McNally's Trial

by Lawrence Sanders

  Then he buckled on his gun belt and was gone. Father helped me clean up the kitchen.

  “Sir,” I said, “if Oliver Whitcomb and the others are indicted and brought to trial, as they may well be, do you think I’ll be called upon to testify?”

  “I doubt it very much, Archy,” he said, doing a good but not perfect job of hiding his amusement. “After all, what evidence do you have to offer?”

  I reflected on that and acknowledged he was exactly right, as usual. I had no hard evidence to offer. Just guesses, suppositions, unsubstantiated hypotheses.

  I returned to my interrupted slumber in a mood far from gruntled. It was an injury to my amour propre to realize that in the Whitcomb affair I had been a small cog on a large wheel. But even the absence of a single cog can freeze motion, can it not?

  I awoke a little after 10:00 A.M. on Friday, feeling not at all refreshed and yearning for a few more hours of Zs. Before showering and shaving I sat on the edge of my bed and made a few phone calls—the first to Al Rogoff. He sounded uncommonly brisk for a man who had been conscious and functioning through a sleepless night.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “We got ’em all,” he reported. “Including Oliver Whitcomb. His father’s been informed.”

  “What about Mitzi, his wife?”

  “Picked her up, too.”

  “And Gorton?”

  “Like I told you—he’s long gone. Talk to you later.” And he hung up.

  My second call was to Binky Watrous. I obviously woke him up, which pleased me.

  “What’s happening?” he said groggily.

  “Lots,” I said. “The authorities have found Judge Crater, Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa, and have identified Jack the Ripper and the mountebank who wrote Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Have I ever? Listen, Binky, I don’t think this will happen, but if any chaps with badges come around asking questions about the Whitcomb case, claim you know naught of the matter. This is a firm command.”

  Short silence. “You mean you want me to lie and tell them I’m totally ignorant?”

  What a cue! “It’s scarcely a lie, old boy,” I said and disconnected.

  My third call was to Sunny Fogarty’s office. I was told she was not available. I then phoned her condo and let it ring seven times before giving up. Isn’t it strange that one usually knows when no one is home? The ringing has an empty sound. I know it’s ridiculous, but I’m sure you’ve had the same experience.

  I went through my usual morning ablutions and dressed in a natty manner, hoping it might elevate my spirits. I donned an artfully wrinkled sky-blue linen sport jacket (no shoulder pads, of course), slacks of rust-colored covert, and suede loafers in a sort of tealish shade. The ensemble, I decided, was striking without being bizarre. I was certain my father would have a contrary opinion.

  After a scanty breakfast (OJ, black coffee, and two croissants with heather honey) I drove directly to the McNally Building wondering if at that moment Ernest Gorton was flying to his hideaway abroad. Wherever he was heading I reckoned he was traveling first class. Sgt. Rogoff keeps assuring me it is gross stupidity to believe that in this world virtue is always rewarded and vice punished. Sad to say, he is probably correct.

  I phoned my father when I arrived at my office and was pleasantly surprised to be put through immediately. I relayed Rogoff’s most recent information.

  “Thank you, Archy,” he said formally, “but I am already aware of Oliver’s arrest. Horace Whitcomb called a short time ago to tell me the news. He is coming over to discuss legal representation for his son.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “Resigned, I would say, as if he had expected such an outcome to the inquiry he instigated.”

  “Father, what do you think will happen to Oliver and his accomplices?”

  “I imagine there will be plea bargaining, but I fear Oliver and the others will serve prison sentences of various durations. I do not believe they will get off lightly. Two special agents of the FBI have been killed; the authorities will not be in the mood to be merciful.”

  “A sad situation,” I said.

  “It is,” he agreed, “and I am glad McNally and Son will no longer be playing an active role in the affair. You will cease all your inquiries immediately.” Thus ordained His Majesty.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, resisting a terrible desire to drop a curtsy.

  34.

  NOT QUITE, PAPPY. THERE was still a bit of unfinished business, a little tidying up to do before my record of the Whitcomb case could be closed. But before I could call her again, she phoned me.

