McNally's chance (mcnally)

by Lawrence Sanders

  I was giving it so much thought I couldn’t think. Was he bluffing? If I folded and walked away he wins without showing his hand. If I called him and he laid out a royal flush I’m a skunk. Excuse the old cliche, but it does say it all damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

  “Will you give me the names of your witnesses?” I said.

  “No,” he responded without hesitation. He appeared to be in control of himself for the first time since entering the car. Looking at his cigarette as if wondering what it was doing in his hand, it followed its predecessor out the window. Perhaps the truth does set one free if he was telling the truth. It was a tough confession to make for a man with the conceit of Richard Cranston. Or was he manipulating me? Could I afford to take another chance or had I taken too many already?

  “I have to think about it,” I finally said.

  “Thanks.”

  “For nada. May I say I admire your courage and wish you well in your new life?”

  He smiled his best press-conference smile, obliterating the impudent snob. Which one was the real Richard Cranston? “My new life in sobriety or in England?”

  “Why not both?” I answered.

  “Before I go, tell me if Harry is involved in any of this. You know he’s dying?”

  “And therefore he has carte blanche to commit murder. Sorry, but I won’t tell you the nature of my business with Harry Schuyler. Last time we met we talked about the sacrosanct nature of client confidentiality. It applies to all clients.”

  “If you go to the police, you’ll be breaking the rule with this client.”

  “As they say, Dickey, damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

  “You missed your calling, Archy, you should have gone into politics.”

  On the drive back to the McNally Building I regretted that time did now allow me to present father with the perplexity of Cranston’s alibi.

  Would Justice tip her scale in favor of the law or compassion for those brave souls striving to make a new life for themselves and trying to help others along the way? Archy leaned toward compassion, but Archy is a soft touch and is the guy telling the truth?

  Herb gave me the high sign from his post in our underground garage.

  Today, I did not need Mrs. Trelawney to tell me who had called. On the way to the elevator I paused long enough to report, “Binky’s waffles landed in his lap.”

  Unconcerned at having presented Binky with a lethal weapon, Herb told me, Two of Binky’s fingers are wrapped in bandages.”

  “Burns,” I said.

  “No, Archy. The burns were superficial. Seems he nicked himself on his chopping block. Maybe he should go to a cooking school.”

  “I think a reform school is the answer. Did he mention his new lady friend?”

  “Mention her? He can’t stop talking about her. She bandaged his fingers.”

  Binky Watrous was being buttered and bandaged by his neighbors. How nice. But did he know about the basketball player? I couldn’t wait to tell him.

  I called Mrs. Trelawney. Mr. Appleton had called and left a number where I could reach him. It was urgent. Al Rogoff had called and said I should contact him regarding setting up an appointment to meet with the lieutenant in charge of the Sabrina Wright case. Nothing from Harry Schuyler.

  Appleton picked up on the first ring. “Archy? Thank goodness. Where have you been?”

  “Working, Tom. Some of us do, you know.”

  “I must see you. You know why, I’m sure. Where can we meet privately?”

  “The PB Institute of Contemporary Art?”

  “They’re closed on Monday,” he said.

  I thought a moment then asked, “Do you know where L’Encantada is now located?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Appleton said.

  “Meet me at the site in thirty minutes. It’s still a tourist attraction and we’ll pretend to be one of the gawkers.”

  “Fine. I’m on my way.”

  L’Encantada is an Addison Mizner mansion that has become one of the wonders of Palm Beach. Built in Manalapan in the roaring twenties, it was destined for demolition last winter when the daughter of a local real-estate investor attended a party in the doomed house and begged her father to save it. Recently divorced and wanting to please his little girl with a grand gesture, he bought the mansion for millions and spent even more millions to have it floated to a new site on Seaspray Avenue and South Ocean Boulevard.

