The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Yes, I expect she will,” I said with some satisfaction. “Tell me, CW, did Shirl ever say anything about someone threatening her or following her or annoying her?”

  “No, she never mentioned anything like that. I think it was a druggie who broke in to rob her. She caught him at it and he killed her.”

  “Could be,” I said, waiting for him to say, “She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, keeping his reputation for fatuousness intact. “Well, it was an awful thing, but in all honesty it’s a load off my mind to have that business about the letters cleared up.”

  Which I thought was somewhat akin to the classic question: “But other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the show?”

  “I can’t wait to tell Theo Johnson,” he went on. “She’ll be so relieved.”

  I was as aghast at hearing that as I’m sure you are in reading it. “Good lord, CW,” I said, “don’t tell me you informed your intended fiancée about Shirley Feebling?”

  “Of course I did,” he said, stroking that ridiculous pushbroom mustache. “Theo and I promised to be completely frank and honest. No secrets. We tell each other absolutely everything.”

  If that were true, I reflected, I better leave for Hong Kong immediately.

  I finally got rid of him with a keener appreciation of why Ms. Johnson was postponing her decision to become affianced. The man was a pompous ass, and Theo had the wit to recognize it.

  It was then noonish and time to saddle up if I expected to make that delayed trip to Fort Lauderdale. So I grabbed my notes on Hector Johnson’s bank references and went down to our underground garage to embark. It was probably a fool’s errand, I glumly reckoned, and if so I was just the man for the job.

  The Miata was cranky on that drive and I realized my darling was badly in need of a tune-up and perhaps a new set of tires. So I didn’t pretend I was competing in the Daytona 500 but took it easy and arrived in Lauderdale a bit after two o’clock. I stopped at a Tex-Mex joint for a bowl of chili hot enough to scorch my uvula and a chilled bottle of Corona. Then I headed for the address of the first reference.

  It was easy to find. J.P. Lordsley was a men’s clothier on Federal Highway south of Oakland Park Boulevard. It seemed to be a hip-elegant shop where Hector might have purchased his fancy duds. I admired his chutzpah in supplying the name of a clothing store as a bank reference. I didn’t even bother going in the place.

  The second required a little more time to locate. The address of Reuben Hagler was on Copans Road and I drove past twice before I realized it was a hole-in-the-wall tucked into a rather decrepit strip mall half-hidden by dusty palms and tattered billboards. I parked and found a narrow door bearing a sign: REUBEN HAGLER, INVESTMENT ADVISER. It was squeezed between the office of a chiropodist and a store selling raunchy T-shirts.

  I didn’t enter. Because sitting out front was a gunmetal Cadillac De Ville, and I was certain Mr. Hagler would have a profile like a cleaver. The Caddie had Michigan plates, and I remembered the number long enough to jot it down on a matchbook cover with my gold Mont Blanc when I returned to the Miata.

  I drove even more sedately on the trip back to Palm Beach. I had a lot to ponder. And the result of all my intense ratiocination? Zilch. I needed help.

  I had hoped to keep Sgt. Al Rogoff out of this nonsense. After all, I was engaged in nothing more than a credit investigation, and it was really none of his business. But conviction was growing that possibly, just possibly, Hector Johnson might be involved in the Shirley Feebling homicide.

  I drove directly home, garaged the Miata, and went looking for my mother. I found her in the greenhouse, sprinkling can in hand, murmuring to her plants.

  “See here, Mrs. McN.,” I said, “last night you said Theo Johnson wasn’t for me and ascribed that opinion to a vague feeling. Couldn’t you be a bit more specific?”

  She paused and stared at me thoughtfully. “Archy, I just thought her a little too determined, a little too aggressive.”

  “Certainly nothing she said.”

  “Oh no. She was quite polite. It was her manner, the way she carried herself. I suppose you think I’m being foolish.”

  I swooped to kiss her cheek. “Not at all,” I said valiantly. “I think you’re a very wise lady.”

  “She’s after you, Archy,” mother said, nodding, and that’s all she’d say.

