The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  But why would the murderer risk making off with the painting? It couldn’t be sold, at least not locally, and if it was unfinished, as it apparently was, it would be of little value anywhere. The only logical conclusion was that the importance of “Untitled” lay in its subject matter. The killer didn’t want it to be seen by anyone.

  But if that was true, why wasn’t the painting destroyed on the spot? After slaying the artist it would have taken the assassin only a few minutes to slash “Untitled” to ribbons, or even douse it with one of the inflammables in the studio and set it afire. But instead, “Untitled” was carried away.

  Which led me to reflect on the size of the painting. The portrait of Theo Johnson, I estimated, was approximately 3½ ft. tall by 2½ wide. If “Untitled” had the same dimensions it was hardly something one could tuck under one’s arm and then saunter away, particularly if the painting was still wet. A puzzlement.

  I knew that art supply stores carried blank canvases already framed. But I also knew that most fine artists preferred to stretch their own canvas, buying the quality desired in bolts and cutting off the piece required for a planned endeavor. It would then be tacked to a wooden frame.

  Still, it might be worthwhile to check the store where Silas bought his supplies. It was just barely possible he had recently purchased a stretched canvas that was to become “Untitled.” And so, after I had consumed that cornucopia of calories in toto, I inserted myself behind the wheel of the Miata with some difficulty and set out for the Hawkin residence.

  As I said, it was not my case, but it was of interest to me because of the peripheral involvement of Theo and Hector Johnson.

  Also, I had nothing better to do on that sultry afternoon.

  It had been my intention to ask the housekeeper for the information I sought, but when I rang the chimes at the main house the door was opened by Mrs. Louise Hawkin.

  “Oh,” I said, somewhat startled. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawkin. May I speak to Mrs. Folsby for a moment?”

  “She is no longer with us,” she said in a tone that didn’t invite further inquiries.

  But I persisted. “Sorry to hear it,” I said. “Could you tell me where I might be able to contact her?”

  “No,” she said shortly. Then: “What did you want to talk to her about?”

  “I just wanted to ask if your late husband used prepared canvases or if he stretched his own.”

  She stared at me. “Why on earth would you want to know that?”

  I have a small talent for improv. “A young friend of mine is a wannabe artist,” I told her. “He is a great admirer of Mr. Hawkin’s technique and requested I ask.”

  She bought it. “My husband stretched his own canvas,” she said. “A very good grade of linen. Good day, Mr. McNally.”

  And she shut the door. What I should have said was, “No more interest in a divorce lawyer, Mrs. Hawkin?” But I knew the answer to that.

  I glanced toward the studio building. It seemed to be unguarded, and the crime scene tape drooped in the heat. I wandered over and tried the scarred oak and etched glass door, but it was locked. I turned away, then heard a “Psst!” that whirled me back. Marcia Hawkin was standing in the opened doorway, beckoning to me.

  She drew me inside, then locked the door after us.

  “What did she tell you?” she said fiercely.

  Bewilderment time. “Who?” I asked.

  “Her,” she said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the main house. “Did she say anything about me?”

  “Not a word,” I assured her. “We had a very brief conversation about your father’s work.”

  She clutched my arm and pulled me into the sitting area on the ground level. She leaned close and almost whispered. “She’s a dreadful woman. Dreadful! Don’t believe anything she says. Do you want a drink?”

  “I think I better,” I said, and she went into the kitchenette. I watched with horror as she poured me a tumbler of warm vodka.

  “Miss Hawkin,” I said, “if I drink that I’ll be non compos mentis. Please let me do it.”

  I moved to the sink and mixed myself a mild vodka and water with plenty of ice. Meanwhile Marcia had thrown herself on the couch and lay sprawled, biting furiously at a fingernail. An Ophelia, I decided.

  It would be difficult to describe her costume in detail without sounding indecent. I shall merely say that she wore an oversized white singlet, soiled and possibly belonging to her dead father, and denim shorts chopped off so radically that they hardly constituted a loincloth. But her lanky semi-nakedness made her seem more helpless than seductive. She was long and loose-jointed; a puppeteer had cut her strings.

