The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  I was happy to depart the Smythe-Hersforth manse. The interior looked as if it had been decorated in the Avocado Green-Harvest Gold era of the 1950s and hadn’t been dusted since. I emerged into bright August sunshine, the sea glittering and a sweet sky dotted with popcorn clouds. I vaulted into my fire-engine-red Miata and headed for the Pelican Club, desperately in need of a liquid buck-up. An hour spent with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth was an affront to the Eighth Amendment, the one dealing with cruel and unusual punishment.

  As I tooled westward I reflected that this was not the first time I had been handed the job of establishing the bona fides of a prospective bride or groom. I recalled that on my initial assignment of this type I had expressed some misgivings. I am essentially a romantic cove—and something of a featherbrain, my father might add—and it seemed rather infra dig to investigate the personal history, bank balance, and private kinks of a potential mate with whom one is madly in love.

  “Archy,” the squire explained in his stodgy way, “you must understand that marriage is a legal contract, presumably for life. Would you sign a contract with a party of the second part without first making an inquiry into his or her trustworthiness? Would you sign a mortgage without inspecting the property and perhaps having it evaluated by an independent appraiser? Would you make a loan without first establishing the financial resources of the borrower? If you would do any of those things, then you are a mindless ass.”

  I had to acknowledge the logic of his argument, and so I surrendered and accepted the task. I must confess I am not a bloke of strong convictions, other than hot English mustard is splendid on broiled calves’ liver.

  The Pelican Club is a private dining and drinking establishment housed in a rather decrepit freestanding building out near the airport. It is my favorite watering hole and a popular home-away-from-home for many golden lads and lasses in the Palm Beach area. I was one of the founding members and am proud to say I helped create its most famous annual event, the Running of the Lambs—more fun than Pamplona with considerably less possibility of being gored.

  It was not quite noon and the luncheon crowd had not yet come galloping in. The sole occupant of the bar area was Mr. Simon Pettibone, an elderly and dignified gentleman of color who served as club manager and bartender. At the moment, he was watching the screen of a TV set showing a running tape of stock quotations.

  I swung aboard a barstool. “Is the market up or down, Mr. Pettibone?” I inquired.

  “Sideways, Mr. McNally,” he said. “Frozen daiquiri?”

  “Excellent suggestion,” I said, and watched him prepare it with the deft movements of a practiced mixologist.

  “Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “are you by any chance acquainted with the Smythe-Hersforth family?”

  “Somewhat,” he said warily. “When the mister was alive I worked a few of their soirées.”

  “And what was your impression?”

  He chuffed a short laugh. “You could see up their nostrils,” he said.

  I smiled at his description of nose-in-the-air snoots. “I know the son,” I mentioned. “Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth. He belongs to my golf club. I played a round with him once. Just once. He’s an awful duffer. He likes to be called CW—for Chauncey Wilson, you know. So we oblige. He hasn’t yet caught on that most of us mean the Chinless Wonder.”

  “He is that,” Mr. Pettibone agreed. “I would call him a young codger.”

  “Well put,” I said. “He must be—what would you say—about forty-five?”

  “About.”

  “And never married?”

  “Not to my knowledge. What woman would want a mama’s boy?”

  “Not even a rich mama’s boy?” I asked.

  Mr. Pettibone paused to consider that. “Um,” he said finally.

  I sipped my plasma and considered what might be the wisest next move in my investigation of CWs intended. I had never met the lady, never heard of her prior to that morning, knew absolutely nothing about her. I mention this because it was so unusual. Palm Beach is a small town, especially in the off-season, and everybody knows everybody. But Ms. Theodosia Johnson was, as far as I was concerned, Ms. Terra Incognita.

  Ordinarily, I would have immediately consulted Consuela Garcia. She is social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, one of Palm Beach’s wealthiest chatelaines. Connie is plugged in to all our town’s gossip, rumors, and scandals. She would surely have some poop to contribute on the subject of Theodosia Johnson.

  But Connie is also my light-o’-love, and has been for several years. She is a Marielito and an absolutely smashing senorita to whom I have been, I must regretfully confess, unfaithful on more than one occasion.

