McNally's risk am-3

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Could be," Rogoff said. "And the killer walked off with it. Listen, Archy, are you still checking out this Hector Johnson?"

  "Oh yes."

  "And his daughter, too?"

  "Definitely."

  "Have you met them?"

  "I've met her briefly, but I haven't met Hector."

  "Keep on it, will you?" Al said. "Maybe Silas told them something about that untitled painting."

  "I'll be happy to ask," I said. "It gives me an excuse to see her again."

  "Oh-ho. A winner, is she?"

  "Divine is an understatement," I assured him. "I think I'm in love."

  "So what else is new?" he said.

  I finally got him off the phone after promising to report on my meeting with Theodosia and Hector Johnson. It was then too late for a dip in the Atlantic. So I peeled off my snazzy Speedo, showered, and dressed in time to attend the family cocktail hour and dinner.

  I then retired to my one-man dormitory to bring my journal au courant with the day's events. After reading over what I had scribbled, I was dismayed to see how my initial inquiry into the trustworthiness of Theo Johnson appeared to be interacting with the investigation into the murder of Silas Hawkin.

  I simply refused to believe that the beautiful Madam X could possibly be involved in that heinous crime. But then Lucrezia Borgia was hardly a gorgon, and neither was Lizzie Borden. It was all enough to make one ponder the advantages of celibacy.

  Which I did, and finally decided there were none.

  5

  A weekend intruded here, and a very welcome intrusion it was. For two sun-spangled days I was able to enact my favorite role of blade-about-town. On Saturday morning I played tennis with Binky Watrous on his private court- and lost. I treated Connie Garcia to lunch at the Pelican Club, challenged her to a game of darts-and lost. In the evening I played poker with a group of intemperate cronies-and lost.

  I was more successful on Sunday. I spent most of the afternoon gamboling on the beach with Connie and a Frisbee, and demolishing a bottle of a chilled Soave I had never tried before. Tangy is the word. Then we picked up two slabs of ribs barbecued with a Cajun sauce and returned to Connie's digs with a cold six-pack of Heineken. A pleasant time was had by all. I was home and in bed by ten o'clock and asleep by 10:05, sunburned, slightly squiffed, exhausted, and oh so content.

  I overslept on Monday morning, as usual, and found a deserted kitchen when I bounced downstairs. I fixed myself a mug of instant black, and built an interracial sandwich: ham on bagel.

  I used the kitchen phone to call the office. I asked Mrs. Trelawney if the honcho could spare me a few moments that morning. She put me on hold, and I listened to wallpaper music a few minutes while she went to check. She returned to tell me His Majesty would grant me ten minutes at precisely eleven o'clock.

  "Thank you, Mrs. T.," I said. "Tell me, have you ever cooked a goose-or vice versa?"

  "Why, no," she said. "But I once took a tramp in the woods."

  She hung up cackling, and I trotted out to my chariot, much refreshed by that silly exchange of ancient corn.

  Twenty minutes later I was in my crypt at the McNally Building and lighted my first English Oval of the day, considering it a reward for having spent the entire weekend without a gasper. On my desk was a sheaf of faxed replies to my inquiries to national credit agencies regarding the financial status of Theodosia and Hector Johnson.

  I read them all slowly and carefully, and, to put it succinctly, my flabber was gasted. It was not that they contained derogatory information about the Johnsons; they contained no information at all.

  If those reports were to be believed, Theo and Hector had never had a credit card, never had a charge account, never bought anything on time, never made a loan or had a mortgage, never purchased anything from a mail order catalogue, never received a government check for whatever reason, had no insurance, owned no assets such as real estate, stocks, bonds, or other securities, and had never filed a tax return.

  Improbable, would you say? Nay, dear reader. Utterly impossible! In our society even a toddler of three has already left a paper trail, carefully recorded on a computer somewhere. I refused to believe that two adults had no financial background whatsoever. Even if they scrupulously paid cash for all their purchases, what was the source of the cash and why was there no mention of bank accounts, checking and savings, and no record of having paid federal, state, and local taxes?

