The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “You think they bought that?”

  “Everyone but the killer,” Al said. “Talk to the old biddy for me, will you, Archy? She likes you.”

  “She does?” I said, somewhat surprised.

  “Sure. She told me so herself. Something else you can do for me...”

  I sighed. “And I get a piece of your salary—right?”

  “Wrong. Your father drew up Lady Horowitz’s will, didn’t he?”

  “That’s correct,” I said, knowing what was coming.

  “Can you find out who inherits if she croaks?”

  “Probably,” I said, “but I’m not going to tell you. That’s privileged information.”

  “What do I have to do to get it?”

  “Get her permission first. I’ll ask my father.”

  “Do that, will you?”

  “Sure. But why do you want to know who inherits?”

  “Because maybe someone, family or friends, perhaps one of the house-guests, doesn’t inherit, knows it, and decided to pinch the stamps to get what they could. And that led to the homicide.”

  “Sergeant Rogoff,” I said, “you’re brilliant.”

  “It’s taken you this long to find out? What a lousy detective. Let me know what your father says.”

  It was about ten-thirty when I heard the crunch of gravel, went to the window, and saw the Lexus pulling into the garage. I waited another half-hour, smoked my first cigarette of the day, and brooded about what Rogoff had told me. I wasn’t looking forward to telling Lady Cynthia she had been caught in a lie. She was quite capable of canning McNally & Son instanter.

  The door of my father’s study was closed, but when I knocked I heard his murmured, “Come in.” He was plumped down in his club chair, still wearing his dinner jacket, but he had loosened tie and collar. I thought he looked old and tired.

  “Good party?” I asked.

  “Wearing,” he said with a wan smile. “You were wise not to attend. Not your cup of vodka at all.”

  “Speaking of that, sir,” I said, “may I bring you a glass of port? You look a mite bushed.”

  He stared a brief moment. “I think a tot of brandy would do more good. Thank you, Archy, and help yourself.”

  I poured us small snifters of cognac from his crystal decanter and seated myself in an armchair facing him. We raised glasses to each other, took small sips.

  “Sorry to bother you at this hour, father,” I said, “but Sergeant Rogoff just called and asked me to speak to you.”

  I explained what Rogoff wanted and why he wanted it. The guv listened closely.

  “I couldn’t possibly release that information,” he said, “without Lady Horowitz’s permission.”

  “I told Al that. He wants you to try to get it.”

  Long pause for heavy thought. Then: “I can understand Rogoff’s reasoning. It’s a nice point: A disinherited relative or friend might wish to profit immediately. You were right, Archy; the sergeant is a foxy man.”

  “Yes, sir. Will you ask Lady Horowitz if details of her will may be given to the police? On a confidential basis, of course.”

  He sighed wearily. “All right, I’ll ask.”

  “Do you think she’ll agree?”

  He looked at me with rueful amusement. “Who can possibly predict what that extraordinary woman might or might not do? I’ll ask her; that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Good enough,” I said, finished my brandy, and rose. “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir.”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  I tramped upstairs, thinking he was not so much wearied as troubled. And seeing my father troubled was like viewing a statue of a worried Buddha.

  Chapter 9

  I HAD A LOT of important things to do the next morning—such as dumping the contents of my wicker laundry hamper into a big canvas bag, adding four pairs of slacks to be dry cleaned, and lugging everything downstairs to be picked up by our laundry service. I also balanced my checkbook, which came out three dollars more than my bank statement. Close enough. And I called a florist to deliver an arrangement of whatever was fresh to Jennifer Towley.

  So it was a bit past ten-thirty before I headed for the Horowitz empire. I knew quite well that all those putzy things I had busied myself with that morning were sheer cravenness on my part: an attempt to postpone the moment when I’d have to face Lady C. and ask, “Why did you lie to Sergeant Rogoff?” When Al told me she scared him, I could empathize; she scared me, too. She was a woman of strong opinions and fierce determination. And her millions gave muscle to her whims.

