McNally's Dilemma

by Lawrence Sanders

  In the morning I lingered in my quarters long enough to be assured that Father had gone off to his office and Mother was hard at work in her garden. Jamie was at the kitchen table, enjoying his coffee and his newspaper as I hoped he would be. While Ursi prepared my French toast and turkey sausage, I began priming the pump in hopes of getting a steady flow of coherent sentences from Jamie Olson.

  “Remember the day I returned Veronica Manning’s car to her and you followed me in the Miata?”

  In response, Jamie showed me the front page of the morning paper. The blank face with the question-mark nose was once again on display and below it, in three-inch black type, was the word “REWARD.” So, they had finally done it. Was it strictly the newspaper’s ploy or was Melva guaranteeing payment? Either way, the police were going to be inundated with Mystery Women.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “A hundred thousand,” Ursi answered, as she presented me with cranberry juice and coffee.

  “Why don’t you give yourself up, Ursi, and take the money and run?” I recommended.

  “If I thought I could get away with it, I would,” she answered.

  Turning once again to Jamie, I reminded him of the day we drove in separate cars to Melva’s.

  He nodded.

  “I believe you spent some time in the kitchen, talking to Hattie.”

  “She made me a cuppa,” Jamie admitted.

  Five words. I was making progress. “Hattie told you what happened that night?”

  “She was in tears,” Jamie remembered.

  This was more than I had hoped for. “Do you recall exactly what she told you?”

  Jamie seemed to be looking for the answer to my question on the obit page of his newspaper. Not a good sign. Knowing better, I did not repeat my request but waited patiently for Jamie to see who in Palm Beach was no longer interested in the long-range weather forecast.

  “You mean about the robbery?” he asked, turning from the obituaries to the comics.

  “What robbery?”

  “Hattie thought they were being robbed. First the shouting woke her, and before she was out of bed she heard the gun go off. She figured the bandit had killed the family, and she was afraid to leave her room for fear he would get her, too.”

  The hair on the nape of my neck rose. Ursi placed my breakfast before me, and the odors of cinnamon and vanilla assaulted rather then assuaged my appetite. I already knew the answer when I asked Jamie, “Why did she come downstairs if she was so afraid?”

  “Because she heard the car drive off. She knew the bandit had fled.”

  Melva said she fired at Geoff after the Mystery Woman had fled.

  “I heard her car drive off and wondered if she was still naked and what a scandal there would be if she were stopped by the police. Then I think he noticed the gun I was pointing at him.”

  Hattie told me she heard the gunshot and then she heard the car drive off, and Jamie had just confirmed that fact.

  I now knew why Hattie’s statement had kept me awake that night, but I took no comfort from the solution. Wasn’t it just as easy to believe Melva as it was to believe Hattie? No! Because Hattie was a very frightened woman who would never have budged from her room if she hadn’t heard the car leave after the shot was fired. Had the shot come last, Hattie would have correctly reasoned that the person doing the shooting was still downstairs and she would have remained in her room.

  But what did it mean? That the Mystery Woman had witnessed the shooting? If so, why had Melva lied? To protect the Mystery Woman? To absolve her of any firsthand knowledge of the crime? And what else was Melva hiding and why? I didn’t know. What I did know was that I didn’t like it. Not in the least.

  I called the Fairhurst residence and got Peterson. When I asked to speak to Mrs. Fairhurst, the butler asked who wanted her. “Archy McNally,” I said, guessing that the guy had recognized my voice and to lie would only add to whatever speculation was going on among the staff.

  “Mr. McNally,” Mrs. Fairhurst began, “I should say I’m surprised to hear from you, but we both know that would be a lie.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I trust you would like to see me, Mr. McNally.”

  “I would, Mrs. Fairhurst. Alone, if that’s possible.”

  “Yes, it’s possible. And, as I’m sure you know, it’s also preferable. You can’t come here and I won’t come to your office,” she stated, leaving no doubt that she meant it.

  “The Alcazar Lounge at The Breakers?” I suggested.

