The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Sure,” I said and started to climb from the truck cab. But he reached out a hand to stop me.

  “I’m going to be tied up with this thing for the next few days at least. Will you check on Otto Gloriana and the catnapping?”

  “I intend to.”

  “Good. One more thing: that Atlanta detective said Otto is a nasty piece of work.”

  I was indignant. “And what do you think I am—Little Lord Fauntleroy?”

  “Just watch your step,” he warned.

  I went back into the house, locked up, and climbed the stairs to bed. I tried to sleep but my mind was a kaleidoscope of scary images, and it must have been five A.M. before I finally conked out. I awoke a little before noon, and I was under the shower, all soaped up, when, in accordance with tradition, my phone rang.

  I went dashing out uttering a mild oath—something like “Sheesh!”—and grabbed up the phone only to have it drop to the floor from my slippery grasp. I retrieved it after much fumbling and finally cupped it in both hands.

  “H’lo?” I said.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Harry Willigan demanded. “You drunk or something?”

  I started to explain, but he had no time or inclination to listen. He said he was about to leave on a flight to Chicago for a business meeting. He would be gone until Tuesday, and if I had any news about Peaches I was to phone Laverne; she knew where he could be reached. He hung up before I could tell him I was hot on the trail of his beloved.

  I finished my shower, dressed, and phoned Meg Trumble again. Again there was no answer. Very frustrating. I went downstairs for breakfast-lunch and found Jamie Olson seated at the kitchen table. He was munching on a thick sandwich that seemed to be mostly slices of raw Spanish onion between slabs of sour rye. It looked good to me so I built one for myself, heavy on the mayo. I sluiced it down with a bottle of Buckler beer (non-alcoholic, if you must know).

  “Jamie,” I said, “remember my asking if Laverne Willigan had a little something on the side? You said there was talk she was putting horns on dear old Harry.”

  “Yuh.”

  “Hear any more on the grapevine about who he is?”

  “A dude.”

  “A dude? That’s all? Just a dude?”

  “Yuh. Dresses sharp.”

  “But no name?”

  “Nope.”

  “So all you heard is that Laverne’s Consenting Adult or Significant Other is a dude—correct?”

  “Tall.”

  “Ah-ha, a tall dude! Now we’re making progress. Young? Old?”

  “Half-and-half.”

  “About my age, you think?”

  “Mebbe.”

  “Better and better. Now we’ve got a tall, half-and-half dude. Slender or fat?”

  “Thin.”

  “Dark or fair?”

  “Darkish.”

  “Handsome?”

  “Mebbe, I guess she thinks so.”

  “Excellent,” I said. I now had a tall, half-and-half, thin, darkish, handsome dude. There were many men in the Palm Beach area answering that description, including you-know-who.

  I slipped Jamie a tenner for his enthusiastic cooperation. Then I went into my father’s study and looked up the number of the Jo-Jean Motel on Federal Highway. I phoned and was greeted by a woman’s voice.

  “Jo-Jean,” she said, and I wondered which one she was.

  “May I speak to Mr. Charles Girard?” I asked. “South row, Cabin Four.”

  “I know where he is,” she said crossly.

  There was a clicking, the connection went through, and the ringing started. Nine times, I counted, before the phone was picked up.

  “Yeh?” A man’s voice, deep and thick.

  “Mr. Charles Girard?”

  “Yeh. Who’s this?”

  “Mr. Girard, this is the veterinarian who recently provided medical care for your cat. It is my custom to make follow-up calls regarding the animals I have treated to make certain they have recovered satisfactorily. No charge, of course. Let’s see, your cat’s name is, ah, Gertrude?”

  “Peaches,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said. “It slipped my mind. And how is Peaches feeling, Mr. Girard?”

  “She’s okay.”

  “Glad to hear it. Well, remember we’re here to serve and ready to provide emergency medical care for your pet should it ever be needed. Thank you, Mr. Girard, and have a nice day.”

  “Yeh,” he said and hung up.

