“Glad you started,” he said to us. “I’ll wash up and be down in a moment.”
Well, it was more than a moment and I suspected he might have detoured to the sideboard in the sitting room for a quick wallop. Eventually he appeared, took his place at the head of the table, gobbled the crabmeat, and caught up with us while we were working on slices of beef tenderloin with purple Belgian bell peppers in a red wine sauce.
“How did it go, father?” the mater asked timidly.
He gave her a brief glare. He detests her addressing him as “father” although he frequently addresses her as “mother.” Do you understand that? I don’t.
“As well as could be expected,” he replied to her question. “Arrangements were made. We’ll all attend the funeral service. Burial will be private.”
“Was Oliver present?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said, not looking at me but concentrating on his beef. “This sauce is excellent. Oliver was there but his wife was not. I thought that exceedingly strange. Archy, I’d like to see you in my study after dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
After dessert (apple tart with cinnamon ice cream) mother went upstairs to write the McNallys’ letter of condolence to Mr. Horace Whitcomb. I followed father into his study. He closed the door firmly and went directly to the marble-topped sideboard. He poured each of us a snifter of cognac—not his best but good enough. He motioned me to a club chair and took his throne behind the massive desk. I thought his visage was now uncommonly grim.
“I didn’t wish to mention this at dinner,” he said, “because I feared it would upset your mother. But the scene at the hospital this afternoon was dreadful, simply dreadful. Horace and his son got into a shouting match that became so rancorous I feared it might result in physical combat. I was able to separate them and keep them apart, but the atmosphere remained one of vicious spite. Meanwhile the deceased was being prepared for transfer to a Whitcomb funeral home. The whole thing was unseemly, Archy, most unseemly.”
“I concur,” I said. “What was their argument about?”
“Horace accused his son of being unfeeling, inattentive, and cruel during Mrs. Sarah’s illness. Oliver blamed his father for his infrequent visits, claiming Horace was guilty of deliberate malice in thwarting his plans for expansion. Both were almost incoherent in their fury. Extremely unpleasant.” He said this wrathfully as if the bad manners of others were a personal affront.
“Deplorable,” I murmured and sipped my brandy.
“Their conflict leads me to believe your investigation may be more decisive than you and I anticipated. Have there been any recent developments?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “The whole thing is unraveling.”
I brought him up to speed on what had happened and was about to occur. He interrupted only once, when I described Ernest Gorton’s stratagem of airlifting contraband up north in caskets within cartons labeled “Human Remains.”
“Clever,” father remarked, and I thought I detected a small smile of wry amusement.
“Very,” I agreed and went on to detail the plan of FBI Special Agent Griffin Kling to raid the Gorton warehouse and, if evidence discovered warranted it, to arrest Oliver Whitcomb and others involved in the plot.
I concluded and there was silence for a mo. Then the old man rose to replenish our snifters. That was an indication of his perturbation. Ordinarily he would have asked me to play the butler.
“You obviously believe Oliver Whitcomb is guilty,” he said when he was once again seated upright in his high-backed swivel chair.
“I do believe that,” I said firmly.
“And his motive?”
“Oliver had grandiose plans for expanding the Whitcomb Funeral Homes into a nationwide chain, plans to which his father was bitterly opposed. Oliver knew his mother held a controlling interest, and he also knew she was mortally ill and he assumed he would inherit her shares since he was an only child and well aware of her devotion to him. So he decided to take action to realize his ambitions even before her demise. His first step was to build up the cash reserves of the Whitcomb Funeral Homes to have sufficient funds to cover initial expenses. He then intended to make a private offering of stock prior to the time he could go public and have Whitcomb shares listed. He believed when that happened he would become an overnight multimillionaire. The scenario has been used before, father, and sometimes it’s succeeded.”
“And sometimes, usually, it’s been a disaster. But there was no way Oliver’s game plan could possibly have succeeded.”
“Oh?” I said. “Why is that?”
