The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  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.

  “Those charges will be billed directly to the company,” Mrs. T. explained. “If there are any other expenses, pay with your plastic and add them to your next swindle sheet, Mr. Dillinger.”

  “Bless you,” I said. “I’ll call you from Saint-Tropez.”

  I then phoned The Breakers and arranged for fresh flowers to be placed in the suite reserved for Miss Roberta Wolfson. I figured if Lady Horowitz was picking up the tab, there was no point in scrimping.

  My third call was to Sgt. Al Rogoff, who sounded a mite churlish. From this I deduced he had not yet had his fourth cup of black coffee that morning.

  “Anything new on Wolfson?” I asked.

  “Some,” he admitted. “The doc says he drowned all right, but he was also full of painkillers. Heavy stuff. You told me you thought he was sick. So maybe he went for a midnight swim and couldn’t fight the undertow. The doc says that stuff he was taking could have weakened him.”

  “It didn’t happen that way, Al,” I said. “Wolfson couldn’t swim; the DuPeys told me that. He’d never take a dip, especially in the ocean at night.”

  “Then it was definitely suicide,” he said.

  “Don’t be so sure,” I said. “What about those bruises?”

  “The ME says they could have been made in the surf, the body banging around on the bottom.”

  “And those scratches that looked as if they had been made by fingernails?”

  “There was stuff under Wolfson’s nails indicating he might have scratched himself, clawing at his chest in that last minute.”

  “Did you search the beach?”

  “Of course we searched the beach,” he said crossly. “A mile north and a mile south. Nothing. By the way, Wolfson had a surgical scar on his abdomen. The doc estimates the operation was done about a year ago. He couldn’t say positively what it was for.”

  “But Wolfson did drown?”

  “Sure he did.”

  “Al, he could have been dragged underwater.”

  “What’s with you, Archy?” he demanded. “You’re really trying to pin a killing on the chauffeur, aren’t you? What have you got against the guy?”

  “He carries a cigarette behind his ear.”

  Al roared. “And if he used a salad fork on steak, you’d want me to charge him with rape—right?”

  “Bodin’s a nogoodnik; I just know it.”

  “Beautiful. I go to my boss and tell him I’m arresting Bodin for first-degree murder because Archibald McNally says he’s a nogoodnik. Will you please, for God’s sake, talk sense.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said, sighing. “Maybe I’m just trying to inject a little drama into this.”

  “You’re trying to complex things up is what you’re doing. As usual.”

  I told him the next of kin, a sister, Miss Roberta Wolfson, would be arriving at the Palm Beach International Airport a few minutes after noon. I would meet her and drive her to The Breakers. After she was settled, I would deliver her to police headquarters.

  “She wants to claim the body and personal effects,” I said. “All right?”

  “I guess so,” Rogoff said slowly. “What time do you figure to be here?”

  “Around two o’clock or so.”

  “Well, if I’m not here I’ll have a policewoman standing by to help her with the paperwork.”

  “And you’ll release the body?”

  “I’ll have to get the okay of the brass on that, but I don’t think they’ll have any objections. I still think it was a suicide, and that’s the way I’m going to sell it.”

  “Al, it’s just the ambiguities that bother me.”

  “Ambiguities?” he said. “The story of my life. If you can’t live with them, you really should be in another line of business.”

  My final phone call was to the airline Roberta Wolfson was flying. They reported her flight was on time. I had heard that fairy tale before but thought it better to hie myself out to the airport in case they were correct this time.

  I had dressed as conservatively as my wardrobe allowed: navy tropical worsted suit, white shirt, maroon tie, black penny loafers. I even tucked a chaste white handkerchief into the breast pocket of my jacket. My sartorially retarded father would have been proud.

  I thought the screaming-red Miata might be a bit too animated for the occasion, so I drove to the office garage and switched to the black Ford Escort, a sober and more suitable vehicle. I needn’t have bothered. Roberta Wolfson turned out to be such a self-possessed woman I think she would have been at ease if I had shown up in a two-horse chariot.

  I arrived at the airport in time to see her plane taxi up to the gate. I waited for the passengers to disembark, and hoped it would not be necessary to have her paged. It wasn’t. All the others were wearing T-shirts and Bermuda shorts, and then appeared this tall, stately lady, confident and aloof.

  I recognized immediately the image she called to mind: the Gibson Girl. She had that forthright, don’t-give-a-damn air about her, and I could see her in an ankle-length middy dress, wearing a boater, or, in the evening, a wine-dark velvet gown by Worth. Her posture was splendid, her features pleasantly horsey. She was carrying an enormous tapestry portmanteau with bone handles.

  I approached her. “Miss Roberta Wolfson?” I inquired.

