The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  Then, her career in decline, she had the great good sense to marry a moneyed business executive whose corporation reaped satisfying profits by producing plastic place mats imprinted with classic scenes such as the Parthenon and Las Vegas at night. Upon his retirement the childless but apparently happy couple moved to Palm Beach. He died five years later on the tennis court while playing a third set in 104° heat, and his widow inherited a bundle.

  Having learned all I needed to know about the lady in question, I had a videocassette made of all the snippets of tape taken by the jewelry store’s hidden TV cameras. The subject was easily recognizable and clearly shown slipping glittering items into her capacious handbag. She did it so deftly, so nonchalantly, I could only conclude she had long practiced the craft.

  I decided my best strategy was a “cold call,” descending upon her suddenly without making an appointment and giving her the opportunity to prepare a defense. And so on a warmish evening in mid-September I tootled my flag-red Miata down the coast to the Via Palma. The lady’s home turned out to be a faux Spanish hacienda with the most spectacular landscaping I had ever seen.

  The door was opened by a uniformed maid who accepted my business card and advised me to wait—outside. In a few moments the door was reopened and the matron herself stood before me, clad in hostess pajamas of ginger-colored silk.

  “Yes, Mr. McNally,” she said, pleasantly enough, “what’s this all about?”

  I mentioned the name of the client represented by my law firm and told her I wished to discuss a personal matter of some importance. She hesitated briefly, then asked me in. She led the way to a small sitting room where a television set was playing. And there, on the screen, was the lady herself, thirty years younger. I wondered if that was how she spent her evenings: watching reruns of ancient sitcoms in which she had performed.

  She was a striking woman with a proud posture and complete self-possession. Her features had the tight, glacial look that bespoke a face-lift, and her figure was so trim and youthful that I imagined breast implants, a tummy tuck, and a rump elevation had been included in a package deal.

  She switched off the TV and, without asking me to be seated, looked at me inquiringly. There was no way I could pussyfoot, but as gently as I could I explained that her favorite jewelry store was well aware of her shoplifting. If she doubted that, I said, I had brought along a videocassette that showed her in action.

  I didn’t know what to expect: furious denial, tears, hysteria, perhaps even a physical assault on yrs. truly. What I received was a welcome surprise: a really brilliant smile.

  “Hidden TV cameras, I suppose,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “That’s not fair,” she said with a charming pout. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. McNally?”

  “I would indeed, thank you, ma’am.”

  Five minutes later we were seated on a mauve velvet couch, sipping excellent kir royales, and discussing her criminal career like civilized people. I was immensely relieved.

  “I suppose you think me a kleptomaniac,” she said easily.

  “The thought had occurred to me,” I acknowledged.

  She shook her head and artfully coiffed white curls bobbed about. “Not so,” she said. “I did not have a deprived childhood. I never lacked for a loving mate in my life. I have no feeling of insecurity nor do I desire to seek revenge against a cruel, unfeeling world.”

  “Then why?” I asked, truly perplexed.

  “Boredom,” she said promptly. “Shoplifting gives me a thrill. It’s such a naughty thing to do, you see. And at my age I must battle ennui as vigorously as I do arthritis. Can you understand that?”

  I laughed. I loved this splendid woman. “Of course I understand,” I said. “But I’m afraid your motive, no matter how reasonable it may seem to you and me, would not constitute a convincing legal defense.”

  “What is it the jewelry store wants?”

  “Payment for or return of the items you have stolen. I presume you still have them?”

  “I do.”

  “What they don’t want,” I went on, “what they emphatically do not wish is to lose you as a customer. They value your patronage.”

  “As well they should,” she said. “I spend a mint there. But they are very agreeable people, very eager to please. I should hate to go elsewhere for my trinkets.”

  We looked at each other.

  “You strike me as a very clever young man, Mr. McNally,” she said. “Can you suggest a solution?”

