McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Well, you met Tony Sutcliffe, the senior salesclerk there. He knows more about parrots than any of us.”

  “Of course I met Tony and his companion, Emma Gompertz.”

  “Sure. Well, ever since Hiram died and Ricardo Chrisling took over, we’ve been getting some rare and high-priced birds.”

  “I know, Binky. You told me.”

  “It seemed to bother Tony. The parrots looked nice to me. Healthy and very pretty. Anyway, this afternoon Tony went into the private office to talk to Ricardo. The door was closed. I don’t know what went on. But about fifteen minutes later Tony came out. Archy, he was as white as an umbrella cockatoo and obviously shook. ‘I’ve been sacked,’ he told us. That’s all he’d say. He began to pack up his personal stuff and Emma started crying. ‘Then I’m going too,’ she said, and the two of them marched out. Doesn’t that boggle the mind?”

  “It does indeed,” I said. “Did Ricardo offer any explanation?”

  “About an hour later. He said Tony and Emma had resigned for personal reasons and he would hire replacements. Meanwhile he asked Bridget and me to cope as best we could until the new people came aboard. It’s all so strange. Don’t you think it’s strange, Archy?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “Did Tony resent Ricardo becoming the mikado?”

  “Well, they never were exactly buddy-buddy but I think it was more than just jealousy. I don’t know why Tony got canned and Bridget can’t guess either. I mean he knew an awful lot about parrots. But he suddenly got bounced.”

  “Binky,” I said, “you have Tony’s phone number, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Somewhere. And if I can’t find it, Bridget is sure to have it. She’s very organized. She even makes shopping lists.”

  “Amazing,” I said. “Why don’t you give Tony a call and tell him I’d like to buy him lunch. To commiserate on his sacking. You’re included of course.”

  “That would be a decent thing to do,” he agreed. “I’ll give Tony a buzz and get back to you. Know something, Archy?”

  “Know what?”

  “I don’t think everything is kosher at Parrots Unlimited. I suspect there’s hanky-panky going on.”

  “You may be right.”

  “I think I’m developing a real talent as an investigator, don’t you, Archy? I mean I’m learning how it’s done.”

  “And how is it done?”

  “You suspect everyone.”

  “A good beginning,” I assured him. “And as a fledgling detective, what is your guess as to the nature of the wickedness transpiring at Parrots Unlimited?”

  He paused a moment, then said portentously, “It is my considered opinion that Ricardo Chrisling is running a white slave ring.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Or perhaps counterfeiting food stamps. Call me after you talk to Tony.”

  What a twit!

  No Ella or marc for me that night. I just sat there, neurons atingle, trying to make sense of what Binky had just revealed and wondering if the goings-on at Parrots Unlimited had anything to do with the murder of its late proprietor. I thought there might be a connection, however tenuous, but could not imagine what it might be.

  Now we shall fast-forward a few days in this report on l’affaire Gottschalk, for nothing of significance happened in the interim. Actually, things of some importance did occur but were negatives, only meaningful by their absence, which, I confess, I hadn’t the wit to recognize.

  For instance, Thursday and Friday passed uneventfully, and it was Friday night before I recalled I hadn’t heard from Binky anent the luncheon with the dismissed Tony Sutcliffe. Nor had I been able to contact Peter Gottschalk to arrange a meeting during which I would attempt to convince him he was semibonkers and required professional help.

  It was a leaden two days and the fact that Connie Garcia didn’t phone only increased my angst to the point where I considered I might be happier in a monastery. One with a library including the complete recordings of Bessie Smith. More to my taste than Gregorian chants.

  I finally came alert on Saturday morning, which was a puzzle because it was a chill, drizzly day designed for lolling in bed. But no, I felt an ineluctable urge to do. I decided some—any—action, no matter how unproductive, was necessary to retain my professional standing as a practitioner of discreet inquiries. And so, about noonish, I phoned Parrots Unlimited.

  I recognized Bridget Houlihan’s chirpy voice. “Parrots Unlimited,” she said. “How may I help you?”