  If Connie has one failing, it’s that the green-eyed monster seems permanently perched on her soft, tanned shoulder. We have vowed, many times, to maintain an open relationship, both of us free to consort with whomever she (Connie) or he (me) chooses. I have faithfully hewed to this agreement, but occasionally Connie has been overwhelmed by her fiery Latin blood.

  For instance, not too long ago I escorted a charming miss to Testa’s for Sunday brunch. We entered the dining room and I immediately espied Connie alone at a distant table. Unfortunately she spotted me and my companion at the same time. She gave me a look I don’t wish to describe. She rose immediately and, carrying her brunch plate, marched up to us. I attempted an awkward introduction but to no avail. Connie pulled open the waistband of my lime green linen slacks and slipped in two eggs Benedict. Then she stalked out. It is not a memory I cherish.

  So, in view of that recent confrontation, I thought it best not to request Connie’s assistance in investigating a nubile young woman. Instead, I went to the rear of the Pelican Club’s bar area and used the public phone to call Lolly Spindrift, the social reporter for one of our local gazettes. His popular column is called “Hither and Yon,” which I presume refers to the Island of Palm Beach and West Palm Beach across Lake Worth.

  “Lol?” I said. “Archy McNally here.”

  “You swine!” he shrieked. “You don’t write, you don’t call. How could I possibly have offended? I’ve never written a word about your vulgar dalliances, although the evidence occupies a full file drawer. And did I not mention your name—spelled correctly, incidentally—in my scoop on the Gillsworth homicides? A word of thanks from you? Hah! Stony silence has been my reward. Watch your step, bucko, or I may add you to my annual list of the Island’s most noxious bachelors.”

  “Slow down a mo, Lol,” I begged, “and have lunch with me.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “The Pelican Club?” I suggested hopefully.

  “Surely you jest,” he said. “I wouldn’t dine there if I was suffering from a terminal case of malnutrition. Try again.”

  “The Cafe L’Europe?”

  “You’re on, darling,” he said promptly. “But only if I can have Krug with my beluga. You obviously want something from me, and it’s going to cost you, sweetie. Meet you at the bar in a half-hour.”

  But it was two hours later that I was finally able to muffle his volubility long enough to broach the reason for this extravagant feast. By that time we were on our second bottle of bubbly. Not smashed, you understand, but not whimpering with pain either. Lolly was a sparrow of a man, all dash and chatter. Despite his small size, his capacity for food and drink is legendary. Once, at a party, I saw him consume an entire roast chicken, belch delicately, and head for the broiled lobster.

  “Theodosia Johnson,” I said to him. “About thirty years old, I think. The chosen of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth. What do you know about her?”

  Spindrift looked at me sorrowfully. “Oh dear,” he said, “I fear I have been dining under false pretenses. There is very little I can tell you about the lady. I like to think of her as Madam X.”

  “Surely you must know something about her,” I urged. “She lives in Palm Beach? On the acceptable side of the water?”

  “She does indeed. In a rented condo. With he
r father.”

  “Single? Divorced? Widowed?”

  “Part of the mystery,” Lol said, filling our glasses again. “She’s been in residence about a year. Seems to be well-heeled. Becoming more active in local charities. That’s how she met the Chinless Wonder. At a black-tie bash to save the whales or dolphins or manatees—whatever. You’ve never met her?”

  “Never heard of her until this morning.”

  He gave me a pitying glance. “Be prepared to have your timbers shivered, m’lad.”

  “Oh?” I said. “Why is that?”

  “Beautiful!” he said enthusiastically. “A corker, believe me. If I was of a different religion, I would definitely be attracted. She’s half-Garbo, half-Dietrich. Careful, darling. One look and you’ll lose that prune you call your heart.”

  “An intriguing prospect,” I said, pouring the remainder of the second bottle into our glasses. “How do you suggest I might meet this lalapalooza?”

  “Easiest thing in the world,” he told me. “Tonight the Pristine Gallery is having an exhibit of Silas Hawkin’s portraits. You know him?”

  “I’ve met him,” I said. “I think he’s an idiot.”