  Yes, I said, floated. Like Caesar’s Gaul, the twenty-room house was divided into three parts and each section, one weighing in at four hundred twenty tons,

  was hoisted on rollers and pulled with cables along the beach and into the ocean, where they were mounted on barges for the short trip north, where the process was reversed and the house put back together on its new lot. Watching the house come ashore was last winter’s most popular spectator sport. In these parts, the gesture has become the standard by which all devoted fathers will be judged.

  Sofia Richmond called before I left my office. “I hear you lost a client,” was her opener.

  “You win some and you lose some. What do you hear?”

  “It would be easier to tell you what I haven’t heard. Sabrina was after one of our elite. Her daughter was doing the legwork and pretending to be looking for her natural mother. Sabrina is her natural mother and the girl’s father is Prince Philip, Porfirio Rubirosa (remember him?), and Frank Sinatra.”

  “All three?” I exclaimed.

  “No, Archy. One must choose. I understand the ladies who lunch have gotten up a pool.”

  And who are you putting your money on?”

  Archy McNally, of course. I’m betting he knows all the answers.”

  Smart lady, my Sofia. Very smart. “Put a fiver on Porfirio, Sofia, they say he had…”

  “Careful, Archy, this call may be monitored for quality purposes. Did you see Lolly’s obit this morning? He links her with every big name in pants, including you.”

  “Me?” I would kill Lolly Spindrift.

  ‘ “When Sabrina Wright arrived in Palm. Beach just a week ago, the first person she contacted was our own most eligible bachelor, and my dear friend, Archy McNally. Stay tuned to these pages for all the latest developments on the popular author’s murder,” unquote.”

  The little twerp. Implying that I was going to tell all for him to pass on to his readers. “Wishful thinking,” I said aloud.

  “I thought so,” Sofia said. “How much can you tell me?”

  Today, nothing. Tomorrow, the world. Now I have to go, Sofia. I’ll catch you later.”

  “That’s the story of my life,” she sighed audibly. Take care, Archy.

  Someone out there didn’t like Sabrina and Lolly has made you her confidant.”

  I wanted to tell her that everyone had made me their confidant and Lolly had nothing to do with it. I rang off with a promise of taking her to lunch before the week was out.

  As predicted, there were a few cars parked near the newly planted stucco and tile Mizner dream cottage. I saw Appleton get out of his BMW convertible and after parking, joined him on the street. Given the venue, it was a perfectly natural place to congregate and chat. Thomas Appleton, however, was anything but natural, unless hysteria is your bag.

  “What the hell happened?” he stage whispered as I approached.

  We were far enough from the two couples who had stopped to see what the tide had dragged in to speak without being heard. “Someone murdered Sabrina, that’s what happened. Any ideas who did it?”

  His Santa jowls glowed. “If you think I did, forget it. It must have been a lunatic.”

  “Did you meet with her last week?”

  “Yes, and she was a perfect bitch. She told me not to worry and to bug off, thank you. She said she would take care of her daughter.”

  “But someone took care of her instead, didn’t they?”

  “I tell you, it wasn’t me.” He kept a stealthy eye on the tourists.

  “Have the police questioned y
ou?”

  “Not yet, but I got a call today to contact them.”

  “And what will you tell them?”

  Each time I met with these three guys was like being in a hit show on Broadway. One had to play the same scene again and again. Thirty years ago Sabrina must have felt the same way, but being the star she had been well paid for her trouble. “I’m going to tell them what I know. I have no choice.”

  He was practically doing a tap dance on Seaspray Avenue. “You do have a choice. I spoke to you in confidence and you have no right to betray that trust.”

  A woman has been brutally slain and I have every right to tell the police what I know.”

  “When you saw me at Troy’s gathering you pretended not to know me. Why can’t we keep it that way?”

  “I just told you,” I said, ‘there’s been a murder and that changes everything.”

  “And why did Harry want to see you? I find it very strange that a few days after our meeting, you get a call from Harry.”

  “I find it very strange that a man who has nothing to hide is afraid of being questioned by the police.”

