McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Sure. Half an hour or so.”

  “Got anything to drink at your place?”

  “Of course,” I said. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “I haven’t showered or shaved in two days,” he reported in his sunken voice. “Do I have to clean up?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Come as you are.” I sounded giggly even to myself but he made no response, just hung up and left me wondering exactly what I was doing—and why.

  He was waiting for me when I pulled in to the Gottschalks’ slated driveway and he was as cruddy as he had warned: unshaven, hair a snarl, jeans and T-shirt wrinkled and soiled. And he exuded an effluvium I don’t wish to describe in detail since you may be reading this after having recently dined. I shall only say I was happy I was driving an open car and wished for a more vigorous breeze.

  He was singularly uncommunicative during our trip to the McNally manse, answering questions with monosyllables and offering no comments of his own. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings, staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes. I thought him lost in a dark world where only he existed, in pain and confusion.

  When I parked on our turnaround he made no effort to get out of the Miata, just sat there looking about with those dulled eyes. I could discern no reactions whatsoever.

  “You live here?” he said.

  “I do indeed,” I told him. “The house is Tudor manqué but comfortable.”

  “Nice,” he said—his first expression of an opinion. It gave me hope.

  “Suppose I get us some refreshment,” I offered. “Gin and tonics?”

  “Vodka,” he said flatly. “Just vodka.”

  I went into the kitchen, hoping he’d still be present when I returned. I built both of us heavily watered vodkas on the rocks and brought them outside. He was standing alongside the car, hanging on to the opened door as if he feared if he relaxed his grip he might collapse. I handed him a drink and he took a gulp, closing his eyes.

  “Nice,” he said again. “Yvonne won’t give me anything. She’s locked up our liquor supply. Bitch!”

  His virulence shocked me.

  “And all the others!” he added just as venomously.

  I didn’t know how to respond to such hostility—except to change the subject. “How about taking a stroll about the grounds?” I said. “Then I’ll show you the house.”

  “No,” he said.

  A stalemate was avoided when Hobo came trotting around the corner of the garage and padded up to us, tail wagging.

  “This is Hobo,” I said. “The latest addition to the McNally household.”

  I reached down to stroke the dog’s head. He moved to Gottschalk, took one sniff, and turned away. I didn’t blame him.

  “Does he bite?” Peter asked.

  “Hasn’t yet,” I said cheerfully.

  “How about another drink?” he said, holding out his emptied tumbler. “No water this time.”

  This strained encounter, I realized, was getting precisely nowhere, and if he continued to drink it could only deteriorate further.

  “Peter,” I said, “may I speak to you as a Dutch uncle?”

  “A what?”

  “Talk bluntly,” I said impatiently. “The hard truth. I think you’re ill.”

  He swiveled his head sharply to stare at me.

  “You’ve got a brain,” I said, ready now to tell him what I had to. “For your own sake, man, use it. You know you’re not acting normally. Wild mood swings. Periods of euphoria alternating with fits of awful depression when you think suicide is the only way out. And sudden violent urges. You’re out of control and you know it.”

  He made a choky sound, face contorted. He dropped his tumbler onto the gravel. It shattered. Then he reached for me, hands clawing. I didn’t know whether he intended to throttle me, rip the tongue from my head, or merely cuff me until my fillings loosened.

  But he never accomplished his attack. Hobo had been lying at our feet, curled up but awake and watchful. When Peter made his threatening move the dog bounced upright and stood braced, legs stiff. His fangs were bared and basso profundo growls came rumbling from his throat.

  Peter dropped his arms immediately. He slumped and slowly, slowly slipped onto the gravel and broken glass. He sat bent over, legs outstretched, head lowered to his chest.

  I knelt beside him, fearing to touch.

  “Peter?” I said.

  “Sure,” he said in a voice so faint I could hardly make it out. “I’m sick. I know it.”

  Perhaps I should have been saddened by this muttered admission but I was elated. I hoped it was the first step toward recovery or at least amelioration of his condition. He finally raised his head and I helped him to his feet and propped him against the side of the car. His face was bleached and he clasped his hands in a futile effort to conceal his tremors.

