The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  That was hardly my business or my concern. What did trouble me was the role of Svengali that Hector Johnson seemed to have assumed. It was hard to believe that in the short period since her husband’s murder Louise Hawkin had succumbed to the man’s forceful charm and blandishments.

  Unless, of course, their affair had started before Silas Hawkin’s death. That could be easily explained. Hector’s daughter had posed for the artist. It would not be extraordinary if he had met and become friendly with the Hawkin family. Perhaps what I had just witnessed was a relationship that had existed not for days but for months. One never knows, do one?

  By then I’d had just about enough of the Hawkin and Johnson families for one day, thank you, and was looking forward to a quiet evening at home. I intended to retire to my digs after dinner and play my favorite Al Jolson cassette while bringing my journal up to date. I might even have a small marc to help me forget that as I labored, Connie Garcia and Binky Watrous were dining together. I hoped their raspberry soufflé would collapse. A savage desire, I admit, but surely understandable.

  Unfortunately I was no sooner ensconced behind my desk, marc in fist and Jolson singing “Swanee,” than my phone buzzed. When it’s an outside call it rings; when it’s an interior call it buzzes. Don’t ask me why. The caller was Jamie Olson downstairs in the kitchen.

  “Woman parked outside,” he reported. “Wants to talk to you.”

  “What woman?”

  “Won’t say.”

  “Did you ask her to come in?”

  “Won’t come in.”

  “What’s she driving?” I asked, dreaming it might be Connie’s white Ford Escort and that she had had a squabble with Binky and had sought me out for comforting. I would, I decided, provide it generously.

  “A black Jeep Cherokee,” Jamie Olson said.

  I sighed. “I’ll be right down.”

  It was parked on the graveled turnaround in front of our garage. The door on the passenger side was opened as I approached. I peered within. Marcia Hawkin. She was wearing a soiled cotton trench coat buttoned up to the neck. I wondered what she wore underneath—if anything. Right about then, I figured, Jolson was singing “I’m Sitting on Top of the World.” I wasn’t.

  “Marcia,” I said. “How nice. Won’t you come in?”

  “No,” she said and beckoned.

  I slid in but left the door ajar a few inches in case I had to make a hasty exit. If she was as dotty as Connie had implied, a fast retreat might become necessary. I know there are times when my father is convinced he spawned a dunderhead, but there are also times when I have the wit to calculate possible dangers and take the proper precautions.

  She didn’t turn to look at me but stared straight ahead through the windshield. “She’s selling our home,” she announced. “The studio. Everything. Even my bed. Can she do that?”

  I thought it best to feign ignorance, hoping she was not aware of my visit that afternoon.

  “Your mother?” I asked.

  “Stepmother,” she corrected me angrily. “Can she sell the house?”

  “Is the title in her name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she can dispose of it any way she wishes.”

  “Shit!” she said furiously. “I love that place. Where am I going to live?”

  “Surely she’ll buy or lease another dwelling. Perhaps smaller but just as attractive and comfortable.”

  “I don’t want another,” she said. “I’m not going to live with her anymore. Never, never, never!”

  She seemed so distraught I hesitated to say anything but felt I had to express sympathy for her plight. “Do you have family or friends you could stay with?” I asked.

  “I told you I have no one. It’s all his fault.”

  “Whose fault?”

  “Hector Johnson. That bitch’s father.”

  The word didn’t shock me so much as her tone. Pure venom.

  “Marcia,” I said quietly, “sometimes things happen we feel are outrageous. The best thing to do is accept with resignation and as much grace as we can muster.”

  Finally she turned to look at me. “That’s bullshit,” she said. “I’m not going to meekly accept what’s happening. I’ve done that all my life—accept. But I’m not going to do it anymore. Believe me, I know what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked her.

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she answered, a response so childish I felt like weeping. “You know that saying: Don’t get mad, get even? That’s what I’m going to do—get even.”

  “I hope you won’t do anything foolish,” I ventured.

  Her laugh was a cackle. “They’re the fools,” she said. “Not me. They’d like to put me away—did you know that?”

  I was overwhelmed by her mysteries. “Who wants to put you away? For what? And where?”

  “I’m as normal as you are,” she said hotly, which I thought was an artless comparison. “You’re sure she can sell the house?”

  “She can,” I repeated, “if the title is in her name.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” she said. “You can go now.”

  This abrupt, impolite dismissal was a minor affront from an obviously disturbed young woman, and I was happy to make my escape. I started to climb out of the Jeep when she suddenly yanked me back and kissed me on the lips, her tongue darting.

  “There!” she cried. “See?”

  I got out and before I could turn and close the door she had started up and pulled away with engine roar and a spurt of gravel. I stood there and watched the Cherokee make a wild turn onto Ocean Boulevard and speed away.

  I went back upstairs to finish my marc and hear Jolson singing “Baby Face.” I worked steadily on my journal until eleven-thirty. Then I closed up shop and, feeling brain dead, prepared for bed. But the aggravations of that wretched day had not yet ended.

  My phone rang. Not buzzed but rang.

  “Hi, luv,” Connie Garcia said cheerily. “I’m home safe and sound. All locked up, bolted, and chained. I knew you’d want to know.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I hate to tell you this, Archy, but I had a wonderful time tonight.”

  “Why should you hate to tell me?” I said, gritting the old bicuspids. “I’m happy you enjoyed yourself.”

  “And Binky,” she said, giggling. “I also enjoyed him.”

  It was too much.

  “He’s such good company,” she prattled on. “Why didn’t you tell me he can do birdcalls.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “His imitation of a loon is especially realistic.”

  “And tomorrow night it’s Ferdy Attenborough,” she went on blithely. “We’re going to La Vieille Maison in Boca.”

  “How nice,” I said stiffly. “Do try the quail with grapes.”

  “I intend to,” she said. “It’ll be a welcome change from cheeseburgers at the Pelican Club. Actually, I called to tell you that you were exactly right. You and I should become more socially active. Separately. I mean we should both date other people. Our relationship was becoming much too restrictive. Don’t you agree?”

  It was impossible to disagree since I had been warbling that tune for years. “As long as you’re happy,” I said.

  “Oh, I am,” she said. “Deliriously. I hope you don’t mind, Archy.”

  “Mind?” I said loftily. “Of course not. Why on earth should I mind?”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that. On Monday Wes Trumbaugh is taking me to a dinner-dance at his club.”

  “Wes Trumbaugh?” I screamed. “Connie, that man is the biggest lecher in Palm Beach!”

  “Oooo,” she said, “that does sound fascinating. Good-night, Archy, and sleep well.”

  She hung up. Sleep well? Hah! I fiercely punched my pillows twice, once for Binky, once for Ferdy. Then I added a third for Wes Trumbaugh.

  Chapter 10

  I WOULD PREFER NOT to write about that weekend. I would prefer it never happened. I
would prefer the world went directly from Friday night to Monday morning.

  But unfortunately it did occur: two ghastly days during which I made a complete ass of myself and am still apologizing for my abominable conduct.

  I shall not detail all my disgraceful actions during those forty-eight hours. Suffice to say that I ate too much, drank too much, smoked too much, laughed too loudly, and told pointless jokes. My most shameful memory is standing on a table at the Pelican Club at two A.M. trying to recite “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” to a jeering audience as hammered as I.

  I awoke on Monday wondering if it might be possible to commit hara-kiri with my Swiss Army knife. An ax-murderer, having dispatched wife, children, in-laws, and the family dog, always tells the police, “The devil made me do it.” I would have liked to make that defense but my pride would not allow it. No, my beastly behavior was completely the fault of yrs. truly, Archibald McNally.

  I usually scrape my jowls with a conventional single-edged razor but that morning, being somewhat unsteady, I opted for an electric shaver, fearing I might nick the old jugular. It was only after drinking a quart of cold water and a pint of hot coffee that I started to regain a slight semblance of normality.

  I arrived at the office before noon, determined that henceforth I would forswear cigarettes, strong drink, and ham hocks. I sat at my desk, absent-mindedly lighted an English Oval, and jumpstarted my groggy cerebrum. The result of my lucubrations? The murder of Silas Hawkin was really none of my business. The murder of Shirley Feebling was really none of my business. My job was merely to investigate the bona fides of Theodosia Johnson.

  Yet I could not ignore a conviction that the two homicides and my assignment were inextricably mixed. One loose end that might lead to untangling this snarl was Reuben Hagler, the self-styled investment adviser of Fort Lauderdale. Another was Marcia Hawkin’s fury and implied threats. A third was the don’t-give-a-damn attitude of Madam X. And the fourth was her father’s patent attempt to cozy up to the Widow Hawkin.

  This logical recap included all of my questions but provided none of the answers. So I decided to forgo logic, do a bit of improv riffing and see what happened. Hey, if you can’t get a little fun from your job, seek employment elsewhere. Thus spaketh A. McNally.

  Pinky Schatz. Do you remember the name?

  She was the confidante of Shirley Feebling and had the misfortune of finding that poor woman’s corpse. I was sure Pinky had been interrogated by the Fort Lauderdale police, but sometimes a material witness doesn’t tell the cops everything he or she knows, not in an effort to impede the investigation but because of a personal motive. Or the witness doesn’t fully comprehend what observations and/or knowledge are germane. In any event, I reckoned it might help my own inquiry if I met Ms. Schatz and heard her story personally.

  She was not listed in the Fort Lauderdale or Pompano Beach telephone directories. She and Shirl had been co-workers so I called the topless car wash. The man who answered had a growly voice, and I guessed him to be Jake, the woolly mammoth.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Could I speak to Pinky Schatz, please.”

  “She don’t work here no more.”

  “Do you have her present home address?” I asked. “This is the McNally Insurance Company. We have a check for her in payment for damages her car suffered in a recent collision, but our letter was returned to us marked ‘Not at this address.’ I imagine she’s moved and neglected to inform us.”

  “I don’t know where she’s living,” he said. “Try the Leopard Club on Federal. She’s dancing there.”

  He hung up before I could thank him.

  I had heard of the Leopard Club. It was said to be an upscale and pricey nude dancing establishment where the performers mingled freely with the patrons, most of whom were suits carrying calfskin attaché cases. I had never been tempted to visit since the idea of sipping an overpriced aperitif while a naked young woman gyrated on my table seemed to me a betrayal of Western Civilization.

  However, I resolutely conquered my squeamishness and set out to find Pinky Schatz. But first I drove the Miata to my garage in West Palm Beach where I left it for a tune-up, eschewing new tires until my checking account was off life-support and breathing normally. I was given a loaner, a black three-year-old Buick LeSabre. It was rather sedate for my taste but certainly less noticeable and less likely to be remembered than my jazzy little chariot.

  Two hours later I entered the Leopard Club, after passing a tenner to the muscular sentry at the door. A score of men, mostly middle-aged and solemn of mien, sat at small tables and watched nude dancers on a brightly lighted stage oscillating more or less in rhythm to music from overhead loudspeakers.

  There were a half-dozen dancers, each au naturel except for a single garter about one thigh. Tucked into the elastic strip were folded bills: ones, fives, tens, a few twenties: tips from appreciative customers. When the music ended, the dancers left the stage and came down to cajole patrons into paying an added fee for a solo dance atop their table. Meanwhile the music started again, and a new set of dancers pranced onto the stage and began to demonstrate their flexibility.

  I had been approached by a surly waitress, fully clothed, who took my order for a bottle of Heineken. She brought it almost immediately along with a tab for ten dollars I was apparently expected to pay instanter. But before I did, I asked if Pinky Schatz was present.

  “Yeah,” the waitress said, “the fatso redhead on the stage. You want I should send her over when the set ends?”

  “Please,” I said, paid for the beer, gave her a five-dollar tip, and glanced sorrowfully at my rapidly shrinking wallet.