  “My stepmother is a bitch,” she declared. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “I’ve heard the word,” I acknowledged.

  “What am I going to do?” she cried despairingly. “What am I going to do?”

  Never let it be said that A. McNally failed to respond to a damsel in distress. But when the damsel in question appears to be a certifiable loony—well, it does give one pause, does it not?

  “What seems to be the problem, Miss Hawkin?” I asked, speaking as slowly and softly as possible.

  My soothing manner had the desired effect. She suddenly began talking rationally and with some good sense.

  “Money,” she said. “Isn’t that always the problem?”

  “Not always,” I said, “but frequently. Surely your father left you well-provided for.”

  “I have a trust fund,” she admitted, “but I can’t touch it until I turn twenty-one.”

  That was a shocker. I had guessed her to be in the mid-twenties. “How old are you, Miss Hawkin?” I asked gently.

  “Nineteen,” she said. “I look older, don’t I?”

  “Not at all,” I said gallantly.

  “I know I do,” she said defiantly. “But you don’t know what my life has been like. When daddy was alive, money made no difference. He was very generous. Anything I wanted. But now I’m totally dependent on her. My food, the house, spending money—everything. It just kills me.”

  “Surely you have relatives or friends who’d be willing to help out.”

  She shook her head. “No one. I’m on my own, and I’m frightened, I admit it.”

  “Don’t be frightened,” I counseled her, “because then you won’t be able to think clearly. You must keep your nerve and review your options calmly and logically as if you were called upon to advise someone else.”

  She looked at me queerly. “Yes,” she said, “you’re right. If I have the courage to act I can solve my own problems, can’t I?”

  “Of course. Courage and energy: That’s what it takes.”

  She laughed. I didn’t like that laugh. It came perilously close to being a hysterical giggle.

  “Thank you, Archy,” she said. “I may call you Archy, mayn’t I?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  “And you must call me Squirrel,” she said. “That’s what daddy always called me.”

  “What an unusual nickname,” I said, smiling.

  “You think so?” she challenged, and abruptly she was back in her manic mood again. “I see nothing unusual about it. You just don’t understand. No one can ever understand. I think you better go now.”

  My first impression had been correct: definitely an Ophelia.

  I finished my drink hastily, bid her a polite farewell, and left her still sprawled, starting on another fingernail. I was thankful to be going. Those moments with her were too intense, too charged with things unsaid, furies suppressed and threatening to break loose.

  I drove away without a backward glance. The master of that home might be deceased but it was still the Villa Bile.

  When I arrived at the McNally digs, a much happier household, I found Jamie Olson in the garage hosing down my mother’s antique wood-bodied Ford station wagon. He was smoking one of his ancient briars, the one with the cracked shank wrapped with a Band-Aid.

  “Jamie,” I
said, “Mrs. Jane Folsby was the live-in at Silas Hawkin’s residence, but she has suddenly left their employ. Do you think you can find out where she’s gone?”

  “Mebbe,” he said.

  “Try,” I urged. “She’s a nice lady, and I’d like to talk to her.”

  I had a pleasant ocean swim, the family cocktail hour that followed was just as enjoyable, and dinner that night capped my pleasure. Mother went upstairs for an evening of television in the sitting room, father retired to his study to continue his wrestle with Dickens, and I climbed to my suite to update my journal, sip a small marc, and listen to a tape of Hoagy Carmichael singing “Star Dust.”

  It was a normal evening at the McNally manse, all quiet, peaceful, content. But just when you start believing the drawbridge is up, the castle is inviolate, and the rude world can’t possibly intrude, along comes leering fate to deliver a swift kick to your gluteus maximus.

  On that particular evening the boot came at approximately 9:30 P.M. in the form of a phone call from Sgt. Al Rogoff. He spent no time on greetings.

  “I’m beginning to wonder about you,” he said.

