The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  She tried not to laugh but failed. “Just make sure it stays in your heart,” she said, “and doesn’t migrate southward. Thanks for the dinner, luv.”

  She gave me a very nice kiss, slid out of the Miata, and stalked back to her office. I waited until she was safely inside, and then I drove home singing “If You Knew Susie—Like I Know Susie.” Actually, I’ve never met a woman named Susie, but one never knows, do one?

  When I pulled into our driveway I saw Roderick Gillsworth’s gray Bentley parked on the turnaround. The windows of my father’s study were lighted, and he came out into the hallway when I entered.

  “Archy,” he said, “Gillsworth just arrived with bad news. Join us, please.”

  The poet was slumped in a leather club chair, biting at a thumbnail. The governor went behind his massive desk and I pulled up a straight chair.

  “Another letter arrived today,” my father said grimly and gestured toward a foolscap lying on the desk blotter. “Even more despicable than the others. And more frightening.”

  I hardly heard his final comments. I was thinking of “Another letter arrived today” and wondering why Lydia Gillsworth hadn’t mentioned it. But perhaps she had. I recalled that during our telephone conversation, she had said, “I hope this isn’t about that stupid letter I received.” I had assumed she was speaking about the previous letter, not referring to a new one.

  “Well, Archy?” father demanded impatiently, and I realized he had asked me something that simply hadn’t registered.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” I said. “Would you repeat the question?”

  He stared at me, obviously saddened by the imbecile he had sired. “I asked if you had made any progress at all in identifying the writer of this filth.”

  “No, sir,” I said, and let it go at that.

  Gillsworth groaned. “What are we going to do?” he said, his last word rising to a falsetto.

  I had never seen the man more distraught. In addition to the nail biting, he was blinking furiously and seemed unable to control a curious tremor of his jaw; it looked as if he was chewing rapidly.

  “Mr. Gillsworth,” I said, “I really think the police should be brought in. Or if your wife continues to forbid it, then private security guards should be hired. Round-the-clock. It will be costly, but I feel it’s necessary until the perpetrator can be found.”

  The seigneur fell into one of those semi-trances that signified he was giving my proposal heavy thought, examining the pros and cons, and considering all the options in-between.

  “Yes,” he said finally, “I think that would be wise. Mr. Gillsworth, we have dealt several times in the past with a security service that provides personal guards. We have always found their personnel trustworthy and reliable. May I have permission to employ guards for your wife, twenty-four hours a day?”

  “Oh God, yes!” Gillsworth cried, his skinny arms flapping. “Just the thing! Why didn’t I think of it?”

  “Where is Mrs. Gillsworth at the moment?” I asked.

  “She went to a séance this evening,” he said. “She should be home by now. May I use your phone?”

  “Of course,” father said.

  Gillsworth stood, walked rather shakily to the desk phone, and dialed his number. He held the receiver clamped tightly to his head. While we all waited, I noted how he was perspiring. His face was sheened with sweat, and there was even a drop trembling at the tip of his avian honker. Poor devil, I thought; I knew exactly how he felt.

  Finally he hung up. “She’s not home,” he said hollowly.

  “No cause for alarm,” my father said. “She may have stayed a few extra moments at the séance. She drove her own car?”

  “Yes,” the poet said. “A Caprice. I don’t understand why she isn’t home. She’s rarely late.”

  “She may be delayed by traffic. Try again in five or ten minutes. Meanwhile, I suggest we all have a brandy. Archy, will you do the honors?”

  I welcomed the assignment. In truth, I had caught Gillsworth’s fear and needed a bit of Dutch courage. I went to the marble-topped sideboard and poured generous tots into three snifters. I served the poet and father.

  Gillsworth finished half of his drink in one gulp and gasped. “Yes,” he said, “that helps. Thank you.”

  “Father,” I said, “when you talk to the security people about personal guards, I think it might be smart to ask that female operatives be assigned. I believe Mrs. Gillsworth might be more inclined to accept the constant presence of women rather than men.”