  The tourists went back in their cars, leaving Tom Appleton and me alone on the street. He was biting his lower lip so hard I thought it would bleed. “Damn it, I do have something to hide, but not what you think.

  “I didn’t want to do this,” he ranted, ‘but I see I have to. I went to New York for the weekend and stayed with a friend. I got back this morning. I took a commercial line and the stewardess will vouch for me. I’m a regular commuter. Then we have the doorman at the apartment building where I was a guest and the staff at Le Cirque where I dined Saturday night. For reasons which are none of your business, I do not wish to implicate my New York friend in this mess. You can go to the police and tell them I’m Gillian Wright’s father and then you can go to the devil.”

  Well, ain’t that a boot in the buttocks?

  Twenty-Four

  That either Dick Cranston or Tom Appleton had employed a hired gun to do the job for them was too insane to be worth a precious moment of my time. Only the one who was to meet Sabrina that night knew where to find her and both Cranston and Appleton had scheduled other appointments which they had both dutifully kept. That left Harry-come-lately. The guy who was up north when Sabrina hit town, they guy who was the last to meet with Sabrina, and the guy who had nothing to lose by committing murder.

  Harry Schuyler was also the only one not eager to confer face-to-face with Archy this morning. What was he waiting for?

  After being told where to go by Tom Appleton, I heeded him not and went to The Breakers instead. The television vans and their crews were being kept a good distance from the exclusive grounds. Their presence told me that Silvester and Gillian had not left the compound. The reporters on the grounds and in the lobby tried to look like paying customers and failed miserably. The hacks from New York were in dark suits and their colleagues from California sported designer jeans and polo shirts emblazoned with a variety of circus animals.

  I marched up to the desk and asked them to ring Robert Silvester’s room.

  “Sorry, sir. Mr. Silvester is not taking calls or seeing visitors.”

  “If you ring him and say Archy McNally wants to see him, I think he will acquiesce.”

  The clerk started and gave me the wide eye. “Mr. McNally? Yes, sir.

  I’ll ring Mr. Silvester’s suite.”

  There were times, like now, when a mention in Lolly’s column went a long way in awing restaurateurs and hotel clerks. Unfortunately for Sabrina Wright, Lolly’s glib notice was the prelude to the end of her life. Either way it was a chilling indication of the power of the press. The clerk told me Mr. Silvester would see me and gave me the suite number, which I already knew. With a thank-you, I headed for the elevators.

  They were all there Silvester, Gillian, and Zack Ward exhibiting signs of repressed hysteria aggravated by a good dose of cabin fever.

  Silvester looked angry, Gillian looked as if she had been crying, and Zack Ward stood slightly apart from the pair looking as embarrassed as a stranger who had intruded upon a family squabble. Gillian was done up in a rather smart beige linen suit featuring a knee-length skirt and a mock turtleneck in white knit. Her hair had been cut short and shaped like a snug cap about her head. Could she have been made over by Virginia Cranston’s hair stylist? If so, he had made her look remarkably like her mother.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. McNally,” Silvester said. “I’ve been calling your office all morning.”

  “I’ve been out,” I answered, then quickly added, “My sympathies to both of you.”

  “Thank you,” Silvester said.

  “My father didn’t do it, Mr. McNally!” Gillian cried.

  Out of patience, Silvester reproached her. “Let’s discuss this with Mr. McNally like rational people.”

  “We have been discussing it for two days and my answer is still no,”

  the girl ranted. Ward went to her and took her hand.

  Ignoring them, Silvester turned to me, “Have you spoken to the police?”

  “No. I wanted to speak to you and Ms Wright before I saw them.”

  “Thank you, and we wanted to talk to you,” Silvester said. “We have to report to the police station in an hour and we’ll have to face the press before we do and make a statement’ Here he glared at Zack Ward

  ‘although some of us have already been talking to the press… ad nauseam.”

  “It’s my job,” Ward said, not concealing his defiance. “And all I’ve reported are the known facts. I haven’t told them anything else.”

