McNally's Dare

by Lawrence Sanders

  “So before you got a chance to accuse Holga of calling the Emerson woman, she tells you she made the call, and why. I could use her in my business,” Denny noted.

  “And she’d have your job in six months. What do you think of the tunnel theory?”

  He shrugged, uncaring. “There’s a tunnel and anyone on the beach that day could have strolled onto the MacNiff property, chloroformed Jeff Rodgers and pushed him into the pool. Who and why is the question—and one that’ll never be answered.

  “You have a murder that’s never going to be solved, Archy, and a woman that’s never going to reappear. Do you know how many people vanish in this country every year and are never seen or heard of again? “You would be astounded, believe me. There’s nothing for me here.”

  Slumped over the bar in our white dinner jackets we must have looked like two also-rans who had lost their dates to better prospects. There was a group of Brits drinking not too far from us. We get a lot of visitors from England and Canada in season, seeking refuge from the harsh winter climate of their home base. One of them was talking about a run-in he had with the clerk, pronounced clark, at his hotel. Funny how you could usually tell where people were from by the way they talked.

  But how does a king talk? If he’s an English king he says clark for clerk—and I sat bolt upright on my padded stool. I got it. Just like that, I got it. I didn’t get the tunnel and I didn’t get the southpaw, but I got how a king talks.

  Fearing I would again fall off my bar stool in Denny’s presence, I grabbed his shoulder for support and mumbled, “He stutters. He stutters.”

  “You okay, Archy?”

  “King George,” I exclaimed. “We talked about him on the way to the party. Old Mrs. Talbot was a young lady when he took the throne. He was a southpaw and they forced him to use his right hand because maybe royals aren’t supposed to be left-handed.”

  “That’s right,” Denny said. “He was a stutterer and it was thought that forcing him to change hands caused it.”

  On a roll, I kept going. “The old lady said he doesn’t talk like a king. Get it? He doesn’t stutter. She knew her grandson was left-handed. Now she sees him using only his right hand. In her dotage, or medicated state, she must have thought they forced him to use his right hand in Europe but it didn’t make him stutter. He didn’t talk like the king.

  “Malcolm MacNiff told me she often slipped in and out of reality in the last days of her life. In a lucid moment she must have realized how foolish her reasoning was and knew if he was right-handed he wasn’t her grandson.”

  “The king is dead,” Denny said. “She meant her grandson, who was left-handed, like the King George of her youth.”

  “That’s what Jeff had on the guy calling himself Lance Talbot,” I elaborated. “Jeff knew his old teammate was a southpaw. When he saw Talbot was right-handed, he got to thinking. He must have started asking Talbot questions he couldn’t answer. That’s when Jeff was certain the guy was a phony.”

  “So who is he?”

  “A von Brecht,” I almost shouted, “that’s who. He’s their son. It figures. Jeff knew he wasn’t Lance Talbot, and Vivian Emerson knew Olga had a son. That was your story, Denny old man. And what a whopper it is.”

  “You mean was, Archy.”

  “What?”

  “Stuttering kings, southpaws and senile old ladies are not the gist of investigating reporting. I think you’re right, Archy. In fact I’m sure you’re right, but I need proof you can take into a courtroom before I can publish, not clever speculation.”

  “Stick around a few more days, Denny.”

  “What do you have in mind?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  He looked at me and laughed. “That’s because you don’t know.”

  “I don’t, but the possibilities are endless.”

  Denny took out his wallet. “Am I paying for the drinks?”

  “But of course. I’m your date.”

  The phone was ringing, the plop, plop, plop of raindrops were plopping into the brass bucket positioned beneath the leak in my roof, and I was hung over. Not a very propitious way to start a Monday morning. If late-night calls are harbingers of ill news, early-morning calls are cataclysmic.

  I got out of bed in my half pajamas—I wear the tops—waited until the room stopped spinning like it was on its way to Munchkin Land and picked up the bearer of bad tidings.

  “Archy McNally here.”

  “Vivian Emerson is dead, Archy.”

  I kicked the chair away from my desk and sat before I fell. “When, Georgy? How?”