  I was enormously pleased with the results of my discreet inquiries that morning. I reckoned that if my good luck continued, before nightfall I might find Judge Crater and identify Jack the Ripper.

  I boarded the Miata and started my journey to Federal Highway. I drove slowly, for I meant to beard Otto Gloriana in his den at the Jo-Jean Motel and needed to cobble up a believable scenario to justify my appearing on his doorstep. But I could think of no scam that wasn’t sheer lunacy. I decided to trust my modest talent for improvisation.

  I parked in the same area I had used before and walked back to the Jo-Jean office through the midday heat. The same woman I had spoken to previously was perched on the same high stool behind the same counter, bending over a newspaper. But at least the tabloid was different. The headline was “Chef Slays Six With Spatula.”

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but is Mr. Girard in?”

  “You just missed him,” she said, not looking up. “Him and the missus drove out a coupla minutes ago.”

  “Drat!” I said. “He told me he was staying here. I haven’t seen him in ages, and I came all the way from Fort Lauderdale hoping to surprise him. Is he still driving his Lincoln Continental?”

  “Chrysler Imperial.”

  “Ah, he must have traded in the Lincoln. And is his wife still the same tall, striking blonde?”

  “Brunette. Chunky. Built like a bulldog.”

  “Oh my!” I said, laughing merrily. “Then I guess old Charlie traded in his first wife too. Did he say when he’d be back?”

  “Nope.”

  “Perhaps I’ll just drive around awhile, see the sights, and return later. Thank you for your help.”

  I thought I had been devilishly clever, but suddenly, without looking up, she said, “You got a lot of information for free, didn’t you?”

  I sighed, took a twenty from my billfold, and placed it on the countertop. She plucked it away so swiftly that I swear the visage of Old Hickory seemed shocked.

  I went out into the hot sunlight and wandered down to Cabin Four, south row. It was larger than I had imagined, but it was surely a decrepit structure, badly in need of painting—or a hand grenade. A rusty air conditioner wheezed away in one window, and there was a dented deck chair on the sagging porch, the plastic webbing broken and hanging.

  I stepped up to the door and knocked softly. No one opened it, but I heard a single plaintive meow. I put my lips close to the jamb and whispered, “Do not despair, Peaches. The cavalry is on the way.”

  Then I returned home, realizing that events were moving so rapidly that I needed to update my journal to make sure nothing was forgotten or ignored, no matter how trivial. But first I phoned Meg Trumble again, and this time she answered.

  “Meg!” I said. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for ages. I was beginning to get concerned.”

  “Oh, Archy,” she said, her voice positively bubbling, “I’ve been so busy. That list of names you gave me was a godsend. I’ve already visited four of them, and two are really interested in having a personal trainer. Isn’t that wonderful!”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “How about dinner tonight?”

  “Love to,” she said promptly. “As a matter of fact, I called Laverne just minutes ago to ask if she’d like to eat with me tonight, but she has a meeting of the Current Affairs Society. Now I’m glad she couldn’t make it; I’d much rather we have dinner together.”

  “Ditto,” I said. “Pick you up around seven?”

  “S
uper,” she said. “Can we go back to that Cafe Istanbul again? I loved it. ’Bye!”

  I sat there a moment, adding two and two and coming up with five. To wit: Harry Willigan was out of town. His wife had a lover lurking in the wings. And Laverne couldn’t join Meg for dinner because she had a meeting of the Current Affairs Society. Hah!

  That Society is a Palm Beach association of men and women, mostly elderly, who meet once a month to hear a lecture on current affairs by a congressman, political science professor, repentant Communist, or the deposed dictator of a banana republic. The lecture would be followed by a Q&A period, and the meeting concluded with the serving of coffee and oatmeal cookies. My mother was a faithful member and had once served as sergeant at arms.

  I went galloping downstairs and found the mater in the greenhouse, chatting to her begonias.

  “I know it’s hot,” she was saying, “but it’s summer, and you must keep your spirits up.”

