The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Father, I think she figured that by retaining you she would eliminate the possibility of your asking embarrassing questions, causing trouble, delaying her receiving what she considers her rightful due. And if you raise too many objections, she’ll offer to cut you in on her inheritance.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said, “I do believe you may be correct. The lady is using me, and I don’t relish it.”

  We sat in a moody silence awhile, chewing our mental cud, and then my father drew a deep breath.

  “Archy,” he said, “yesterday you told me you thought the Glorianas were involved in the murders of Lydia and Roderick Gillsworth but you had no idea as to their motive.” He held up the copy of the holographic will. “Now you have a motive.”

  I rose to my feet. “I better call Sergeant Rogoff,” I said. “Interesting morning, sir.”

  “Wasn’t it,” he agreed.

  On my way through the outer office Mrs. Trelawney took one look at my expression and evidently decided not to crack any jokes or make any reference to our recent visitor. Instead she silently handed me a message: Mrs. Laverne Willigan had phoned and I was to call her as soon as possible.

  I returned to my closet, phoned the Willigan house, spoke to Leon, and eventually Laverne came on the line. She told me she had heard from the bank, the fifty thousand was ready, and I could pick it up anytime. I thanked her and hung up at once, fearing she might ask questions about plans for delivery of the ransom.

  Then I phoned Sgt. Rogoff.

  “Al,” I said, “I’m in my office. Irma Gloriana just left, and you were right. But that bomb she dropped was a blockbuster. Can you come over?”

  “On my way,” he said. “Fifteen minutes.”

  He was as good as his word. He came barging in and plumped down in the uncomfortable steel chair alongside my desk. He lighted a cigar and took out his notebook. “All right,” he said, “let’s have it.”

  I gave him a complete account of what had transpired in my father’s office. When I started, he tried to keep up by scribbling notes, but then he became so entranced by my report that he left off writing, let his cigar go out, and just listened, bending forward intently.

  I finished, and he leaned back, relighted the cold cigar and stared at me. I lighted a cigarette, and within minutes my tiny office was fuggy.

  “A handwritten will is legal?” he asked finally.

  “My father says so. And a witness can be a beneficiary.”

  “And Irma gets everything?”

  “Everything but the original manuscripts.”

  He made a grimace of disgust. “Why did the idiot do it?”

  “That’s obvious,” I said. “Sexual obsession.”

  “I love the way you talk,” he said. “You mean he had the hots for her.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” I said.

  Then, when we both grasped the implications of the poet’s folly, I think we became excited—hunters on a fresh spoor. We couldn’t talk fast enough.

  “Look, Al,” I said. “Lydia was a lovely woman but something of a bluestocking. The gossip in Palm Beach was that the Gillsworths had a marriage in name only.”

  “Then Roderick goes to one of those cockamamy séances with his wife and meets Mrs. Irma Gloriana. Snap, crackle, and pop!”

  “Irma was everything Lydia wasn’t: voluptuous, dominant, and a wanton when it suited her purpose.”

  “And as rapacious as a shrike.”

  “So they have an affair. Rod learns there’s more to life than iambic pentameters, and Irma calculates this besotted fool might be the answer to her family’s money problems. Do you buy all that?”

  “Every word of it,” Rogoff said. “That’s why he began writing those erotic poems; the poor devil couldn’t control his glands. It happens to all of us sooner or later.”

  “But not many of us end up dead because of it.”

  “Thank God.”

  “You think Gillsworth knew Otto was Irma’s husband?”

  “I doubt that. I think she passed him off as her brother or a friend.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “How’s this scenario: Irma learns that Rod is practically penniless but his wife is loaded.”

  “And if she dies, her husband inherits the bulk of her estate.”

  “Who do you think made the first fatal suggestion?”

  “The husband,” Al said promptly. “If that was the price he had to pay to keep enjoying Irma, he was willing.”

  “Maybe Irma promised to marry him once Lydia was out of the picture. That’s assuming he didn’t know she was already married.”