  Ordinarily, after hearing that a woman was “after me,” I might preen. But as I left the greenhouse a cobweb drifted across my forehead, and as I wiped it away I thought of those female spiders who, after the ecstasy of the bedchamber, devoured their mates. I imagine the poor chaps might seek their fate with a curious mixture of passion and helplessness. Just like me.

  I went into the main house and was heading upstairs when Jamie Olson stopped me in the hallway.

  “That Mrs. Jane Folsby,” he said. “Used to be the Hawkins’ live-in.”

  I nodded.

  He handed me a grimy slip of paper. “Got her phone number,” he said. “No address, but I hear she’s staying with her sister in West Palm Beach.”

  “Thank you, Jamie,” I said gratefully and slipped him a sawbuck. Then I continued up to my nest, stripped off my travel-wrinkled jacket, and phoned Al Rogoff at headquarters.

  “Can you give me an hour?” I asked him.

  “Five minutes,” he said.

  “Then I’ll talk fast,” I promised. “I’ve got two names and one license plate. I’d like you to check them out with the gendarmes of Troy, Michigan.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “I would prefer not to say.”

  “Then I would prefer to reject your request,” he said puckishly.

  Silence.

  “Tell you what,” he said finally, “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse. I’ll do your digging for you, but if and when I get the skinny I won’t turn it over until you tell me why you want it. Okay?”

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “I drive a sensible bargain.”

  “You have a point,” I agreed. “Very well, it’s a deal.”

  I gave him the two names, Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler, and the latter’s license tag.

  “Johnson?” the sergeant repeated, and I could hear interest quickening in his voice. “Isn’t he the guy you’re running a credit trace on?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And his daughter was the model for Hawkin’s last painting?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Except for ‘Untitled.’”

  “Uh-huh,” Al said. “All right, I’ll see what I can do. Don’t expect a report tomorrow, Archy. These things take time. But eventually I’ll get back to you.”

  “A consummation devoutly to be wished,” I said.

  “When are you going to learn to talk like a human being?” he demanded and hung up.

  I showered and dressed informally for my dinner at the Pelican Club with Connie Garcia that evening. I thought I looked rather posh in a jacket of carmine houndstooth check and slacks in what I considered a muted olive plaid. But during the cocktail hour the guy commented that I looked like a sideshow barker, which I thought unnecessarily cruel. But then the old man considers an ascot an affectation so his sartorial opinions really can’t be taken seriously.

  I arrived early at the Club and put Mr. Pettibone to the test by ordering an Emerald Isle. Again I failed to stump him. He just nodded and said, “Gin, green crème de menthe, bitters,” and set to work. The result was quite tasty but packed such a wallop I thought it best to switch to Labatt’s Ale, and I was sipping that when Connie arrived.

  She looked delicious, as usual, but that woman would be ravishing in a cast-iron muumuu. Fortunately she was wearing a silk jacket and shorts in a sea foam shade that complemented her suntan perfectly. Her long black hair was up in a chignon, and she was the cynosure of all eyes—including mine. We moved i
mmediately to the dining room before Leroy’s whole suckling pig was reduced to a glistening skeleton.

  Glancing around at the crowd of famished diners I was happy to see that Americans were finally getting off their pernicious health kick. I mean there was a time when, scared silly by nutritionists, everyone seemed to believe that if they limited their diet to oats, turnips, and other goopy stuff, they’d live forever. Rubbish! Man does not live by tofu alone. Go for it, America!

  We had roasted pork chops and sweet-and-sour sauce, minted noodles, and a salad of arugula and endive with blue cheese dressing. Crusty pumpernickel baguettes. Dessert was a passion fruit tart served with fresh pineapple ice cream. If all that doesn’t put your gastric juices in full flood, go back to your yogurt and see if I care.

  Connie was in a bright, chatty mood that evening. As we gourmandized and steadily emptied our bottle of cab, she prattled on about Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s activities and the latest Palm Beach scandals, real and alleged. It was during dessert that she asked, “Want to hear the latest rumor?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Gossip is mother’s milk to me.”