  “Polly want a cracker,” I said. “Bridget, please forgive a stupid jape. This is Archy McNally. How are you?”

  “Oh, Archy,” she said, “Binky and I are so rushed. Ricardo promised to hire two more people but no one’s showed up yet. I guess you heard about Tony and Emma leaving.”

  “I heard and that’s why I’m calling. Binky promised to set up a lunch with Tony but nothing has happened.”

  “I know,” she said, “and it’s very odd. We’ve been calling Tony and Emma two or three times a day and no one answers. And none of their friends have been able to contact them. They just seem to have disappeared.”

  “A holiday?” I suggested. “A vacation after Tony got canned?”

  “Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “But wouldn’t you think they’d tell someone where they were going and for how long?”

  She sounded worried.

  “I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually,” I told her. “I presume Binky is busy at the moment.”

  “Oh yes. He’s selling lovebirds to newlyweds.”

  “Very fitting,” I said approvingly. “Tell me, Bridget, how did your act go at the Riviera Beach nursing home?”

  “Oh, it was a great success,” she said enthusiastically. “They laughed so hard.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “And everyone applauded and cheered.”

  “A standing ovation, eh?”

  “Well, not exactly, since most of them were in wheelchairs. But they want us to come back again. ‘Better than Valium,’ one old man said.”

  “Wonderful. Tell Binky I called, will you, Bridget, and if you hear from Tony and Emma please let me know.”

  I hung up troubled by what she had told me of the former clerks at Parrots Unlimited. It did seem exceedingly strange a young, gregarious couple would simply take off without telling anyone of their plans. Even if they were stressed by their sudden unemployment they would surely discuss their predicament and options with friends.

  I pulled on a liverish nylon golf jacket and my puce beret and went down to the second-floor sitting room where mother was seated at her spindly desk penning chatty letters to her enormous network of correspondents.

  “Moms,” I said, “may I borrow your wagon? I have an errand to run, it’s weeping out, and I hate to put the lid on my chariot.”

  “Of course, dear,” she said. “I think it has enough gas but don’t trust that gauge. Are you dressed warmly enough?”

  “Absolutely,” I assured her. “I’m even wearing socks.” And I swooped to kiss her velvety cheek before taking off.

  Mother’s ancient wood-bodied station wagon is a balky beast. But on that Saturday morning it behaved splendidly, carrying me safely to West Palm Beach. I took along my cellular phone in case I couldn’t find Tony Sutcliffe’s home and had to call Binky or Bridget to direct me to the cramped condo where the wine-and-cheese orgy had been held.

  CHAPTER 19

  MEMORY SERVED AND I FOUND the place: a rather scuzzy three-tier edifice of chipped plaster, sun-bleached shingles, and with a dismal lawn that appeared to have been cropped by a bulimic goat.

  There was a human-type goat propped against the outside doorframe when I climbed out of the wagon. He was wearing a shabby denim jacket atop splotched painter’s overalls and was mouthing a toothpick apparently surgically attached to his lower lip. He seemed engrossed by the lowering sky and didn’t give me a glance as I approached.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said.

  How slowly he focused on m
e. His eyes were so pallid I was tempted to break into a chorus of “Jeepers Creepers.”

  “Yo,” he said tonelessly.

  “I’m looking for the manager or super,” I told him. “Is such a person available?”

  “Me,” he said.

  I was reminded of Jamie Olson. The two of them would be worthy adversaries in a monosyllabicity contest.

  “I’m a friend of Tony Sutcliffe,” I said. “Do you know if he’s home?”

  “Nope.”

  “Could you tell me the number of his apartment?”

  “In the lobby.”

  “Have you seen him about recently?”

  Those washed-out eyes stared at me. I sighed, took out my wallet, extracted a fiver, and offered it. An eager claw snatched it away.

  “Not for two, three days,” he said, toothpick bobbing.

  “I’ll see if he’s in,” I said. He didn’t much care and returned to inspecting the firmament.

  The handwritten register showed Emma Gompertz and Tony Sutcliffe as residents of apartment 2-B. I pressed the intercom bell. Several times. No response. I tried the inner door. Locked. I was ready to return to the taciturn super when the door was jerked open from within.

