The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  It was all awfully serious stuff, and as I’ve stated on more than one occasion, I am not a serious johnny. In fact, my vision of the final beatitude is of a place resembling the Pelican Club where all drinks are on the house.

  So I tossed the books aside and went back to wondering about the motive for Hertha Gloriana’s kiss. I came to no conclusion except to resolve that if there was an encore I would respond in a more manful and determined fashion.

  Only to further the investigation, of course.

  Chapter 7

  THE MOST NOTEWORTHY HAPPENING of the following Sunday was that I accompanied my parents to church. I am not an avid churchgoer. As a matter of fact, I had not attended services since a buxom contralto in the choir with whom I had been consorting married a naval aviator and moved to Pensacola. After that, my faith dwindled.

  But that morning I sat in the McNally pew, sang hymns, and stayed awake throughout the sermon, which was based on the dictum that it is more blessed to give than to receive. I supposed that included a stiff bop on the snoot. But the final prayer was devoted to Lydia Gillsworth, a former member of the congregation. The short eulogy was touching, and I was glad I was there to hear it.

  We returned home to find a police car parked outside our back door. Sgt. Al Rogoff, in civvies, was in the kitchen drinking coffee with the Olsons. He stood up when we entered and apologized for his presence on a Sunday.

  “But there are some things to talk about,” he said to my father. “Including funeral arrangements. The Medical Examiner will release the...” He glanced at mother, and his voice trailed off.

  “Of course, sergeant,” Père McNally said. “Suppose you come into the study. I’ll phone Gillsworth and find out what his wishes are.”

  “Fine,” Al said, then looked at me before he followed my father. “You going to be around awhile?” he asked.

  “I can be,” I said.

  “Do try, Archy,” Rogoff said with that heavy sarcasm he sometimes affects. “I want to talk to you.”

  “I’m on the third floor,” I told him. “Come up when you and father have finished.”

  I trudged upstairs, took off my Sunday-go-to-meeting costume, and pulled on flannel bags and a fuchsia Lacoste. I was wondering if I had time to nip downstairs for a tub of ice cubes when there was a knock on the door.

  It was the first time the sergeant had been in my rooms, and he looked about with interest.

  “Not bad,” he said.

  “The best thing about it is the rent.”

  He laughed. “Zilch?” he asked.

  “You got it,” I said. “Al, would you like a wee bit of the old nasty?”

  “What’s available?”

  “Marc.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Brandy made from wine sludge.”

  “I’m game. But just a small one.”

  I poured two tots, and Al sampled his. He gasped and squinched his eyes.

  “That’ll take the tartar off my teeth,” he said.

  I had few accommodations for visitors, so the sergeant sat in the swivel chair behind my desk while I pulled up a rather tatty leather ottoman.

  “How did you and father make out with Gillsworth?”

  “Okay. He’s going to take the casket up north. Apparently there’s a family plot in a Rhode Island cemetery. She’ll be buried there.”

  We sipped our minuscule drinks slowly. There is no other way to imbibe marc and survive.

  “Al,” I said, “I understand you hauled away the grandfather clock from the murder scene.”

  “That’s right. It’s a nice antique. Bleached pine case.”

  “What was the reason for taking it?”

  “I wanted to find out if it was in working order before it was toppled.”

  “And was it?”

  “Yep, according to the expert who examined it. When it was knocked over, one of the gears jolted loose and the clock stopped.”

  “So the time it showed was the time of the murder?”

  “Seems like it, doesn’t it.”

  I sighed. “You’re not giving anything away, are you? Have you finally decided Gillsworth is clean?”

  “He appears to be,” Rogoff said grudgingly. “The time it takes to drive from here to his place at a legal speed checks out. Ordinarily his wife would have been home earlier from the séance, but she stayed awhile to talk with one of the women.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The woman.”

  “This is like pulling teeth,” I said. “Would you mind telling me the woman’s name, sergeant?”