  “Remember your asking me about Hector Johnson? Well, the talk is that he’s taking a close interest in Silas Hawkin’s widow. In fact, from what I hear, the two of them are what used to be called an item.”

  “No kidding?” I said, feigning a mild but not excessive interest. “He’s pitching her, is he?”

  “Apparently,” Connie went on. “It started the day after Silas was killed. Now Johnson is at her house almost every day, and they’ve been seen together all over the place.”

  “Comforting the bereaved, no doubt.”

  “Oh sure,” she scoffed. “Louise Hawkin also happens to be a well-put-together lady and probably stands to inherit a bundle. Johnson just moved faster than the other middle-aged bachelors in Palm Beach.”

  “I wonder what the daughter thinks of it.”

  “Marcia? Oh, she’s a ding-a-ling; everyone knows that. About a year ago she was picked up at midnight wandering stark naked down Ocean Boulevard.”

  “I never heard that one,” I said. “Drunk? Or stoned?”

  “I don’t think so,” Connie said. “Just a crazy, mixed-up kid.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I said lightly. “You know what I’d like at the bar?”

  “A stomach pump?” she suggested.

  “Slivovitz,” I said. “To settle the old tumtum.”

  “Oh God,” she said. “I hope you won’t start howling at the moon again.”

  “I’ve never done that,” I protested. “Have I?”

  “Yes,” Connie said.

  She had recently purchased a new car, a white Ford Escort. Not enough pizzazz for my taste, but Connie loved it. She led the way back to her place and I followed in the Miata.

  Connie lives in a high-rise condo on the east shore of Lake Worth. Her one-bedroom apartment is small but trig, and the view from her little balcony is tremendous. It’s not really my home-away-from-home, but I had been there many, many times and knew where she kept the Absolut (in the freezer) and that you had to jiggle the handle of the toilet to stop it flushing.

  We sprawled on her rattan couch, shoes off, and just relaxed awhile after that humongous meal. We were so comfortable with each other that we weren’t bothered by long silences. Connie put on a Spanish tape and we listened to a great chantootsie sobbing. I think her songs were all about love betrayed but my Spanish isn’t all that good.

  The tape ended and Connie didn’t flip it, for which I was thankful. She rose and held out her hand. I clasped it and trailed after her into the bedroom. It was a very feminine boudoir with lace ruffles on the bedspread and French dolls propped on the pillows. Over the bed was a framed poster of the movie Casablanca. Connie has a thing for Bogart.

  We undressed as slowly and unconcernedly as an old married couple while we wondered if that passion fruit tart might not have been better with pistachio ice cream. Very domestic. Then we slid into bed, and those B-12s didn’t let me down.

  Connie was a languid lover that night, and it surprised me; she’s usually quite kinetic. But I was grateful; I was more in the mood for violins than electric guitars. So it was sweet to hear murmurs rather than yelps and to embrace softly rather than jounce.

  Then I think we both may have drowsed a bit because when I glanced at her illuminated bedside clock it was close to two A.M.

  “I think I better hit the road,” I said in a low voice.

  Connie opened her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “Super evening, Archy. Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “And happy dreams.”

  She watched me dress. “Who is she, Archy?” she asked quietly.

  I paused with one leg in my slacks and one leg out, an awkward posture as any guilty lad will tell you. “Who is whom?” I inquired, expecting the worst and getting it.

  “That woman you had lunch with at Mizner Park yesterday.”

  I resumed getting into my trousers. “I suppose it would be fruitless to deny it,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said steadily, “it would.”

  “What if I told you she was my cousin?” I said hopefully.

  “Then by actual count she would be the seventeenth female cousin you’ve claimed.”

  I decided to be absolutely honest—a dreadful mistake. “The lady in question,” I said, “is Theodosia Johnson, daughter of Hector. Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth hopes she will become his fiancée. McNally and Son have been requested by Chauncey’s mother to investigate Theodosia’s credentials and make certain she is worthy of becoming a member of the Smythe-Hersforth clan.”

  “And part of your investigation included taking her to lunch in Boca Raton?”

  “There is no adequate substitute for a personal interview,” I said piously.

