McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  I closed my eyes. I couldn’t speak.

  “It came over the wire about two hours ago,” the sergeant went on. “I called but the usual jurisdiction squabble is going on. They don’t yet know if the bodies were found in Dade or Broward County. Who handles it? Which sheriff’s office? Or the state troopers? The FBI has an oar in too. It’ll all get straightened out eventually and whoever takes over will trace Sutcliffe and Gompertz back to West Palm Beach. But I want to stay ahead of the curve and offer what I have as soon as possible. You agree?”

  I nodded.

  “But I need to know more about them. You think their murders might have a connection with the Hiram Gottschalk homicide?”

  “I do,” I said, my voice sounding to me like a weak croak.

  “They worked as clerks in Parrots Unlimited?”

  “Correct.”

  “How did they get along with the late owner?”

  “Fine, as far as I know.”

  “And how did they get along with the new manager, Ricardo Chrisling?”

  “Apparently there was enmity there. He fired Tony, and Emma quit in sympathy.”

  “The two lived together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Married?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Do you know what the disagreement was about—the hostility between Chrisling and Sutcliffe?”

  “No, I don’t know, Al.” He had asked me if I knew and I didn’t. If he had asked me what I suspected I would have told him.

  “Do you know of anyone else who might have a reason to abduct and kill Gompertz and Sutcliffe?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said angrily. “They were nice, pleasant kids.”

  “Kids?”

  “Anyone younger than I is a kid.”

  His smile was bleak. “Yeah, me too. What about me relations between the victims and the rest of the Gottschalk tribe: Peter, the twins, the housekeeper?”

  “Their relations? I’d judge they were friendly but distant. Gompertz and Sutcliffe were at the party celebrating the twins’ return from a European trip. But all the employees of Parrots Unlimited were invited. Nothing special there.”

  “What was your take on Sutcliffe and Gompertz. Druggies?”

  “No. As I told you, they were just two nice, pleasant kids.”

  “You don’t get a bullet in the back of the head for being a nice, pleasant kid.”

  The sergeant had been making brief notes as I answered his questions. Now he paused and looked up. “How do you know Chrisling fired Tony Sutcliffe?”

  “Binky Watrous told me.”

  Rogoff was astounded. “Binky Watrous? The Village Idiot? How did he know?”

  “He works part-time at Parrots Unlimited.”

  “Watrous works? Since when? I thought all he does is chase centerfolds. It’s said he won’t go out with a woman unless she’s got staples in her belly. How come he’s got a job at Parrots Unlimited?”

  “I finagled it,” I admitted. “After Gottschalk claimed his life was threatened, I decided I wanted an undercover operative in the store.”

  “Binky is an experienced undercover operative all right,” Al said. “Under the blanket and under the sheet. Did he come up with anything?”

  “He certainly did,” I said loyally. “Most of what I’ve told you during this rigorous interrogation is the result of Binky’s observations.”

  “I wish you had told me he was working there.”

  “It slipped my mind.”

  “Sometimes I think your entire mind has slipped. Is he still working at Parrots Unlimited?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Good. Keep him there. Has he told you anything else you haven’t had the decency to reveal to me?”

  “Nothing of any importance.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “After Sutcliffe and Gompertz left, Ricardo Chrisling hired a married couple to take their places. Binky doesn’t like them.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “He says they lurk.”

  The sergeant sighed. “They lurk,” he repeated. “Whenever I get involved in one of your discreet inquiries it turns out to be fruitcake time.”

  “Al, is it okay if I tell Binky about the murders of Gompertz and Sutcliffe?”

  He thought a moment. “I don’t see why not,” he said finally. “It’ll be on the radio and TV tonight and in the papers tomorrow.”

  “Binky will be devastated,” I said. “He and Bridget were pals of Emma and Tony.”

  “Who’s Bridget?”

  “Bridget Houlihan, a colleen who also works at Parrots Unlimited. She and Binky have an in vivo romance. And they have a theatrical act. Binky does birdcalls while Bridget accompanies him on the tambourine.”

  Rogoff stared at me, then cast his eyes heavenward. “Why hast thou forsaken me?” he inquired plaintively.

  CHAPTER 23

  MY QUANDARY NOW, WHILE NOT intractable, was troubling: How was I to inform Binky of the deaths of Tony and Emma? A phone call would have been unfeeling—don’t you agree? The distressing news had to be delivered in person. Over lunch? And if so, before or after the food was served? A silly predicament, I admit, but important to me. I finally decided there was no completely satisfying solution to such a trying problem.

  I had a vague recollection, possibly mistaken, that Binky had told me he didn’t clean birdcages on Tuesdays. But even if true, his work schedule may have been revised by the new manager. In any event I thought it best to phone him first at his home. My call was answered by the Watrous houseman.