  “This is Sunny Fogarty, Archy,” she said, sounding tearful.

  “I tried calling you earlier, Sunny, but couldn’t get through.”

  “I was with Mr. Horace,” she said. “He’s had a bad morning. I suppose you’ve heard what’s happened.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “Archy, I’m home now. Is there any chance of your coming over?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Shall I bring us some lunch?”

  “Oh no,” she said. “Thank you but no. I’m really not hungry. But I do want to see you.”

  “I’ll leave at once,” I told her, hoping I might have the courage to ask her a direct and perhaps an insolent question. But if she answered honestly it would relieve an irritation that had bothered me from the start, a nagging as persistent as a vagrant lash on the eyeball or a fleck of lettuce snagged in one’s bicuspid.

  I think the way Sunny Fogarty dressed was part of the contradiction that puzzled me. A dichotomy, one might say—and I do say it. If it is true clothes make the man, clothes are the woman.

  She met me at the door of her condo wearing a severely tailored pantsuit of black gabardine. But the jacket was unbuttoned to reveal a ruffled white silk blouse also unbuttoned in a manner I found disturbingly seductive. She ushered me to the couch in the living room and tried a brave smile.

  “Quite a morning,” she said.

  “I can imagine.”

  “Archy, I’m having a chardonnay, but I suspect you might prefer something’ stronger.”

  “You suspect correctly,” I said boldly, needing resolution to ask my impertinent question.

  “Will vodka on the rocks do?” she asked.

  “Splendidly,” I said, and a few moments later she brought me a beaker of iced elixir that would have transformed a mild-mannered lemur into King Kong.

  “How is Mr. Horace taking all this?” I said.

  “Remarkably well. He has the funeral of Mrs. Sarah to arrange and now he must do what he can for Oliver. Plus reorganizing the funeral homes and hiring new directors and assistants. But he’s a strong man and he’s coping.”

  “I’m sure he’s depending on you for assistance,” I said. Crafty me—leading into the rude query I was determined to make.

  “I’m doing what I can to help,” she said evenly, “and so are all the other employees not involved in that dreadful business.”

  She rose from the armchair, removed her jacket, and joined me on the couch. It could have been an entirely innocent maneuver, I agree, but one never knows, do one? She sat quite close and looked at me directly.

  “Archy,” she said, “I asked you to come over because I have an apology to make.”

  “Sunny,” I protested, “you’ve already apologized. You admitted you and Mr. Horace were aware of Oliver’s shenanigans before you asked McNally and Son for a discreet inquiry.”

  “No, no,” she said with a small smile of rue. “This is another apology. A personal apology.”

  She placed a soft hand on my arm and answered the question that had been bedeviling me.

  “I want to explain why I went to such lengths to protect Horace and why I may have misled you in the process. I even withheld things I knew and made you discover them yourself. It was all because I didn’t want Horace to be hurt. You see, dear, he and I have been intimate for, oh, perhaps five yea
rs, ever since his wife became ill.”

  She paused and looked at me as if awaiting an expression of shock. But I was not shocked. Would you have been? I think not.

  “Oh,” I said, my suspicion confirmed. After all, there was the expensive condo, the new car she drove, those frequent payments for clothes and jewelry in her credit dossier. The lady was obviously living beyond her means, and the unexplained prosperity of others is always sufficient to ignite my penchant for nosiness.

  “You mean a lot to me, Archy,” she continued, “and it is important to me that you know why we did what we did. Horace’s wife was dying. My mother is totally out of it and hasn’t long to go. That’s what brought us together. Can you understand it?”

  “Not quite,” I said, taking a deep swallow of my chilled plasma. “I must confess I’m an absolute klutz when it comes to grasping all the subtleties of he-she relations.”

  “It was grief, Archy,” she said intently. “Like two people huddling together in a bomb shelter, comforting each other against the death outside. Of course we bedded; I won’t deny it. But it was not passion; it was a sharing of sorrow—and fear.”