He rose abruptly from his chair and began to pace back and forth behind his desk, hands thrust into trouser pockets. His head was lowered, but I caught sight of his expression and thought he looked unutterably sad.
“If your hypothesis is correct, Archy,” he said, “and I believe it may very well be, Oliver’s aspirations were doomed from the start. You say he assumed he would inherit his mother’s shares upon her death?”
“Yes, sir, I think he assumed that. Although recently he became rather antsy about it and attempted to bribe me to determine exactly what was in Sarah’s will.”
My father made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “He was correct to become, as you say, antsy.” He stopped his pacing to face me with a bleak smile. “Oliver was basing his future prosperity on an assumption. When it comes to inheritance, Archy, assumption can result in disappointment, if not despair. I can now reveal something to you I thought unethical to reveal while Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb was still alive. I believe I’ve already informed you that for tax reasons Horace Whitcomb transferred a controlling interest in the company to his wife. I had a hand in the drawing up of that conveyance and made certain it was clearly stated that if Sarah should predecease her husband, her shares would revert to him. So as things stand now, Horace holds the majority of voting shares in Whitcomb Funeral Homes.”
I don’t believe my mandible sagged but I’m certain an ordinary bloke would have been rendered speechless, a condition completely foreign to my nature.
“Father,” I said, my voice sounding strangled even to me, “what you’ve just told me means that Oliver’s criminal conspiracy with Ernest Gorton could not possibly profit Oliver, that he took horrendous risks for no reason whatsoever and now must pay a serious penalty for his rashness.”
“It would appear so,” the squire said in his lawyerly way.
If I was startled by mon père’s revelation I could imagine what Oliver Whitcomb’s reaction would be when he learned he had wagered his future on the turn of a roulette wheel which didn’t include his number. I thought he’d do more than mutter, “Drat!”
“With your permission, sir,” I said, not giving a reason for my request (knowing he’d guess it), “I’d like to bring this information to the attention of Sergeant Rogoff and Agent Kling.”
Prescott McNally, Esq., fell into his mulling mood, one of those lengthy silences during which he carried on a slow mental inquiry, debating all the pros and cons of my suggestion. He goes through the same process when trying to decide if the flavor of a baked potato would be enhanced by a soupçon of pressed caviar.
“Yes, Archy,” he said finally, “you have my permission to inform the authorities of Oliver’s current status anent his inheritance—specifically the absence thereof.”
“Thank you, father,” I said, wondering if, in his will, he had bequeathed me his fondness for prolixity.
I left his study, trotted upstairs to my sanctum and immediately phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff. He wasn’t at home but I found him at headquarters.
“What are you doing in the office at this hour?” I asked.
“Paperwork,” he said briefly.
“I don’t think so,” I told him. “You know Kling’s raid is going down tonight and you want to stick close to your direct phone or telex or computer network or whatever you defenders of the public weal are using these days, just so you can keep track of what
’s happening. Do you plan to sleep at your desk tonight?”
“I might,” he said, and his tense tone warned me I better lay off the chivying.
“Al,” I said, “there’s something you should know, and if you have the opportunity I hope you’ll relay it to Griffin Kling. I have my father’s permission to reveal this.”
I told him of Oliver Whitcomb’s disastrous error in assuming he would inherit his mother’s shares in the Whitcomb Funeral Homes. Instead, the controlling interest would revert to his father.
“If Oliver is arrested,” I went on, “or even hauled in for questioning, I thought the revelation that his brief career as a master criminal has been a gold medal no-brainer and he never had a tinker’s damn of achieving the result he anticipated—well, it might embitter him to the extent that in his angry frustration he’ll be willing, if not eager, to implicate the other miscreants in the plot.”