  They had names and Social Security numbers. And that's all their dossiers revealed.

  I tried to puzzle it out, resisting the urge to light another cigarette. The more I gnawed at it, the more ridiculous it seemed to me that the Johnsons could be totally without a financial history. There must be a logical explanation for it, but whatever it might be I could not imagine. I hoped my Palm Beach contacts would help solve the riddle.

  It was then pushing eleven o'clock, and I rushed upstairs to my father's office, for if I was even one minute late he was quite capable of canceling the appointment.

  Prescott McNally, Esq., was standing solidly planted before his antique rolltop desk, and in his three-button, double-breasted suit of nubby cheviot, looking somewhat of a relic himself. He cast a baleful glance at my awning-striped seersucker jacket and didn't invite me to be seated.

  I recited a condensed account of my interview with Shirley Feebling in Fort Lauderdale and finished by suggesting the lady might be sincere in professing love for Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth.

  "She seemed totally uninterested in a cash settlement, sir," I remarked.

  "Nonsense," father said sharply. "Did you make a specific offer?"

  "No, I did not."

  "That was a mistake, Archy," he said. "The mention of dollars would have concentrated her mind wonderfully. I'm afraid the lady bamboozled you. Her protestations of love were merely a bargaining ploy. And even if she is smitten, as you seem to believe, how can she possibly profit from an unrequited love? She can't force that young fool to marry her, you know."

  "No, sir, but she can carry out her threat to sell his letters to a tabloid."

  "Don't be so certain of that," he admonished me. "I would have to research relevant law, but it might be claimed the letters are his property since he created them, and if so ruled, the sale and publication could be legally enjoined. But before we go to that trouble, I suggest you consult with Smythe-Hersforth. Obtain his approval of your returning to Fort Lauderdale and making a definite offer to this woman. I believe the proposal of an actual cash payment will persuade her to talk business."

  I was doubtful but made no demur. "How much do you think we should offer?"

  He went into his mulling trance, and I waited patiently for his decision.

  "I reckon a thousand dollars would be adequate," he finally said.

  I was startled. "Isn't that rather mingy, sir?"

  "Of course it is," he said testily, "and I expect the woman will reject it immediately. But it will serve as an opening move to begin bargaining. It will require her to reveal what she believes she should receive, and eventually, I trust, an equitable compromise can be agreed upon. The important thing is to shift negotiations away from discussion of her alleged emotional injury to the realm of a hard cash settlement. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, father, and I'll attempt to explain it to CW, though he is not the swiftest man in the world."

  "When you speak to him you might also ascertain how high he is willing to go. Five thousand? Ten? Or more? The decision must be his. Now is there anything else?"

  "Just one more thing," I said hastily. "I had occasion to speak to Mrs. Louise Hawkin prior to the death of her husband. She said a friend was seeking a divorce lawyer and asked if we might recommend someone."

  Father stared at me. "Do you really believe she was asking on behalf of a friend?"

  "No, sir."

  "Nor do I. And now that Mrs. Hawkin is a widow I doubt very much that she will inquire again about a divorce attorney. Your ten minutes are
up."

  I returned to my broom closet, slumped behind my steel desk, and silently groused. I was frustrated by that conversation with the senior. I thought he was totally mistaken about Ms. Shirley Feebling-but then I had met the lady and he had not. I really didn't believe she would accept a cash settlement, no matter how generous.

  Still, I had no wish to flaunt my father's advice. His experience had been so much more extensive than mine, I simply had to defer to his judgment. But I am, as you may have guessed, an incurable romantic, and I mournfully reflected that if mein papa was correct and Shirley accepted money in lieu of love, I would be horribly disappointed and possibly take up the lute to express my weltschmerz in musical form.

  Meanwhile, I had a job to do and when duty calls, yrs. truly can never be accused of shlumpery. I called Information and obtained the phone number of Hector Johnson. I had prepared a scam that, I felt, included sufficient truth to convince the most worldly-wise pigeon.

  "The Johnson residence," a man's voice answered. Deep and resonant. A very slight accent. Midwestern, I guessed.