  “More oaf than idiot,” Lolly said. “And a rich oaf. You know what they say about him, don’t you? As a portrait painter he’s the best plastic surgeon in Palm Beach. He charges thirty grand and up—mostly up—for a genuine oil portrait of our wealthier beldames. And every matron he’s painted has her bosom lifted, wattles excised, and her gin-dulled stare replaced with a youthful sparkle. The man is really a genius at pleasing his clients. Anyway, at the to-do tonight, the gallery is going to show his latest masterpiece: a portrait of Theodosia Johnson. How does that grab you? Madam X herself is sure to be there. Why don’t you pop by?”

  “Thank you, Lol,” I said gratefully. “I think I’ll do exactly that.”

  Eventually we tottered outside and stood in the afternoon heat grinning foolishly at each other.

  “Another luncheon like that,” I said, “and I’ll have a liver as big as the Ritz.”

  “Nonsense, darling,” Spindrift said, gently swaying back and forth. “It was a yummy spread, and I’m pickled tink you asked me.”

  He gave me a careless wave and wandered away, leaving me to wonder if his “pickled tink” was deliberate or a lurch of a champagne-loosened tongue. I stood rooted, knowing I should return to my miniature office in the McNally Building and begin an inquiry into the creditworthiness of Madam X, including bank balances, net worth, source of income, and all that. But I feared my Krugged brain might not be capable of the task.

  During my brief sojourn at Yale Law I had learned an effective method of determining whether one was or was not plotched. You recited aloud the following:

  “Amidst the mists and coldest frosts, with stoutest wrists and loudest boasts, he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.”

  If you can say that without slobbering all over your chin, you are definitely not hors de combat. So I declaimed it aloud on Worth Avenue, attracting wary glances from passing tourists. I was delighted to discover my lower mandible remained bone-dry; the McNally medulla oblongata had not lost its keen edge.

  But it was then threeish or fourish, much too late to return to the salt mines. So I drove home, slowly and cautiously, and took a nap.

  I roused an hour later, full of p&v, and went for my daily swim. The Atlantic is just across Ocean Boulevard from the McNally digs, and I try to do two miles each day, chugging along parallel to the shore and hoping no Portuguese man-of-war is lurking nearby, licking its chops. I returned home in time to dress and attend the cocktail hour, a family ceremony. That evening, as usual, my father did the honors, stirring up a pitcher of traditional dry martinis.

  My mother, Madelaine, is one of the ditsiest of all mommies, but a lovely gentlewoman who talks to her begonias. She also drinks sauterne with meat and fish courses and is very concerned about the ozone layer, without quite knowing what ozone is.

  My father, Prescott McNally, has been playing the part of landed gentry so long that he has become exactly that: a squire, rectitudinous attorney, and possibly the most hidebound man I know. He has a wide Guardsman’s mustache, tangled as the Amazon rain forest, and I like to visualize him wearing a busby, planted outside Buckingham Palace, staring fixedly into space.

  I don’t wish to imply that my parents are “characters.” They, and I, would be offended by that designation. They are just very decent, loving, and lovable human beings. They have their oddities—but who does not? I happen to believe I do a marvelous imitation of Humphrey Bogart, though friends assure me I sound more like Donald Duck.

  What I’m trying to convey is that I love my parents. Of course. But just as important, I enjoy them. How many sons and daughters can say that?

  That evening I was wearing the palest of pink linen suits with a deep lavender polo shirt of Sea Island cotton. Tasseled white loafers with no socks, of course. My father raised one eyebrow (a trick I’ve never been able to master), and I hastened to explain the glad rags.

  “I’m attending an exhibit at the Pristine Gallery tonight,” I said. “Silas Hawkin’s paintings. I understand the showpiece will be his latest work, a portrait of Theodosia Johnson.”

  “Ah,” the guv said.

  Mother looked up. “I’ve met her father,” she declared. “Hector Johnson. A very fine gentleman.”

  The pater and I exchanged glances.

  “How did you happen to meet him, Maddie?” he asked.

  “Why, he joined our garden club,” she said. “He’s only been in South Florida a short while—about a year I think he said—and he’s into orchids. He seems very knowledgeable.”

