The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  I related what Roberta Wolfson had told me about her brother’s terminal illness, his refusal to undergo radiation and chemotherapy, the constant pain he suffered.

  “Reason enough to shuffle off this mortal coil,” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” the sergeant agreed. “But he had another reason.”

  “Oh? And what, pray, was that?”

  “Guilt. While we had Wolfson’s body, we took his fingerprints. They matched up pretty well with the prints we took off the glass paperweight that caved in Bela Rubik’s skull.”

  I hadn’t anticipated that, but I wasn’t shocked. The stamp dealer would have unlocked his door for Angus Wolfson, but not for a bruiser like Bodin.

  “You’re sure, Al?” I asked. “About the prints, I mean.”

  “Seventy-five percent sure,” he said, “and that’s good enough for me. This case is officially closed as far as I’m concerned. Rubik’s homicide is cleared. The killer, Wolfson, is dead. Lady Horowitz gets her fake stamps back. Maybe Bodin will do some time, but it won’t be heavy. Now the PBPD can concentrate on important investigations, like who’s been swiping kiwis and mangoes from the local Publix.”

  “Do me a favor,” I urged. “Tell me how you figure the whole thing went down. From the top.”

  “Sure,” he said genially, puffing away at his cigar. “Wolfson had a lot of medical expenses, and he wasn’t a rich man to begin with. As you would say, he was getting a bit hairy about the heels. So he swiped the Inverted Jennies, figuring Lady Horowitz had zillions and could stand the loss. Then he does something stupid: he tries to peddle the stamps to a local dealer. I figure he left the Inverted Jennies with Bela Rubik, giving him a chance to make an appraisal. Rubik already had the stamps when you first met him.

  “Wolfson goes back to Rubik’s shop on the afternoon the yacht cruise was canceled. Rubik tells him his stamps are forgeries. Knowing Rubik, I’d guess he got hot about it and threatened to tell the police that Wolfson was trying to sell counterfeits. Wolfson panicked and bounced the paperweight off Rubik’s skull. I don’t think he meant to kill him. Just knock him out, get his stamps back, and lam out of there.

  “Then Wolfson reads the local papers and realizes he’s a murderer. Also, he hasn’t got the wheels to get around to other dealers, and he knows he’s getting weaker. So he makes a deal with Kenneth Bodin, a money-hungry sleaze if ever I saw one. The chauffeur agrees to sell the stamps for a piece of the take. It’s the best Wolfson can do. The rest you know. How does it sound?”

  “Did Wolfson tell Bodin the stamps were forgeries?”

  “No. Bodin and Sylvia thought they were handling something of genuine value. Look, maybe even Wolfson himself thought Rubik was wrong, and that he had stolen the real thing. Well?”

  He had some of it right, but not all of it. But I had no desire to point out his errors; most of the mistakes were due to information I had not revealed. If Al’s scenario was going to be the official version, so be it. It hurt no one. And I had other fish to fry.

  “Yes,” I said, “everything sounds plausible.”

  “No objections?”

  I knew he’d be suspicious of total agreement. “A few minor questions,” I said. “Like Wolfson’s relations with Kenneth Bodin. I think he really had a thing for that mug.”

  “Sure he did,” Rogoff said, nodding. “That’s why he picked him as an accomplice and offered a piece of the pie. Hoping for favors in return.”

  “Yes,” I said, “that makes sense. Was Bela Rubik really going to turn Wolfson in?”

  Al gave me a twisted smile. “Only after he examined the stamps and saw they were counterfeit. If they had been legit, Rubik would have made a deal even if he knew they were stolen property. He was that kind of guy.”

  I sighed. “Well, I guess that wraps it up. Sorry to have dumped this mess in your lap, sarge.”

  “It comes with the territory,” he said shrugging. “I’m leaving it to your father to tell Lady Horowitz her stamps are forgeries. I’m taking a week of my vacation starting tomorrow. I want to be out of town when she hears that. There goes her insurance claim!”