  She looked down at me from what seemed a tremendous height. “I am,” she said in a deep, resonant voice. “And who might you be, young man?”

  “Archibald McNally,” I said. “I believe you spoke to my father yesterday.” I proffered a business card.

  She was wearing a lightweight tweed suit (with sensible brogues), and beneath the jacket was a frilly jabot with a high neckband of lace. Pearls, of course. Dangling from her wishbone was a pince-nez framed in gold wire. It was attached to a fine chain released from a spring-loaded disk pinned to her bodice. I had never seen a gadget like that before.

  She used the small spectacles to examine my card. “McNally and Son, Attorney-at-Law,” she read aloud. She caught it at once. “Two individuals, one attorney. Which one?”

  “My father,” I said. She requested no further explanation, for which I was grateful. “Miss Wolfson, may I express the condolences of my father and myself on the passing of your brother.”

  “Thank you,” she s
aid. “I appreciate your solicitude. May we go now?”

  I attempted to relieve her of that huge bag she was schlepping but she would not relinquish it. So we marched out to the Escort. She made no comment on the heat, which was a welcome surprise. Usually, arriving visitors say, “Oof!”

  As we drove eastward she looked about with interest. “Is this Palm Beach?”

  “West Palm Beach, ma’am.”

  “Oh? Tell me something about the geography of this region.”

  “We are in Palm Beach County. This is the City of West Palm Beach on the mainland. We are going to the island of Palm Beach, which is separated from the United States by Lake Worth, crossed by bridges. There is also North Palm Beach and South Palm Beach.”

  “But no East Palm Beach?”

  “No, ma’am. Only the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “And what is the population of Palm Beach?”

  “At this time of year, the off-season? About fifteen thousand.”

  “And during the season?”

  “Zillions,” I said, and she laughed for the first time, a nice, throaty sound.

  We didn’t speak again until we arrived at The Breakers, that glorious remembrance of things past. I left the car with the parking valet and accompanied Miss Wolfson to the desk, where she registered.

  “Ma’am,” I said, “would you care for lunch before I drive you to make arrangements?”

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I had breakfast on the plane.”

  “Surely not very satisfying,” I commented.

  She looked at me as if I were demented. “Naturally I brought my own food,” she said. “Yogurt, a cucumber sandwich, and herbal tea which the attendant was kind enough to heat for me. What I would enjoy, after I freshen up, is a glass of sherry.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Suppose you meet me at the Alcazar Lounge. Any of the hotel employees will be happy to direct you there.”

  “I shan’t be long,” she said and left, still lugging that huge satchel, which she refused to yield to the bellhop.

  I headed for the Alcazar and took a seat at the bar. I ordered a vodka-tonic with lime from a comely barmaid who provided a bowl of salted nuts to keep my thirst at a fever pitch. I had scarcely finished half my drink when Miss Wolfson appeared. I hopped from the barstool and asked if she’d care to sit at a table.

  “No, this is fine,” she said and swung aboard the stool next to mine with a practiced movement that made me think barstools were not an unfamiliar perch.

  She ordered a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, took a small sip when it was served, and nodded approvingly. She gazed out the picture windows at the sea but said nothing about the beauty of the scene. After all, she was from Boston and had seen the Atlantic Ocean before—but not framed in palm trees.

  “Miss Wolfson,” I said, “are your accommodations satisfactory?”

  “Perfectly,” she said, then turned to gaze at me. “The flowers are lovely. Were they your idea?”

  I nodded.

  “You are a very nice young man,” she said, and took another sip of sherry.

  “Thank you,” I said, happy this proper Bostonian didn’t think me a rube. “Ma’am, I’d like to ask you a question about your brother, but if speaking of him will distress you, I’ll say nothing more.”

  “It won’t distress me, I assure you. You knew Angus?”

  “Briefly. I found much to admire in him.”

  She gave me a look of wry amusement. “And much not to admire, I’m sure. My brother was a difficult man to know, Mr. McNally. He would be the last to deny it. What did you wish to ask?”

  “Was he ill?”

  “Mortally. A year ago he was operated on for prostatic cancer. They were unable to remove the entire malignancy because of possible damage to other organs. But the doctors felt that with radiation and chemotherapy his life could be extended. But Angus refused treatment.”

  I was aghast. “Why on earth did he do that?”

  “He said it would be undignified. He said he had enjoyed a good life, and it would be humiliating to attempt to prolong it for a few miserable years by intrusive medical means. He was told that without treatment he would probably be dead within a year. He accepted that.”

  I finished my drink in two gulps and ordered another, and a second sherry for Miss Wolfson. She made no demur.

  “Yes,” I said, “that sounds like him. He was a brave man.”