  “Are you?” I said, thinking he was joshing. “Wonder about what?”

  “Do you know a guy named Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth? Lives in Palm Beach.”

  “Of course I know him,” I said. “He and his mother are clients of McNally and Son.”

  “Uh-huh. And do you know a woman named Shirley Feebling? In Fort Lauderdale.”

  “I don’t know her,” I said warily, beginning to get antsy about this conversation. “I met her once for an hour. Why the third degree, Al?”

  “Son,” he said, “you’re just too free with your business cards. About an hour ago I got a call from a dick I know who works out of Lauderdale Homicide. This afternoon they found Shirley Feebling in her condo shot through the back of her head. Much dead. They also found your business card and a batch of hot letters from this Smythe-Hersforth character.”

  I closed my eyes. Her T-shirt had been lettered PEACE. What a way to find it.

  “Your father still awake?” Rogoff asked.

  “Of course he’s still awake. It’s only nine-thirty.”

  “I think I better come over,” he said. “Okay?”

  “Don’t tell me I’m a suspect,” I said with a shaky laugh.

  “Right now you and Smythe-Hersforth are the only leads that Lauderdale’s got. I promised to check you out, both of you. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess,” I said, sighing. “The second time my business card has landed me in the soup. You’re correct, Al; I’ve got to stop handing them out. Sure, come on over.”

  “Be there in fifteen minutes,” he said and hung up.

  I sat there a few moments remembering that ingenuous and not too bright young woman with her firm belief in True Love and a sunny future. It didn’t take long for sadness and regret to become anger and a seething desire for vengeance. The murder of Shirley Feebling affected me more keenly than the killing of Silas Hawkin. I could conceive that his actions might have led to his demise. But hers, I was convinced, was the death of an innocent.

  I prepared to go downstairs and alert father to the arrival of Sgt. Rogoff. I glanced nervously at the darkness outside my window. Our snug home no longer seemed secure.

  Chapter 7

  AL HAD THE LOOK of an exhausted beagle. He sat in front of my father’s magisterial desk and in a toneless voice recited what little he knew of the murder of Shirley Feebling.

  She did not show up for work at the topless car wash on Tuesday morning. The boss was not concerned; his employees were usually late and frequently absent for a day or two simply because they had better things to do than lave insect-spattered vehicles driven by the curious and/or lubricious.

  But when there was no word from Shirl by noon, and her phone wasn’t answered, a friend and co-worker with the unlikely name of Pinky Schatz became alarmed and stopped by her place after work. The door of Ms. Feebling’s condo was unlocked, and inside Pinky discovered the sanguinary corpse. After a single scream, she dialed 911.

  The homicide detective to whom Rogoff had spoken had revealed only that my business card and the letters of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth had been found during the initial search. If any additional significant evidence was discovered, he just wasn’t saying.

  “And that’s all I’ve got,” the sergeant concluded. He turned to me. “What have you got?”

  I glanced at mon père. He was the attorney; it was his responsibility to decide how much to reveal and how much to keep undisclosed in the name of client confidentiality. Al and I waited patiently while Prescott McNally went through his mulling routine, a process that endured long enough to calculate the square root of 2. Finally the guru spake.

  “Discretion?” he demanded, looking sternly at Rogoff.

  “As usual,” Al said.

  Father then described the letters Smythe-Hersforth had written Shirley Feebling during a time the two apparently had been enjoying a steamy affair. Later the client had a change of heart, but the woman insisted he honor the proposal of marriage he had made in writing. If not, she vowed to sell his letters to any interested tabloid.

  “Uh-huh,” Rogoff said. “How much was she asking?”

  “Archy?” papa said. “You take it from here.”

  “I went down to Lauderdale to see her,” I told the sergeant. “I had just the single meeting and left my business card. She absolutely refused to discuss a cash settlement. She wanted to marry him and that was that.”

  “Where is the guy now—do you know?”

