The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  I drove to the office and found on my desk, sealed in an envelope, a memo from Tim Hogan, temporary chief of our real estate section. It concerned the Glorianas’ office and condo.

  The commercial suite on Clematis Street had been leased for a year. The Glorianas had put up two months’ rent as security but were currently a month behind in their payments. Similarly, their apartment had not been purchased but was rented on a month-to-month basis. At the moment, the Glorianas were current on their rent.

  In both cases the references given were a bank and individuals in Atlanta. Hogan had thoughtfully provided names and addresses, but mentioned he could find no record of the references ever having been checked. That was unusual but not unheard of in the freewheeling world of South Florida real estate.

  I called Sgt. Rogoff and told him what I had.

  “Why don’t you check them out, Al?” I suggested. “Just for the fun of it.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I will. But first I think I’ll contact the Atlanta cops. Just in case.”

  “Do that,” I urged. “It’s the first real lead we’ve had on where the Glorianas operated before they arrived here.”

  I gave him the names and addresses of the Glorianas’ references, and he promised to get back to me as soon as he had something. At that point I had no idea of where I might turn next in my discreet inquiries, so I decided to drive over to Worth Avenue and see if I could buy a tennis bracelet for Connie at a price that wouldn’t land me in debtors’ prison.

  Then fate took a beneficent hand in the investigation—which proves that if you are pure of heart and eat your Wheaties, good things can happen to you.

  I went down to the garage to board the Miata for the short drive over to Worth. Herb, our lumbering security guard, had come out of his glass cubicle and was leaning down to stroke the head of a cat rubbing against his shins. I strolled over.

  “Got a new friend, Herb?” I asked.

  He looked up at me. “A stray, Mr. McNally,” he said. “He just came wandering down the ramp.”

  That had to be the longest, skinniest cat I had ever seen. It was a dusty black with a dirty-white blaze on its chest. One ear was hanging limply and looked bloodied. And the poor animal obviously hadn’t had a decent table d’hôte in weeks; its ribs and pelvic bones were poking.

  But despite its miserable condition, it seemed to be in a lighthearted mood. It purred loudly under Herb’s caresses, then came over to sniff at my shoes. I leaned to scratch under the chin. It liked that.

  “Looks hungry, Herb,” I said.

  “Sure does,” he said. “Maybe I’ll run up to the cafeteria and get it something to eat.”

  “Our cafeteria?” I said. “You’re liable to be arrested for cruelty to animals. Are you going to adopt it?”

  “Mebbe,” he said. “But if I take it home with me, it’s liable to get into my tropical fish tanks. You think it would be all right if I kept it around here? I’ll bet it’s a great mouser.”

  “It’s okay with me,” I said, “if you’re willing to take care of it.”

  “I think I should take it to the vet first,” he said worriedly. “I’ll have that ear fixed up and get it a bath.”

  I stared down at the stray, and I swear it grinned at me. That was one devil-may-care cat. It looked a little like Errol Flynn in The Charge of the Light Brigade.

  “You’re going to be okay,” the guard said, addressing his new pal. “The vet’ll fix you up like new.”

  That’s when it hit me. I clapped Herb on the shoulder. “God bless you,” I said hoarsely, and he probably thought I was approving his kindness to a wounded and homeless beast.

  I immediately returned to my office and dug out the Yellow Pages for what Southern Bell called Greater West Palm Beach. I turned to the listings for Veterinarians.

  This was my reasoning: Suppose Peaches got sick while she was in the custody of the catnappers. That was possible, wasn’t it? In fact, it was likely when the irascible animal found herself being held prisoner by strangers in unfamiliar surroundings. The thieves wouldn’t want to risk the health of their fifty-grand hostage, so they’d hustle her to a vet. All I had to do was contact local veterinarians and ask if they had recently treated a fat, silver-gray Persian with a mean disposition.

  It was a long shot, I admitted, but at the moment I didn’t have any short shots.