  “And I’m betting Irma told him he wouldn’t have to do the dirty deed himself; her so-called brother or friend would take care of Lydia—for a price, of course.”

  “Maybe the price was Gillsworth writing out that holographic will, leaving everything to Irma. A lovely quid pro quo. But why the poison-pen letters, Al?”

  “Just to send the cops galloping off in all directions looking for a psycho who didn’t exist. By the way, I sent that rookie up to the Glorianas’ office to try to sell Frank a Smith Corona word processor. You were right; Frank already owns a model PWP 100C.”

  “You think he was in on the plot to murder the Gillsworths?”

  Rogoff pondered a moment. “I doubt it,” he said finally. “He obviously knew about it—he witnessed the will, didn’t he?—but I don’t think he was a partner. Frankie boy had his own plot in the works: the catnapping of Peaches with the loving assistance of Laverne Willigan.”

  “Who he probably met at a séance. Those séances are beginning to resemble the bawdyhouse the Glorianas operated in Atlanta.”

  “Archy, you figure the medium knew what was going down?”

  “Hertha? I don’t think she knew about the murder plan. She knew her husband was nuzzling Laverne Willigan, but she just didn’t care. Hertha isn’t guilty of any crimes, Al.”

  He looked at me, amused. “How about conduct that violates the ethical code of psychics?”

  “Well, yes, she may possibly be guilty of that.”

  He laughed. “Listen, let’s go through the whole megillah one more time from the top and see if we can spot any holes.”

  So we reviewed our entire scenario, starting, with Roderick Gillsworth meeting Irma Gloriana and falling in love—or whatever he fell into. It seemed a reasonable script with only a few minor questions to be answered, such as the date Otto Gloriana arrived in Greater West Palm Beach, where Irma and Rod consummated their illicit union, and why Lydia Gillsworth had opened her locked door to allow her murderer to enter.

  “We’ll clear those things up,” the sergeant said confidently. “Now that we’ve got a logical hypothesis, we’ll know what evidence to look for and what’s just garbage.”

  “Whoa!” I said. “I hope you’re not going to discard facts simply because they don’t fit our theory. That’s ridiculous—and dangerous.”

  “It’s not a question of discarding facts,” he argued. “It’s a matter of interpretation. Let me give you a for-instance. When Gillsworth’s body was found, there was a big meal he had been preparing in the kitchen: six huge crab cakes and an enormous salad. Now there were three interpretations of that humongous meal. One: He was famished and was going to eat the whole thing himself. Two: He was making enough food so he could have a leftover dinner the next day. And three: He was expecting a guest and was preparing dinner for two people. According to our theory, the third supposition is the most likely. He was expecting Irma Gloriana to join him for dinner. The doorbell rings, he looks through the judas window, sees her, and unlocks the door. Otto is standing to one side, out of sight, and the moment the door is open, he comes barreling in with his single-edge razor blade. Doesn’t that sound right to you? It’s what I mean by interpreting facts. They don’t become evidence until you can establish their significance. If you don’t have a reasonable supposition, you can drown in facts.”

  “Thank you
, professor,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed your lecture enormously. Of course it’s based on the belief that our scenario is accurate.”

  “You believe that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I said. “It seems to me the only plausible explanation of what happened.”

  But that wasn’t the whole truth. Do you recall my mentioning a vague notion I had early on, something so tenuous that I couldn’t put it into words? Then, as more was learned about the homicides, I began to see an outline. Now, with the most recent revelations, the outline was filling in and taking on substance. If it proved valid, it would radically alter the script Sgt. Rogoff had adopted so enthusiastically. But I didn’t tell him that.

  “Al,” I said, “the bank has the ransom money ready. Will you go with me to pick it up? You’re the man with the gun.”

  “Sure,” he agreed readily. “Then I want you to come back to headquarters with me. We’ve got to go over the program for tonight’s payoff.”