  “Mrs. Irma Gloriana, the mother-in-law of the medium. You know her?”

  “Mrs. Irma Gloriana?” I said carefully. “No, I’ve never met the lady. What’s she like?”

  “A tough broad,” Al said, then paused and cast his eyes heavenward. “Forgive me, Susan B. Anthony,” he said. “I meant to say that she’s a strong-willed individual of the female gender.”

  “That’s better,” I said approvingly. “Otherwise I might have to charge you with PI—Political Incorrectness. Did you meet the medium?”

  “Nope. She and her husband weren’t home. I’ll catch up with them tomorrow, along with all the others who were at the séance. I have their names.”

  “Where was the séance held?”

  “At the Glorianas’ condo. It’s in a high-rise near Currie Park.”

  “A luxury high-rise?”

  “Not very,” Rogoff said. “In fact, I thought it was a ratty place. I guess communing with the dear departed doesn’t pay as well as selling pizzas.”

  “Guess not,” I said. “How did you get on to this Mrs. Irma Gloriana?”

  “Gillsworth gave me her name. He had been to three or four séances with his wife and knew where they were held. But after a while he stopped going. Says the whole idea of spiritualism just doesn’t grab him.”

  “Uh-huh. Did you time how long it would take Lydia to drive home from the séance?”

  “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Of course I timed it. If Lydia left when the mother-in-law says she did, then she would have arrived home about when her husband talked to her from your father’s study.”

  “So everything fits and Gillsworth is cleared?”

  “I guess so,” Rogoff said dolefully. “Could I have another shot of that battery acid? A tiny one. Just enough to dampen the glass.”

  I poured and said, “Al, what’s bothering you? You don’t seem to be convinced.”

  He drew a heavy breath and blew it out. “As you said, ‘Everything fits.’ Whenever that happens, I get antsy and start wondering if I’ve missed something. What’s chewing me is that I’ve only got the statement of one witness as to the time the victim went home. I’d prefer to have several. But all the others who attended the séance had already left, and the medium and her husband had gone out to dinner. So only Mrs. Irma Gloriana can say when Lydia started home.”

  “You think she’s lying?”

  He stirred restlessly in the swivel chair. “Why the hell should she? What could possibly be her motive for lying? No, she’s probably telling the truth. Now what about you? What have you been up to?”

  “Not a great deal,” I said, all innocence. I had been pondering how much to tell him. Not everything, of course, because I was certain he wasn’t telling me everything. In the past we had cooperated on several investigations to our mutual benefit, but I always reckoned—and I think Rogoff did, too—that part of our success was due to the fact that we were as much competitors as partners. I believe we both enjoyed it. Nothing like rivalry to put a little Dijon on the sandwich. Adds zest, n’est-ce pas?

  It was at that precise moment that the McNally talent for improv showed its mettle.

  “Al,” I said earnestly, “I just had an idea I think you’ll like.”

  “Try me.”

  “Until you get the FBI report on those poison-pen letters, the séance and everyone connected with it represents our best lead—
right?”

  “Not necessarily,” he argued. “Archy, we’re just starting on this thing. We’ll have to identify and question all the victim’s neighbors, friends, and acquaintances, and establish their whereabouts at the time of the homicide.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “A lot of legwork. But while you’re doing that, why don’t I zero in on the Glorianas? What I had in mind was going to them, passing myself off as a half-assed spiritualist, and setting up a séance with the medium. I’m not suggesting you ignore them entirely, but let me go at them from the angle of an eager client.”

  He stared at me thoughtfully. “Why do I have the feeling I’m being euchred?”

  “You’re not being euchred,” I said heatedly. “The more I think of it, the better it sounds. I can be Mr. Inside and you can be Mr. Outside. The Glorianas will never know we’re working together. They won’t even realize we know each other. But between us, we should be able to get a complete picture of their operation.”