  "Mr. Hector Johnson, please," I said.

  "Speaking. Who is this calling?"

  "Mr. Johnson, my name is Archibald McNally, and I am associated with McNally and Son, a law firm located on Royal Palm Way. I had the pleasure of meeting your lovely daughter during a recent art exhibit at the Pristine Gallery."

  "Ah, yes," he said. "I'm afraid Theo is busy at the moment."

  "No, no," I said. "It is you I'd like to talk to. Mr. Johnson, I am assigned to the real estate section of McNally and Son, and we have a number of very attractive properties for sale or lease in the Palm Beach area. Rather than deluge you with brochures and listings, I am taking the liberty of calling to ask if you have any interest in a Palm Beach estate, either as a residence or an investment."

  "Not right now, thank you," he said. "But quite possibly at some time in the near future."

  "In that case," I said, continuing to act the role of a pushy real estate hustler, "could I meet with you personally and perhaps get some idea of what you might be looking for? We have properties that range in asking price from a half-million to twelve, with financing readily available, I assure you. They are located on the beachfront, inland, and with Waterway frontages. Rather than try to sell you a particular offering, I'd much rather learn what you prefer, either now or, as you say, in the near future."

  "That makes sense," he said. "You say your name is Archibald McNally?"

  "That's correct, sir. Everyone calls me Archy."

  He laughed. "Don't complain. Everyone calls me Heck. Who put you on to me, Archy?"

  "Lady Cynthia Horowitz suggested I call," I said boldly. "She was quite impressed by your contribution to her latest effort at civic beautification."

  I was hoping he would be impressed, and he was. "I was happy to help," he said. "And if you're a friend of Lady Horowitz I'll be glad to meet with you. When would you care to make it?"

  "At your convenience, sir."

  There was a brief pause. Then: "Well, I have an appointment with a business associate at three this afternoon, but if you could come by at, say, two o'clock, we should be able to get to know each other in an hour's time. How does that sound?"

  "Splendid," I said. "I'm looking forward to it, and I promise you, no high-powered sales pitch."

  "I'll hold you to that," he said, laughing again. "See you at two, Archy."

  "Thank you, Heck," I said.

  He gave me his address, and we hung up. I sat a moment staring at the dead phone and thinking of what a personable guy he was, how he projected warmth, confidence, good humor. Some people sound like duds when their voices come over the wire. Hector Johnson sounded like a political candidate who is absolutely certain he's going to win.

  My second phone call was to CW's office. His secretary informed me that Mr. Smythe-Hersforth had departed that morning for a bankers' convention in New Orleans and was not expected back until Thursday morning. I thanked her, grateful that I could postpone for three days another go-around with a man silly enough to certify a proposal of marriage in writing.

  I had time to buzz home and change into a costume more befitting a sober, industrious, and sincere real estate agent. I bounced down to the kitchen for a spot of lunch and found Ursi Olson preparing a Florida bouillabaisse that was to be our dinner that evening. But she paused long enough to make me an open sandwich of Norwegian brisling sardines with slices of beefsteak tomato and shavings of red onion on her home-baked sour rye. Life can be beautiful.

  I found the Johnsons' condo to be on ground level and smallish. I figured if you stood on a chair and peered out the kitchen window to your left you might catch a glimpse of Lake Worth. But it was located in a decent neighborhood, the landscaping was well-groomed, and if the building didn't shout big bucks, there was really nothing to apologize for.

  What suddenly made me think it a place of magical charm was that Theodosia Johnson opened the door when I rang, and my knees buckled. She gave me a smile as inflammatory as a nuclear meltdown, and I was immediately convinced that True Love did exist and I was its latest willing victim.

  I saw her clothed in golden gossamer, though actually she was wearing white linen shorts and a man's rugby shirt the same color as her sky-blue eyes. Her long chestnut hair was bound up in a braid and piled atop her head. No queen ever wore a lovelier crown.