  “The police called Joey a few minutes ago. He called me. They found her in her car in an isolated stretch of beach near Manalapan. She’d been there a few days, at least. It wasn’t very pleasant.”

  “She was asphyxiated with chloroform,” I stated.

  “There wasn’t a mark on her body according to what the police told Joey. They’re treating it as a suspicious death until the autopsy.”

  “Chloroform,” I repeated. “There’ve been more developments, Georgy. It would take too long to explain.” I looked at the desk clock. It wasn’t that early. I had missed breakfast with the McNallys—yet again.

  “Archy? I told Joey to come and stay here. He’s very broken up and he has to ID the body. I’m at work and can’t go with him. Can you?”

  “Sorry, Georgy girl, but I have to get to Al Rogoff before anyone else gets a whiff of that lethal perfume.”

  “Is it them, Archy? Lance and the von Brechts?”

  “It is but I can’t prove it.”

  “Yes, you can, McNally.”

  “Your lips to God’s ear. And Georgy...”

  “Yes?”

  “You did right offering Gallo a port in a storm.”

  “Thanks, Archy.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  DEAR MR. MCNALLY:

  My deepest apologies for not responding sooner. I was in Berlin on business and only just arrived in Berne this day. I will relate to you as much as I know of the late Jessica Talbot, her son, Lance, and the Brechts. (You refer to them as the von Brechts, but to the best of my knowledge the aristocratic von is a new and unwarranted addition, perhaps to impress Americans, to Claus Brecht’s name.) To begin, sir. I have been Ms. Talbot’s lawyer since her arrival here some ten years ago. Lance was a boy at that time. Our dealings were routine. Establishing of bank accounts and the transfer of monies from the United States to Switzerland. Nothing unusual. I learned

  Ms. Talbot was a very rich woman, and saw her intermittently over the years. Unlike a doctor, lawyers do not see their clients annually, but only when they are in need of legal counsel.

  You asked when was the last time I saw her and her son. Researching my files I discover I had a business luncheon with Ms. Talbot just one year ago. Her son was not present. As he does not appear in my files I must trust to memory and say I last saw the boy when he was perhaps twelve or thirteen years.

  I learned of the tragedy from newspaper accounts of the snow slide that killed many on the slopes that day and caused much damage to a small village. This was at Winterthur, on the German-Austrian border. Among the dead were listed the names of Jessica Talbot and Lance Talbot. I put in a call to the police in Winterthur, asking for details. The hotel that caters to the ski enthusiasts suffered some damage, but their records revealed that Ms. Talbot and her son were in residence and both had gone on the slopes after lunch. Not being among those few who returned unharmed, it was assumed that both mother and son had perished. I immediately called the senior Mrs. Talbot in Palm Beach, whom Jessica had designated as next of kin to be notified in case of emergency, and related the sad news, asking for instructions in handling her daughter’s affairs. to the best of my knowledge Ms. Talbot died intestate, or perhaps I should say I never drew up a will for her.

  It was several days later, three days after the tragedy, that I received a call from Lance Talbot. He had not gone on the slopes with his mother that day, but
parted with her after lunch to attend to personal business. In fact he had spent the day and evening with a young lady and was ignorant of the snow slide until the following morning when he put on the television for the early news. Not returning to the hotel that night, it was assumed he was among the missing, considered dead.

  I again called the senior Mrs. Talbot who wired her grandson, using my address, to return to America. Lance called on me before he left Switzerland to secure funds from his mother’s account, as Jessica Talbot’s legatee.

  Regarding Claus Brecht, it is not a pretty picture and I do not report gossip but only newspaper accounts of his history and what I know of him from his dealings with Ms. Talbot.

  Having lost his license to practice medicine, he is the former Dr. Claus Brecht. He was a plastic surgeon who opened a clinic near Winterthur where it was said that he had come upon a remarkable formula for restoring a youthful appearance to aging skin without resorting to surgery. Unfortunately, Switzerland has long harbored practitioners of the science of rejuvenation, their secret being anything from sera derived from the semen of pubescent youths to the testicular fluids of monkeys.