  He was silent a long time, and I feared I had lost him. But finally he sighed, finished his drink, and stood up.

  “All right,” he said. “I can’t see where it will do any harm. You set up a séance and try to get close to the medium.”

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  “And you’ll keep me informed of anything you turn up?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “And you’ll keep me informed on your progress?”

  “Positively,” he said, and we smiled at each other.

  After he left, I sat in the swivel chair, finished my marc, and licked the rim of the snifter. I was satisfied with the plot I had hatched. I wasn’t deceiving Al, exactly, but now I had an official imprimatur for doing something I had already done. It’s called finagling.

  I jotted a few notes in my journal, trying to recall everything the sergeant had told me. One contradiction immediately apparent was his description of the Glorianas’ condo as “ratty” while their glittering offices in a new building indicated a profitable enterprise. But their mauve and aqua suite, I decided, could be a flash front. During my two visits I certainly hadn’t seen hordes of clients clamoring for psychic counsel. And despite Frank’s elegant duds, I thought him something of a sleaze.

  The weather was still blah, but being the sternly disciplined bloke I am, I went for my ocean swim nonetheless. Surprisingly, the sea was calm as the proverbial millpond, so as I plowed along I was able to think about the coming séance and plan a course of action.

  When Hertha Gloriana suggested I provide a friend who might join the circle of believers and augment its psychic powers, I had intended to ask Consuela Garcia to accompany me. Connie was a go-for-broke kiddo and she’d think the whole thing an adventure she could gossip about for weeks.

  But then I remembered I had asked Connie to answer the Glorianas’ ad for a “personalized psychic profile.” The risk was too great that they would recognize her name, and that might eliminate whatever chance I had of proving their mail order project a fraud. I decided that instead of Connie, I’d ask Meg Trumble to attend the séance with me.

  What a fateful decision that turned out to be!

  I returned from my swim in time to dress for the family cocktail hour—my third change of apparel that day. It was while dispensing our first martini that my father delivered unexpected news.

  “Roderick Gillsworth would like to see you, Archy,” he said.

  I blinked. “What on earth for?”

  “He didn’t say. He suggested you come over this evening after dinner. I think perhaps you better phone first.”

  “All right,” I said doubtfully. “Rather odd, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

  “I would. But I’d like you to take advantage of your meeting, if you feel the time is opportune, to mention the necessity of his drafting a new will. Just refer to it casually, of course. It may serve to start him thinking of his financial responsibilities.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said. “But I really can’t imagine why he should want to talk with me.”

  Mother looked up. “Perhaps he’s lonely,” she said quietly.

  Sunday dinner was a more relaxed occasion than that of the previous night. I think my parents and I were determined not to let our sorrow at Lydia Gillsworth’s death affect the serenity of our household. What a cliché it is to say that life goes on, so I shall say it: “Life goes on.” And Ursi Olson’s mixed grill (lamb chops, tournedos, medallions of veal) was a splendid reminder.

  We finished our key lime mousse and coffee a little after eight-thirty. I phoned Gillsworth, and he asked if I could arrive around nine. He sounded steady enough. I said I’d be there and inquired if there was anything he needed that I might bring along. First he thanked me and said there was not. But then, after a pause, he asked timidly if the McNallys could spare a bottle of vodka. His supply was kaput and he would repay as soon as he could get to a liquor store.

  I saw nothing unusual in this request, but I feared it might trouble my father. (Tabloid headline: “Grieving Hubby Drinks Himself into Insensibility on Attorney’s Booze.”) So I sneaked a liter of Sterling from our reserve in the utility room and hustled it out to the Miata without being caught.

  Crime scene tape was still in place around the Gillsworth home, but there were no police cars in sight. Roderick himself answered my knock and greeted me with a wan smile. He said he was alone, finally, and thanked me for bringing the plasma.

  “Have the reporters been a nuisance?” I asked as he led me to his study. (I was happy he hadn’t selected the sitting room where the body was found.)