  I found Lady Horowitz lying on a chaise at poolside. In the shade, of course. She was wearing a mint-green silk burnoose, the hood pulled up, and I soon learned she was in a scratchy mood.

  “That policeman,” she said wrathfully, “that insufferable cop, positively reeks of cigar smoke.”

  “I know,” I said, “but he—”

  “And his idiotic questions!” she ranted on. “Why, he treated me like a common criminal.”

  “He’s just trying to do his job,” I said as soothingly as I could. “He’s really on your side, you know. He’d like to recover the stamps as much as you would.”

  “Cowpats!” she said. “He’s just trying to make my life miserable because I gave him work to do when he’d rather be somewhere else swilling beer and belching.”

  “He’s really a very efficient police officer.”

  She stared at me. “He’s a friend of yours, lad?” she demanded.

  “We’ve worked together several times,” I acknowledged. “And successfully, I might add.”

  But she’d have none of it. “That’s all I need,” she fumed, “two amateur sherlocks stumbling around on their flat feet. I suppose that’s why you’re here—to ask more questions.”

  She hadn’t invited me to sit down, so I didn’t. But I moved into the shade of a beach umbrella and leaned on the back of a chair, looking down at her.

  “Well, yes,” I admitted. “I’d just like to get a clarification of something you told Sergeant Rogoff.”

  “A clarification?” she said suspiciously. “Of what?”

  “The sergeant has a good lead on the identity of the thief, but needs to pin down the whereabouts of everyone involved at the time the crime was apparently committed. You told him you were at your hairdresser’s. But when Rogoff checked, he discovered you had an appointment but didn’t show up. Would you care to comment?”

  “My first comment is that I’m going to get a new hairdresser,” she said. “The stupid snitch!”

  “Please, Lady Horowitz,” I said, “where were you?”

  “I’ve had a touch of arthritis in my knees, and didn’t want anyone to know I was going to an acupuncturist. That’s where I was.” She looked at me. “You’re not buying that, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “All right,” she said almost cheerfully, “let’s try this one: I was sitting in a dyke bar slugging Black Russians. No? How about this: It was such a lovely day I decided to drive the Jag up the coast to the country club. How does that grab you?”

  I sighed. “I gather you’re not going to tell me where you were.”

  “You gather correctly, lad. The whole thing is so moronic it’s sickening. Does Rogoff think I swiped my own stamps?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why in hell should I tell him where I was at such and such a time? My private life is my private life, and I don’t have to account for it to anyone. Period. That includes you, lad.”

  I nodded. “Thank you for your time.”

  She tried to smile but couldn’t. “You’re pissed at me, aren’t you?”

  “Somewhat,” I admitted. “It seems to me you’re making Mount Everest out of a very small molehill indeed.”

  “That’s what you think,” she said, and I looked at her with perplexity because she appeared to be stiff upperlipping it, and I couldn’t understand why. But then she waved me away with a gesture of dismissal, and I we
nt.

  Ordinarily I am an even-tempered johnny. I don’t curse when a shoelace snaps. Stepping on a discarded wad of chewing gum might elicit a mild “Tsk.” And I’ve been known to laugh merrily after spattering the front of my white shirt with marinara sauce. But that go-around with Lady Cynthia definitely cast a shadow on the McNally sunniness. It was not, I felt, going to be my day. How right I was.

  I went into the main house to search for Mrs. Marsden, hoping she might be willing to describe in more detail those forebodings she had mentioned. But as I passed the game room, I heard the unmistakable sounds of a female sobbing, and since the door was ajar I had no scruples about entering and looking about for the sobber.

  I found Gina Stanescu leaning against the billiard table and trying to stanch a freshet of tears with a hanky no larger than a cocktail napkin. I’ve told you that I’m usually a klutz when dealing with lacrimating ladies, but in this case I believe I responded sympathetically if not nobly.

  “Hi, Miss Stanescu,” I said. “What’s up?”