  “His office says he left Monday morning for a bankers’ convention in New Orleans and won’t be back until Thursday.”

  Al had been making brief notes on all this in a fat little notebook he carried. Now he slapped the cover closed and bound it with a wide rubber band. He said casually, “Archy, you got any idea who might have clobbered the woman?”

  I had learned to lie convincingly by age four. “Not a glimmer,” I said.

  “Sergeant,” father said, “if inquiries by the Fort Lauderdale authorities prove—as I am certain they will—that Smythe-Hersforth was in New Orleans at the time of this unfortunate woman’s death, I will deeply appreciate any assistance you may provide in retrieving our client’s personal letters since they obviously will be of no further interest or import in the official investigation.”

  All that was said in one sentence. It’s the way my old man talks.

  “I’ll see what I can do, sir,” Rogoff said, rising, and the two men shook hands.

  The sergeant was driving a police car that night, not his personal pickup truck, and I walked him outside. He paused to light a cigar and blow a plume of smoke toward the cloudless sky.

  “Nice weather,” he observed.

  “You don’t find it a trifle warm?”

  “Nah,” he said. “I like the heat. It keeps the juices flowing.”

  “And how are they flowing on the Hawkin homicide?”

  “They ain’t,” he admitted. “We’re going through the drill, talking to everyone. It’s what I call an NKN case: nobody knows nothing.”

  “A double negative,” I pointed out.

  “The story of my life,” he said. Then suddenly: “How about you? You got anything?”

  “A crumb,” I said. “Mrs. Jane Folsby has left the Hawkins’ employ. For reasons the deponent knoweth not.”

  “Yeah?” he said. “Can’t say I blame her for getting out of that nuthouse. Go to bed, sonny boy; I only wish I could. And remember what I said about your business cards. Will you, for God’s sake, stop passing them out? Every time you do, someone gets whacked and I have to put in more overtime.”

  I watched him drive away, reflecting that his warning came too late. The last card I had distributed went to Theodosia Johnson. It was not a comforting thought. I went back inside. The door to father’s study was shut, which meant he was deep in Dickens and port. So I trudged upstairs, finished scr
ibbling in my journal, and prepared to crawl into the sack.

  I cannot say my mood was melancholy, but neither was it chockablock with joie de vivre. I have never been a victim of presentiments, but that evening I must confess I had a sense of impending doom.

  The only way I could calm my quaking spirits was to remind myself firmly that seriousness is a sin. I happen to believe that our Maker is the greatest farceur in the universe. And so sleep came only with the blessed remembrance of the sentiment: “Long live the sun! And down with the night!”

  I thought it might be Pushkin. But then it might have been just Archy McNally. No matter. I slept.

  And awoke on Wednesday morning revivified, alert, and wondering why I had been in such a funk the previous night. After all, I was alive, reasonably young, in full possession of my faculties (others might disagree), and inhabiting a world that offered such glories as lamb shanks braised in wine and tiramisu with zabaglione sauce. There was absolutely no reason to despair.

  I knew exactly what I must do, but of course I had overslept and didn’t arrive at my office in the McNally Building until a bit after ten o’clock. Oversleeping, I realized, was becoming a habit I seemed unable to break, and it occurred to me that I might have contracted trypanosomiasis. I have never been to Africa, but a chum of mine, Binky Watrous, had recently spent a weekend in Marrakech, and it was quite possible that, unknowingly of course, he had brought a tsetse fly home with him. It was troubling.

  The moment I was behind my ugly desk I phoned Jack DuBois, my pal at the Royal Palm Way bank handling Hector Johnson’s checking account.

  “Jack,” I said, “you told me that when Johnson made his initial deposit with a cashier’s cheek from Troy, Michigan, he presented a driver’s license as ID and supplied the names of two Fort Lauderdale residents as references.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Could I have the names and addresses of the references, please?”

  He groaned, “Archy, it seems to me I’m doing all your work for you.”

  “Jack, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

  “Lunch?” he cried indignantly. “You promised me a dinner.”