  “Hallo, luv,” I said, swooping to kiss her velvety cheek. “And how is mommy baby feeling today?”

  “Oh my,” she said, “you are in a chipper mood. Are you in love again, Archy?”

  “Quite possibly,” I acknowledged. “I do feel strange stirrings about the heart, but of course it could be the onion sandwich I had for lunch. Listen, Mrs. McNally, do you have a meeting of the Current Affairs Society tonight?”

  She paused, sprinkling can in hand, to look at me, puzzled. “Why, no,” she said. “The next meeting isn’t until July fifteenth. Why do you ask?”

  “Just confused,” I said. “As usual. See you for cocktails, but I have a dinner date tonight.”

  “Good for you,” she said, beaming. “Someone nice, I hope.”

  “I hope so too,” I said.

  I went back upstairs convinced that the only current affair Laverne Willigan would attend to that night was her own. There seems to be a lot of adultery going around these days. I suspect it may be contagious.

  I worked on my journal for the remainder of the afternoon, jotting down all the information I had learned about Roderick Gillsworth’s death. I added the family history of the Glorianas as related by Al Rogoff, and what I had discovered that day of Otto’s probable involvement in the catnapping of Peaches, aka Sweetums. I finished with an account of Laverne Willigan’s apparent infidelity and her clumsy attempt to conceal it with a feeble falsehood.

  Satisfied with my day’s labors and the way in which the Gillsworth-Peaches case was slowly revealing its secrets, I closed up shop and went for my daily swim. I returned to shower and dress with particular care. I intended to dazzle Meg Trumble with sartorial splendor, which was why I selected a knitted shirt of plum-colored Sea Island cotton and a linen sport jacket of British racing green. Slacks of fawn silk. Cordovan loafers. No socks.

  I displayed this costume at the family cocktail hour.

  “Good God!” my father gasped.

  I prayed Meg would be more favorably impressed by my imitation of a male bower bird. I was convinced I had been working dreadfully hard and needed a quiet evening to unwind, with no violent deaths, no catnappings, no shocking messages from the beyond. I imagined Meg and I would spend prime time together smiling and murmuring.

  And later, surfeited with moussaka and overcome by gemütlichkeit, she would grant me a session of catch-as-catch-can intimacy. Just the two of us. Alone in the world.

  I rang her bell, quivering with eagerness like a gun dog on point. Meg greeted me with a winning smile. And behind her, seated in the living room, was Hertha Gloriana, who gave me a smile just as winning.

  “Hertha is going to join us,” Meg said happily. “Isn’t that marvelous?”

  Chapter 13

  I HAD DINED WITH two women before, of course—most lads have—and I usually found it a pleasurable experience. To be honest, it gives one a pasha-like feeling: entertaining two from the harem, or perhaps interviewing wannabes. Male self-esteem, always in need of a lift, is given an injection of helium by the presence and flattering attention of not one but two (count ’em!) attractive ladies.

  Having said all that, I must tell you from the outset that the evening was a disaster. Never have I felt so extraneous, so foreign. I began to wonder if men and women are not merely two different genders but are actually two different species.

  It started when we arrived at the Cafe Istanbul. I selected a booth, Meg and Hertha preferred another, although as far as I could see the booths were identical. I expected to sit alongside Meg, with Hertha, the third wheel, placed across the table from us. But the women insisted on dining side by side, so I sat alone, facing them.

  Nothing so far to elevate a chap’s dander, you say—and right you are. But it was only the beginning.

  Hertha and Meg seemed to vie with each other in casting snide references to the conjunction of colors I was wearing. Even worse, the medium suggested I’d do well to ask her husband for tips on how to coordinate hues and fabrics in order to present a pleasing appearance.

  “It’s an idea,” I said with a glassy smile, hoping the gnashing of my teeth was not audible. “And where is Frank this evening?”