  “Master Binky is not available at present,” he informed me in sepulchral tones. “You may reach him at his office.”

  I thanked him and hung up much bemused by “his office” and wondering if Binky had convinced the Duchess he had become a tycoon of birdland. I then phoned Parrots Unlimited and found him there.

  “Lunch?” I suggested.

  “Uh,” he said.

  “What does that mean—‘uh’?”

  “Well, we have to ask when we can leave and for how long.”

  “Oh-oh,” I said. “Boot camp?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m inviting you and Bridget to lunch. See if you can finagle it. I’ll hang on.”

  It must have taken almost five minutes but eventually he came back on the line.

  “All right,” he said breathlessly. “Bridget and I can get out together for lunch.”

  “For how long?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “Beautiful,” I said. “Where?”

  “There’s a pizza joint across the street we can go to.”

  “Fine. What’s it called?”

  “The Pizza Joint.”

  “Love it,” I said. “Back to basics. Twelve-thirty?”

  “Okay,” he said hastily, and disconnected. I thought he sounded distraught, and what I had to say at lunch wasn’t going to help.

  Sadness does not ordinarily play a major role in my life. I mean I am by nature a cheery bloke, always looking for rainbows during drizzles. And the task of conveying bad news is not one I relish. But this was something I had to do, and I had no idea of how to handle it other than blurt out the truth. One can’t tenderize death, can one?

  So there we were—Bridget, Binky, and your rattled scribe seated at a Formica table awaiting the arrival of our King Kong Special (cheese, eggplant, sausage, anchovies, and button mushrooms), when I told them.

  “I’m afraid I am the bearer of bad news,” I plunged. “Emma Gompertz and Anthony Sutcliffe are dead. Their bodies were found early this morning in the Everglades. Both had been murdered.”

  They stared at me. “You’re kidding,” Binky said with a sick smile.

  I was infuriated by his comment, implying I would joke about such a tragedy. Then I realized he was stunned by my disclosure and his reaction was an attempt to deny reality.

  “It will be on radio and TV tonight,” I went on. “And in the newspaper
s tomorrow. They were killed by gunshots to the head.”

  I had expected Bridget to dissolve and Binky to comfort her. I should have known better. It was he who collapsed, hunching over trying to stay a sob. Bridget put an arm about him, hugged him close, kept murmuring, “There, there.” What a brave lass she was!

  Binky finally regained control and wiped his bleary eyes with a paper napkin. Our King Kong Special arrived at that moment and we said nothing as we began scarfing, gulping beers to sluice down the spiced mélange. I wondered if tragic news increases hunger: a need to eat and postpone mortality. It’s a concept much too recondite for me to understand. But why are wakes such an enduring tradition?

  “What should we do, Archy?” Bridget said finally. “Quit?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said firmly. “Continue working at Parrots Unlimited. I’m sure the police will come around asking questions. Answer them honestly.”

  Binky glanced up. “It’s not right,” he said stoutly. “It’s just not right. Emma and Tony were good people.”

  “Of course they were,” I agreed. “And that’s why you and Bridget must be on the qv. Not only to help solve this horrendous crime but to watch your own backs. Be careful. More than that, be cautious. As Dr. Doyle might say, ‘Evil is afoot.’”

  Bridget looked at me. “You think the murders of Emma and Tony have something to do with the death of Mr. Gottschalk?”

  She asked me that, not Binky. She was, I realized, smarter than he. But then who isn’t?

  “Yes, I believe so,” I told her.

  “Are Binky and I in danger?”

  “Possibly,” I said. “Don’t take chances. Look about. Lock and bolt doors. And windows. Reject the approach of strangers. Very antisocial but necessary.”

  “Archy,” she said, “will all this be cleared up?”

  “Of course it shall,” I said heartily. “Just a question of time. And sooner rather than later,” I added.

  I think I convinced them. Oh, if I had only convinced myself.

  On occasion I have been accused of being a devious lad—justifiably I might add. I do have a taste for the Machiavellian and sometimes indulge in such conduct even when not necessary, simply to keep in practice. During the drive back to the McNally Building I concocted a cunning stratagem that might or might not yield results but was certainly worth a try.

  The moment I was in my office I got on the horn to Lolly Spindrift. We exchanged rude greetings. Of course I made no reference to the funeral he had attended the previous day.

  “Lol,” I said, “I owe you one and it’s payola time.”

  “Goody,” he said. “What have you got for me?”

  “Early this morning the bodies of a young couple were found in the Everglades. Both had been shot to death. I’m sure your news desk has the story by now.”

  “So why are you telling me?”

  “Because the victims were Emma Gompertz and Anthony Sutcliffe, employees of Parrots Unlimited, the West Palm bird store presently managed by Ricardo Chrisling. He was, you’ll recall, the subject of your recent item and our more recent conversation.”