  I laughed along with him. He got out of the Miata, lifted a hand in farewell, and strutted toward his squad car, still chewing on his cigar. I had a brief pang at not revealing the whole truth, but consoled myself with the thought that it would cause no loss to him and might benefit others.

  Suddenly I yelled, “Al!” I got out of the car and trotted after him. “Did you remember to ask Sylvia about Thomas Bingham?”

  “I remembered,” he said. “She claims Bingham is a drinking buddy but knows nothing about the Inverted Jennies. Disappointed?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Will you ask Kenneth Bodin?”

  “You never give up, do you? All right, I’ll ask the master criminal.”

  He got in his car and backed up the ramp. I glanced at my watch, muttered a curse (mild), and hurriedly transferred my binoculars to the Ford Escort. Then I set out in pursuit of Lady Cynthia Horowitz.

  I just did make it. I was heading north on Ocean Boulevard and as I passed the Horowitz gate I saw the Jaguar heading out, Lady C. at the wheel. She turned south, and I averted my head as I went by, hoping she wouldn’t spot me.

  I continued north for about fifty yards, made a screaming U-turn, and set off after the Jag. It wasn’t difficult to keep it in view; the madam’s hair was bound with a fuchsia scarf, and on that dreary day it glowed like a beacon in the fog. Traffic was light, and I thought it wise to hang back. I knew where she was going; there was no need to tailgate.

  Sure enough, she eventually turned into the driveway of Hillcrest. I drove slowly past and was delighted with what I saw: The Jaguar had not been driven around to the rear of the house, facing Lake Worth, but was parked in front on the brick driveway. Lady Cynthia was out of the car and just entering the front door as I went by.

  I drove back and forth a few times, considering my options. Not many. My notion of lurking in the underbrush with my binocs was nutsy. The homes north and south of Hillcrest were occupied, and if I was seen slinking furtively about, the gendarmes would have been summoned for sure.

  I finally decided my original fear of looking like a demented bird-watcher wasn’t such a bad idea after all. So I drove north to a small area that provided parking space for beachgoers. I locked the car and hiked back to Hillcrest, the binoculars hanging from a strap around my neck. Occasionally I paused to use the glasses, scanning all the foliage in sight and sometimes peering eastward, pretending I was looking for seabirds. What a performance! Stanislavsky would have been proud of me.

  I came to Hillcrest and casually examined the surrounding trees. In the process, of course, I took a good look at the house itself. The Jaguar was still parked in front, but I could discern no action, no one moving behind any of the windows.

  I continued my impersonation of a birder, parading north and south, using my binoculars until my eyes began to ache. I wondered how long I would have to maintain this charade—an hour? Two? Three? It turned out to be exactly one hour and forty-three minutes. I knew; I looked at my watch often enough.

  I was then south of the house, standing on the eastern verge of the corniche, partially concealed by a row of big-leafed sea grapes. I was watching the house when the front door opened and Lady Cynthia came out. Her hair was unbound; she was carrying the fuchsia scarf. She paused on the portico, turned around, and spoke animatedly through the opened door to someone within.

  I used the zoom lever and adjusted the focus to bring her into closer and sharper view. She was laughing, shaking her head prettily, and once she pouted and stamped her foot. I saw her reach out to the person within.

  “Come out, come out, whoever you are,” I sang aloud. And then, unsure of my grammar, I sang again, “Come out, come out, whomever you are.”

  Out he came.

  My father.

  I watched, glasses trembling slightly, as the two clutched in a fervid embrace and kissed. That was no fond
and friendly farewell between attorney and client; it was an impassioned grapple and the osculation seemed to go on forever.

  What may amuse you (or possibly not) was that my most convulsive shock came from seeing my father tieless, vestless, and coatless. Prescott McNally in shirtsleeves at midday! I can’t tell you how lubricious it made the scene appear to me.

  Finally they drew regretfully apart. Lady Horowitz went down to the Jaguar and gave father a final wave. He waved in return, went back into the house, closed the door.

  She turned northward, heading for home. I sprinted for my Escort. I figured my father had parked the Lexus behind the house and soon he too would be heading north. I wanted to be long gone before that.