  But my brainstorm fizzled when I took a look at the Veterinarian listings in the Yellow Pages. There were pages and pages of them, seemingly hundreds of DVMs. It would take S. Holmes and a regiment of the Baker Street Irregulars a month of Sundays to check out all those names and addresses. Good idea, I decided, but imdamnedpossible to carry out.

  But then my roving eye fell on a short section headed Veterinarian Emergency Service and listed animal clinics and hospitals open twenty-four hours a day. The roster contained only fifteen names and addresses, some as far afield as Boynton Beach. It seemed reasonable to guess that if Peaches became ill, her captors would rush her to the nearest emergency facility.

  I was back in business again!

  I scissored out the vital section and with my gold Mont Blanc I carefully circled the animal emergency wards in the West Palm Beach area. There were seven of them. I estimated I could visit all seven in two days, or perhaps more if I became bored with routine snooping.

  Now the only problem that remained was devising a scenario that would insure cooperation at all those infirmaries for ailing faunas. I mean I couldn’t just barge in, describe Peaches, and demand to know if they had treated a cat like that lately. The medicos would call the gendarmes for sure and tell them to bring a large butterfly net.

  No, what I needed was an imaginary tale that would arouse interest and eager response. In other words, a twenty-four-karat scam. Here is what I came up with:

  “Good morning! My name is Archibald McNally and here is my business card. I have a problem I hope you will be able to help me with. I returned from a business trip last night and found on my answering machine a message from a close friend, a lady friend, who apparently had arrived in West Palm Beach during my absence. The message was frantic. Her cat—she always travels with her beloved Peaches—had suddenly become ill and she was rushing it to an emergency animal hospital. But the poor dear was so hysterical that she neglected to inform me where she was staying or to which clinic she was taking her sick pet. I wonder if you could tell me if you have treated such an animal recently and have the address of the owner. It would help me enormously.”

  I would then describe Peaches.

  It seemed to me a plea that would be hard to resist. Naturally I didn’t know if the catnapper was male or female, but I planned to put in that bit about a “lady friend” to suggest a romantic attachment that might evoke sympathy. Emerson said all mankind love a lover—but of course he never met Fatty Arbuckle.

  Anyway, that’s how I spent Wednesday afternoon—driving to four animal hospitals and putting on my act. In all four the receptionist was a young woman, and I would bestow upon her my most winning 100-watt smile and launch into my spiel. The results? Nil.

  But I was not discouraged. In fact, as I drove back to the beach for my ocean swim, I was delighted that my monologue had been readily accepted at all four facilities I visited. Although none of them had treated a feline of Peaches’ description, all were cooperative in searching their records and sorrowful when they could not provide the assistance requested.

  I had my swim and returned to my chambers to prepare for the family cocktail hour, my dinner with Meg Trumble, and the séance with the Glorianas that was to follow. I decided to dress soberly, if not somberly: navy tropical worsted suit, white shirt, maroon tie. But examining myself in the full-length mirror, I realized I looked a bit too much like a mortician, so I exchanged the maroon cravat for a silk jacquard number with a hand-painted design of oriental lilies. Much better.

  Over martinis that evening, mother remarked that I looked “very smart.” Father took one glance at the lili
es, and a single eyebrow shot up in a conditioned reflex. But all he said was, “Gillsworth has returned. He phoned me late this afternoon.”

  “Is he ready to execute a new will?” I asked.

  The patriarch frowned. “He said he would call me next week and set up an appointment. I would have preferred an earlier date—tomorrow, if possible—and told him so. But he said he hadn’t yet decided on specific bequests and needed more time. I do believe the man was stalling, but for what purpose I cannot conceive.”

  “Prescott,” mother said softly, “some people find it very difficult to make out a will. It can be a wrenching emotional experience.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “We’re all going to die and it’s only prudent to prepare for it. I wrote out my first holographic will at the age of nine.”

  I laughed. “What possessions did you have to leave at that age, father?”

  “All my marbles,” he declared.

  A derisive comment on that admission was obvious, but I didn’t have the courage to utter it.

  Later, as I drove northward to Riviera Beach, the problem of Roderick Gillsworth’s last will and testament was eclipsed by a more immediate quandary; to wit, where was I going to take Meg Trumble for dinner?