  “I hope you’ve devised an effective plan.”

  “It should work,” he said.

  I sighed. “Can’t you be more positive than that? After all, it’s my neck that’s at risk.”

  “Well...” he said doubtfully, “maybe you better not buy any green bananas.”

  Then he laughed. I didn’t.

  Chapter 16

  I SPENT THAT ENTIRE afternoon with Sgt. Rogoff and an ad hoc squad of uniformed officers assigned to him. As the night’s action was outlined to me, and my own role described, I realized Al had done a remarkable job of organizing a complex operation in a short time.

  Of course, in accordance with Murphy’s Law, some things were bound to go wrong, and we spent much of our time brainstorming possible contingencies and planning how they might best be handled. I was satisfied that the overall plan was workable and, with a little bit o’luck, would achieve its objectives.

  I wanted to leave the ransom money with Rogoff, but he was loath to accept the responsibility. He did keep a copy of the list of serial numbers the bank had thoughtfully provided. But when I left the Palm Beach police headquarters, which looks like a Mediterranean villa, I was lugging fifty thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills. The bank had supplied a K-Mart shopping bag as a carrier. Why do all the great dramas of my life contain the elements of farce?

  Naturally my mother had not been informed that her dear little boy was engaged in a perilous enterprise that might involve violence. Father and I tried to make our family cocktail hour and dinner that night no different from the umpteen that had gone before. We talked, we laughed, we each devoured a half-dozen delightful quail, and I don’t believe mother had an inkling that I was—well, I won’t say I was scared out of my wits, but I admit my trepidation level was high.

  After dinner, she left us to go upstairs to her television program, and I resisted the temptation to kiss her farewell. I mean I wasn’t going off to the Battle of Blenheim, was I? It was really just a small piece of law enforcement business from which I was certain to emerge with all my limited faculties intact. I told myself that. Several times.

  My self-induced euphoria was rather diminished when father invited me into his study for a cognac. I knew he meant well, but I considered offering me a brandy was somewhat akin to being supplied with a blindfold and final cigarette. But at least he didn’t say, “Be careful.” He did say, “Call me as soon as it’s over.”

  Then I went upstairs to change. Al Rogoff had suggested I dress in black, and when I had asked why, he replied, “You’ll make a harder target.” The other cops on his special squad thought that uproariously funny, but I considered their levity in poor taste.

  About nine o’clock I came downstairs, dressed completely in black and carrying my shopping bag of cash. I went out to the Miata and paused to look about. It was a warm night, the dark sky swirled with horsetail clouds. Stars were there, a pale moon and, as I stared heavenward, an airliner droned overhead, going north. I wished I was on it.

  I drove directly to police headquarters. Sgt. Rogoff and his cohorts were donning bulletproof vests and inspecting their weapons which, I noted, included shotguns and tear gas and smoke grenades and launchers. There was also a variety of electronic gizmos being tested. I wasn’t certain of their function and intended use.

  I stripped to the waist and a technician “wired” me, an unpleasant experience involving what seemed to be yards of adhesive tape. When he finished, I was equipped with microphone, battery pack, and transmitter. I put on shirt and jacket again, and we moved outside to test my efficacy as a mobile radio station.

  The sergeant instructed me to move a hundred feet away, turn on the power switch, and say something. I did as ordered, activated myself and recited the “Tomorrow, and tomorrow...” speech from Macbeth. Rogoff waved me to return. “Loud and clear,” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  It was a veritable parade. This was a joint operation, and we had cars and personnel from the police departments of the Town of Palm Beach, the City of West Palm Beach, and the Sheriffs Office of Palm Beach County. All for Peaches! The three jurisdictions were cooperating under a long-standing system Sgt. Rogoff described as “Share the glory and spread the blame.”

  And in the middle of this procession was a flag-red open convertible sports car inhabited by yr. humble servant, Archibald McNally.