  Connie turned her head away from me and stared at the wall. “Son,” she said, “it’s coming out your ears.”

  I finished dressing and got my pale pink shirttail caught in the zipper of my slacks. I tried to free it to no avail. The tail hanging out looked like—well, you know what it looked like. Connie turned back to watch my struggle. She began to giggle.

  “I hope you have to go home like that,” she said. “Serves you right.”

  “Listen,” I said furiously, “my luncheon with Miss Johnson was strictly in the line of business. We went to Mizner Park because she had heard of it and wanted to see it. It was a simple business luncheon, and that’s all it was. I don’t expect you to believe that, but I’d like to remind you that some time ago you and I vowed to have an open relationship. Both of us could see and consort with whomever we wished. Isn’t that correct?”

  Unexpectedly she amiably agreed. “You’re right, Archy. My first reaction, after Mercedes Blair told me of seeing you at the Bistro L’Europe—she was having a pizza at Baci—was to hire a hit man and have you blown away. But that, I decided, was a childish reaction. Archy, I have made up my mind. From now on you are completely free to share lunch or dinner or anything else with whomever you please. And I promise not to be jealous or to attack you physically in retaliation.”

  “Well put,” I said enthusiastically.

  “And in return, I expect the same consideration from you.”

  “Granted,” I said. “And gladly.”

  “Good,” she said. “Because tomorrow night I’m having dinner at the Ocean Grand with Binky Watrous.”

  Outrage detonated. “Binky Watrous!” I cried. “But he’s a close friend of mine!”

  “I know,” Connie said calmly. “And I do believe he hopes to become a close friend of mine.”

  “I should warn you,” I said darkly, “his table manners are not of the most delicate. He’s been known to suck his teeth while slurping a beef ragout.”

  “I think I can endure it,” she said, “after seeing you manhandle a stuffed avocado. And on Saturday night I have a movie date with Ferdy Attenborough.”

  “Ferdy?” I almost shouted. “Anoth
er old buddy! Connie, how can you possibly be seen in public with that man? He has an Adam’s apple that looks like he swallowed an elbow.”

  “I think he’s charming,” she said. “In any event, the choice is mine, is it not?”

  “Yes, yes,” I said irascibly, finally getting my shirttail freed from the zipper. “But I question your choice. I fear you are doomed to grievous disappointment.”

  “No problem,” she said cheerfully. “There are plenty of others waiting in the wings. Surely you have no objections, do you?”

  “Of course not,” I said, stiff-upperlipping it.

  “As Shakespeare said, all’s fair in love and war.”

  “It was Smedley,” I said, “but you’re quite right. I hope you have a merry time.”

  “I intend to,” she said evenly.

  I did not kiss her a fond good-night.

  I drove home in a tumultuous mood. Binky Watrous! Ferdy Attenborough! And perhaps scores of unnamed others waiting in the wings. I was shocked, shocked. Naturally I wished Consuela Garcia all the happiness in the world, but the thought of her sharing her felicity with other johnnies was a tad discombobulating. More than a tad if you must know the truth.

  I entered my home through the kitchen, making certain to relock the back door. I paused a moment in the kitchen to pick up a cold bottle of St. Pauli Girl from the fridge. I toted it upstairs, moving as quietly as I could on our creaky staircase. Then I was alone in my own chambers—no French dolls on the pillows—but in no mood for sleep. I believe I mentioned previously that I was bewitched by Theo Johnson’s conduct. Connie’s revelations completed the triumvirate; I was now also bothered and bewildered.

  Binky and Ferdy? Good pals, of course, but birdbrains! I found Ms. Garcia’s declaration of her intentions totally incomprehensible. I mean we had enjoyed so many jolly times together that I saw no reason for her to seek male companionship elsewhere. How could she possibly find another chap who can match my repertoire of ribald limericks?

  I opened my bottle of beer and sat behind my desk. I was still fully clothed and still broody. It just seemed so unfair of Connie, so unjust, so un-everything. Oh, I may have a few minor faults; I admit I am not a perfect swain—but then what man is?