The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Yes, sir, she is that.”

  “She wishes to see me tomorrow. She said it was an important matter concerning Roderick Gillsworth. I thought it best to listen to what she has to say. We’re meeting in my office at ten o’clock. I’d like you to be present, Archy.”

  “Of course,” I said, grinning. “Absolutely. Looking forward to it, sir. May I tell Sergeant Rogoff about the meeting?”

  He considered that request a long, long time. I had learned to wait patiently, knowing that eventually his mulling would end and he’d come to a decision.

  “Yes,” he said at last, “you may tell the sergeant. And he will be informed as to the results of the meeting if circumstances and ethics allow. It may possibly aid his investigation. You say this woman was formerly the madam of a brothel?”

  “Yes, sir. According to the Atlanta police.”

  “A coarse woman?”

  “No, sir, I would not say that—although Al Rogoff might possibly disagree. As you said, she is a forceful woman. I find her almost domineering. Very sure of herself, very heavy in the willpower department. I see her as the Chief Executive Officer of the Gloriana family, the dynamo, with perhaps a tendency to tyrannize.” I hesitated a second. Then: “There is something else. In my opinion she is a disturbing woman. Physically, that is. She exudes a certain sensuality. I believe she is aware of it and uses it. I put her age at close to sixty, but there has certainly been no diminution of her sexual attractiveness.”

  One of my father’s hairy eyebrows slowly ascended. But all he said was, “Interesting.”

  But then, as I rose to leave, he added, “I usually find your reaction to people very perceptive, Archy.”

  Praise! How sweet it was.

  That evening I called Al Rogoff, reported on my meeting with Hertha Gloriana, and informed him of my father’s Monday morning appointment with Mrs. Irma Gloriana.

  “Oh boy,” Al said. “I have a feeling the lady is about to drop a bomb. Keep me up to speed on what happens, Archy.”

  “Did you get your spies into the Jo-Jean Motel?”

  “Yep. Man and woman in Cabin Five, right next to Otto’s pad. They’ve already reported by radio. He’s had two visitors so far. I make them as Frank and Irma. Be sure to call me tomorrow after your father’s meeting.”

  “Wait a minute,” I cried. “Don’t hang up. Those erotic poems Gillsworth wrote—did he mention any names?”

  “No one you know,” Rogoff said.

  “Come on, Al,” I said, “don’t play games. What names did he mention?”

  “Just one. Astarte. I looked it up. Goddess of fertility and sexual love.”

  “I know her well,” I said. “She lives in Miami Beach.”

  Then he did hang up.

  But that long, aggravating day had not yet ended. Later that evening I was in my sanctum, working on my journal, when Laverne Willigan phoned.

  “Another ransom note, Archy,” she told me. “It was slipped under the front door sometime tonight.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Will you read it to me, please?”

  She did. The letter commanded Harry Willigan to assemble fifty thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills, unmarked with no numbers in sequence. Then he or his representative would deliver the money to a messenger. That was the term used: “Messenger.” He would be waiting in the parking area of a twenty-four-hour convenience store on Federal Highway at midnight on Monday. The address given, I judged, was about a mile from the Jo-Jean Motel.

  After the ransom had been handed over, the messenger would leave, but Willigan or his representative was ordered to remain in the parking area. When the fifty thousand had been counted and the bills examined and approved, Peaches would be delivered, hale and hearty.

  Laverne continued: “It also says if the messenger sees or suspects the presence of the police, Harry will never see his pet alive again.”

  “I don’t like the setup,” I said immediately. “What if the fifty thousand is handed over to the messenger, he disappears, and Peaches is never produced? It seems to me they’re asking Harry to take a horrendous risk.”

  “He doesn’t have much choice, does he?” Laverne said. “Not if he wants to rub noses with Sweetums again. I called Harry in Chicago and told him what the letter said. He cursed a blue streak but finally said he’ll play ball. He’s going to phone his Palm Beach bank in the morning and tell them to get the cash together. The bank will call me when it’s ready. Then I’ll phone you. Harry wants you to deliver the money and get Peaches back. Will you do it, Archy?”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’s the least I can do after failing to locate the catnappers. Let me know when the bank has the cash ready. I’ll pick it up from them. And sometime tomorrow I’ll stop by your place and get the letter. If you’re going out, leave it with Leon.”