  I soon cut out and let the armada proceed without me. The script called for my arrival at the parking area of the convenience store on Federal Highway at 11:45 P.M. I was right on schedule and pulled into a parking slot that provided a good view of the storefront. I switched on my transmitter.

  “McNally on station,” I reported in a normal voice.

  I watched, and in a moment the policewoman in civvies, planted in the store by Rogoff, came to the front window and began to fuss with a display of junk foods: the signal that she was receiving my transmission and would relay it to the task force via her more powerful radio.

  I settled down, lighted an English Oval, and wondered why I hadn’t relieved myself before setting out on this adventure. All my anxiety and discomfort, I realized, resulted from my trying to assist that fatheaded Willigan, and I was trying to recall lines from Henry V: “Unto the breach, lads, for Harry and...” when an old Chrysler Imperial pulled slowly into the lighted parking area and stopped in a space about twenty feet away from me.

  “I think he’s here,” I said aloud. “Black Chrysler Imperial. Man getting out and walking toward me.”

  Rogoff and I had agreed that the messenger was not likely to be Frank Gloriana; he would have no desire to be identified by me as the catnapper. The logical choice for collector would be Otto Gloriana, Frank’s daddy.

  And as he came closer, I had no doubt whatsoever that this tall, reddish-haired, broad-shouldered man of about sixty-five was indeed Otto Gloriana, aka Charles Girard, former bordello owner and the ex-con described by Atlanta police as “a nasty piece of work.” What surprised me was how handsome he was.

  He was wearing a rumpled seersucker suit, and his hands were thrust deep into the jacket pockets. He came near, almost pressing against my door. That was fine with me; it brought him closer to my concealed microphone.

  “You from Harry Willigan?” he asked in a resonant baritone.

  “That’s correct,” I said.

  “You have the fifty thousand?”

  “Right here,” I said and started to lift the shopping bag from the passenger seat to hand it to him. But he moved back one step.

  “Get out of the car,” he said. “Carry the money.”

  I was astonished. “Why should I do that?” I said.

  “Because if you don’t,” he said pleasantly, “I’ll kill you.”

  He withdrew his right hand from his jacket pocket far enough to reveal that he was gripping a short-barreled revolver that appeared to be a .38 Special. His back was to the window of the convenience store, and there was no one nearby. I was certain his action was unobserved.

  “You have a gun?�
� I said in a tone of disbelief, praying this conversation was being received “loud and clear” by the officer inside the store. “That’s not necessary. Just take the money and bring the cat back.”

  He sighed. “You’re not very swift, are you? I’ll say it just once more, and if you don’t do what I say, you’ll have three eyes. Now get out of this baby carriage slowly. Carry the money. Walk to my car. I’ll be right behind you.”

  I did as ordered, thinking sadly that we had prepared for every possible contingency except my being taken hostage. At least that’s what I hoped was happening. I had no wish to meet my Maker in the parking lot of a store that sold Twinkies and diet root beer.

  We came up to the Chrysler and the rear door was opened from within by the man sitting behind the wheel.

  “Get in,” Otto commanded.

  I did, swinging the bag of cash onto the floor. I sat back in one corner and got a look at the driver.

  “Why, Frank Gloriana,” I said in a loud voice. “What a surprise!”

  “Shut your face,” the older Gloriana said to me. And to his son, “Drive.”

  We pulled out and headed south on Federal Highway. I reckoned we were out of range of the receiver in the store, but just in case, I said, “Going to the Jo-Jean Motel, are we?”

  Otto took the revolver from his pocket and rapped the side of my skull with the steel barrel. What can I tell you? It hurt.

  “I told you to keep your yap shut,” my captor said. “I’ll do all the talking.”

  So I remained silent and tried to calculate the odds against my ever playing the harpsichord again. Rather heavy, I concluded. The fact that I had been allowed to witness Frank’s involvement in this caper boded ill for my future. It seemed highly unlikely that I would be allowed to live, even if I vowed to keep my yap permanently sealed.