor of a two-story stucco building painted a sky blue. Her apartment was her antique shop; everything in the place was for sale—except the lady herself, of course.

  She greeted me at the door, and I entered into a foyer (Edwardian) and then was ushered into the living room (Victorian). I had suggested she dress informally, but she was impeccably upholstered in a black dress so simple and nothing that it must have cost a fortune. The only jewelry she wore was a pale amethyst choker. Elegant? On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d rate her a 12.

  The tennis racquet was an instant success; after hefting it and trying a few swings, she declared the weight and balance were perfect. I received a kiss in gratitude. It was a very small kiss but much appreciated.

  I held the Miata door for her, and she slid in with a flash of bare tanned legs that made me want to turn cartwheels on her lawn. But I controlled my rapture and we sped off to the Pelican Club. I called her attention to the full moon I had ordered for the occasion.

  “I may turn into a werewolf,” I cautioned.

  “I’ll get some garlic at the restaurant,” she said.

  “Garlic is for vampires,” I told her. “And frogs’ legs. There is no known defense against a werewolf.”

  “I have a black belt in karate,” she claimed.

  “I have a white belt in Indian wrestling,” I said. “Perhaps later this evening you will permit me to demonstrate.”

  She laughed. “What am I going to do with you?” she asked.

  “Love me,” I replied, but I did not say it aloud.

  We were early enough to beat the usual dinner crowd, and Priscilla showed us to my favorite corner table. Jennifer looked about with interest.

  “It resembles a fraternity house,” she said.

  “It was intended to,” I said. “Strictly stag. But shortly after the club was organized, the ladyfriends and wives of several founding members threatened a lawsuit if they were not allowed to join. They said they would claim sex discrimination because we were carrying on business networking at the club. Actually, the only networking going on was an active exchange of hangover remedies, but we surrendered graciously to their demands. Now the Pelican Club is a coed establishment. The roster is full, but I chair the Membership Committee and might be able to finagle a quid pro quo and get you a card if you’re interested in joining.”

  “Thank you,” she said, giving me the cool, level gaze, “but I think not. If I want to visit I’ll ask you to invite me.”

  “Splendid idea,” I said, and looked around for Priscilla. She was standing at the kitchen door, and when she caught my eye she pointed at Jennifer and made a loop with thumb and forefinger in the A-OK sign. It was gratifying to have her approval.

  She came over to the table and posed, hip-sprung. “Something to wet the whistle, folks?” she said.

  “Let’s have a champagne cocktail,” I suggested to Jennifer.

  “Oh my,” she said, “you’ll spoil me.”

  “That’s my intent,” I said. “We’ll have champagne cocktails, Priscilla. And what is Leroy pushing tonight?”

  “Roast pork or broiled yellowtail.”

  “How’s the yellowtail?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I eat at McDonald’s.”

  Jennifer smiled.

  “Priscilla,” I said, “behave yourself.”

  She grinned and sashayed away to fetch our cocktails.

  It turned out to be a very pleasant dinner indeed. We both had the yellowtail, shared a big Caesar salad, and had lemon ice for dessert.

  Jennifer ate like a trencherwoman—which always pleases the guy who’s picking up the tab. She spoke very little but that was okay; I like to talk, as you may have guessed, and I kept her laughing throughout the meal.

  I do not consider myself a womanizer. Most of my relationships with women have been lasting, some as long as three or four months, and one for an entire year, almost. I have always favored jolly ladies who are not too intent on trotting up the aisle while an adenoidal soprano belts out “Oh Promise Me.”

  We moved out to the bar where we had a brandy stinger because it seemed the glam thing to do. I had a vague romantic notion of suggesting a long drive down the coast during which the full moon shining off a calm sea would work its libidinous magic. But Jennifer, now suddenly serious, if not solemn, said she’d like to return home since she had an important appointment early the next morning. The moon promptly went behind a cloud.

  So I drove her back to her pad, disappointed but not devastated. In addition to playing the clown, one must have an endless reserve of patience. We pulled in front of her trig little house, and I killed the engine, hoping against odds that she might invite me in for a nightcap.

  She turned on the seat to face me and took up my hand. Good start.

  “Archy,” she said, “there is something I must tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m divorced.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Jennifer, you say that as if it was an awful perversion, like collecting thimbles. A lot of people are divorced. Some of my best friends are divorced. It’s really not a mortal sin.”

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  “Thank you. Now I know.”

  She hesitated, and I thought she was about to reveal more. But apparently she changed her mind. Instead, she said, “Then it won’t change things between us?”

  I stared at her, and my mouth might have fallen open just a wee bit. “Of course not,” I said, thinking that this couldn’t be what Lady Horowitz warned me about. Divorce is as widespread in Palm Beach as jock itch in the Major Leagues. “I don’t see why it should change anything.”

  “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?” she asked.

  Strange, enigmatic woman!

  Chapter 5

  ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING I went to the office with my father. He drove his Lexus the way he did everything else: slowly, carefully, and with a deep respect for thou-shalt-nots. I mean we’d come to a red light, no traffic to be seen in either direction, and he’d stop and wait for the green. What an upright man he was! But never a prig; he was simply worshipful of the law. His tombstone might justifiably bear the inscription: “Prescott McNally: He never stole a hotel towel.”