  “Yes, I can,” I said without hesitation. “Continue shopping there. At the same time resume the depredations that relieve your boredom. But grant permission to the store to bill you monthly for the merchandise you steal.”

  She laughed delightedly. “A wonderful solution!” she cried.

  “It won’t spoil it for you to know that your thefts are being observed and you will be charged for them?”

  She lifted her chin. “I am an actress,” she said with great dignity. “I know how to pretend.”

  “Excellent,” I said, finishing my drink and rising. “I am sure our client will be delighted with the arrangement.”

  She escorted me to the door and we clasped hands.

  “Do come see me again,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I certainly shall. It’s been a delightful visit.”

  “Hasn’t it?” she said and leaned forward to kiss my cheek.

  I drove home in a sportive mood. I was more convinced than ever that goofiness was engulfing the world, but I also admitted that if everyone acted in a sensible, logical fashion there would be little gainful employment for your humble correspondent.

  I arrived at the McNally manse at about ten o’clock. I pulled into our three-car garage between my father’s black Lexus and mother’s antique wood-bodied Ford station wagon. The lights in mon père’s study were still ablaze, and when I entered the house through the back door I saw the oak portal to his sanctum was ajar. It was his signal that he deigned to receive visitors. That evening, I knew, he was awaiting a report on my confrontation with the piratical widow.

  He was seated behind his magisterial desk and, as usual, there was a glass of port at his elbow. And, as usual, he was smoking one of his silver-banded James Upshall pipes. And, as usual, he was reading one of his leather-bound volumes of Dickens. I admired his perseverance. He was determined to plow his way through that author’s entire oeuvre, and I could only hope he survived long enough to succeed.

  He looked up when I entered and put his book aside. He invited me to pour myself a glass of port. I respectfully declined, not daring to tell him that I thought the last case he had bought was on the musty side. But I did relax in one of his club chairs and delivered an abbreviated account of my meeting with the bored shoplifter.

  He did not laugh aloud but one of his hirsute eyebrows rose a good half-inch and he stroked his guardsman’s mustache with a knuckle, a sure sign that he was mightily amused.

  “A win-win outcome, Archy,” he commented. “Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Then he was silent and I knew he had slipped into his pondering mode. I have mentioned several times in previous tales that my father is a world-class muller, always meditating before making any meaningful pronouncement or taking any significant action. After all, he is an attorney and knows the dangers of hasty words and decisions. But is it absolutely necessary to ruminate for three minutes before resolving to add a drop of Tabasco to one’s deviled egg?

  “Archy,” he said finally, “are you acquainted with Griswold Forsythe the Second?”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” I replied. “The all-time champion bore of Palm Beach.”

  “And his son, Griswold Forsythe the Third?”

  “I know him also. A chip off the old blockhead.”

  Father grimaced. He did not like me to jest about the clients of McNally & Son. He felt that since their fees paid for our steak au poivre we should accord them at least a modicum of respect
.

  “The senior Forsythe came to the office this afternoon,” mein papa continued. “His problem is somewhat akin to the case you have just concluded.”

  I groaned. “He’s so antiquated he remembers the two-pants suit. Don’t tell me the old gaffer has become a shoplifter.”

  “No, he is not a thief but he suspects someone in his home may be. He claims several items of value have disappeared.”

  “Such as?”

  “A first edition Edgar Allan Poe. A large, unset cushion-cut emerald belonging to his wife. A Georgian silver soup ladle. A small Benin bronze. An original Picasso lithograph. And other things.”

  “The thief has expensive tastes,” I observed.

  “Yes,” father agreed, “and Forsythe is convinced he or she is a family member or one of the household staff, all live-in servants who have been with him for years.”

  “But the thefts are a recent development?”

  My liege nodded. “Naturally Forsythe doesn’t wish to take the matter to the authorities. He would much prefer a discreet investigation.”