  “Thank you, Archy,” she said briskly. “I’m sure everything will work out just fine.”

  “I think so, too,” I said. “Harry will be back on Tuesday?”

  “Yes. Early in the morning. By that time you should have Peaches.”

  After she hung up I phoned Al Rogoff again to alert him to this new development. But I was unable to locate him and decided it could wait until the morning. Then we’d devise a plan to thwart the villains.

  Monday was shaping up as a hellacious day. I only hoped I’d live to see Tuesday.

  Chapter 15

  I AWOKE MONDAY MORNING with a dread feeling of having forgotten to do something I should have done. I recognized my lapse while scraping my jowls, and if it hadn’t been a safety razor I might have nicked the old jug, I was that mortified. What I had disremembered was to phone Connie Garcia on Sunday as I had promised. Not for the first time did I wonder why I treated that dear woman with such thoughtless neglect. I suppose it was because I knew she was there.

  I had roused in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. While scarfing my way through a stack of buckwheat pancakes, I informed the governor of Laverne Willigan’s phone call the previous night.

  He glanced up from The Wall Street Journal long enough to gaze at me speculatively. “You actually intend to deliver the money to the catnappers yourself, Archy?”

  “Yes, sir. I expect Sergeant Rogoff will come up with a plan for a trap.”

  He nodded. “When you receive the fifty thousand at the bank,” he advised, “count it before you sign a receipt.”

  I sighed. “Yes, father,” I said. Sometimes he treated me as if I were the village idiot. I do have a brain, you know, even though occasionally I choose not to use it.

  Before leaving for the Willigan hacienda, I phoned Al Rogoff at his office and found him in a surprisingly lively mood.

  “What are you so chirpy about?” I asked him.

  “It’s all coming together, old buddy. I’ll fill you in later. What’s up?”

  I repeated what Laverne Willigan had told me of the catnappers’ letter and the instructions as to how the ransom was to be paid.

  “I don’t like it,” Al said at once. “Too much risk of a double X.”

  “I told Laverne that but she said Harry has no choice and is willing to shell out the fifty grand.”

  “Which makes her and the boyfriend happy—right? Okay, Archy, I’ll start working on a snare for midnight tonight.”

  “After I collect the money from the bank, do you want to mark the bills?”

  “Haven’t got time,” he said. “And too dangerous if they’ve got a lamp to read the markings. We’ll make a list of the serial numbers; that’ll hold up in court. Stay in touch; it’s going to be a rackety day.”

  “Tell me about it. Al, do you think you’ll be able to keep Laverne Willigan out of it?”

  He was silent a moment. Then he said, “It depends,” and I had to be satisfied with that.

  Then I buzzed down to the Willigan manse. Leon told me the lady of the house was busy with her pedicurist, but he handed me the latest ransom note in its white envelope.

  “I guess P
eaches is coming home,” he said.

  “Looks like it,” I agreed.

  “And I start sneezing again,” he said mournfully.

  “If you don’t like cats,” I said, “why don’t you buy yourself a koala or a wallaby? Just to remind you of down under.”

  “I’ve been down and under since I got here,” he complained. “Florida is the outback with oranges.”

  Have you ever noticed that some people aren’t happy unless they’re unhappy?

  Then I scooted for the McNally Building somewhat in excess of the legal speed limit. I arrived in time to smoke a cigarette before joining my father. I noted my hands weren’t exactly shaking, but I would not have selected that moment to thread a needle. It was amazing how the prospect of a meeting with Mrs. Irma Gloriana rasped my nerves.

  I went up to my father’s office a few minutes before ten o’clock.

  “I think it best, Archy,” he said, “if you serve as a witness, a silent witness. Please let me ask the questions. If you are addressed directly, of course, you may respond. But I would prefer the conversation be limited to Mrs. Gloriana and myself.”