“Jeez,” Rogoff said, “you’re beginning to talk just like your father. But you’re also a foxy lad. I catch what you’re trying to say and it might work. If I get a chance to talk to Kling I’ll tell him what you said. He’ll need all the ammunition he can get. Archy, that Oliver—what a putz he turned out to be. I mean, he had a good job and a good future, a hot-to-trot wife, money in the bank, and a Boca mansion. But he wanted more, takes a stupid risk and goes for broke. What’s with morons like that?”
“He’s a man in a hurry,” I said, giving him an instant analysis. “He’s never learned to slow down, look around, and take time to smell the garlic.”
“Yeah,” Al said, “I know what you mean.”
33.
I KNEW I SHOULD hitch up my pantaloons and labor at bringing my professional diary up-to-the-minute. But it had been such a chaotic day, I found the prospect of even an hour’s donkeywork positively repellent. All I wanted to do was sit quietly, adopt a thousand-yard stare, and breathe through my mouth.
I was saved from that repugnant lassitude when Consuela Garcia phoned. My inamorata had returned!
I find it difficult to explain why the sound of her dear, familiar voice and the knowledge that she was once again a part of my daily existence energized and invigorated me. She really was a refuge of sanity and normalcy in a world that had lately seemed to me unbearably scuzzy.
We must have jabbered for almost an hour, and other than her cousin’s improving health I don’t believe our conversation included a single topic of importance. But chitchat can be pleasurable, y’know. I mean, it’s not necessary that every dialogue be concerned with the International Monetary Fund or the endangered state of the Ozark big-eared bat.
Connie wanted to have dinner at the Pelican Club on Friday night and I happily agreed.
“Been behaving yourself, son?” she asked.
“I have been living an exemplary life,” I declared, and I had—recently.
“I haven’t had time to check with my tattlers but I shall, and I hope you’re telling the truth.”
“Connie, would I lie to you?”
Her laugh was so hollow it echoed. “See you tomorrow night, sweet,” she said. “I warn you I might get mildly potted—I’m so happy to be back.”
“In that case, suppose I pick you up around sevenish. Then you won’t have to drive.”
“Good thinking. You’ll be the designated driver and I’ll be the designated drinker.”
“Um,” I said.
After that bracing interlude I went to bed and descended into a deep and satisfying slumber.
It lasted until I was awakened by the persistent ringing of my bedside phone. I squinted to see the time: almost 4:30 A.M., and I knew it would be bad news. Who but Death calls at that hour?
“Rogoff,” he said harshly. “Griffin Kling bought it.”
It took a moment for my sleep-fuddled brain to comprehend. “He’s dead?” I said stupidly.
“Him and another FBI agent. Two wounded. One perp out and three bleeding. That’s the latest tally I got. Sounds like the O.K. Corral.”
“Was Gorton there?”
“No mention of him. Archy, it was what you’d call a monumental balls-up. They’re still trying to sort things out.”
“Al,” I said, “what are you going to do now? Hang around? Go home?”
“I guess I’ll head for bed,” he said dully. “I’ve had it for one night.”
“Stop by,” I urged. “I’ll put on some coffee, maybe mix up an early breakfast. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said gratefully. “I can use it. I’m shook. I didn’t particularly like the guy, did you?”
“No,” I said.
“But I respected him,” Rogoff insisted. “He was a lawman. So am I. It’s hard to take.”
“I can understand that.”
“No, you can’t,” the sergeant said. “I’ll be there in half an hour or so.”
I pulled on jeans and T-shirt and went padding downstairs barefoot. I glanced out the kitchen window and saw the sky had a dull, leaden; predawn look.
I put water on to boil and rummaged through the fridge for vitdes Rogoff might enjoy. I selected eggs, a few slices of salami, an onion, and red bell pepper. I had started preparing a quasi western omelette when father entered the kitchen. I was happy to see he was wearing a seersucker robe I had given him on his last birthday.
He looked at me inquiringly. “Suffering from malnutrition?” he asked, and even after being roused from sleep he had the ability to hoist aloft one hirsute eyebrow.