  It had to be close enough so that we could arrive at the séance at the time dictated by Mrs. Irma Gloriana. And yet it had to be distant enough and relatively secluded so I had a fighting chance of not being seen in Meg’s company by Connie Garcia or any of her corps de snitches.

  I finally decided on a Middle Eastern restaurant on 45th Street not far from an area known as Mangonia Park. It was a very small bistro, only six booths, but I had been there once before and thought the food superb, if you liked grape leaves. However, it did have one drawback: it had no bar; only beer and wine were served. But, paraphrasing the Good Book, I consoled myself with the thought that man doth not live by vodka alone.

  Meg was ready when I arrived, which was a pleasant surprise. Another was her appearance. She wore a short-sleeved dress of silk crepe divided into two panels of solid color, fuchsia and orange. Sounds awful, I know, but it looked great. It had a jewel neckline, but her only accessories were gold seahorse earrings. Meg still had most of her Florida tan, and she looked so slender, vibrant, and healthy that I immediately resolved to lose weight, grow muscles, and drink nothing but seltzer on the rocks.

  I whisked her to the Cafe Istanbul, assuring her that although it might appear funky, it had become the in place for discriminating gourmets. That wasn’t a big lie, just a slight exaggeration to increase her enjoyment of dining in a joint that had nothing but belly dance music on the jukebox.

  It turned out that Meg was fascinated by the place and relaxed her vegetarian discipline sufficiently to order moussaka. I had rotisseried lamb on curried rice. We shared a big salad that was mostly black olives that really were the pits and pickled cauliflower buds. I also ordered a half-bottle of chilled retsina. Meg tried one small sip, then opted for a Coke, so I was forced, forced, to drink the entire bottle myself.

  It was over the honey-drenched baklava that I finally got around to the séance we were about to attend.

  “I didn’t know you and your sister were interested in spiritualism,” I said as casually as I could.

  “Laverne more than me,” Meg said. “She’s into all that stuff. I think she’s had her horoscope done by a dozen astrologers, and she always sleeps with a crystal under her pillow.”

  “I wonder if she knows Hertha Gloriana, the medium we’re going to visit tonight.”

  “I’ve never heard her mention the name, but that’s understandable. Harry goes into orbit if anyone brings up the subject of parapsychology. He thinks it’s all a great big swindle. Do you, Archy?”

  The direct question troubled me. “I just don’t know,” I confessed. “That’s one of the reasons I’m looking forward to the session tonight. Meg, do you believe it’s possible to communicate with ghosts?”

  “Of course,” she said promptly. “I went to a séance once and talked to my grandmother. I never knew her; she’s been dead for fifty years. But her spirit knew things about our family that were true and that the medium couldn’t possibly have known.”

  “Did your grandmother’s spirit tell you where she was?”

  “In Heaven,” Meg said simply, and I finished the retsina.

  We arrived at the Glorianas’ residence ten minutes before the appointed hour. The family was assembled in that rather shoddy living room, and I introduced Meg. The greetings of Irma and Frank were courteous enough, although not heavy on the cordiality. But Hertha welcomed Meg warmly, held her hand a moment while gazing deeply into her eyes.

  “An Aries,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Why, yes,” Meg said. “How did you know?”

  Hertha only smiled and turned to me. “And how are you tonight, Pisces?” she asked.

  She was right again. But of course she could easily have researched my birthday. In all modesty, I must admit my vital statistics are listed in a thin booklet titled: Palm Beach’s Most Eligible Bachelors. And I could guess how she knew Meg’s natal date.

  Hertha was wearing a long, flowing gown of lavender georgette which I thought more suitable for a garden party than a séance. Irma Gloriana wore a black, wide-shouldered pantsuit with a mannish shirt and paisley ascot. Son Frank, that fop, flaunted a double-breasted Burberry blazer in white wool with gold buttons. He made me look like an IRS auditor, damn him.

  No refreshments were offered, and no preparatory instructions or explanations given. We all moved into a dimly lighted dining room. There, leaves had been removed from an oval oak table, converting it to a round that accommodated the five of us comfortably. The chairs were straightbacked, the seats thinly padded.