  The lady about to exit was a bit long in the tooth and dressed flamboyantly. She was startled by my presence.

  “Hi,” she said tentatively.

  “Hi,” I replied, thinking her lashes were so heavily loaded with mascara she really should have been accompanied by a Seeing Eye dog.

  “You live here?” she inquired.

  “No, ma’am, I do not. Just visiting.”

  “Pity,” she said. “Have a nice day.”

  “You, too,” I said. “Have a good one.”

  “I do,” she said, “but I don’t get much chance to use it.” She winked at me and went merrily on her way.

  Then I was inside, recalling the route from my previous visit. Up a grungy stairway to 2-B. I leaned on the bell button. No answer or sounds from within. I rapped the door sharply. Several times. Nothing. I tried the doorknob. It turned easily and I stepped warily inside.

  “Hello,” I called. “Anyone home?”

  No reply.

  I closed the door quietly behind me and looked about. Deserted. I went through living room, bedroom, bathroom. All vacant. I even peered into closets and glanced behind the shower curtain at the bathtub. I returned to the kitchen.

  The wooden table had been set for two. Dinner had obviously been suddenly interrupted. Plates held half-eaten portions of congealed lasagna. Glasses were stained with dried dregs of red wine, only small puddles of liquid remaining. Cockroaches and one humongous palmetto bug were busy. Not a pleasant sight. And the scent was not something you’d care to dab behind your earlobes.

  The only indication of what might have occurred was a single chair tipped over and lying on the floor on its back. I could see no other signs of possible violence. The entire scene said so little but implied so much. Very disturbing. Especially the empty silence.

  I left the apartment, closed the door softly behind me, returned to my parked wagon. The super was nowhere to be seen. I used my cellular phone to call Sgt. Al Rogoff at headquarters. He wasn’t available, they said, and refused to tell me his whereabouts. I tried him at his home.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Archy McNally.”

  “Call me on Monday. I’m not working till then.”

  “Sure you are,” I said. “You never stop working. What are you doing right now?”

  “If you must know,” he said, “I just picked up my laundry and I’m folding my shorts. Satisfied?”

  “I’m in West Palm,” I said. “Not too far from your place. You could be here in ten minutes.”

  “Why should I be there in ten minutes?”

  “It concerns the Gottschalk homicide,” I told him. “It may be something or it may be nothing, but you should see it.”

  “Why?”

  “It would take too long to explain on the phone. Al, please do me a personal favor and get over here.”

  “The last time I did you a personal favor I almost got iced.”

  “You’re stymied on the Gottschalk case, aren’t you?”

  “We’re making progress,” he said.

  “Don’t gull me,” I said. “You’re stuck and so am I. This could be a break.”

  “It better be,” he said, “or you get promoted to the top of my S-list. What’s the address?”

  It was almost twenty minutes before Al’s pickup came wheeling in to park alongside my wagon. Meanwhile the overalled super had reappeared and taken up his station next to the outside door. He stared at me with a definitely jaundiced glint. Maybe he suspected I was a cat burglar. Maybe he was hoping for another five. Who knew—or cared?

  Rogoff came trundling over to me. He was wearing faded denim jeans and jacket and juicing up a fresh cigar. He was not in an amiable mood. “All right,” he said, “let’s have it.”

  I gave him the background, speaking rapidly. Tony Sutcliffe and Emma Gompertz. Former clerks at Parrots Unlimited, owned by the defunct Hiram Gottschalk. Tony’s apparent altercation with Ricardo Chrisling, the new honcho. Tony’s firing and the resignation of Emma. Their recent disappearance with no mention of their plans to friends.

  “So I tried to make contact,” I finished. “I think you should see their place.”

  “Anyone file a missing persons report?” he asked brusquely.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “They have any close relatives?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know, isn’t there, sonny boy? Let’s go take a look. What’s the apartment number?”

  “Two-B.”

  We marched up to the super. Rogoff displayed his ID.

  “Sergeant Al Rogoff,” he said. “PBPD. I want to take a look at apartment two-B.”