  “Vodka?” he croaked hopefully.

  “No,” I said firmly, “not from me. Peter, I’m not going to tell you what ails you is no worse than an ingrown toenail. You and I realize it’s more serious than that. But help is available if you’re willing to accept it. I know a wonderful doctor, an older woman, who’s had a lot of success treating illnesses like yours. She’s a marvelous diagnostician—and honest; if she feels she cannot aid you she’ll recommend someone who can. Will you go see her?”

  He nodded.

  “Good man,” I said. “I’m going to give you her name, address, and phone number. Then it’s up to you. I’ve done all I can. It’s your life we’re talking about. You understand?”

  He nodded again. “Get in the car,” I commanded, “before Hobo decides to gnaw on your shin.”

  I carried my empty glass back to the kitchen and took a moment to jot Dr. Gussie Pearlberg’s name, address, and phone number on a scrap torn from a brown paper bag. I went back outside to find Peter seated in the Miata, the door latched. I handed him the scrawled information. He didn’t glance at it, just grasped it tightly.

  “Tell her I recommended you see her,” I advised.

  “You really think she can help me?” he said.

  “Guaranteed,” I said, deciding it was a moment requiring positivism.

  “Lord,” he breathed: possibly the world’s shortest prayer.

  I drove him home. He was silent and so was I, fearing any additional advice might turn him off. For instance, I wanted to tell him to lay off the booze and funny cigarettes, but I figured I had played the guru enough for one day.

  I exited the car when we arrived at his place, thinking he might need assistance in walking. But he navigated steadily enough, still gripping the scrap of paper I had given him.

  “You’ll call her?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “Soon as I get inside.”

  “I’m not going to ask for a promise or any nonsense like that,” I said. “It’s your decision.”

  He took a deep breath. “Thank you,” he said. It came out tentatively, almost like a foreign phrase, as if he had never before said, “Thank you.”

  He went indoors. I returned to my steed and was about to vault into the saddle when the blue M-B coupe came purring into the driveway. I waited and watched as the twins popped out. Both were clad in outfits I deemed outlandish. I had never seen such a surfeit of vinyl, gauze, leather, and fur. Their costumes may have been fashionable but style was lacking.

  They came bopping up to me, laughing, each brandishing a corked bottle of Mumm Cordon Rouge. Affixed to the neck of each bottle was a purple orchid, now slightly wilted.

  “Look what we’ve got,” one shouted happily.

  “A private trunk show,” the other chortled. “And bottles of bubbly were the favors. Isn’t that fabulous?”

  “It is indeed,” I agreed. “I know you’ll treasure them unopened as mementos for years to come. And to whom, pray, am I speaking? Mike One and Mike Two just won’t cut the mustard anymore.”

  “I’m Judith,” one of them claimed.

  “Ah, yes,” I said, remembering the abdominal mole rev
ealed by her bikini during our brief session on the beach. “And so,” I said to the other, “by process of elimination you must be Julia.”

  “I was the last time I looked,” she said, and the two dissolved in a burst of senseless giggles.

  “Got to run,” Judith said. “Have some bubbles and prepare for the evening’s festivities. A charity bash, isn’t it, Julia?”

  “Something,” her sister said. “Somewhere. Hoity-toity I suspect. We must remember to wear panties.”

  They had another fit of the tee-hees and I thought they were a bit old for this schoolgirlish behavior. I didn’t think they were tiddly—but one never knows, does one?

  They paused long enough for each to give me a swift peck on the cheek. Then they scampered up to the doorway, flourishing their bottles. I hoped they would not share their bounty with their brother.

  But that wasn’t the only thing to disconcert me. When they turned away I noted the twin who identified herself as Julia had a small black mole on the back of her left shoulder. There was no mistaking it. She was wearing a strapless cocktail dress, all froufrou, and the mole was obvious.