  “You have a date, Mr. McNally. It’s eleven now. Shall we say in one hour?”

  “We shall say, ma’am.”

  As I dressed in slacks and blazer I thought of Lady C.’s accusation that I had gone conventional in my garb. Prospective son-in-law was her theory for the change. Had I capitulated to custom since Veronica’s arrival in my life? I didn’t think so. Conformity, in either direction, is conformity. Variety remained my hallmark, and may the bluebird of happiness unload on Lady C.’s white turban. But just in case, I passed up the wing tips in favor of sneakers.

  I arrived early and took a seat at the bar, ordering a vodka and tonic with lime. The pretty barmaid presented me with a bowl of salted nuts along with my drink. The lounge was less than half full, but it was a tad early for the ladies who lunch. Right now I was surrounded by tourists and those who were breaking their fasts with juice laced with hard liquor.

  Mrs. Fairhurst spotted me as soon as she came into the room and didn’t pause a moment on her way to my perch on a bar stool. Today she wore a navy blue suit with a bit of white fluff at the neck, and blue and white spectator pumps. Her good skin and trim figure belied her age, and her shapely legs told you why she probably never wore pants.

  I got off my stool to greet her. “Mrs. Fairhurst,” I said with a nod, “I appreciate your time.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. McNally.” She made a move toward the stool next to the one I had just vacated.

  “Would you rather we sat at a table?”

  “Heavens no. I never get to sit at the bar in public places, and I never have secret rendezvous with handsome young men. If I’m going to break the rules, I insist on breaking all of them.”

  I liked this lady. We settled in, side by side, and I moved my bowl of salted nuts to a position that would afford both of us easy access. When the barmaid appeared, Mrs. Fairhurst ordered a gin and tonic in a stem glass. “It looks more respectable,” she explained.

  “You drove yourself?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s one of the few things I do well.”

  We watched the barmaid mix her drink as if we were intent on memorizing the recipe, and our banter ceased until Mrs. Fairhurst had sampled the finished product.

  “You wanted me to set up this date, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “Oh dear. Are you being Freudian? Do you mean I subconsciously sent out signals asking you to call me?”

  “I thought it was rather overt. I’m only surprised your husband didn’t notice your quandary.”

  Mrs. Fairhurst was sipping away at her gin and tonic at a rather rapid pace. Nerves, I suspected, notwithstanding her nonchalant chatter. “If I thought my husband would notice, it wouldn’t be necessary for us to meet, Mr. McNally.”

  The old story, but it’s new when it happens to you. A husband more interested in himself, his lineage, and his “library” than in the woman he married. I was sure Mrs. Fairhurst had all the creature comforts one could ask for—and more—accompanied by a marital relationship that would chill the heart of a penguin.

  “You’re going to think I’m a very foolish old woman,” she said.

  “Try me.”

  If her stem glass had a gauge, it would register dangerously close to E. “When the children were home I had a lot to occupy my time. I mean, Mr. McNally, I had a reason for living. When they left the nest, John and I suddenly looked at each other like strangers in a physician’s waiting room, each wondering what was wrong with the other. Our c
hildren had filled a void my husband had never occupied. He was never unkind. Just never very thoughtful. His upbringing precluded any show of emotion, and I’m afraid he learned his lessons well. I am, you see, a living cliché.” She paused before asking, “May I have another drink?”

  “You may, and I’ll join you.” I motioned for our barmaid to repeat our order and as she did I said to Mrs. Fairhurst, “You need not bare your soul, ma’am. I think I understand the situation.”

  “Just cut to the chase. Isn’t that the popular expression?”

  I smiled, and so did she. There was a twinkle in her eyes and I felt very, very sorry for this poor rich lady. However, I felt just as sorry for her mate. Look at all he was missing. “Then along came Arnold,” I prompted.

  She took a small sip of her fresh drink and I did the same with mine. We both continued to ignore our salted nuts.