  The schlub stared coldly at him. “You got a search warrant?” he demanded.

  “No,” Al said, “I haven’t got a search warrant. You got an operating sprinkler system? You got working smoke alarms? You got emergency exits clearly marked and lighted? You got garbage cans tightly lidded? You got rodents and vermin on the premises? I don’t have a search warrant. How much you got?”

  The super turned wordlessly and unlocked the inner door for us. We tramped up to the second floor.

  “You’re a rough man,” I told Al.

  “When I have to be,” he said. “What did you touch in this joint?”

  “Nothing. Except for the doorknobs.”

  Then we were inside 2-B. I stood stock-still while the sergeant went prowling. I knew he wouldn’t miss the half-eaten meal on the kitchen table, the overturned chair. He came back to me a few minutes later. I could not decipher his expression.

  “Wait for me downstairs,” he commanded. “I’m going to toss the place.”

  “Hey,” I said angrily, “why do I have to go? I gave you this. Can’t I help you search?”

  “No,” he said stonily. “What I’m going to do is illegal. I don’t need an eyewitness.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Dummy!” he said scathingly. “Not only am I covering my own ass but I’m covering yours. What if that goof in overalls files a complaint? Then I’m up for internal investigation. You get called to give testimony as a material witness. Probably under oath. Is that what you want?”

  “I’ll wait for you downstairs,” I said hastily.

  I sat in the wagon to escape the drizzle and chain-smoked two cigarettes, something I rarely do. Eventually Rogoff came out carrying a small brown paper bag. His chewed cigar was still cold but when he climbed in next to me he lighted up. I lowered the window.

  “Anything?” I asked him.

  “Some personal letters,” he said curtly. “Names and addresses of people who seem to be relatives.”

  “Anything else?” I persisted.

  “You ever hear of the Fish and Wildlife Service?”
r />   “Of course. It’s part of the Department of the Interior.”

  “Gee, Professor, you know everything,” the sergeant said. “Well, they have a Division of Law Enforcement. This Tony Sutcliffe had some correspondence with them.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Al said blandly. “I’ll go over it when I have the time and see if it means anything.”

  He was stiffing me of course but that was okay; there were things I hadn’t told him. It’s the way we work together: a curious mixture of cooperation and rivalry. I know it sounds stupid but it’s effective. Usually.

  “What about Emma and Tony?” I asked him.

  “If no one files a missing persons report, there’s not much I can do officially.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “Ask around. Contact the relatives. Talk to neighbors.”

  We were silent, neither of us wanting to allude to our primal fear. Finally I had to ask.

  “Do you think they left voluntarily?”

  “No.”

  “Someone barged in and grabbed them in the middle of their lasagna dinner?”

  “Could be.”

  “Are they still alive?”

  He glared at me. “What kind of a sappy question is that? How the hell should I know?”

  “What’s your guess?”

  He stared out at the melancholy sky. “I think they’re gone,” he said in a low voice, leaving me to wonder if he meant Tony and Emma had simply been abducted for whatever reason, or were now dead. I didn’t dare to keep pressing because I didn’t want to know, didn’t want my own dread to be confirmed.

  We parted without further palaver. Al climbed into his pickup and headed out. I finally got the wagon rolling after some asthmatic engine coughs which caused me to suffer a mild panic attack. On the trip homeward I could not help but recall Hamlet’s lament: “The time is out of joint; O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!”

  I do intend to drivel occasionally, do I not?

  You will have noted, I trust, it was latish in the afternoon and I had not yet lunched. This was deliberate on my part for the waistbands of my trousers had become so constrictive of late I feared friends might soon be addressing me as “Porky.”

  My dreams of an abstemious diet went glimmering when I returned home. The weather was so inclement an ocean swim was not to be attempted and so I had no choice but to eat. The kitchen being temporarily deserted, I hurriedly constructed a sandwich of heroic proportions: two thick slices of pumpernickel clamping a deck of baked ham, a slice of sharp cheddar, another of red onion, another of beefsteak tomato, the whole painted lovingly with horseradish sauce.