  “About Lady Horowitz’s missing stamps,” he said, eyes determinedly on the road. “Are you making any progress?”

  “Not really, sir,” I said. “So far I’ve spoken to three of the staff and two houseguests and learned very little.”

  He was silent a moment, and I knew the gears were turning. Not meshing yet, but turning.

  “What is your feeling about this, Archy? Have the stamps merely been misplaced or were they stolen?”

  “All I can do right now is guess,” I told him. “I’d guess they were pinched.”

  Then the gears meshed, and he nodded. “I think it would be prudent to act on that assumption. I’ll call Lady Cynthia and suggest she report the disappearance of the Inverted Jennies to the police immediately. Or, if she prefers, I’ll do it for her.”

  “Father!” I said, offended. “I’ve just started my investigation.”

  He gave me a brief glance, then hastily turned his attention back to the road. “Archy, I don’t mean to bruise your ego, but if the stamps are not recovered—a possibility, you’ll admit—and Lady Horowitz puts in a claim for the insurance, it is vitally important that there is a police record attesting to the fact that she reported the theft. You can understan
d that, can’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said resignedly. “Does this mean I’m off the case?”

  “Not at all. I want you to continue your discreet inquiries.”

  “That means the cops and I will be walking up each other’s heels,” I said. “Interviewing the same people twice.”

  “You’ve worked with the police before,” he pointed out. “And very successfully, I might add. Besides, as you well know, it is frequently wise to ask a witness to repeat his or her story twice or more. It’s an effective method of uncovering discrepancies.”

  “All right then,” I said, “I’ll keep at it. You might suggest to Lady Cynthia that she report the theft to Sergeant Al Rogoff. If he catches the squeal, he may be assigned the investigation. Al and I get along well together.”

  I didn’t think it necessary to tell him that Rogoff already knew of the theft. We drove along in silence a few minutes while I debated whether the injection of officialdom into what I considered my case would prove a help or a hindrance.

  “Pleasant evening last night?” my father asked idly.

  “What?” I said, startled. “Oh yes, sir, very pleasant.”

  “Anyone your mother and I know?”

  “I don’t think so. Jennifer Towley, the lady who returned the Frobisher letters. I gave her the tennis racquet.”

  “And was she appreciative?”

  “Extremely.”

  “You are attracted to her?”

  “Exceedingly.”

  He sighed. “It seems to me I have heard that several times in the past.”

  I laughed. “Father, I know very well that you and mother would like to see me happily married, settled down, and producing grandchildren at regular intervals. That time may come—but not yet.”

  “We’ll try to be patient,” he said dryly.

  McNally & Son was not a rinky-dink operation. We occupied (and owned) a five-story edifice of glass and stainless steel on Royal Palm Way. The architecture was not to my father’s taste, but he admitted the gleaming modernism seemed to impress clients, potential clients, and IRS auditors.

  Most of the firm’s work was in estate planning, taxes, revocable and charitable trusts, and dull stuff like that. But we also had associates skilled in litigation; real estate; copyrights, trademarks and patents; divorce; malpractice; personal and product liability; and even one old codger who knew more maritime law than anyone south of Chesapeake Bay. McNally & Son was, in fact, a legal supermarket.

  My office was possibly the smallest in the building, and I often thought I was condemned to that cell so that Prescott McNally could easily refute any charges of nepotism. But I really didn’t mind since I rarely occupied the office. Naturally I wasn’t assigned a secretary, but on those rare occasions (about once a year) when I had to compose a letter, my father’s personal secretary, Mrs. Trelawney, helped me out and corrected my spelling. I never could remember if there were one or two c’s and m’s in “accomodate.”

  The reason I visited headquarters that morning was to prepare my monthly expense account, which might be a contender for the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. I dug out all my bar and restaurant tabs, the bill for Jennifer’s tennis racquet, the signed receipt from Bela Rubik (the stamp and coin man), bills for dues paid to various clubs, and bits of this and that. I added them all up, and the total seemed to me woefully inadequate.

  So I tacked on a few imaginary cash expenditures: cab rides I had never taken, bribes to informants I had never made, gas purchases for the Miata. I did not go hog-wild, of course; I am not a swindler. But as I added more fanciful items, my swindle sheet grew satisfyingly.

  I was still hard at it when my phone rang. I was shocked. I mean, my phone almost never rings. And then it’s usually a wrong number.

  “Archibald McNally,” I answered.

  “The Machiavelli of Palm Beach?” Sgt. Al Rogoff said. “I just wanted to check that you’re in. What a pleasant surprise! I’ll be right over.”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “Hah!” was all he said before hanging up.

  A half-hour later he was squirming uncomfortably on the one folding steel chair allotted to me for visitors, regarding me more in anger than in sorrow.

  “Rat fink,” he said accusingly. “Oh, excuse me. I should have addressed someone who’s a pal of Lady Horowitz as Mister Rat Fink.”