  “Was he?” his sister said. “Possibly. He was certainly a foolish man because he had discounted the pain, although the doctors had warned him. The pain became fierce. Drugs lost their effectiveness until I believe he was constantly in agony.”

  “It must have been difficult for you,” I offered.

  She made the tiniest of shrugs. “I nursed both parents through lingering illnesses. I have become inured to suffering.”

  I didn’t believe her for a minute. Here was a woman, I thought, hanging on to sanity with a slippery grasp. And perhaps a bottle of sherry.

  “So his suicide really didn’t come as a shock?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” she said, and now she was sipping her wine at a faster pace. “I was surprised it hadn’t come sooner. He spoke of it frequently. I didn’t attempt to dissuade him. He would have considered it effrontery on my part. As he said, who can feel another’s pain?”

  “Who indeed,” I said. “Miss Wolfson, I think we better finish up and be on our way. I took the liberty of telling the authorities we’d meet them at about two o’clock.”

  “Of course,” she said, draining her glass. “Mustn’t be late for a funeral. Correct, young man?”

  She was absolutely steady on her feet, her speech was still crisp and well-articulated, she gave no evidence whatsoever of having downed two glasses of sherry in a short time. We drove to police headquarters slowly while I pointed out places of interest and she asked lucid and intelligent questions. I hoped that when I was her age I might hold my schnapps as well as she did her wine.

  “By the way,” I mentioned as casually as I could, “Lady Horowitz has volunteered to pay the expenses of your trip to Palm Beach as well as all funeral costs.”

  I saw her expression change ever so slightly, and I had the feeling this news had come as a great relief. But the only words she uttered were a murmured, “Dreadful woman.”

  Sgt. Rogoff was not there to greet us, but we were met by a policewoman I knew, Tweeny Alvarez. (That really was her name.) Like Consuela Garcia, she was a Marielito, but about ten years older and fifty pounds heavier than Connie. Al couldn’t have picked a better woman to assist Roberta Wolfson, for Tweeny was soft-spoken and muy simpática.

  “You’re in good hands,” I assured Miss Wolfson. “We call Officer Alvarez ‘Mother Tweeny.’”

  “Oh you!” the policewoman said.

  “I’m going back to my office now,” I said. “Please call when you’re ready to return to the hotel or if you need transportation elsewhere. I’m at your service.”

  “You’re very kind,” Miss Wolfson said faintly.

  To tell you the truth, I was relieved to be absent while she viewed the remains and made arrangements for her brother to be cremated. This line of duty was not my cup of tea at all. I shine at games of darts and an occasional chugalug contest. But funeral stuff is not exactly a bowl of cherries, is it?

  When I arrived back at my office, I found a note taped to my telephone handset. Printed on the top was the legend: From the desk of Evelyn Sharif. Notepaper like that sends me right up the wall. I mean, desks can’t communicate. People, not furniture, write notes. I once contemplated having a notepad printed up that read: From the bed of Archy McNally. I didn’t do it, of course. The senior would have taken a very dim view.

  But the message itself raised my spirits. It stated: “Got an answer to your inquiry. Stop by. Evelyn.”

  I clattered down the back stairwell to the real estate department where I found Mrs. Sharif performing some sort of esoteric exercise.

  “It stre
ngthens the abdominal muscles,” she informed me.

  “Keep it up,” I said, “and you’re liable to drop the twins on your fax machine. What did you find out about that property down at Manalapan?”

  “Interesting story,” she said. She moved behind her desk and began flipping through a sheaf of notes. “A retired couple came down from Michigan in the late fifties. They had plenty of loot. He had made a fortune manufacturing portable johns, those white closets you see at construction sites. They bought the raw land between the ocean and the lake and had a house built. They called it Hillcrest.”

  “Love it,” I said. “There isn’t a hill worth the name within five hundred miles.”

  “Well, that’s what they called it,” Evelyn went on. “The man died in the seventies, and the widow died about three years ago. They had two grown children who inherited a bundle. But the house and acreage were left to the woman’s alma mater, a small college in Ohio. The children are contesting the bequest. They want that house as a place to vacation with their children. So the whole question of ownership has been tied up in litigation for almost three years, and since no one was living there, the place went to rack and ruin. But about a year ago, all the litigants agreed that until the court case is decided, the house could be rented on a month-to-month basis. And that’s the way things stand now.”

  “What’s the monthly rental?” I asked.

  “Five thousand.”

  “Cheap enough for that location,” I said, “even though the place looks like a slum. Who’s renting it now—did you find out?”

  She consulted her notes again. “A single woman,” she reported. “Clara Bodkin. Does the name mean anything to you?”

  “Negative,” I lied smoothly. “Never heard it before. Thank you, Evelyn; you did your usual bang-up job.”