  “You are either very clever, Mr. McNally, or my tale is as old as the proverbial hills. Yes, and then came Arnold Turnbolt. You see, John and I became involved in so many charities, many of which we founded, that a secretary was more a necessity than a luxury. So, we took on Arnold, and I was hooked from the moment he came into our home. Arnold made me laugh. He made me remember that life was to be enjoyed, not endured. On his own time he escorted me to the theater, museums, restaurants, and social functions John refused to attend.” She paused, thought a moment and said, “And he was safe—if you know what I mean.”

  I nodded. “An openly gay man,” I said, “and therefore above suspicion. You wouldn’t be the first woman of substance to employ a ‘walker,’ Mrs. Fairhurst.”

  “But Arnold is so much more than a paid or convenient escort. He’s a friend. We consult each other on everything—mostly my clothes and his boyfriends.” Again the twinkle and smile.

  “And you told Arnold about Grandpa’s less than heroic exit from the Titanic.”

  She took another sip of her drink, pacing herself more carefully on her second gin and tonic. Smart gal was Mrs. Fairhurst. “Like you, Arnold noticed the dates under the portraits and when he pointed them out to me I told him the whole story.”

  “But you never told your husband about the dates?”

  “Heavens, no. There was no reason. If no one besides Arnold had ever noticed them we assumed that no one ever would. And then along came Archy McNally.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. “You also didn’t tell your husband because he would have asked you exactly what you told Arnold following his discovery. This would leave you two choices—lie or fess up that you had confided in your secretary. It was easier to keep quiet.”

  She raised her right hand and said, “Guilty.” Then, before I could ask, she stated, “Arnold is not blackmailing us, Mr. McNally.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am. And not just because I trust him implicitly but because I confided in Arnold, as you call it, over five years ago, Mr. McNally. Why would he wait until now to do such a dreadful thing?”

  “I believe you, Mrs. Fairhurst. Does Arnold know about the blackmail scam?”

  She shook her head adamantly. “No, he does not. Or I should say if he does, he didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Do you know that your new chauffeur, Seth Walker, has visited Arnold in his rooms?”

  “Mr. McNally, I have said all I came here to say.”

  “But Mrs. Fairhurst, Seth is the new kid on the block and if he’s been intimate with Arnold—”

  “Please, Mr. McNally. I don’t want to hear any more. I’ve told you all I know about this insufferable business, and I have no intention of saying anything more.”

  That twinkle had been replaced with tears. If Seth was the culprit and I connected Arnold to Seth—however unwittingly Arnold had acted—it would be the end of Arnold’s job and Mrs. Fairhurst’s dear friendship. That she had told me as much as she had was a testimony to her allegiance to her husband—who didn’t deserve it—and her belief in justice, regardless of the consequences to her own person. A very noble lady, indeed.

  “I respect your position, Mrs. Fairhurst. This conversation ends here and will never go beyond us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McNally. You are a gentleman, but I’ll pay for the drinks.”

  “No,” I insisted. “I’m on an expense account, and this will get charged to your husband.” Her smile told me she liked the idea.

  “Anything new with Melva’s situation?” she asked.

  Plenty, but not for publication, I thought. Aloud I told her what little I knew. “Have you spoken to her, Mrs. Fairhurst?”

  “No. But I will. In fact, I want to ask her to dine with us one evening soon. You know, we were very close to Melva and Ted, but never really took to Geoff.”

  “Yes, I know. And I think she would appreciate your call.”

  “You and Veronica are something of an item, I understand. Or at least that’s what Arnold says.”

  “I’m keeping an eye on her as a favor to Melva. That’s all.”

  “Melva is very lucky to have you on her side, Mr. McNally.”

  “Thank you,” I answered, wondering if that was really true and not liking myself for the thought.

  “I respect Melva,” Mrs. Fairhurst told me.

  “Respect, ma’am? Why?”

  “Because she had the nerve to do what she did.”

  After that, there was nothing left to say.