  I was placed between Irma and Frank. He held Hertha’s left hand while Meg grasped her right. From the top of the table, moving clockwise, we were Hertha, Frank, Archy, Irma, Meg. An odd seating arrangement, I thought: the two men side-by-side, and the three women. But perhaps there was a reason for it.

  Hertha looked around the circle slowly with that intent, unblinking gaze of hers. And she spoke slowly, too, in her low, breathy voice.

  “Please, everyone,” she said, “clasp hands tightly. Close your eyes and turn your thoughts to Xatyl, the Mayan shaman who is my channel to the hereafter. With all your spiritual strength try to will Xatyl to appear to me.”

  At first, eyes firmly shut, all I was conscious of was Frank’s muscular handclasp and the softer, warmer, moister hand of his mother. But then I tried to think of Xatyl. I had no idea of what a Mayan shaman looked like—certainly not like any member of the Pelican Club—so I concentrated on the name, silently repeating Xatyl, Xatyl, Xatyl, like a mantra.

  I thought five soundless minutes must have passed before I heard Hertha speak again in a voice that had become a flat drone.

  “Xatyl appears,” she reported. “Dimly. From the mists. Greetings, Xatyl, from your supplicants.”

  The next words I heard were a shock. Not their meaning as much as the tone in which they were uttered. It was the frail, cracked voice of an old man, a worn voice that quavered and sometimes paused weakly.

  “Greetings from the beyond,” Xatyl said. “I bring you love from a high priest of the Mayan people.”

  I opened my eyes to stare at Hertha. The words were issuing from her mouth, no doubt of it, but I could scarcely believe that ancient, tremulous voice was hers. I shut my eyes again, grateful for the handholds of Irma and Frank to anchor me to reality.

  “Who wishes to contact one of the departed?” Hertha asked in her normal voice.

  “I do,” Meg Trumble said at once. “I would like to speak to my father, John Trumble, who passed on eight years ago.”

  “I have heard,” the Xatyl voice said. “Be patient, my child.”

  We waited in silence several long moments. I must tell you honestly that I didn’t know what to make of all this. But I confess I was moved by what was
going on and had absolutely no inclination to laugh.

  “Meg,” a man said, “is it you?”

  Now the voice was virile, almost booming, and I opened my eyes just wide enough to see that the words were being spoken by Hertha.

  I heard Meg’s sudden, sharp intake of breath. “Yes, dad,” she said, “I am here. Are you all right?”

  “I am contented since mother joined me last year. Now we are together again as we had prayed. Meg, are you still doing your exercises?”

  “Oh yes, dad,” she said with a sobbing laugh. “I’m still at it. How is your arthritis?”

  “There is no pain here, daughter,” John Trumble said. “We are free of your world’s suffering. Have you married, Meg?”

  “No, father, not yet.”

  “You must marry,” he said gently. “Your mother and I want you to be as happy as we were and are. I must go now, Meg. If you need me, I am here, I am here.”

  The voice trailed away, and I could hear Meg’s quiet weeping.

  “Please,” Hertha whispered, “do not let our psychic power weaken. Clasp hands firmly and think only of the other world.”

  There was silence a few moments, then I heard again the trembling voice of Xatyl.

  “There is one among you who is deeply troubled,” he said. “Let him speak out now.”

  “Yes,” I said impulsively, hiding behind my closed eyes. “My name is Archibald McNally. I wish to contact Lydia Gillsworth, a friend. She passed over a few days ago.”

  “I will summon her,” Xatyl said. “Be patient, my son.”

  Once again we waited several minutes. I found myself gripping the hands of Irma and Frank so tightly that my fingers ached, and I was conscious of hyperventilating.

  “Archy?” a woman’s voice asked. “Is that you?”

  After I heard my name I opened my eyes to verify that it was Hertha speaking, but I swear, I swear it was Lydia Gillsworth’s sweet, peaceful voice. So dulcet.

  “It is I, Lydia,” I found myself saying, almost choking on the words. “Are you well?”