  “You’ve told them you’re on the inside,” Silvester charged, ‘holding the distressed daughter’s hand, when not even the man from the New York Times has been able to get near her.”

  “But he didn’t tell them my father did it,” Gillian said, ‘as you want to do.”

  It was clear this screaming match had been going on since the murder, and the bone of contention was becoming clearer with each salvo.

  Joining Cranston and Appleton, Silvester asked me, “What are you going to tell the police, Mr. McNally?”

  “The truth, and nothing but.”

  “No,” Gillian screamed. “No, no, no.”

  “Jill, shut up and listen to reason,” Silvester all but shouted. “We, and Mr. McNally, have no choice. We must tell them the truth.”

  Gillian reprised her mantra. “My father didn’t do it.”

  Playing the arbitrator, I offered, “If you would all calm down a moment, maybe we can work this out to everyone’s satisfaction,” It was pure swagger, but it did get their attention. “Rob, why don’t you tell me what’s been happening here this past week. I mean what was Sabrina doing we all know what Jill and Zack were up to.”

  Silvester told me in detail that Sabrina was nervous, edgy, and short-tempered with all of them since they had settled into The Breakers. She pleaded with Gillian to give up her search and return to New York. She promised Ward an exclusive for his rag if he could talk Gillian into returning home.

  “She saw Gillian’s father three times,” Silvester said.

  “You’re just guessing,” Gillian interrupted.

  “One at a time,” I reminded the girl. To Silvester, I said, “An informant told me that you told the police Sabrina went driving at night for creative inspiration.”

  “When they found her, I got the call,” Silvester started to explain. “I went to the station house and Jill stayed here with Zack. They asked me what Sabrina was doing out alone at that hour and I didn’t want to tell them until I had talked to Jill, so I made up that story.”

  “There,” the girl pounced, ‘you wanted my permission to tell them and I won’t give it to you, so why don’t we stick to your original story? My father didn’t do it.”

  “Do you know who your father is?” I asked her.

  “You know I don’t,” she said.

  “Then you don’t know what he is capable of doing or wha
t circumstances might have driven him to the limit,” I stated, beginning to feel empathy with Robert Silvester.

  On the brink of more tears, she sobbed, “It’s too horrible to be true.”

  The clever reporter looked at me and asked, “Do you know who her father is, Mr. McNally?”

  One of the few perks of the situation made it possible for me to answer honestly in the negative.

  Determined to finish his story, Silvester was saying, “Sabrina received three calls last week. She went out at night after each one of them. I asked her where she was going, but she refused to tell me. I had no doubt that it was to meet Jill’s father.”

  “How could he know what was going on?” Gillian said.

  “Really,” I answered for Silvester. “Between Lolly’s gossip column and your snooping around the library and calling newspaper editors he would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know.”

  “I think,” Silvester said, ‘that Sabrina tried to assure him that she would keep his secret and that she would take Jill home. Zack’s profession had also become common knowledge because Zack can’t refrain from showing people his press card. You can imagine how Mr. Anonymous felt about that.”

  “I show my card when I have to,” Ward said. If Gillian wasn’t clinging to his hand, I believe he would have hauled off and hit Silvester.

  Unperturbed, Silvester continued, “Sabrina was not a diplomat and I think the guy lost patience in their last meeting.”

  It was clear they all believed only one man was involved. Would I have to tell the police differently, naming all three? How would Gillian react to that? Silvester? Zack Ward would love it. Would the men be forced to give a blood sample? Would the doctor go on national television holding an envelope and emote, “And the winner is…”

  But now that Cranston and Appleton were in the clear did I have to name them? Couldn’t I just cut to Harry Schuyler? I didn’t know. But either choice would result in a betrayal of Sabrina’s bargain.

  “Lost patience,” Gillian ridiculed. “Lost patience and took mother’s jewelry and money? It was a common thief. We would only be helping the murderer if we force the police to look elsewhere.”