  This time I moaned. “That means I will have to spend a great deal of time prowling about the Forsythe castle, that ugly heap of granite north of Lady Horowitz’s estate. How does Mr. Forsythe propose to account for my presence? Does he intend to tell family and staff what I’m up to?”

  “Oh no, definitely not. He will be the only one who knows your true purpose. As you may be aware, he has a rather extensive private library. He suggests that he tell the others you have been employed to prepare a catalog of his books.”

  I considered that a moment. “It might work,” I admitted. “But is he absolutely certain the thief is not an outsider? A deliveryman perhaps. The guy who trims his shrubbery.”

  “I asked him that, but he believes it would be impossible. When workers are allowed inside they are always accompanied by the housekeeper. And some of the missing items were hidden. The Benin bronze, for instance, was not on display but placed far back on a closet shelf in Forsythe’s study. And the unset emerald was in a suede pouch tucked into the bottom drawer of his wife’s dresser. Family members and staff may have been aware of their existence and site, but strangers could not know and had no opportunity to search. Mr. Forsythe is expecting you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

  “Nine?” I said indignantly. “Father, I’m not fully awake by then.”

  “Try,” His Majesty said and picked up his Dickens.

  I climbed the creaking stairs to my mini-suite on the third floor. It was hardly lavish—small sitting room, bedroom, bathroom—but I had no complaints; it was my cave and I prized it. The rent was particularly attractive. Zip.

  I poured myself a wee marc from my liquor supply stored within a battered sea chest at the foot of my bed. Then I lighted an English Oval (only my third of the day) and plopped down behind the ramshackle desk in my sitting room. I donned reading glasses, for although I will not be thirty-seven years old until March of next year, my peepers are about sixty-five and require specs for close-up work.

  I keep a journal of my discreet inquiries, jotting down things I have learned, heard, assumed, or imagined. The scribblings, added to almost daily when I am working on a case, serve as a reminder of matters important and matters trivial.

  That night I wrote finis to the story of the shoplifting widow and started a fresh page with my latest assignment: discovering who in the ménage of Griswold Forsythe II was swiping all that swell stuff. I thought the inquiry would be as much of a drag as the victim and his tiresome son. I reckoned the chances were good that the allegedly purloined items had simply been misplaced. For instance, I still haven’t found my Mickey Mouse beach towel although I am fairly certain it hasn’t been stolen.

  I went to bed that night still musing on the looniness of the human condition. My investigation of the Forsythe thieveries was to prove how right I was. But the craziness I uncovered turned out to be no ha-ha matter. It was scary and before it was finished I began to believe the entire world was one enormous acorn academy—with no doctors in attendance.

  2

  “I WAS A DIRTY old man at the age of nine,” Griswold Forsythe II pronounced in his churchy voice and waited for my laugh.

  I obliged, fighting valiantly against an urge to nod off.

  “I see these young girls in their short skirts,” he droned on. “Tanned legs that start under their chin and go on forever. And I feel a great sadness. Not because I shall never have them but because I know their beauty will wither. Age insists on taking its inevitable toll.”

  “Mr. Forsythe,” I said, “about your missing treasures...”

  “But then,” he continued to preach, “age does have its compensations. I’ll tell you something about death, Archy: one grows into it. I don’t mean you begin to die the day you’re born; everyone knows that. But as the years dwindle down you gradually come to terms with your own mortality. And, in my case, begin to look forward to dissolution with curiosity and, I must admit, a certain degree of relish.”

  “How long, O Lord, how long?” I prayed silently. And you know, the odd thing about this garrulous fogy was that he was not all that ancient. Not much older than my father, I reckoned; I knew his son was about my age. Yet the two Forsythes, II and III, had brought codgerism to new heights—or depths. I shall not attempt to reproduce their speech exactly on these pages; the plummy turgidities would give you a sudden attack of the Z’s.

  And not only in their speech, but both father and son affected a grave and stately demeanor. No sudden bursts of laughter from those two melancholies, no public manifestations of delight, surprise, or almost any other human emotion. I often wondered what might happen if their rusty clockwork slipped a gear.