  If Seth Walker wasn’t my pigeon I’d eat all four of my silk berets, with my pith helmet for dessert. But how to prove it, was the question. And did I want to prove it? Yes, dammit, I did. It was my job to do so, and neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor Arnold’s soft job would stop me. I had done all I could to protect Mrs. Fairhurst, but when we left the Alcazar Lounge we both knew that we had arrived at a meeting of the minds. She had done her duty, and now I had to do mine. If Arnold was implicated, even secondhand, it would be up to him to shield Mrs. Fairhurst, and I strongly suspected that he would.

  23

  I DROVE THE MIATA into the underground garage of the McNally Building and waved to Herb in his glass booth. He immediately picked up his phone, no doubt alerting Mrs. Trelawney to my arrival. My presence in the McNally Building is rare enough to warrant such recognition. I maintain an office here that is the size of a handkerchief, and as it makes my claustro phobic I avoid it assiduously.

  I took the elevator to my warren and set to work compiling my expenses for the week. I had had the good fortune of being treated to dinner at Ta-Boo’ by Melva, saving McNally & Son a considerable sum, so didn’t feel the least perturbed when I presented the outrageous bill for drinks at the Alcazar Lounge for my unauthorized meeting with Mrs. Fairhurst. My rationale for this was that McNally & Son was coming out ahead.

  Mrs. Trelawney accepted my rendering with, “Thank you, Archy. I was in need of a good laugh.”

  “Happy to oblige, Mrs. Trelawney. When may I have a check?”

  “I’ll take this right to accounting,” she said.

  “Petty cash would be more fitting,” I told her.

  “There is nothing petty about your swindle sheet, Archy. And your father would like to see you.”

  “How does he know I’m here?”

  “Guess,” she called over her shoulder as she toted my expense account to the keepers of the privy purse. “You can go right in, he’s expecting you.”

  Father was seated at his desk, outfitted in a single-breasted blue tropical worsted suit with vest and Countess Mara paisley tie, looking every inch the sovereign of his domain.

  “Anything new on the Fairhurst business?” Father asked as I sank into a leather visitor’s chair.

  “Nothing concrete, sir, but after my visit there I’m more certain than ever that the chauffeur, Seth Walker, is our blackmailer.”

  “The young man recommended by Geoff Williams?”

  “One and the same.”

  “What was his connection with Geoff, Archy? Sorry, but I forgot.”

  “He’s the son of o
ne of Geoff’s lady friends. No secret there. The boy readily admitted it. I told you Geoff was in Palm Beach about a month ago when he ran into John Fairhurst and recommended the boy.”

  “What was Geoff doing in Palm Beach alone?”

  “Visiting with Seth’s mother, I assume, which resulted in Seth’s being taken on by Fairhurst. By the way, the boy hates the job. Thinks it’s beneath him.”

  “I see,” Father mused. “How do you think this boy, Seth, learned the facts? He’s only been in John’s employ for several weeks.”

  “True. But Seth struck up a quick and close friendship with Mrs. Fairhurst’s secretary, Arnold Turnbolt, who has been a member of the household staff for ten years. Turnbolt and Mrs. Fairhurst have become very close during that time, and I’ve learned that Turnbolt noticed the dates on the portraits some five years ago.”

  Father didn’t need a road map to tell him where this was leading. He had stated our position regarding a private meeting with Mrs. Fairhurst and would never again allude to the subject. If Prescott McNally was Dickensian in his literature, he was Machiavellian in his politics. When it came to business, the end justified the means, and if the means were contrary to policy, so be it, but never discuss it. Father would never ask how I knew what I knew.

  “Can you prove the boy’s involvement in this business?”

  “No, sir. I’m hoping to link Seth to the letter detailing where and when to deliver the loot.”

  “Can you lean on this Turnbolt to see what he may have passed on?”

  “I’d rather not,” I answered. “He’s a very astute man, and if I said too much I would be giving my hand away and our pigeon might fly the coop.”

  “Do you think Turnbolt would warn this Seth?”

  I didn’t pause a moment before saying, “No, sir, I do not. I believe Turnbolt would confront Seth, and that could prove dangerous.”