  So both sisters had a mole, identical in size, shape, and color. Significant? Of course not! I laughed with delight because it was a final example of Hiram Gottschalk’s quirky sense of humor. “One of them has a mole,” he had told me, to pique my interest and set in motion an inquiry that would have amused him.

  What an eccentric he was! He may have had faults that led to his death but no one with his taste for harmless mischief should be murdered. That’s stupid, isn’t it? I know it is but it’s the way I feel.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE MOMENT I ARRIVED HOME I went into the pantry to fetch a dustpan. I returned to our driveway, crouched and began picking shards of Peter’s broken glass from the gravel. I didn’t want Hobo cutting his pads. The hero himself emerged from his house and came wandering over to watch me at work.

  “I want to thank you for your efforts on my behalf,” I told him. “You behaved admirably.”

  His tail thumped once: sufficient acknowledgment.

  I smoothed the gravel, dumped the glass into one of our trash cans, and went back inside. I judged it too late for an ocean swim and so I spent the remainder of the afternoon detailing the day’s activities in my journal. I labored diligently and paused only to join my parents for the family cocktail hour.

  After dinner I returned to my desk and completed my scribbling. I sat back and realized I was in a melancholy mood. Definitely an attack of the mopes. I realized it had nothing to do with the Gottschalk case. It had to do with a long-haired, bouncy lady who refused to phone and suggest a reconciliation.

  And the worst part of it, the absolute worst, was that I could not remember what our disagreement was about. Maddening! Connie didn’t call and I wouldn’t. Of course it was an ego thing; I admit it. I could not endure crawling, supplicating. I was determined to remain upright, stern, and righteous no matter how much suffering it might cause her.

  And so I went to bed, suffering.

  I awoke the next morning still assailed by the blue devils. I was tempted to stay in bed for the remainder of my worldly existence, to be fed mush by a hired aide who might occasionally change tapes from my collection of Edith Piaf recordings.

  Complete lunacy of course, and I knew it was as I hauled myself groaning out of the sack and stumbled back to reality. I staggered through the morning drill and clumped downstairs to the kitchen, where I found Jamie Olson gumming his decrepit briar and nursing a mug of black coffee.

  He seemed to be as much a victim of the megrims as I, for all we exchanged was a listless nod. I fixed myself a meager breakfast of cran juice, a toasted (and buttered) onion bagel, and a cup of black jamoke. We sat across the table from each other, and it was a long time before our glum silence was broken.

  “Eddie Wong,” Jamie said finally.

  I looked up. “Who?” I asked.

  “Eddie Wong,” he repeated. “I asked him about the staff at the Gottschalks’ like you wanted.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Sure. Got and Mei Lee. Eddie told you they weren’t happy there.”

  “Yep. Eddie called me yesterday. They left. The Lees. Quit.”

  “Did they? Better jobs?”

  “Eddie didn’t know. Says they just took off. Packed up their wok and vamoosed.”

  “No reason?”

  Jamie shrugged.

  “Have they been replaced?”

  “Yep. A family. Man, woman, two young kids. Spanish-speaking, Eddie Wong says. Called ’em furriners.”

  “Aren’t we all?” I said. “Thank you for the info, Jamie.”

  I finished my scanty breakfast, slipped him the usual pourboire, and set off for the office wondering what significance the change of staff at the Gottschalk home might have. I doubted it was meaningful but I have come to realize even the smallest details sometimes prove important.

  I dimly recall a homicide case of many years ago. A husband took his wife to Niagara Falls by train to celebrate a tenth anniversary at the place where they had enjoyed their honeymoon. The wife fell into the river and was swept to her death. A tragic accident, the police decided—until they discovered the husband had purchased one round-trip ticket and one one-way ticket.

  Moral: If you’re planning murder, don’t economize.

  By the time I arrived at my orifice (why do I keep spelling it that way?) at the McNally Building, I was beginning to emerge from my funk and hoped I might live to see the turn of the century and perhaps even learn to play the sweet potato. (I have already mastered the kazoo.)