  “How old is he, mother?” I inquired.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Archy,” she answered. “Mid-sixties perhaps. Shall I ask him?”

  McNally père smiled. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said. “A civilized man?”

  “Charming,” mother said, “just charming! He said my ‘Iron Cross’ was the healthiest begonia he had ever seen.”

  Father gulped the remainder of his martini. “That was very kind of him,” he said, absolutely deadpan. “Shall we go down to dinner?”

  I remember well the menu that night, the way I imagine the condemned might savor their last meal before the unknown. Ursi Olson, our cook-housekeeper, had sautéed red snapper with white wine and shallots. And husband Jamie, our houseman, served the dessert: chocolate torte with cappuccino ice cream. Any wonder why the waistbands of my slacks continue to shrink?

  Before departing for the Pristine Gallery I climbed to the third floor of the McNally faux Tudor manor. There, under a leaking copper roof, I had my own aerie, a rather dilapidated but snug suite: sitting room, bedroom, bath. Not luxurious, you understand, but you couldn’t beat the rent. Zip.

  Since becoming chief of Discreet Inquiries at McNally & Son, I had kept a private journal in which I recorded the details of my investigations. It was an invaluable aid in keeping track of things, especially when I had two or more cases running concurrently. I jotted down facts, impressions, bits of actual dialogue, and whatever else I thought might be of value. Most of my scribblings turned out to be of no value whatsoever. But one never knows, do one?

  That night I hurriedly made brief notes on my interview with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth, the chat with Simon Pettibone, the information learned at that bibulous luncheon with Lolly Spindrift, and what mother had mentioned about Hector, Theodosia Johnson’s father. Finished, I read over what I had written and found absolutely zilch in the way of inspiration. So I closed up shop, clattered downstairs, and went to meet my fate.

  It was a still, cloudless night but hot and humid as a sauna. As I drove back to Worth Avenue I hoped the owner of the Pristine Gallery, Ivan Duvalnik, would have the decency to serve something refreshing. He did: a Chilean chardonnay so cold it made my fillings ache.

  It turned out to be a hugger-mugger ev
ening, the gallery overcrowded, chatter too loud, paintings almost hidden by the billows of chiffon gown (f.) and the sheen of silk sport jackets (m.). I knew most of the guests and mingled determinedly, working my way toward the piece de resistance: the portrait of Theodosia Johnson.

  When I finally stood before it, I was simultaneously rapt and unwrapped. I mean I was totally engrossed and at the same time felt a sag of the knees and a horrible need to let my jaw droop and just gawk. Spindrift had not exaggerated; the lady was a corker. What beauty! But not of the plastic variety one sees so often in fashion ads and centerfolds. Again, Lolly had it right: she was half-Garbo, half-Dietrich, with all the mystery and promise in those two mesmerizing faces.

  I am not an expert on paintings, figuring one man’s “September Morn” is another man’s “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.” But I defy any hot-blooded yute to look at that portrait of Madam X without saying to himself, “I must meet her.”

  I was filling my eyes when a voice at my elbow interrupted my fantasies by stating, “Awfully good, am I right, Archy? Si has caught her expression perfectly, and the colors are striking. Don’t you agree?”

  I turned, and there was the Chinless Wonder himself, Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth, wearing a midnight blue dinner jacket and looking like the groom on a wedding cake. His pushbroom mustache was meticulously trimmed and he was exuding a fruity cologne. That was a surprise. CW was known as a nebbishy sort of chap. Palm Beach gossips (the total population) claimed he wore a helmet while pedaling his Exercycle.

  “You couldn’t be righter, CW,” I said. “Or more right—whichever comes first. Hawkin has done a marvelous job, and the lady is beautiful.”

  “My fiancée,” he said with a fatuous grin. “Or soon to be.”

  “Congratulations!” I said, smiling, and recalling that “one may smile and smile, and be a villain.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly official yet,” he said in that pontifical way he had of speaking. “But it soon will be, I assure you.”

  “I’d like to meet the lucky lady,” I said, perking his ego. “Is she here this evening?”