  I drove back to the McNally Building at an illegal speed. I couldn’t seem to cease brooding on the fact that I had recently witnessed two illicit embraces: Angus Wolfson-Kenneth Bodin and Cynthia Horowitz-Prescott McNally. Sgt. Al Rogoff had claimed that things happened in threes. I had a gloomy premonition of who might be involved in the third doomed embrace.

  I pulled into the garage, and Herb hustled over before I got out of the Escort.

  “You feeling all right, Mr. McNally?” he inquired anxiously.

  “Tiptop, thank you, Herb,” I said. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said. “I should have shot that no-good. He deserved it.”

  He went back to his booth, still muttering. I climbed into the Miata and lighted a cigarette. I was pleased to see my hands were steady. I slumped, put my head back, stared at the sprinkler pipes overhead. I found that my reactions to what I had just seen took the form of an interrogation, a personal Q-and-A.

  “What amazes you most about the affair?”

  “The logistics involved. The planning! They had to find a place relatively safe from public view and gossip. So she rented an old house away from Palm Beach. And he arranged his absences from the office so no one might suspect.”

  “Why didn’t you? After all, on at least two occasions he was not available at the same time she was mysteriously gone. And he was quick to correct you when you thought her older than she really is.”

  “That’s right, but it just never occurred to me that they might be having a thing.”

  “Why not? Because of their age?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You think there’s a certain cutoff point in everyone’s life when the dreams end? They never end. (I hope.)”

  “How long do you think their liaison has been going on?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Probably for months. I could find out by asking Evelyn Sharif how long Hillcrest has been rented. But what’s the point of that?”

  “Be honest: You really have a grudging admiration for your father, don’t you?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Because you have inherited his propensities?”

  “The turd never falls far from the bird.”

  “Are you going to tell him you know?”

  “Good God, no! I happen to love the man, despite his faults. Maybe because of them. He and I have a very special relationship.”

  “What you just learned—won’t that end the relationship?”

  “Of course not. It may change it, but it’ll remain special.”

  “Will you tell your mother?”

  “She already knows. I realize that now, from things she’s said recently. How do women know? But for all her nuttiness, she has a wisdom that eclipses mine. And she has love and patience. She knows he’ll come back to her.”

  “So you’re not going to tell anyone?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  The questioning ended, and I knew what I was going to do. I derived a sour amusement from recalling the scam I had used with Connie Garcia—that someone was blackmailing Lady Horowitz. It had turned out to be true. The blackmailer was me.

  I drove out into a mizzle that swaddled the world in a foggy mist the color of old pewter. It wasn’t drizzling hard enough to put on the Miata’s hat, but I could see moisture collecting in pearls on windshield and hood. It became thicker as I neared the coast, and when I turned into the Horowitz driveway I headed directly for the garage to get my baby under cover.

  I entered the house through the back door, and in the kitchen I found chef Jean Cuvier and maid Clara Bodkin sparking up a storm. I think they were just trying to have a few laughs on a dismal day, but then again their flirting had an edge to it as if their banter might become serious at any moment.

  “Ar-chay,” he said, “tell this innocent she must not be frightened of life, of love, of passion, of romance.”

  “And you tell this whale I know all about those things,” she said, “and I am very particular as to whom I bestow my favors.”

  I admired her syntax but held up my hands in protest. “Peace,” I said. “I refuse to enlist in this war. I just stopped by to have a word with the lady of the manor. Is she receiving?”

  “I don’t know,” Clara said doubtfully. “I think she’s having a bath. Why don’t you go up and knock on her door.”

  “So I shall,” I said. “And try to be kind to each other, children. What the world needs is love, sweet love.”

  “Just what I’ve been telling her,” the fat chef said.

  I went out into the hallway and then up that magnificent staircase to the second floor. I rapped gently on the door of Lady Cynthia’s suite.

  “Who?” she called.

  “Archy McNally. May I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Come on in.”