  “Not too bad,” he said. “Your father handled most of them, and I refused to grant television interviews. Make yourself comfortable while I fetch some ice cubes. Would you like a mix?”

  “Water will be fine,” I said, and when he left, I settled into a threadbare armchair and looked about with interest.

  I had never before been in a poet’s den, and it was something of a disappointment: just a small book-lined room with worn desk, battered file cabinet, an unpainted worktable laden with reference books and a typewriter. It was an ancient Remington, not electronic and definitely not a word processor. I don’t know what I expected to find in this poet’s sanctum sanctorum—perhaps a framed photograph of Longfellow or a Styrofoam bust of Joyce Kilmer. But there were no decorative touches. That drab room could easily be the office of any homeowner: a nook too cramped and depressing to be used for anything but answering threats from the IRS.

  He returned with a bucket of ice cubes, a flask of water, and two highball glasses. He placed them on the table alongside my bottle of Sterling.

  “I’m a miserable bartender,” he confessed. “Would you mix your own?”

  “Certainly, sir,” I said.

  “That’s another thing,” he added. “Your ‘sir’ and ‘Mr. Gillsworth,’ while appreciated, really aren’t necessary. I’ve always addressed you as Archy. If you called me Rod, my ego would not be irretrievably damaged.”

  “Force of habit,” I said. “Or rather force of training. I may be the last son in America who addresses his father as ‘sir’.”

  “Your father’s different.”

  “Yes,” I said, sighing, “he is that.”

  I built my own drink: a little vodka, a lot of water. He mixed his own: a lot of vodka, a little water. I took the armchair again, and he lowered himself into a creaky swivel chair behind his desk.

  “Rod,” I said, beginning to recite a short speech I had rehearsed, “I haven’t had a chance to express my condolences on the death of your wife. It was a terrible tragedy that saddened my parents and me. We shall always remember Lydia as a good neighbor and a gracious lady.”

  “Yes,” he said, “she was. Thank you.”

  I sipped, but he gulped, and I wondered if he swilled in that fashion to make certain he’d sleep that night.

  “It makes my poems seems so meaningless,” he mused, staring into his glass. “So futile.”

  “It shouldn’t have that
effect,” I said. “Surely your wife’s tragic death could provide inspiration for poetry in an elegiac mood.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “In time. At the moment my mind is empty of everything but sorrow. I hope you’re right. I hope that eventually I’ll be able to express my bereavement and by writing about it exorcise my pain and regain some semblance of emotional tranquility.”

  I thought that rather much. In fact it sounded like a speech he had rehearsed. But perhaps poets talked that way. Or at least this poet.

  He took another heavy swallow of his drink and slumped in his chair. His eyes were reddened, as if from weeping, and his entire face seemed droopy. I fancied that even his long nose had sagged since I last saw him. He was now a very gloomy bird indeed.

  “Archy,” he said, “I understand that you will continue investigating the poison-pen letters.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You’ll be working with Sergeant Rogoff?”

  I nodded.

  “What do you think of him? Is he competent?”

  “More than competent,” I said. “Al is a very expert and talented police officer.”

  Gillsworth made a small sound I think he intended as a laugh. “I believe he suspects me.”

  “That’s his job, Rod,” I explained. “The investigation is just beginning. The sergeant must suspect everyone connected with Mrs. Gillsworth until their whereabouts at the time the crime was committed can definitely be established.”

  “Well, my whereabouts have definitely been established. I was with you and your father.”

  “Rogoff understands that,” I said as soothingly as I could. “But he can take nothing for granted. Every alibi must be verified.”

  He finished his drink and poured himself another, as massive as the first.

  “What angers me the most,” he said, “is that he won’t give me any information. I ask him what is being done to find the maniac who killed my wife, and he just mutters, ‘We’re working on it.’ I don’t consider that adequate.”