  “I’ll be a fly on the wall,” I assured him.

  “Exactly,” he said with his wintry smile.

  His phone rang, and he glanced at the antique railroad clock on the wall over his rolltop desk. “The lady is prompt,” he said. He picked up the phone. “Yes, show her in, please.”

  Mrs. Trelawney opened the door and stood aside to allow Mrs. Irma Gloriana to enter. Then the secretary closed the door softly.

  Father was standing at his desk and I was across the room next to the bottle-green leather chesterfield. Irma took two steps into the office, her eyes on my father. Then she became aware of my presence, stared at me for a beat or two, and turned back to father.

  “What is he doing here?” she demanded.

  “I am Prescott McNally,” he said in a plummy voice, “and I presume you are Mrs. Irma Gloriana. Since you are already acquainted with my son, I have asked him to attend this meeting as witness and adviser. You may be assured of his discretion.”

  Irma shook her head angrily. “It won’t do,” she said. “I don’t need a witness and I don’t need an adviser. I insist on a private, confidential conversation between you and me.”

  “In that case,” my father said, “I suggest this meeting be terminated forthwith. Good day, madam.” (He accented the “madam” ever so slightly.)

  How I admired his tactics! Not only was he establishing his command of the situation but he was determining her anxiety level. If she marched out, then she felt she held a winning hand. If she remained, then her role was that of a supplicant, anxious to cut a deal.

  She stood a moment in silence, and I reflected it was the first time I had seen her irresolute.

  She was wearing a tailored suit of pale pink linen with a high-necked blouse. It was certainly a conservative costume, but not even a chador could conceal that woman’s sexual radiance, and I wondered if my father was aware of it. I suspected he was. He might be stodgy but he was not torpid.

  We waited.

  “Very well,” Mrs. Gloriana said finally. “If you wish...”

  Father gestured toward an armchair upholstered in the same leather as the chesterfield. He sat in his swivel chair, turned to face his visitor. I remained standing in a position where I could observe them both without making like a fan at a tennis match.

  “Mr. McNally,” she said crisply, “I understand you were the attorney for the late Roderick Gillsworth.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then I suppose you’re handling his estate?”

  He inclined his head, and she took that for assent. In addition to a black calfskin handbag she was carrying a zippered envelope of beige suede, large enough to hold legal documents. She opened the three-sided zipper with one swift motion and withdrew two sheets of white paper stapled together.

  “I have here,” she began (and I marveled at how assertive her voice was), “a photocopy of a handwritten last will and testament executed by Roderick Gillsworth approximately a month ago. It has been properly prepared, dated, and witnessed. Attached is a photocopy of an affidavit signed by the testator and both witnesses in the presence of a notary public and so certified. I believe the affidavit makes Mr. Gillsworth’s will self-proving, and it may be admitted to probate without further testimony by the witnesses.”

  She leaned forward to proffer the documents. My father bent forward to accept them. He remained in that position a moment, staring at her expressionlessly. Then he leaned back and began to read. He perused the two sheets slowly, then read them again. He turned his swivel chair a bit to face me.

  “Archy,” he said, his voice dry, “this purportedly holographic will, allegedly signed by Roderick Gillsworth and witnessed by Irma Gloriana and Frank Gloriana, states that the original manuscripts of the testator’s poems shall be given to the Library of Congress. Other than that, the total assets of Roderick Gillsworth at the time of his death are bequeathed to Irma Gloriana.”

  Al Rogoff had been right; the bomb had been dropped.

  My father’s aplomb was something to see. He showed absolutely no sign of the turmoil I knew must be racking him. The face he turned to Mrs. Gloriana was peaceable, and when he spoke, his voice and manner were pleasantness personified.

  “You were a friend of the late Mr. Gillsworth?” he inquired.

  “A close personal friend,” she said defiantly, lifting her chin. “Especially after his dear wife passed over. I believe my family and I provided him with spiritual comfort.”

  “My son tells me your daughter-in-law is a medium.”

  “She is. And very gifted, I might add.”