  Brecht’s secret ingredient turned out to be amphetamine. In short, Mr. McNally, he was what you Americans call a Dr. Feelgood. His patients certainly felt younger under his care. Other, more potent drugs were also administered and available at Brecht’s happy farm. When the police sent in a decoy to take the cure, the party was over for Claus Brecht.

  I know that Ms. Talbot was involved with Brecht because she asked me to transfer a considerable amount of money to Brecht’s account in Winterthur. I believe, Mr. McNally, that Ms. Talbot financed the clinic. I trust you will understand that this is all I will say on the subject of the relationship between Brecht and Jessica Talbot.

  Newspaper accounts of the raid and the subsequent closing of the clinic stated that Brecht was married to an American. They had a grown son whose name I believe is Hans, but am not certain.

  You will note that I have faxed a copy of this correspondence to Mr. Malcolm MacNiff who is the executor of Mrs. Talbot’s estate. If I can be of further service please do not hesitate to call upon me.

  I remain your servant,

  Gregory Hermann, Esq.

  Father handed me the fax across his desk, shaking his head. “Not a very good show, Archy. Not very good at all.”

  “Hermann is insinuating that Jessica Talbot was an addict and Brecht her supplier. Naturally, he won’t put it in writing, but we have it on reliable authority that Jessica Talbot was a drug addict. When she and Lance were killed the defrocked Brecht saw a way to compensate for his loss of income by substituting his son for Lance and claiming the Talbot fortune:

  “The boys were about the same age and both had blue eyes. I would assume they were also good friends, given Jessica’s relationship with the Brechts. I think the Brecht boy’s crew cut was a recent addition. I noticed the skin around his hairline had not been exposed to the sun for very long, so it must have been covered by hair before the close cut. The lawyer last saw Lance when he was a teenager and therefore could not possibly know that the person who called on him to tap Jessica Talbot’s bank account was an imposter.”

  Father was tugging on his whiskers as I spoke and shaking his head so violently I knew what was coming. “It’s all supposition, Archy. You’re reading between the lines just as you’ve been doing since you started on this case. What you say is possible, even probable, but not factual. Suppose these von Brechts, or Brechts, are charged and they produce their son?”

  “They have produced him, sir, in the form of Lance Talbot. The former doctor was a plastic surgeon. Being on such intimate terms with Jessica and Lance he must have known about the missing toe and he could easily have amputated his son’s right toe for our benefit. A small toe in exchange for a half-billion bucks is a pretty good deal.”

  “Prove it,” Father challenged.

  “I could if we forced Hans to have a physician examine his foot and tell us just how long ago the toe was amputated.”

  “Archy, please. You can’t force him to do such a thing just as you can’t force the Brechts to send for their son for you to gaze upon. Jessica Talbot’s body we know was recovered and subsequently cremated. Her son was not interred, probably because he was never recovered. That is very possible.”

  “How do we know that? How does Hermann know that? This is what the newly resurrected Lance told the lawyer. I think Claus Brecht took charge minutes after the tragedy. It was he, or his son, who reported that Jessica was cremated. They simply failed to report that poor Lance Talbot was also nuked with his mother.”

  “Really, Archy, your language.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m very disturbed by what this fax has to say.”

  “And you’re not thinking clearly” Indicating the fax I still held, he said, “Have you talked to Malcolm about this?”

  “I called him as soon as I read Hermann’s reply.”

  “And,” Father said, mentally predicting Nifty’s response.

  “He doesn’t see how this makes any difference. Claus Brecht is a fallen doctor and con artist, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. Nor does it make a liar of the guy calling himself Lance Talbot. Unquote.”

  “He’s correct,” Father pounced. “However, I think this fax has gone a long way in disrupting Malcolm’s short-lived serenity. Just when he was certain Lance was the real article, you have him again wondering if he is doing right by Mrs. Talbot as her executor. I assume you didn’t tell him to have a doctor look at Lance Talbot’s foot.”

  He assumed wrong, but rather than verbalize I hung my head in shame. Holding up the fax, I said, “If we knew this earlier, both Jeff Rodgers and Vivian Emerson might be alive today.”