  I was lighting my first ciggie of the day when I heard a respectful knock on my locker door. Rare. Very rare. Visitors are usually announced and fellow employees ordinarily come barging in, reckoning their work is of more moment to McNally & Son than mine. How right they are.

  I opened the door to greet Judd Wilkins. He appeared as loopy as ever, so physically relaxed I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if he suddenly melted into a boneless heap on the floor.

  “Hi, Judd,” I said. “Come in and make yourself comfortable in my coffin—if such a thing is possible.”

  “Nah,” he said. “This won’t take long and I’ve got to get back to my machinery. One of the partners wants a rundown on autoworkers who have sued because they were fired for excessive flatulence on the assembly line. That’s interesting, isn’t it?”

  “Not very,” I said. “And I wish you hadn’t mentioned it.”

  “Anyway,” he went on, “what you asked about—the Fish and Wildlife Service and their Division of Law Enforcement—I can’t find all their publications on line but they’re available in print. Like five pounds of books, pamphlets, laws, regulations, international treaties, and so forth. Is that what you want?”

  “Good lord, no!” I said.

  “Didn’t think so,” he said. “I could get it all from other sources but the printout would fill your office.”

  “A paperback book would fill this office. Any suggestions, Judd?”

  “No problem,” he said. “We’re tied into nets that can provide any info you want—for a price of course. If you could be more specific, tell me exactly what you need, I could query the nets. Even bulletin boards. If the stuff exists I can download it. But I’ll need a few words or a phrase—the shorter the better—to get results.”

  My mind worked at blinding speed. No? Will you accept “quickly”?

  “Parrots,” I said.

  He looked at me with his dreamy eyes. “Parrots?”

  “Parrots,” I repeated firmly. “Those squawky, ill-tempered birds who befoul their cages, bite friends and strangers, and recite verses by Edgar Guest. Where do these creatures come from? Are there parrot farms? More importantly, is there a trade, possibly illicit, in rare species? Are parrots being smuggled across our borders along with cocaine and counterfeit Calvin Klein underwear? In other words, is jiggery-pokery going on?”

  He wasn’t at all f
lummoxed by my outrageous requests. “No problem,” he said. “If it’s out there, you’ve got it.”

  He departed abruptly. I confess his technological skills humbled me. He was not a nerd, definitely not, but a member of a totally new generation with which I had little in common. I suffered a small pang of Weltschmerz, wondering when the world had changed and why I hadn’t changed along with it.

  I had plans for that Tuesday, activities which might possibly help unsnarl some of the tangles of the Gottschalk homicide. For instance, I hoped to persuade my father to reveal to me the details of the decedent’s will. I could think of no good reason why mein papa would refuse to divulge this information, since the testament would soon be filed for probate and become public knowledge.

  I was about to call his office, begging a few moments of his valuable time, when my own phone rang. The caller was Sgt. Al Rogoff.

  “I’m coming over,” he said without preamble.

  “You shall be welcome of course,” I said. “But may I inquire as to the purpose of your visit. Is anything wrong?”

  “Wrong?” he said with a brittle laugh. “What could possibly go wrong in this best of all possible worlds? You told me that.”

  “Never,” I said. “You’re confusing me with Dr. Pangloss.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “See you in twenty minutes or so.” And he hung up.

  A half hour later he was occupying the one folding steel chair I’m able to offer guests. It’s alongside my desk and excruciatingly uncomfortable, especially to one of Rogoff’s bulk. He overflows it and every time I see him planted there I expect the steel to buckle at any moment.

  He took out his fat little notebook, stuffed with scraps of paper and bound with a thick rubber band. That alerted me. Al rarely makes notes. When he does I know he considers the matter of sufficient import to warrant a written record.

  “Emma Gompertz and Anthony Sutcliffe,” he said tonelessly. “They’ve been located.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said.

  His face was expressionless. “Not really. They’re dead. Their bodies were found in the Everglades early this morning. Both had been shot through the back of the head. Assassinations. Both have been positively ID’d.”