  “Did Mr. Gillsworth attend the séances I understand are held at your home?”

  “Occasionally. He attended with his wife.”

  Father nodded and seemed to relax. He looked down at the papers he was holding, rolled them into a loose tube, tapped them gently on his knee. He didn’t speak, and his silence obviously perturbed Mrs. Gloriana.

  “Is there any reason why this will cannot be filed for probate immediately?” she said. “It is absolutely authentic.”

  “Well, naturally that must be determined,” he said smoothly. “The testator’s signature must be verified, as well as that of the certifying notary public. A search must be conducted to locate immediate survivors—family members—if such exist. In addition, I wish to review the statutes of the State of Florida dealing with holographic wills.”

  That last, of course, was complete nonsense. My father knew Florida law as well or better than any attorney practicing in the State. He knew the music, knew the lyrics, and could sing you verse and refrain. He was simply stalling this would-be client.

  “How long will you need?” Irma asked. “I know that probating a will takes months, so I want to get it started as soon as possible.”

  “Very understandable,” he said. “And I shall attempt to expedite the process as much as possible. Where are the originals of these documents now?”

  “In my safe deposit box.”

  He nodded. “And do you have any evidence, Mrs. Gloriana—personal letters from Mr. Gillsworth, for instance—that might attest to your friendship with the testator?”

  “Why should that be necessary?” she asked indignantly. “Take my word for it, we were close friends.”

  “Oh, I do take your word,” he said. “But sometimes probate judges make inquiries to establish to their own satisfaction the relationship between testator and beneficiary.”

  “Well, yes,” she admitted, “I do have some letters from Rod. And a few unpublished poems he sent to me. And autographed copies of two of his books.”

  “Excellent. And where is this material at present?”

  “Also in my safe deposit box.”

  “I suggest you have photocopies made of anything that relates to your friendship with Mr. Gillsworth and have the copies delivered to my office.”
r />   “Must I do all that?”

  “I strongly urge it. It is my duty to anticipate any questions the presiding judge might have and be prepared to answer them. Do you have any notion of the size of Mr. Gillsworth’s estate, madam?”

  That last was asked suddenly in a sharp voice, and I could see it flustered her for a brief moment.

  “Why, no,” she said. “Not exactly. At the time Rod wrote out his will, he said he didn’t have much.”

  That at least, I acknowledged, was the truth.

  “And did he give you any reason why he was making a holographic will rather than coming to me, his attorney of record, to have his last testament revised?”

  She was obviously ready for that query; her answer was immediate and glib: “He said that because you also represented his wife, he didn’t want to run the risk of Lydia learning he had changed his will.”

  That implied Prescott McNally might be guilty of unethical conduct, but father voiced no objection. He stood and waited until she had gathered up handbag and suede envelope.

  “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Gloriana,” he said cordially. “If you will supply me with copies of the personal correspondence in your safe deposit box, I will start preparing an application for probate as well as initiating those other inquiries I mentioned. Please feel free to phone me if you have any further questions or desire a progress report.”

  She nodded coolly. I wondered if they would shake hands on parting. They didn’t. He opened the office door for her and she swept through, head high, indomitable.

  Father returned to his swivel chair, and I collapsed onto the couch, weary from standing erect for so long.

  “As you said, Archy,” the sire remarked with a wry smile, “a disturbing woman.”

  “Sir,” I said, “is a handwritten will legal in Florida?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, “if it is properly prepared, as this one apparently is. In addition, the attached affidavit serves as self-proof of the authenticity of the will.”

  “And is a witness allowed to inherit?”

  “Yes, a witness to a last will and testament may also be a beneficiary, under Florida law. Archy, methinks the lady and Gillsworth had the assistance of an attorney in preparing this will and the accompanying affidavit. Some of the language she used was legalese, borrowed from the lawyer I’m certain she consulted. The question then arises: Why did she come to me? The will I prepared for Gillsworth has been superseded by this holographic will. And, in effect, I have been superseded. Mrs. Gloriana could just as easily have retained the attorney who assisted her and asked him to file for probate. But she came to me. Why?”