  Her answer was more sobs, and I reacted to the crisis in my usual fashion by heading directly for the nearest source of spirits—in this case, the wet bar. The first bottle I put my hand on was ouzo, which I thought would be excellent shock therapy. I poured the tiniest bit into a snifter, brought it to her, and pressed it into her hand.

  It worked to the extent that she found she couldn’t cough and weep at the same time. The weeping stopped and, eventually, so did the coughing.

  “What is wrong?” I asked. “Is there anything I may do to help?”

  She shook her head, then took another sip of the ouzo, which emptied the glass.

  “More?”

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you, no. You have been most kind, Mr. McNally. I should have closed the door. But it came upon me very suddenly. Do you have a handkerchief, please? I’m afraid mine is a mess.”

  I supplied the linen, happy it was fresh and unwrinkled. She used it to dab her eyes dry, but they remained swollen.

  “I received some bad news,” she said. “The Rouen authorities wish to close my orphanage. The roof leaks dreadfully, you see, and the plumbing is in very bad repair. Also, the electrical wiring must be replaced. It would all cost a great deal of money.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said, suddenly wary, I admit, because I feared this might be a prelude to an attempted financial bite. “Surely your patrons or contributors would be willing to provide the funds.”

  “I think not,” she said, now speaking evenly and decisively. “We have just been scraping by as it is. People give what they can afford. I will not beg.”

  “Very admirable,” I said, “but sometimes it’s necessary. What about your mother?”

  She looked at me as if questioning my IQ. “Who do you think has been making up the losses all these years? I will not ask her for more. I cannot. She has been so generous. Just incredible.”

  Why did I feel this was the first false note in what she was telling me? I knew that her mother made small annual contributions to several charities, but she was Lady Horowitz, not Lady Bountiful. Unless, of course, she splurged on her daughter’s orphanage. That was possible, but after the morning’s snappish interview I found it difficult to credit her mother with any generosity, of spirit or purse.

  “I don’t know about France,” I said, “but in this country there are fund-raising organizations. For a fee, they recommend methods of increasing the income of worthwhile charities. Direct mail campaigns, for instance. Auctions of donated art objects. Even lotteries.”

  She shook her head again. “We are too small,” she said, “and too local. We can only exist with the kindness of our benefactors. But the cost of the repairs far exceeds what we can expect.”

  “Surely you don’t intend to close down?”

  “No,” she said determinedly, “not yet.” And her sharp features hardened. Then she did resemble her mother. “Not until the very last moment. There is still a slim chance we may pull through.”

  “And what is the slim chance?”

  “A miracle,” she said solemnly. “Mr. McNally, thank you for your interest, and the loan of your handkerchief. I shall have it laundered and returned to you.”

  “No need,” I said, but she was already sweeping from the room. She was wearing one of her voluminous white gowns, and it billowed out behind her. But now it made her look less like a romantic heroine than a fleeing ghost.

  Nothing was making much sense to me. First, Lady Cynthia refused to reveal her whereabouts at the time Bela Rubik was killed. Now Gina Stanescu refused to ask her mother for funds to repair her orphanage although, according to her, mommy dearest had been a generous contributor in the past. I suspected Ms. Stanescu had been telling me the truth, but not the whole truth.

  What I needed at the moment, I decided, was one of Leroy Pettibone’s creative hamburgers and a pail of suds. A lunch like that would goose the disposition and bring roses back to my cheeks.

  But when I arrived at the Pelican Club, I found it mobbed with the midday crowd, all apparently ravenous, because when I glanced into the dining room, I saw no vacant tables. I concluded I would be forced to lunch at the bar, but then a bare feminine arm was raised, waved, and beckoned me. I peered and saw it was Consuela Garcia, sitting alone at a table for two. I dodged over immediately.

  “Hiya, babe,” I said huskily, twirling an imaginary mustache. “You come here often?”

  “Oh, shut up and sit down,” she said. “You look hungry.”

  “And thirsty,” I said, sitting. “How are you, Connie?”

  “Miserable,” she said.

  “Well, you look great,” I assured her. “Just great.”