“For Rogoff,” I explained and told him of Al’s report on the shoot-out at Gorton’s warehouse in Miami.
“And the sergeant is coming here?”
“Yes, father. He’s had a bad night. I think he’s in need of sustenance.”
“Of course. Do you mind if I remain and hear what he has to say?”
Typical Prescott McNally: couching a command as a request.
Al’s timing was most felicitous. The omelette was beginning to crisp around the edges when his pickup pulled into our graveled turnaround. I slid a few slices of sour rye into the toaster as Rogoff came clumping in and shook hands with my father. He looked beat.
He washed his hands at the kitchen sink, removed his gun belt, and joined us at the table. Father and I didn’t have anything but watched as he attacked his omelette, buttered toast, and steaming black coffee. He ate avidly as if he had consumed nothing but a single graham cracker in the past twenty-four hours. Not bloody likely.
“Good grub,” he said to me. “Do you cater wedding receptions?”
“Sure,” I said. “Also proms and bar mitzvahs. Al, I told father about that calamitous raid on Gorton’s warehouse. Anything new since you phoned me?”
“Yeah,” he said. “The chase is on for Gorton, Oliver Whitcomb, the three funeral directors and their stooges. That’s why I’ve got to get back to headquarters instead of going home. Two of those directors live in the Palm Beach area. We’re supposed to liaise with the FBI trackers when they get up here.”
“They intend to arrest Oliver Whitcomb?” father asked.
“Yes, sir. I don’t know if they have a warrant but with two agents dead they’re in no mood to observe the legal technicalities. Besides, they have probable cause coming out their ears.”
Hizzoner made a tch-tch sound. “This will cause Horace Whitcomb considerable pain. Naturally, sergeant, I shall say nothing to him about Oliver’s predicament. He’ll learn of the arrest soon enough. And then I expect he’ll contact me to recommend an experienced criminal defense attorney to represent his son.”
I looked at him in astonishment. “Father, Horace is well aware of what Oliver has been doing. After all, Horace initiated the inquiry that eventually ended Oliver’s short criminal career. Are you suggesting that Horace will now aid his son?”
The old man stared at me sternly. “Of course. In any way he can. Oliver’s illicit behavior has nothing to do with it. Horace Whitcomb is an honorable man, and this is family.”
“Blood is thicker than water,” Rogof
f put in. “But not thicker than this coffee,” he added, pouring himself another cup.
The idea of Horace helping defend his wayward son was incomprehensible to me, even though the senior didn’t think it extraordinary at all. Perhaps I’ll understand it when, if ever, I become a paterfamilias.
“Al,” I said, “about Ernest Gorton—where are they searching for him?”
“They’re looking for him here, there, everywhere. And I’ll bet a million they’ll never find him.”
“Oh?” father said, interested. “Why not?”
“Look, counselor,” the sergeant said, “this guy is a slime, granted, but a smart slime. Always one step ahead of the law and his competitors. Now don’t tell me a shrewd apple like him wouldn’t have a fail-safe plan in case things got hairy—which they have.”
“How would he manage it?” I asked.
“Set up a residence and fake identity in some pipsqueak country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S. But I can’t see Gorton spending the rest of his life in a jungle hut or beach shack. He’s a guy who needs action. My guess is that he’s got a beautiful villa and fake papers in some South American country. He changes his name and maybe even has plastic surgery. All this is going to cost plenty in bribes to local pols, but that’s no different from how he was operating in Miami. And he can afford it. So now he’s a new man and can get back in the rackets again, in the country where he’s living and in international trade in drugs, guns, money laundering, prostitution, and so forth. Believe me, we haven’t heard the last of Ernest Gorton, no matter what his new name might be.”
“A depressing prospect,” my father remarked.
“Yeah,” Rogoff said with a snarly laugh, “ain’t it. Listen, I’ve got to get back to the salt mines. If anything important comes up I’ll let you know. Thanks for the feed; it was just what I needed.”
McNally's Trial Page 23