  “Yes, yes!” Gillsworth said, animated by the cognac and flapping his arms again. “You’re quite right. A capital idea!”

  The senior McNally nodded. “Good thinking, Archy,” he said, and I felt I had been pardoned for my earlier inattention. “Mr. Gillsworth, would you have any objection if the female guard or guards actually moved into your home? Temporarily, of course.”

  “None at all,” the poet said. “We have extra bedrooms. I’d welcome the presence of someone who’ll watch over Lydia every minute I’m not with her. May I use the phone again?”

  “Naturally,” father said.

  He called, and a moment later I saw his entire body relax and he actually grinned.

  “You’re home, Lydia,” he said heartily. “All safe and sound? Good. Doors and windows locked? Glad to hear it. I’m at the McNallys’, dear, and I should be home in fifteen minutes or so. See you soon.”

  He hung up and rubbed his palms together briskly. “All’s well,” he reported. “I’ll stay with her until your security people arrive. When do you think that will be?”

  “Probably early in the morning,” father told him. “I’ll call the night supervisor, and he can get things started. I’ll request a female guard be sent to your home early tomorrow. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Eminently,” Gillsworth said, and finished his brandy. “I feel a lot better now. I’m going to tell Lydia I insist the guards remain until this whole horrible mess is cleared up. Thank you for your help, Mr. McNally—and you too, Archy. I better go now.”

  “I’ll see you to your car,” my father said. “Please wait here for me, Archy.”

  He went out with the client, and I sneaked another quick cognac. Just a small one.

  My father returned and regained his throne. “Personal guards are an excellent idea,” he said. “I only hope Mrs. Gillsworth doesn’t refuse them.”

  “I don’t believe she will, sir,” I said. “Especially if it’s explained that their assignment will not be made public. But I still think the police should be informed of the letters. Granted they cannot provide round-the-clock surveillance, but they might be able to trace the source of the paper used and identify the make of the printing machine that was used.”

  Father looked at me steadily. “Then you were telling the truth? You’ve made no progress at all?”

  “That’s not completely accurate,” I admitted, “but what I have is so slight that I didn’t want to mention it in Gillsworth’s presence.”

  Then I told him of Hertha and Frank Gloriana, who might or might not be frauds, and how Lydia attended their séances. I said nothing about Laverne Willigan’s connection with the Glorianas, nor did I mention that I believed the poison-pen letters and Peaches’ ransom note had been composed on the same word processor by the same author.

  Why didn’t I tell my father these things? Because they were very thin gruel indeed, vague hypotheses that would probably make no sense to anyone but me. Also, I must admit, I didn’t want to tell the pater everything I knew because he was so learned, so wise, so far my intellectual superior. What I was implying by my reticence was “I know something you don’t know!” Childish? You bet.

  He looked at me, somewhat bewildered. “You think the Glorianas are responsible for the threatening letters?”

  “I just don’t know, sir. But Mrs. Gillsworth gave me no other names. Apparently she’s convinced that no one in her social circle—relatives, friends, acquaintances—could poss
ibly be capable of anything like that. So Hertha Gloriana is the only lead I have.”

  “It’s not much,” he said.

  “No,” I agreed, “it’s not. But they do say the medium is the message.”

  He gave me a sour smile. “Well, stay on it,” he commanded, “and keep me informed. Now I must call the security—”

  But just then his phone rang.

  He broke off speaking and stared at it a moment.

  “Now who on earth can that be?” he said and picked it up.

  “Prescott McNally,” he said crisply. Then:

  “What? What? Oh my God. Yes. Yes, of course. We’ll be there immediately.”

  He hung up slowly and turned a bleak face to me.

  “Lydia Gillsworth is dead,” he said. “Murdered.”

  I don’t often weep but I did that night.

  Chapter 6

  WE LATER LEARNED THAT Roderick Gillsworth had called 911 before phoning my father. By the time we arrived at the poet’s home, the police were there and we were not allowed inside. I was glad to see Sgt. Al Rogoff was the senior officer present and apparently in charge of the investigation.