  My innocent question resulted in a convulsion of laughter by both, and it continued until our salad was served and the wine uncorked. I never did receive a reply to my query, though it was obvious that both my dinner partners knew the answer. Is there anything more maddening than an inside joke to which one is neither privy nor offered an explanation?

  My essays at light-hearted conversation were similarly rejected. Both women remained po-faced in response to the truly hilarious tale of how Binky Watrous and I, somewhat in our cups, stole a garbage truck and drove it to Boca Raton. Nor did they seem interested in my favorite anecdote about Ferdy Attenborough, a member of the Pelican Club, who was debagged by his cronies and thrust into the ballroom during a formal dance at The Breakers.

  As a matter of fact, the ladies didn’t seem interested in me at all. But they spent a great deal of time whispering to each other—a shocking breach of good manners—and I recalled my uneasy feeling when I saw them sitting close and holding hands after the séance on Wednesday night. I began to get a disconcerting picture of who the third wheel really was.

  Eventually that calamitous dinner came to an end, and I definitely did not suggest we go on to a nightclub for a bottle of bubbly and a spot of dancing. At the moment I felt biodegradable and ready for a New Jersey landfill.

  We went back to Meg’s apartment, with Hertha sitting on Meg’s lap as she had before. I had no desire to linger, since it was painfully obvious that my presence was lending nothing to the festivities. And so, pleading an early morning engagement with my periodontist, I made my escape. The protests of the two women at my early departure were perfunctory, their farewells just as mechanical.

  I drove away more thoughtful than angry. You may find this difficult to believe, but there are times, many of them, when my duties as chief of discreet inquiries for McNally & Son take precedence over the Sturm und Drang of my personal affairs.

  So, in the wake of that discomfiting evening, I pondered less on the outrageous behavior of my two dining companions than on the present whereabouts and activities of Frank Gloriana. I didn’t have to be Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin to deduce that Frank and Laverne Willigan had what Jamie Olson once referred to as a “rappaport.”

  To test my theory I decided to make a quick return trip to the Jo-Jean Motel on Federal Highway. This time I pulled into the motel area just long enough to confirm that Laverne’s pink Porsche was parked outside Cabin Four.

  Then I drove home, deriving some amusement from imagining Harry Willigan’s reaction if he was to learn of his wife’s involvement in the catnapping of Peaches. I had no intention of snitching on her, of course. It was simply not something a gentleman would do.

  I arrived at my burrow to find a scrawled message slipped under the door. It was from Ursi Olson and stated that Sgt. Al Rogoff had phoned early in the evening and requested I call him back.

&n
bsp; I tried him first at police headquarters but was told he had left for the night. I then phoned him at his mobile home, and he picked up after the third ring.

  “McNally,” I said.

  “You’re home so early?” he said. “What happened—the girlfriend kick you out of bed?”

  “You’re close,” I said. “What’s happening, Al?”

  “A lot. I finally got the FBI report on the Gillsworth and Willigan letters.”

  “Printed on the same machine?”

  “Yep. I also have a preliminary report from the Medical Examiner and some stuff from the lab. There are more tests to be made, but things are beginning to get sorted out. We better meet.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I have something to tell you, too. I know who swiped the cat.”

  “Don’t tell me it was Willie Sutton.”

  “No,” I said, laughing. “Even better. When do you want to make it?”

  “Tomorrow morning at ten,” he said. “At Gillsworth’s house.”

  “Why there?”

  “We’re going to reenact the murder. You get to play the victim.”

  “My favorite role,” I said. “I rehearsed this evening.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  I poured myself a small marc and spent a few hours reviewing my journal, paying particular attention to the entries dealing with Laverne Willigan, her feelings about her husband, her reactions to the snatching of Peaches, and the gossip Jamie had relayed about her alleged lover.

  I poured a second marc and lighted a cigarette. Absorbing alcohol and inhaling nicotine with carefree abandon, I mused on Laverne’s motive for assisting in the catnapping, for I was certain she was involved up to her toasted buns. I scribbled a few notes: