The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  She looked at Johnson. “Nah,” he said to me. “It’s damned decent of you, but Theo and I are going to take care of our Louise. And she’s going to be just fine. Aren’t you, hon?”

  She nodded and reached for a coffee cup with a trembling hand. But before she could lift it to her lips he slopped in a dollop of brandy.

  “Father,” Theo said sharply, “that’s enough.”

  “Not yet,” he said. “She’s got a lot of grief to forget and this is the best medicine.”

  His daughter sat down abruptly in a rattan armchair, crossed her legs, and immediately one foot began to jerk up and down in vexation. I remained standing, knowing I should depart but enthralled by this unpleasant scene that was threatening to become a high-octane confrontation.

  “Louise,” Theo said, “wouldn’t you like to lie down for a while? Take a pill and get some rest.”

  “She doesn’t need a pill,” Hector said. “Those things are poison. Just leave her alone; she’ll get through it.”

  “The woman needs sleep,” Theo said angrily. “Can’t you see that?”

  I was bemused by the way they spoke, as if Mrs. Hawkin was not present. But I don’t believe the poor woman was even aware of the contention swirling around her. She sipped her brandy-laced coffee and stared vacantly into space.

  “Just mind your own business, kid,” Hector said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Since when?” Theo said. “She just lost her husband and stepdaughter. Give her a break.”

  He looked at her coldly. “Keep it up and you’ll get a break,” he said.

  There was no mistaking the menace in his voice, and I suddenly realized this was more than a family squabble. Their conflict was fascinating, but I had no desire to be a witness to violence. Chivalrous heroism comes rather far down on my list of virtues.

  “Theo,” I said, “I wonder if I might have a glass of water.”

  She glared at me, furious that I was interrupting the wrangle. But then she softened, her taut body relaxed; she recognized my effort to end an unseemly shindy in a house of sorrow.

  “Sure, Archy,” she said, rising. “Come with me.”

  She led the way without hesitation as if it was her home and there was no need to ask permission from the owner. But once we were in the tiled kitchen her wrath returned.

  “That crude son of a bitch,” she said, leaning close so I could hear her low voice. “Couth? He never heard the word. He just bulls his way through life, all fists and elbows. He’ll get his one of these days. Do you really want a drink of water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She took it from the tap on the refrigerator door, and I drained the glass gratefully.

  She reached to stroke my hair. “You look very handsome this morning, Archy,” she said. “Dressed so formally. But I prefer you in something more casual. Or nothing at all.”

  Her brazenness shocked me and she must have seen it in my face because she laughed delightedly and pressed her body against mine. “Don’t worry, darling,” she said, “I’m not going to be a problem. I’m going to marry Chauncey and become a nice little hausfrau.”

  “You may find you enjoy it,” I told her.

  “Do you really believe that?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, and she kissed me.

  I drew regretfully away. Her flesh felt glossy under that silk, and she was wearing a scent I could not identify, although I suspected cantharides might have been one of the ingredients.

  We moved back to the Florida room, and I made a respectful farewell, which Louise Hawkin and Hector Johnson barely acknowledged. Madam X gave me a wave and a devilish smile, and I left the Villa Bile. My original label for that house now seemed more apt than ever.

  I exited to find Sgt. Al Rogoff leaning against the fender of his parked pickup. He was wearing civvies—a suit of khaki poplin, white shirt, black knitted tie—and puffing one of his fat cigars.

  “I thought you were on a forty-eight,” I said to him.

  “Still am,” he said. “And still working my tail to the bone. Who’s inside besides Mrs. Hawkin?”

  “Theodosia and Hector Johnson.”

  “I’ll wait till they leave. I’d like to talk to the widow alone.”

  “You may have to wait until Hades has a cold snap,” I informed him. “The Johnsons have taken over.”

  “Oh-ho,” he said. “It’s like that, is it?”

  “Apparently.”

  He gestured toward the white Lincoln. “Is that his?”

  “Yep.”

  “Nice,” Rogoff said. “Do you know what he did before he moved down here?”

  “You name it, Al, and he’s done it. I’ve heard a dozen different versions of his former occupation.”

  “Yeah?” the sergeant said, grinning. “I know what it was.”

  I stared at him for a few beats before I caught it. “You swine!” I cried. “You heard from Michigan.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “I was going to give you a call. Want to come to my place tonight? We can talk about it then.”

  “Can’t you tell me now?”

  “No. I want to go inside and brace Mrs. Hawkin.”

  “Forget it,” I advised. “The lady is half in the bag. Hector has been invigorating her morning coffee with California brandy.”

  “All to the good. In vino veritas. Come over to my wagon around nine o’clock. Okay?”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised. “Is the scoop on Johnson and Hagler interesting?”

  “Very,” he said. He tossed away the stub of his cigar, straightened his jacket, began striding up to the door.

  “Al,” I called, and he turned back. “About Marcia Hawkin,” I said. “Was it suicide?”

  He smiled grimly. “Not unless she managed to wring her own neck.”

  What a curtain line that was! I drove back to the McNally Building with my thoughts awhirl. The Miata had just had a tune-up and I wished my brain could get the same. I mean I simply could not make sense of what was happening: three homicides and the seemingly irrational behavior of the people involved.

  Oh, I could concoct several scenarios but all were too bizarre to convince even a fantasist like me. I kept trying to rein in my supercharged imagination and remind myself that usually the most complex evils are the result of the most prosaic of motives: greed and revenge, for instance. But even concentrating on the basics of crime detection yielded no hint as to the connection between the murders of Silas Hawkin, Shirley Feebling, and Marcia Hawkin. If there was a solution to that conundrum, it eluded me.

  Only temporarily, of course. I assure you I shall not end this account by confessing failure. You’d never speak to me again.

  I had hoped to spend the remainder of that morning sitting quietly in my office composing my expense account. Quiet was necessary since my monthly swindle sheet demands intense creativity. I will not claim it is totally factual but it is based on fact. The theme is exaggeration rather than prevarication. To quote an historic American epigram, “I am not a crook.”

  But peace was not to be mine. I found on my desk a message from our receptionist stating that Mrs. Jane Folsby had phoned and requested I return her call. I immediately did so and let the phone ring seven times but received no reply. I put the message aside and began assembling the bills, memos, vouchers, and receipts that were to provide evidence, however flimsy, for my claimed reimbursement.

  I had hardly started when my phone rang and I hoped it might be Mrs. Folsby. No such luck. I recognized that whiny voice at once.

  “Archy?” he said.

  “Chauncey,” I said, “how are you?”

  “All right,” he said. “I guess.”

  “I understand congratulations are in order.”

  “What? Oh, you mean me and Theodosia. Well, sure, thanks.”

  “You must be a very happy man.”

  “Uh, not completely. Archy, I have a problem. I’d like to talk to you about it. Get your input.”

  �
�CW,” I said, “if it’s legal input you require, I suggest you consult my father. I’m just a rank amateur.”

  “Well, uh, it’s not really legal input,” he whined. “At least not at this stage. It’s more friendly input I need.”

  By this time the input madness was sending me right up the wall. But I was determined not to be the first to surrender. “Well, I can provide that,” I told the Chinless Wonder. “I presume you’re speaking of personal input.”

  “That’s right,” he said eagerly. “Intimate input.”

  “Confidential input?”

  “Correct! Top secret input.”

  Then I knew I was never going to win the Great Input War. “Chauncey,” I said, sighing, “what exactly is it you want?”

  “Can you come over to my office?”

  “At the bank? Now?”

  He had the decency to say, “Please.”

  “You wouldn’t care to chat over lunch? At Bice perhaps?”

  “Oh no,” he said hastily. “No, no, no. Someone might overhear. My office would be best.”

  “Better than my garage,” I said, alluding to our previous meeting. “Very well, CW, I’ll come at once.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and the whine had an overtone of piteousness.

  I walked to his bank, only a short distance on Royal Palm Way. The building was definitely not Florida. It looked like a Vermont relic of the 1920s: heavy granite exterior, towering pillars, a marbled, high-ceilinged ulterior, brass-barred cages for the tellers. And a funereal silence. Even the antiquated clients spoke in whispers.

  And the private office of Vice-president Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth was more of the same. It was huge, oak desk unlittered, furnishings in grave good taste. No file cabinets, no computer terminals, no indication that any business at all was conducted in that somber chamber. And it probably wasn’t. CWs sinecure was due to mommy’s wealth being invested with the private banking division. If she ever pulled her bucks, the Chinless Wonder might find himself flipping burgers at McDonalds.

  “What’s this all about?” I asked after he got me planted in a leather wing chair alongside his desk.

  Before he replied he made certain his door was firmly closed and locked. Then he returned to the calfskin throne behind his desk.

  “It’s confidential, Archy,” he said portentously. “I trust that’s understood.”

  I looked at him. I was about to make an impudent remark, but then I saw the poor dolt was truly disturbed. As he had cause to be, having been cuckolded before he was married. And I was the lad who had put the horns on him. Levity on my part would have been rather pitiless, wouldn’t you say?

  “Of course,” I said solemnly. “What seems to be the problem?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Well, uh, Theo Johnson has agreed to marry me. I first asked her father for permission, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, wondering if he had fallen to one knee while making his proposal to Madam X.

  “And mother has given her conditional approval to our union,” he added.

  Yes, he actually said “our union.”

  “Then things seem to be going swimmingly,” I commented.

  “Uh, not quite,” he said, not looking at me. “Theo wants me to sign a paper.”

  I must admit the lower mandible dropped a bit. “Oh?” I said. “What kind of a paper, CW?”

  “A sort of a contract,” he confessed, fiddling with a letter opener on his desk.

  “Are you talking about a prenuptial agreement?” I asked. “A contract that spells out the property rights of both spouses—and their children, if any—in the event of separation, divorce, or death?”

  “I guess that’s what it is,” he said miserably.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And how much is the lady asking?”

  He looked up at the ceiling—anywhere but at me. “Five million,” he said.

  I am proud to say I did not whistle or emit any other rude noise. “Rather hefty,” I observed.

  “Oh, it’s not the sum that bothers me,” he said. “Because, of course, Theo and I would never separate or divorce, and we’re both in good health. In any event, I’d leave her well-provided for in case I should die. No, the money isn’t an issue. The problem is that if I inform mother of this—what did you call it?”

  “Prenuptial agreement.”

  “Yes. Well, uh, if I tell mom about it, she might change her mind about Theo. You understand? In fact, she might become so furious that she’d rewrite her will. And then where would I be?”

  “You’re her only child, are you not? And the closest family member. I doubt very much if she could disinherit you completely.”

  “Maybe not,” he said worriedly, “but she could cut me down to the bare minimum, couldn’t she? And then would I have enough to promise Theo the five million she wants?”

  “Ah,” I said, “you do have a problem. I presume your mother has been introduced to your fiancée.”

  “Yes, they’ve met. Once.”

  “And how did they get along?”

  “Well, uh, they didn’t exactly become instant pals.”

  I nodded, recalling my mother’s reaction to Madam X. Maybe the matrons saw something neither Chauncey nor I recognized. Or perhaps it was merely maternal possessiveness. (“No one’s good enough for my boy!”)

  “What is it you’d like me to do, CW?”

  He stroked his bushy mustache with a knuckle. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But everyone says you’re so clever. I thought maybe you could give me a tip on how to handle this situation in a clever way.”

  “I’d like to help you,” I told him. “But I can’t come up with an instant solution this moment. Let me think about it awhile.”

  “Well, all right,” he said grudgingly. “But not too long, Archy. I mean I don’t want Theo to think I’m stalling her. You know?”

  “Of course,” I said, rising. “It’s obvious you’re very intent on marrying this woman.”

  “Oh God, yes!” he said with more fervor than I had believed him capable of. “I must have her!”

  “Quite understandable,” I said. “But meanwhile, CW, do not sign any paper, agreement, or contract. Is that clear?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so. Sign nothing!”

  We shook hands and exchanged wan smiles. He unlocked his door, and I departed. I ambled back to the McNally Building suffused with a warm feeling of schadenfreude. But that, I admitted, was unkind and unworthy of the McNally Code of Honor, the main principle of which is never to kick a man when he’s down. Unless, of course, he deserves it.

  When I returned to my own office, which, after an hour spent in Chauncey’s cathedral, had all the ambience of a paint locker, the first thing I did was phone Mrs. Jane Folsby again. This time she came on the line.

  “Oh, Mr. McNally,” she said, “I’m so glad you called. I know you’ve heard about Marcia Hawkin.”

  “I have,” I said. “Sorrowful.”

  “Terrible,” she said with some vehemence. “Just terrible. She had her faults as we all do, but she didn’t deserve to die like that. It wasn’t suicide, was it?”

  “I really don’t know the details,” I said cautiously.

  “I know it wasn’t,” she said decisively. “And I have my suspicions. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Mrs. Folsby, if you know anything relating to Marcia’s death, don’t you think you should speak to the police? Sergeant Al Rogoff is handling the case. You’ve met him.”

  “No,” she said determinedly. “This is something I don’t want to tell the police. Because then they’ll want a sworn statement and I’ll get all involved and might even be forced to testify in court. And I really don’t have any proof. But I know what I know, and I’ve got to tell someone. Please, Mr. McNally. I’ll feel a lot better if I tell you, and then you can do whatever you think best. At least my conscience will be clear.”

  “This sounds serious,” I said.
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  “It is serious. Will you meet with me?”

  “Of course. Would you care to have lunch someplace or come to my office?”

  “Oh no,” she said immediately, “that won’t do at all. Could you possibly come over here to my sister’s home in West Palm Beach?”

  “Be glad to,” I told her, and she gave me the address. We agreed to meet at eleven o’clock on Friday morning.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, and the chirp came back into her voice. “You don’t know what a relief it will be to tell someone. I haven’t been able to sleep a wink since Marcia died.”

  And she hung up. Al Rogoff accuses me of overusing the word “intriguing.” But at that moment I couldn’t think of a better one.

  I had absolutely no idea of what Mrs. Jane Folsby wished to reveal to me, so I discarded that topic instanter. I would learn on the morrow.

  As for CW’s admission that his marriage depended upon his signing a five-million-dollar agreement with his bride-to-be, I could only conclude that Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth might not be as witless as I had assumed. And further, the senior McNally had been his usual omniscient self when he had described marriage as a contractual obligation.

  What was perhaps most astonishing to me was my own ingenuousness. When I first met Theodosia Johnson I was convinced her nature had to be as pure as her beauty. Then, after I had been privileged to view that blue butterfly, I became aware of her fiercely independent willfulness. And now third thoughts had superseded the second; she was apparently a young lady with a shrewd instinct for the bottom line.

  But then my musing veered from the relations of Madam X with the Chinless Wonder to her relations with yrs. truly. It occurred to me that Theo had been aware from the start that I had been assigned to investigate her bona fides. During that demented deli luncheon, her father had denied she knew of my role. But Hector, I now reckoned, was as consummate a liar as I.

  And if Theo was cognizant of what I was about, perhaps the granting of her favors (with the promise of more to come) was her astute method of insuring my willing cooperation in her endeavor to snare the heir to the Smythe-Hersforth fortune. It’s possible that was her motive, was it not? Naturally I preferred to believe she had succumbed to the McNally charm. But I could not delude myself by completely rejecting the notion that she had been the seductress and I the object of her Machiavellian plotting.