  “That’s heavy,” I said.

  Sunny nodded. “I know but it’s true. There was guilt, of course—there had to be guilt because his wife was still alive.”

  “Do you suppose she knew?”

  “I believe she did. I like to think she approved—or at least accepted it with equanimity. She was a marvelous woman, Archy.”

  “She was indeed.”

  “Horace tried to compensate for his conduct by giving me gifts. It really wasn’t necessary. I told him that but he insisted. Somehow it helped him deal with his guilt. Men are so strange. As for my guilt, I could endure it because I knew it was temporary; it couldn’t last. The bombs were falling closer and closer. I think I need another drink. Are you ready?”

  “Good Lord, no!”

  She returned with a refilled wine glass and seated herself close beside me again.

  “Two questions, Sunny,” I said, “and I’d love to know the answers. There was once a Polish king known as Boleslaw the Bashful and I expect I shall go down in history as Coleslaw the Curious. First of all, did you grant me the pleasures of your bed just to ensure my continued cooperation in the investigation?”

  She clamped my arm again, tightly this time. “Oh no!” she said hotly. “Don’t even think such a thing. I simply wanted us to enjoy. I wanted it to be purely physical, mindless, and fun. I wanted to surrender completely and for a brief, wonderful time forget all my problems and share joy instead of sorrow. Did I succeed?”

  “Of course you did,” I lied valiantly and have never uttered a more meritorious falsehood. “And now I must ask my second question: Will you marry Horace Whitcomb?”

  Her grip on my arm slackened and she looked at me sadly. “You still don’t understand, do you? Of course I won’t marry Horace. It wasn’t a mad, crazy love affair, a lust neither of us could resist. All we had was shared grief. And after that is gone, we have nothing.”

  This woman was too deep for me by far.

  “Surely you have plans for the future, Sunny.”

  “Oh yes,” she said determinedly. “I intend to stay with Whitcomb Funeral Homes until we have it functioning normally again. Then I’ll leave and find another job. When my mother passes away I might move elsewhere. California perhaps.”

  “Mr. Horace will urge you to stay,” I told her.

  “He already has. But I want to put all this in the past and start a new life. Does that sound foolish?”

  “Not at all. Romantic, but not foolish. What exactly are you seeking, dear?”

  “I can’t explain,” she said. “I’m not sure myself.”

  I didn’t believe that. She was a woman of secrets to the last.

  There didn’t seem much more to be said. Our final parting, a light embrace and kiss, was more bro-sis than he-she.

  “Let’s keep in touch,” she said.

  “By all means,” I said.

  Kindred liars.

  I departed and aimed the Miata toward home and emotional security. I suffered one brief pang of remembrance: a vital woman, strong and zesty in bed.

  I found my thoughts returning to what Sunny Fogarty had revealed of her relationship with Horace Whitcomb, described by my father as an honorable man. I believed Sunny had told me the truth—or at least what was valid for her. But I found her story so singular, so alien to my experience, that I could scarcely accept it.

  And so, hewing to folk wisdom—”A boy’s best friend is his mother”—I sought out Mrs. Madelaine McNally after I garaged my tumbril. I found her in our greenhouse.

  “Mrs. M.,” I said, “I’d like to take advantage of your superior acumen and ask help in solving an enigma that puzzles me.”

  She paused, brass watering can in hand, and looked at me inquiringly. “What is it, Archy?”

  “Do you think it possible a man and a woman might form a close relationship—an intimate relationship, in fact—simply because both are suffering great sorrow in their personal lives?”

  She didn’t hesitate a moment. “Of course it’s possible,” she said promptly. “Grief does bring people together, you know. They cling to one another.”

  “Mother, I always thought passionate twosomes were based on physical attraction and shared interest in such things as opera, Bugs Bunny cartoons, ballet, and smoked provolone sandwiches on pumpernickel.”

  “Oh, Archy, people link up for so many reasons, and sadness is certainly one of them. Misery loves company just as happiness does.”

  I pondered that for a moment. “You’re saying the motives for intimacy are many and varied?”