  She addressed me as Archy, and I was so grateful I wanted to roll on my back on the floor and beg to have my stomach scratched. But instead I followed her through a short foyer to the living room, where she invited me to be seated and asked if I'd care for a drink.

  My tongue seemed swollen to unmanageable proportions, and all I could do was shake my head. I simply could not stop staring at her. I know the room was decorated and contained furniture, but don't ask me to describe it; I only had eyes for Madam X, and the rest of the universe faded away.

  "You heard about Si Hawkin?" she asked sorrowfully.

  I nodded. "Dreadful," I said, not believing that croaky voice was mine.

  "I wept for hours," she said. "He was such a good friend. And a major talent, don't you think?"

  "Major," I repeated, wondering how I could stop my head from bobbing up and down like one of those crazy little birds that sips water perpetually from a glass.

  "It must have been awful for his family," she went on.

  She was trying her best to make conversation, poor dear, but I was so overwhelmed by her beauty that I could contribute nothing. I, Archy McNally, sometimes known to his confreres as Mighty Mouth, sat there like a perfect clod, and if my jaw was agape I wouldn't have been a bit surprised.

  "Father will be along in a minute," Theo said, "and then I'll leave you two alone to talk business."

  The possibility of her disappearing from view shocked me back to volubility. "Please don't do that," I beseeched. "I hope to speak to your father about your purchasing or leasing another property, and I'd be happy to hear your requirements as well as his. It's been my experience that women are much more knowledgeable than men in the planning or selection of a livable home."

  "I do have some very definite ideas about what I'd like to have," she said. "For instance, daddy knows absolutely nothing about gardens."

  I wasn't so stunned by her loveliness that I didn't pick up on that. I thought it exceedingly odd that a man who claimed to be an expert on orchids-according to my mother-would know absolutely nothing about gardens. Possible but highly unlikely.

  Theo was speaking of her dream of someday having a home with a private gym when a beefy, thick-necked linebacker came striding energetically into the room.

  "Heck Johnson," he shouted, thrusting out his hand.

  "Archy McNally," I said, rising to my feet and shaking that big paw. His grip wasn't exactly a bone-crusher, but you knew it was there.

  "What's this?" he demanded, looking about. "No drinks? Theo, you're neglecting your duties as a hostess."

  "I did ask, dad, b
ut Archy turned me down." She smiled. She had one dimple. Left cheek. Oh, lord! I was a goner.

  "Nonsense," he said, and turned to me. "I'm having a vodka gimlet. Theo gets it just right. How about it?"

  "Thank you, Heck, I will."

  "Of course," he said. "Theo, be a darling and mix two of your specials."

  "Three," she said, and left the room.

  He waved me back to my wicker armchair and sat in the middle of a couch facing me. He crossed his legs and carefully adjusted the crease in his trousers.

  I fancy myself something of a minor league Beau Brummell, but Hector Johnson belonged in the Hall of Fame. He was wearing a trig suit of lightweight taupe wool, a shirt striped in pale lavender with French cuffs, and a widespread white collar closed with a knitted black silk cravat tied in a Windsor knot. A fashion plate!

  I guessed him to be about sixty, but his age was difficult to estimate since it was obvious that he was no stranger to facials, manicures, and massages. What was most impressive was his air of assurance. This was a man, I decided, who never had a doubt in the world. It was rather daunting to a goof like me whose theme song could be "What's It All About, Archy?"

  We chatted casually for a few minutes and, without my asking, he remarked that he was semi-retired and that he and his daughter were so impressed by Palm Beach they were determined to make it their permanent home.

  "Y'see, Archy," he said, "we've lived all over the world. As a mining engineer I was forced to travel a great deal, and I think we're both ready to settle down."

  I nodded understandingly, mentally adding mining engineer to his growing list of former occupations.

  Our conversation was interrupted when Theo returned with our drinks. Hector had been exactly right; she did have a way with a gimlet: not too tart, not too heavy on the vodka, and with a delightful slice of fresh lime in each glass.

  We toasted each other, sipped appreciatively and, again without my asking, he began to describe the type of dwelling he and his daughter would like to inhabit.