  Father and I sat in the Lexus and waited as patiently as we could. I don’t believe we exchanged a dozen words; we were both stunned by the tragedy. His face was closed, and I stared unseeing at the starry sky and hoped Lydia Gillsworth had passed to a higher plane.

  Finally, close to midnight, Rogoff came out of the house and lumbered over to the Lexus. Al played the good ol’ boy because he thought it would further his career. But I happened to know he was a closet intellectual and a ballet maven. Other Florida cops might enjoy discussing the methods of Fred Bundy; the sergeant preferred talking about the technique of Rudolf Nureyev.

  “Mr. McNally,” he said, addressing my father, “we’re about to tape a voluntary statement by Roderick Gillsworth. He’d like you to be present. So would I, just to make sure everything is kosher.”

  “Of course,” father said, climbing out of the car. “Thank you for suggesting it.”

  “Al—” I started.

  “You stay out here, Archy,” he commanded in his official voice. “We’ve already got a mob scene in there.”

  “I have something important to tell you,” I said desperately.

  “Later,” he said, and he and my father marched into the Gillsworth home.

  So I sat alone for another hour, watching police officers and technicians from a fire-rescue truck search the grounds with flashlights and big lanterns. Finally Rogoff came out of the house alone and stood by my open window peeling the cellophane wrapper from one of his big cigars.

  “Your father is going to stay the night,” he reported. “With Gillsworth. He says to tell you to drive home. He’ll phone when he wants to be picked up.”

  I was shocked. “You mean Gillsworth wants to sleep in this house tonight? We could put him up or he could go to a hotel.”

  “Your father suggested it, but Gillsworth wants to stay here. It’s okay; I’ll leave a couple of men on the premises.”

  Then we were silent, watching as a wheeled stretcher was brought out of the house. The body was covered with a black rubber sheet. The stretcher was slid into the back of a police ambulance, the door slammed. The vehicle pulled slowly away, the siren beginning to moan.

  “Al,” I said as steadily as I could, “how was she killed?”

  “Hit on the head repeatedly with a walking stick. It had a heavy silver spike for a handle. Pierced her skull.”

  “Don’t tell me it was in the shape of a unicorn.”

  He stared at me. “How did you know?”

  “She showed it to me. She brought it back from up north as a gift for her husband. He collected antique canes.”

  “Yeah, I saw his collection. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  “No. Something else. Remember my asking you about poison-pen letters? Lydia Gillsworth was the person getting them.”

  “Son of a bitch,” the sergeant said bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because she refused to let us take it to the police. And if we had, would you have provided twenty-four-hour protection?”

  “Probably not,” he conceded. “Where are the letters now?”

  “At home.”

  “How’s about you drive me there and hand them over. Then drive me back here. Okay? You weren’t planning to get to bed early, were you?”

  “Not tonight,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  I drove, and Al sat beside me juicing up his cigar.

  “Tell me what happened,” I asked him.

  “Not a lot to tell,” he said. “Gillsworth was at your place, talked to his wife on the phone, told her he’d see her soon. He says he drove directly home. Says he found the front door open although she had told him all doors and windows were locked. She was facedown in the sitting room. Signs of a violent struggle. Spatters of blood everywhere. Baskets of flowers knocked to the floor. A grandfather clock tipped over. It had stopped about ten minutes before Gillsworth arrived.”

  “My God,” I said, “he almost walked in on a killing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did he see anyone when he drove up?”

  “Says not.”

  “Anything stolen?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. He can’t spot anything missing.”

  “How’s he taking it?”

  “Hard. He’s trying to do the stiff-upper-lip bit, but it’s not working.”

  “She was a lovely woman, Al.”

  “She’s not now,” he said in the flat tones he used when he wanted to conceal his emotions.

  When we entered the house, mother was waiting in the hallway. She wore a nightgown under a tatty flannel robe, and her feet were thrust into fluffy pink mules. She glanced at Sgt. Rogoff in his uniform, then put a hand against the wall to steady herself.