  “Very many and very varied.”

  This was a fresh perception to me and I could not let it go. “Could a shared prejudice or hatred or bigotry be the motive for a man and woman cleaving to each other?”

  “Of course,” mother said matter-of-factly. “Even nasty people fall in love, Archy.”

  “I guess,” I said gloomily, wishing I knew more than I did. But I consoled myself with the thought that Mr. Einstein probably had the same vain hope.

  “Have I answered your question, dear?” she asked, not at all dismayed by the lesson she had taught me in the realpolitiks of love.

  “You have indeed,” I assured her, “and I thank you for it. By the way, I won’t be able to join you and father for cocktails and dinner. Connie has returned from Miami and we’re going out for a night on the town.”

  “That’s nice, darling,” she said brightly. “Have a wonderful time.”

  “I fully intend to give it my best shot,” I vowed, kissed her velvety cheek, and left her asking a Merry Christmas begonia why it was drooping in such a shameful fashion.

  The sea was paved that afternoon, but I was in no mood for a dunk. Nor did I have any desire to scribble in my journal and close out my account of the Whitcomb case. Instead, I lay on my bed fully clothed, stared at the ceiling, and suffered a severe case of weltschmerz.

  I am not often depressed, being cheerful by nature, but recent events had brought me low. I was discomposed by so many people dancing about as if Walpurgisnacht would go on forever.

  I suddenly realized what would cure my jimjams. I rose and called Connie Garcia, phoning her at the estate of Lady Cynthia Horowitz. I figured Connie had gone to work immediately to make up for all her absent days.

  “Lady Horowitz’s residence,” she said crisply. “Consuela Garcia speaking.”

  “Archibald McNally speaking,” I said just as snappily. “Is it on for tonight, hon?”

  “You betcha,” she said. “You pick me up at seven and off we go to the Pelican Club.”

  “Do me a favor, will you, Connie. I’d like to wear a dinner jacket. Will you get gussied up?”

  Shocked silence. Then: “You want to wear a dinner jacket to the Pelican?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’ll be tarred, feathered, and ridden out of to
wn on a rail.”

  “I don’t care. It’s something I must do. Will you humor me?”

  “Say ‘Please.’”

  “Please.”

  “Say ‘Please with sugar on it.’”

  I groaned. “Please with sugar on it.”

  “Okay,” she giggled. “I’ll get all dolled up. It’ll give me a chance to wear a neat coat dress I bought in Miami. It’s white silk and makes me look like a vanilla Popsicle.”

  “Yummy,” I said. “See you at seven.”

  Then I disrobed and went back to bed smiling for a much needed nap. If the Whitcomb affair had an almost operatic intensity, I was determined that evening would be as innocent and memorable as a pop tune. I don’t know the lyrics of La donna è mobile but I can sing every word of “It Had to Be You.”

  35.

  WHEN ATTENDING A FORMAL affair in South Florida’s clammy clime, I usually don a white dinner jacket, soft-collared shirt, and a tie and cummerbund of a modest maroon or even a sedate tartan. But not that evening.

  I unzipped a garment bag to extract my black tropical worsted dinner jacket and trousers. The jacket had black satin lapels, the trousers black satin stripes, but the costume was really as conservative as a shroud. I also laid out a starched shirt, wing collar, onyx studs and cuff links.

  I knew exactly what I was doing. The Whitcomb case had been such a raw and vulgar affair that I needed a healthy dose of convention to restore my emotional balance. My traditional uniform was one small step in recovering the comfort of custom. I have neither the gall nor the desire to deny the past.

  Showered, shaved, and scented, I dressed in my formal attire, prized my feet into patent leather shoes, and descended to the kitchen. I moved rather stiffly, I admit, as if I were wearing a suit of armor and feared I might creak.

  Mrs. Olson was preparing dinner and turned as I entered.

  “Oh my, Mr. Archy,” she said, awed, “you look so handsome!”

  “Thank you, Ursi,” I said, preening. “Do you think perhaps I need a boutonniere?”