  “That’s doubtful, at best, Archy, and you know it. Holga Brecht phoned Vivian Emerson. She admits it, and gives a valid reason for making that call. We know, as do the police, that Lance, or Hans, or whoever he is, did not push Jeff Rodgers into that pool.” Father’s tugging was growing dangerously rigorous. If he plucked himself clean I would never be forgiven.

  “Claus Brecht was in the tunnel waiting for his chance to kill Jeff Rodgers,” I persisted.

  “Claus Brecht was not in Palm Beach at the time, Archy.”

  “I called Al Rogoff and set up a meeting with him and his superior, Lieutenant Eberhart. I want them to read this fax. I think there’s enough here to at least have them check the rosters of the incoming flights from New York last Friday to see if Claus was on one of them. If he wasn’t, I hope to enlist their help in exposing all three Brechts.”

  “What’s your plan, Archy?”

  “It’s daring, but it’s the only way to prove my case and stop these people from getting away with murder and the Talbot fortune.”

  When I laid out my game plan the Chairman of the Board vetoed the idea without even acknowledging its brilliance. “It’s more than daring, Archy. It’s dangerous, and I refuse to countenance such a move. Someone may be killed. Do you want that on your conscience?”

  “No, sir. Nor do I want to live with the fact that I allowed these people to get away with murder because I, or the police, refused to stick our necks out to learn the truth.”

  “It’s not your neck on the block, Archy.”

  Standing, I told him, “I’m doing this with or without your sanction, sir, but I hope I have your blessing.”

  He rose and extended this hand. “My blessing, Archy. Not my approval. They are two very different things.”

  I took his hand. It was warm and surprisingly firm. “That’s all I ask, Father.”

  We met in the office of Lieutenant Oscar Eberhart, PBPD. The lieutenant and I were not strangers, having locked horns several times when he was called into cases that Al and I had already solved. Oscar was a social climber, and I think it irked him to know that his sergeant was a confidant of a private investigator who was a welcome guest in homes Oscar only got into if they were burgled or requir
ed police protection when they entertained visiting dignitaries.

  I noticed the current issue of Forbes on his desk, the cover of which announced that inside was their seventeenth annual list of billionaires. Father subscribes, so I knew that our own John Kluge, the Metromedia guru, was numero seventeen with ten and a half billion in his kitty. Guys like John helped make Palm Beach the tenth richest community in the United States. Our neighbor, Jupiter Island, is number one. The Gold Coast is not a misnomer.

  I had told Eberhart everything, from what I saw the day of Nifty’s benefit, to Denny’s dealings with Jeff Rodgers, the toe count, the left hand, Mrs. Talbot’s dying words, and the phone call Holga had made to Vivian Emerson the day Vivian disappeared. I felt like a politician campaigning for votes.

  After reading the fax, Eberhart commented, “Lance Talbot told us his mother was an addict and it was the reason Jeff Rodgers was blackmailing him. This only confirms Talbot’s story.”

  “Jeff wasn’t killed because he threatened to air the Talbot’s dirty laundry, Lieutenant. He was killed because he knew this joker wasn’t Lance Talbot I’m not saying that Jeff Rodgers is blameless. He tried to use what he knew for personal gain but got in over his head.” Remembering Jeff lying at the bottom of the MacNiff pool, I added, “Excuse the pun.”

  “But Lance didn’t kill Jeff,” Eberhart stated. “You know that.”

  “I now believe that Claus Brecht was in the tunnel waiting for his chance to get Jeff. I told you Lance was on his cell phone at the time. I think he was calling his father, Claus Brecht, to tell him that Jeff had gone to the pool for his break and was there alone.

  “That’s why I asked you to check the passenger rosters of all flights that came into Palm Beach from New York Friday morning. The guy who says he’s Lance told me Brecht was flying in from Switzerland via New York.”

  “Look, Lieutenant,” Al said, “we got two murders on our hands, both with the same modus operandi...”

  “Chloroform,” I got in, “a doctor’s weapon.”

  “Before we have the press saying there’s a serial killer loose in Palm Beach,” Al continued, “which will go national by the evening news and ruin the tourist trade, I think we better check out Brecht and any other lead that comes our way. We can’t afford not to.”