  “Archy,” she said, “what’s wrong? Where is father? Has he been hurt?”

  “He’s all right,” I said. “He’s at the Gillsworth home. Mother, I’m sorry to tell you that Lydia has been killed.”

  She closed her eyes and swayed. I stepped close and gripped her arm.

  “A car accident?” she asked weakly.

  I didn’t answer that. One shock at a time.

  “Father will be staying with Gillsworth tonight,” I said. “I came back with the sergeant to pick up some papers.”

  She didn’t respond. Her eyes remained closed and I could feel her trembling under my hand.

  “Mother,” I said, “it’s been a bad night, and the sergeant and I could use a cup of black coffee. Would you make it for us?”

  I hoped that giving her a task would help, and it did. She opened her eyes and straightened.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll put the kettle on right away. Would you like a sandwich, sergeant?”

  “Thank you, no, ma’am,” he said gently. “The coffee will do me fine.”

  Mother bustled into the kitchen, and I led Rogoff into my father’s study. The letter was still lying on the desk blotter.

  “There it is,” I told Al. “Both the Gillsworths handled it but not my father and not me. Maybe you’ll be able to bring up some usable prints.”

  “Fat chance,” he growled, sat down behind the desk, and leaned forward to read.

  “That was the third letter received,” I said. “The first was destroyed by Gillsworth. The second is upstairs in my rooms. I’ll get it for you.”

  A few moments later I returned with the second letter in the manila folder. I did not bring along the photocopy of Peaches’ ransom note. Willigan had told us, “No cops!” And he was paying the hourly rate.

  Rogoff had his cigar burning and was leaning back in my father’s chair. He read the second letter and tossed the folder onto the desk.

  “Ugly stuff,” he said.

  “A psycho?” I suggested.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe someone trying to make us think they were written by a psycho.”
>
  “What will you do with the letters?”

  “Send them to the FBI lab. Try to find out the make of machine used, the paper, the ink, and so forth. See if they’ve got any similar letters in their files.”

  “Even right-hand margins,” I pointed out.

  “Oh, you noticed that, did you? Got to be a word processor or electronic typewriter. We’ll see. How about that coffee?”

  When we entered the kitchen, mother was filling our cups. And she had put out a plate of Ursi Olson’s chocolate-chip cookies, bless her.

  “The coffee is instant,” she said anxiously to Rogoff. “Is that all right?”

  “The only kind I drink,” he said, smiling at her. “Thank you for your trouble, Mrs. McNally.”

  “No trouble at all,” she assured him. “I’ll leave you men alone now.”

  We sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, hunching over our coffee and nibbling cookies.

  “You suspect the husband, don’t you?” I said.

  The sergeant shrugged. “I’ve got to, Archy. Seventy-five percent of homicides are committed by the spouse, a relative, a friend, or acquaintance. These cookies are great.”

  “She was alive when he left here, Al,” I reminded him. “He talked to her on the phone. You think he drove home and killed her?”

  “Doesn’t seem likely, does it?” he said slowly. “But what really helps him is that there were no bloodstains on his clothes. I told you that place looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood everywhere. The killer had to get splashed. What was Gillsworth wearing when he left here?”

  I thought a moment. “White linen sports jacket, pale blue polo shirt, light gray flannel slacks.”

  Rogoff nodded. “That’s what he was wearing when we got there. And he looked fresh as a daisy. His clothes, I mean. Absolutely unstained. And he sure didn’t have enough time to change into identical duds. Also, we searched the house. No bloodstained clothes anywhere.”

  We sipped our coffee, ate more cookies. The sergeant relighted his cold cigar.

  “So Gillsworth is off the hook?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that. He’s probably clean, but I’ve got to check out the timing. A lot depends on that. How long did it take him to drive from here to his place? Also, what time did the victim leave the séance? How long would it take her to drive home? What time did she arrive? Was someone waiting for her? There’s a lot I don’t know. After I find out, maybe Gillsworth will be off the hook. Right now he’s all I’ve got.”