  That was the truth. She was wearing a white linen sundress that enhanced her deep tan beautifully. Big gold hoop earrings dangled, and her glossy black hair was unbound. I happened to know it was long enough to touch her buns.

  Priscilla came over to take our order and glanced at me. “Connie,” she said, “you’re not allowed to pick up strange men in the club.”

  “You’re going to get it,” I said to her threateningly.

  “I hope so,” she said. “But when?”

  Connie and I laughed, ordered hamburgers and beers, and started nibbling on the pickle spears.

  “Why are you miserable?” I asked her.

  “It’s that nuthouse I work in,” she said. “I had to get away for an hour or I’d be climbing walls.”

  “What’s the problem? Lady Cynthia?”

  “You’ve got it, Archy. She’s been in a snit lately.”

  “Oh?” I said, suddenly curious. “Since when? Since her stamps were stolen?”

  “No,” Connie said, “that didn’t seem to bother her. It’s only been in the last few days that she’s become a holy terror. You know what I heard her called the other day?”

  “Lady Horrorwitz?”

  “That’s old stuff. I was at a cocktail party and heard some old bitch refer to her as Lady Whorewitz. People can be awfully cruel.”

  “Awful and cruel,” I said. “Ah, here’s our lunch.”

  Connie asked for hot salsa to put on her burger, but I passed. I recalled that during our brief and intimate joust she amazed me by nibbling on chipotles, those peppers that can scorch your tonsils. Connie popped them like macadamia nuts.

  “Tell me something,” I said casually, working on my food, “when the madam takes off alone in her Jag, does she tell you where she’s going?”

  “Sometimes,” Connie said, “and sometimes not. And she hates it if anyone asks. She’s really a very secretive person.”

  “Maybe too secretive. Sergeant Al Rogoff asked her where she was at a particular time, and she lied to him. Then I asked her, and she as much as told me to stuff it.”

  “That sounds like her.”

  “She lied to you, too,” I said quietly.

  Connie stopped eating long enough to stare at me. “When was this?”

  “The day everyone was
supposed to go out on Phil Meecham’s yacht. You told me Lady C. went to her hairdresser’s.”

  “That’s where she said she was going.”

  “I’m sure she did. But she never showed up at the salon.”

  “That’s odd,” Connie said, frowning. “As I told you, she either tells me where she’s going or she doesn’t. But I can’t recall her ever lying to me. How do you figure it?”

  “I can’t,” I said. “Perhaps she enjoys being a mystery woman.”

  “Archy, that’s nonsense. She’s about as mysterious as a fried egg. She has only one rule: Just do everything exactly her way, and you’ll get along fine with her.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to ask her where she went instead of the hairdresser’s.”

  “No, I would not,” Consuela said firmly. “In spite of my kvetching I happen to like my job and want to keep it.”

  We cleaned our plates and sat a moment in silence, finishing our beers.

  “You still seeing Jennifer Towley?” Connie asked idly.

  I nodded.

  “Did she tell you her history?”

  “She did.”

  “That her ex-husband is also an ex-con?”

  “She told me,” I said patiently.

  “You ever see him, Archy?”

  “No, I never have.”

  “I have,” Connie said. “He was pointed out to me last Saturday.”

  “Oh?” I said, interested. “What kind of a dude is he?”

  “Well, he certainly doesn’t look like he’s done time. I mean he’s well-dressed, got a nice tan, looks to be in good shape. I’d guess he’s an inch or two shorter than you. No flab. Pleasant-looking. Not a matinee idol, but presentable enough. He laughs a lot.”

  “Where did you see him, Connie?”

  “Down at Dania Jai Alai.”

  “What on earth were you doing there?”

  “My Significant Other and I decided to do something different on Saturday, so we drove down to catch the games.”

  “And that’s where you saw Thomas Bingham?”

  “Oh-ho,” she said, “so you know his name. Yes, he was there. My guy knew who he was.”

  “Connie,” I said, “was he betting?”