  The music paused briefly, the dancers left the stage, a new squad took over. The “fatso redhead” came sashaying toward my table. She had the loveliest silicone I’ve ever seen.

  “Hi, honey,” she said, beaming. “You asked for me?”

  “If you’re Pinky Schatz.”

  She nodded. “That’s right, and I bet you want a table dance. It’s my specialty,”

  “No, no,” I said hastily. “Just a little conversation.”

  “Oh-ho,” she said. “Well, that’s okay, too. You can tell me how your wife doesn’t understand you. Can I have a drink?”

  “Of course. Whatever you want.”

  “Hey, Mabel,” she called to the waitress. “My usual.” Then she leaned to me. “They’ll charge you for booze,” she whispered, “but it’s just iced tea.”

  I liked her. She was a large, vital woman with a ready smile and a hearty laugh. Marvelous skin tone. Also, she had a tattoo of an American flag on her left bicep, and that reminded me of you know who.

  Her drink was served and we lifted our glasses to each other.

  “You’re a tall one,” she said. “I like that. How come you asked for me?”

  “You were a close friend of Shirley Feebling, weren’t you?”

  Her face hardened and she started to rise. I put out a hand to stop her.

  “Please don’t leave,” I begged. “I’m not a cop, and this is very important to me.”

  She sat down slowly. It was odd conversing at a minuscule table with a rosy, naked woman, but I swear to you I wasn’t distracted. Charmed, as a matter of fact, but not unduly aroused.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  I had devised a scam on the drive down from Palm Beach. It was a cruel deception but I could think of no alternative.

  “My name is Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth,” I said. “Did Shirl ever mention me?”

  Her big eyes grew even bigger. “Oh gawd,” she said. “You’re the guy who wanted to marry her.”

  I nodded.

  Her hand fell softly on my arm. “I’m sorry, Chauncey,” she said. “Really sorry.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Listen, I need your help. The police seem to be getting nowhere on this, and I want the guy who did it found and sent to the chair. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Sure,” s
he said. “Me, too. Shirl was my best friend, and a sweeter girl never lived.”

  “Did she ever say anything about someone following her or annoying her or making threatening phone calls? Anything like that?”

  “I told the cops. She said that for the last few days—this was before she was killed—she kept seeing this Cadillac. It was around all the time while she was at work and at home and when she went shopping.”

  “A Cadillac? Did she describe the model and color?”

  “Not the model. She said it was a funny color, like bronzy.”

  “Did she get a look at the driver?”

  “Not a good clear look. She said he had a hatchet face. She said she thought she had seen him before in the pizza joint near the car wash.”

  “Pinky, have you any idea who she was talking about? Did you ever meet a hatchet-faced man who drives a car like that?”

  She looked at me steadily, her stare unwavering, unblinking. It shocked me because when people are about to lie, they put on a look like that. It is not true that liars are shifty-eyed, blink frequently, or turn their gaze away. Experienced liars hope to prove their honesty by a steady, wide-eyed look expressing complete probity.

  “Why, no,” Pinky Schatz said. “I never met a man like that. I have no idea who he could be. That’s what I told the cops.”

  I thanked her, slipped her fifty dollars, and left the Leopard Club. I was depressed. Not so much by the sadness of that joint—lonely, longing men and bored, contemptuous women—but by what I considered the blatant falsehoods of Pinky Schatz. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the motive for her lies. It was fear.

  It was latish when I arrived back in Palm Beach and it seemed silly to return to my office and stare at the walls. So I went for a swim, removed the ocean’s residue with a hot shower and loofah glove, and dressed for what I devoutly hoped would be an uneventful evening.

  And it was until about nine-thirty. I had gone up to my lair after dinner and was recording in my journal the mise-en-scène at the Leopard Club when my phone did what phones are supposed to do. I wasn’t sure I wanted to pick it up, fearing it might be Connie calling to tell me what a frabjous evening she was having with Wes Trumbaugh.