  I held up my palms in surrender. “Al, I swear I didn’t know until this morning that she was going to file a complaint. I really thought it was going to be my headache. I had no idea it would end up on your plate.”

  “Yeah?” he said, staring at me. “Maybe. And maybe not. You been looking into it?”

  “Only for two days.”

  “What have you got?” he demanded, taking out his notebook.

  I gave him the names of the staff and guests residing at the Horowitz home. I recited the gist of the conversations I had with Kenneth Bodin, Angus Wolfson, Gina Stanescu, Jean Cuvier, and Clara Bodkin. I described Lady Cynthia’s bedroom, and told him about the unrifled jewelry box close to the wall safe.

  He scribbled rapid notes in his little book, and when I finished, he looked up at me suspiciously. “And that’s all you’ve got?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Come on, Archy, don’t try to kid a kidder. You’re holding out on me.”

  I had already polished the bone I intended to toss him.

  “Well, there is something,” I said hesitantly, “but I don’t think it’s important.”

  “Let me play the judge. What is it?”

  I told him that a few weeks before the stamps disappeared, a butler and a maid had left Lady Horowitz’s employ, claiming they couldn’t stand the heat of a Florida summer.

  “But the Inverted Jennies were seen after they left,” I pointed out, “so they couldn’t be involved in the snatch. Unless they sneaked back in.”

  “Uh-huh,” Al said. “Or told some light-fingered buddy about the stamps. Okay, I’ll look into it.” He closed his fat notebook and put a rubber band around it. “You figure to keep sherlocking on this thing?”

  I nodded. “I planned to go out there this afternoon and check out some of the people I haven’t talked to yet.”

  He considered that awhile, and I awaited his decision. If he ordered me off the case, I’d have to take a walk. He had the badge, not me.

  “All right,” he said finally, “you keep nosing around and we’ll compare notes. Nothing held back. Is that understood?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  He sighed and hauled himself to his feet. “I hate Beach cases,” he said. “Those richniks treat me like the hired help.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought,” I advised him. “They’re just as innocent and just as guilty as anyone else. And don’t forget the gifts at Christmastime.”

  “Yeah,” he said sourly. “A box of stale Girl Scout cookies.” He started for the door, then paused and looked about my infinitesimal office. “You really rate,” he said.

  “The boss’s son,” I reminded him.

  He was laughing when he left.

  What I hadn’t told him, of course—and didn’t intend to—was the rumor that a few years ago Lady Horowitz had been enjoying fun and games with her chauffeur. It seemed to me the doyenne was the type of woman who’d terminate that relationship; it wouldn’t be Kenneth Bodin who split; he’d never want the gravy train to stop.

  And, assuming he was unceremoniously dumped, it was possible he had entertained dim-witted thoughts of revenge against the wealthy woman who had suddenly taken him up and then just as suddenly dropped him, either from boredom or because she found another lover with Bodin’s physical excitement plus the brains he lacked. So the muscleman, enraged by this slight to his machismo, decided to swipe the Inverted Jennies to teach the rich bitch a lesson.

  Thin stuff, you say? Of course it was. I knew it was. But it was all I had so far, and I wanted to check it out before handin
g over the results to Sgt. Al Rogoff.

  I finished composing my expense account, dropped it off at our treasurer’s office, and then stopped by the employees’ cafeteria. The luncheon specialty of the day was something called a “mushburger,” apparently made of minced mushrooms, carrots, black olives, and rhubarb. What, no turnips? Anyway I passed. But I did drink a glass of unsalted tomato juice and ate two rice cakes. Feeling healthy as all get-out, I leaped into the Miata and headed for the Horowitz domain.

  I rang the front-door chimes and, as I had hoped, the oak portal was opened by the housekeeper, Mrs. Marsden. We exchanged pleasantries, and I asked if we could talk privately for a moment.

  “I was wondering when you’d get around to me,” she said—a steely smile there—and led the way into the first-floor sitting room, which could have held the Boston Pops. We sat in chintz-covered armchairs in a secluded corner and leaned toward each other, speaking in hushed voices as if we were trading state secrets.

  She was a majestic woman with the posture and manner of a sergeant major. She was a widow, and I happened to know she had put two kids through college by enduring all the craziness of the Horowitz ménage. She had been with Lady C. a long time, and I doubted if any outrage her mistress might commit would surprise her. She knew she was working for a loony and accepted it.

  I took her through the usual questions, and she gave a firm negative to all. Then I sat back and regarded her gravely.

  “Mrs. Marsden, you know I’m not a lawyer, but I do represent my father, Lady Cynthia’s attorney. So in a sense I am bound by the same rules of lawyer-client confidentiality. What I’m trying to say is that it’s the job of McNally and Son to protect the interests of Lady Horowitz. With that in mind, is there anything at all you can tell me about the disappearance of the stamps? I assure you it’ll be held in strictest confidence.”

  She was silent for a long while, which was a tipoff in itself. If there was nothing, she would have said so immediately.

  Finally she stirred restlessly. “It’s nothing I can spell out,” she said. “Nothing definite—you understand?”