  “Mr. Forsythe,” I tried again, desperately this time, “about the stolen items...”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Distressing. And we can’t let it continue, can we?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Distressing,” he repeated. “Most distressing.”

  We were seated in his library, a gloomy chamber lined with floor-to-ceiling oak cases of books, most of them in matching sets. There was a handsome ladder on wheels that enabled one to reach the upper shelves, but I couldn’t believe he or anyone else in his ménage had read even a fraction of those thousands of volumes.

  “I suggest you make this room your headquarters,” he instructed. “Your combat center, so to speak. Feel free to come and go as you please. Speak to anyone you wish: family members and staff.”

  “They are not aware of my assignment?”

  “They are not,” he said firmly. “Not even my wife. So I expect you to conduct your investigation with a high degree of circumspection.”

  “Naturally,” I said, reflecting that I had been called many things in my lifetime but circumspect was not one of them. “Mr. Forsythe, could you give me a brief rundown on your household.”

  He looked at me, puzzled. “The people, you mean?” he asked.

  Did he think I meant the number of salad forks? “Yes, sir,” I said. “The persons in residence.”

  “Myself and my wife Constance, of course. Our unmarried daughter Geraldine. Our son, whom I believe you know, and his wife Sylvia and their young daughter Lucy. The staff consists of Mrs. Nora Bledsoe, our housekeeper and majordomo, so to speak. Her son, Anthony, serves as butler and houseman. Two maids, Sheila and Fern. The chef’s name is Zeke Grenough. We also employ a full-time gardener, Rufino Diaz, but he doesn’t dwell on the premises.”

  “Quite an establishment,” I commented.

  “Is it?” he said, mildly surprised that everyone didn’t live so well-attended. “When my parents were alive we had a live-in staff of twelve. But of course they did a great deal of entertaining. I rarely entertain. Dislike it, in fact. Too much chatter.”

  I was tempted to ask, “You mean you can’t get a word in edgewise?” But I didn’t, of course.

  “I’m sure I’ll get them all sorted out,” I told him.
r />   “And when may I expect results?”

  “No way of telling, Mr. Forsythe. But I’m as eager as you to bring this matter to a speedy conclusion. And now, with your permission, I’d like to take a look around the grounds.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Learn the lay of the land, so to speak, eh?”

  I could have made a coarse rejoinder to that but restrained myself. Griswold Forsythe II led me to a back door that allowed exit to the rear acres of the estate.

  “When you have completed your inspection,” he said, “I suggest you request Mrs. Bledsoe to give you a tour of the house. There are many hallways, many rooms, many nooks and crannies. We don’t want you getting lost, do we?”

  “We surely don’t,” I said, repressing a terrible desire to kick his shins. Because, you see, I suspected he didn’t want me strolling unescorted through his home. Which made me wonder what it was he wished to keep hidden.

  The Forsythe estate wasn’t quite Central Park but it was lavish even by Palm Beach standards. The landscaping was somewhat formal for my taste but I could not deny it was attractive and well-groomed. There was a mini-orchard of orange, grapefruit and lime trees. Birdhouses were everywhere, some seemingly designed to mimic the Forsythe mansion in miniature. I thought that a bit much but apparently the birds approved.

  I was examining a curious lichen growing on the trunk of an oak so venerable it was decrepit when a young miss popped out from behind a nearby palm and shouted, “Boo!”

  I was not at all startled. “Boo, yourself,” I replied. “What is the meaning of this unseemly behavior—leaping out at innocent visitors and yelping, ‘Boo!’?”

  She giggled.

  I am not expert at estimating the age of children. They are all kids to me until they become youngsters. This particular specimen appeared to be about eight years old, with a possible error of plus or minus three. She was an uncommonly fetching child with flaxen hair that tumbled to her shoulders. Heavy braces encircled her upper teeth but she had the self-assurance of a woman quintuple her age.