  If it was pewter outside, her chambers were silver, steamy and scented from her bath. The windows were open, but the voile curtains were unmoving. I could hear the susurrus of a rain that was now falling steadily. There was an ambience of quiet intimacy: a secret place fragrant and isolated. What a setting for an orgy a deux! But it was not to be.

  She was reclining on the chaise lounge, clad in a peignoir of some diaphanous stuff. It revealed almost as much as it concealed. One leg was extended, bare foot on the floor. Very naked, that leg.

  “Pull up a seat,” she said languidly. And so I did, moving a velvet-covered ottoman into a position where I could face her directly.

  “What’s on your mind, lad?” she asked.

  “At the moment?” I said. “You. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that the police have recovered your counterfeit stamps.”

  “My what?” she cried, shock and horror oozing from every pore.

  “Oh, cut the crap,” I said as roughly as I could. “You’re a great actress but not that great. You’ve known for weeks that your Inverted Jennies were fakes. Even while you were bugging my father to file an insurance claim for their loss. It’s called fraud, dearie.”

  She didn’t order me from the premises immediately. Just turned her head to stare out the window where the rain was still whispering.

  “What a filthy thing to say,” she said. “But it’s only your mad fancy. You have no proof, of course.”

  “Of course I do. You sent the stamps to Boston, asking Angus Wolfson to have an appraisal made. You had read of that block of four Inverted Jennies being auctioned for a million bucks and you thought: Why not mine? But then Wolfson came to Palm Beach to return your stamps and tell you they were forgeries.”

  “You’re just guessing,” she said. “That’s not proof. Go away.”

  “Do you take me for an idiot?” I said. “I am not an idiot. Wolfson told his sister your Inverted Jennies were fakes. Roberta Wolfson does not harbor a favorable opinion of you, m’lady. If push comes to shove, she’ll be happy to testify that her brother had determined the stamps were forgeries. And further, he phoned her a few days after he arrived here and told her that he had informed you the stamps were worthless and that you had accepted the bad news calmly.”

  (I didn’t bother mentioning that Roberta Wolfson’s testimony, being hearsay, would probably be inadmissible in any litigation.)

  Lady C. turned her head to face me. “He told his sister that? What
a fool the man was!”

  That angered me but I tried to suppress it. “I wondered why you would try to pull an insurance swindle; your net worth is hardly a secret. Then I remembered something you told me during our first conversation. You said, ‘When it comes to money, enough is never enough.’ Greedy, greedy, greedy.”

  “You know what happens to greedy people?” she asked. “They get rich. Tell me something, lad. Suppose you discovered that a twenty-dollar bill you were trying to spend was counterfeit. Would you turn it in and take the loss as the law requires, or would you try to pass it along to someone else? Be honest.”

  I didn’t answer that. I was afraid to. “That’s twenty dollars,” I blustered. “We’re talking half a million.”

  “No difference,” she said. “You’d try to pass it along; you know you would. That’s all I was trying to do. Why should I take the bite? The insurance company has oodles of cash. They should; my premiums are high enough.”

  “But it would be outright fraud,” I argued.

  “Fraud-schmaud,” she said, shrugging. “What’s the big deal?”

  Her imperturbability disconcerted me. I had expected heated denials. But she was admitting everything with a cool calmness I found maddening.

  “Here’s what I think happened,” I said, trying to regain the initiative. “Wolfson told you the stamps were fakes. It took you perhaps three seconds to cook up the idea of a fake theft and then file an insurance claim. Wolfson didn’t steal the stamps; you gave them to him, and told him to get rid of them. Instead, he decided to try to sell them.”

  “I told you the man was a fool. He turned out to be greedier than I.”

  “Not so,” I said. “He didn’t want the money for himself. He wanted to assist your daughter, Gina Stanescu. She told him her orphanage was in trouble, and he hoped to help by selling the stamps to some unsuspecting dealer and turn over the proceeds to Gina. He was as larcenous as you, but from somewhat purer motives.”

  Finally, she was rattled. “Gina’s orphanage needs money? Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “She’s frightened of you.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Why would anyone be frightened of me?”