  I heard his sudden intake of breath. “And Parrots Unlimited was formerly owned by Hiram Gottschalk who himself was stabbed to death.”

  “You’ve got it,” I said.

  “You believe there’s a connection between the three murders?”

  “I do believe.”

  He sighed. “It’s not my cup of oolong, sweetie, but I’ll report it to the news desk. They’ll be delighted with the local angle. It should earn me some brownie points.”

  “That’s why I called.”

  “Tell me something, luv: What’s your edge on all this?”

  “I’m a troublemaker,” I told him. “I want to cause trouble for the killer, whoever he, she, or they may be. I want them to know the law is aware something dreadful is going on at Parrots Unlimited.”

  Spindrift laughed. “What a sneaky chap you are!”

  “You have no idea how sneaky I can be when it’s called for.”

  “Then it’s part of one of your discreet inquiries, I presume.”

  “You presume correctly.”

  “I hope you’ll scurry to me with all the gory details when it’s over.”

  “Lolly, you’ll be the first to know,” I lied cheerfully.

  My second call was to my father’s office for I was still intent on learning the details of Hiram Gottschalk’s will. I was answered by Mrs. Trelawney, Pop’s antiquated (and raunchy) private secretary. She reported the master had left for a luncheon conference with a commercial client and did not expect to return that afternoon.

  After that I had nothing to do but brood, trying to sort out all the ramifications of the Gottschalk puzzle. Meanwhile I smoked two cigarettes and resolved never to light another until Connie called. It was liable to be an effective vow to ensure eternal withdrawal.

  Ms. Garcia didn’t phone but Dr. Gussie Pearlberg did.

  “I can’t talk long, dollink,” she said briskly. “Busy, busy, busy. But I wanted you to know your friend came in. Peter Gottschalk.”

  “Not quite a friend,” I said cautiously. “More of an acquaintance.”

  “A very meshuga acquaintance. Poor boy. I now believe I was right: he is manic-depressive. I have sent him to a good man who specializes in such things. This condition can be controlled with proper medication and frequent monitoring. That is the first thing to be done. But also Peter has another problem and this might not be so easy to solve. You understand?”

  “A psychiatric problem?” I ventured.

  “I cannot discuss it,” she said severely. “But after his manic-depression is stabilized he has promised to return to me and talk some more. I think I can help him. I am calling to tell you what I told him. He is not to drink alcohol or use drugs if he expects his condition to improve. I want you to impress that on him. Definitely no alcohol and no drugs.”

  “Dr. Gussie,” I protested, “I see him infrequently. I am not his keeper.”

  “But you’ll do what you can?”

  “Of course. I know you can’t go into details but could you give me a hint of the nature of Peter’s psychiatric problem?”

  Her laugh was short and harsh. “Family,” she said. “What else?”

  That did it. I had heard enough wretchedness for one day and needed a respite from the gloom. I drove home, roughhoused with Hobo for ten minutes, and left him exhausted while I went upstairs to change into swimming togs: Speedo trunks in such a virulent orange I was sure to be spotted by a rescuing helicopter if I collapsed during my two-mile wallow.

  The sea was delightfully warm and calm. I vary my swimming techniques: crawl, breaststroke, and backstroke. Of the three I prefer the second because it sounds so nice. I emerged from my dunk with eyes smarting from the salt but feeling much relaxed and happy. I had time for a short nap before dressing for the family cocktail hour.

  Dinner that evening was a feast of hors d’oeuvres with no main dish. We had marinated grilled scallops wrapped in bacon, Oriental barbecued chicken wings, and tiny meatballs in a curry sauce. The salad was endives (my favorite) with a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. Father and I had Pouilly-Fumé. It was an okay wine, not great but okay. Mother had her usual glass of sauterne. It was her preference but I thought it similar to drinking Yoo-Hoo with oysters.

  I went upstairs to my journal after dinner and spent an hour recording the day’s events relating to the murder of Hiram Gottschalk. Finished, I reviewed my notes and decided it was time to question my father. “Beard the lion in his den” isn’t quite an apt expression but it comes close.

  If you must know the truth (and I presume you must), I find my father a rather intimidating man. It is simply part of his nature and doesn’t diminish my love for him. But I confess I approach our one-on-ones with some trepidation, fearing I may say something or do something to convince him his male offspring is a twerp nonpareil.

  The door to his study was firmly closed and I ove
rcame my apprehension sufficiently to rap the portal smartly. I heard his “Come in,” and entered to find him settled behind his magisterial desk and, as usual, smoking one of his silver-banded James Upshall pipes. Also as usual, there was a glass of port on his desk blotter alongside an open book. I recognized it as a leather-bound volume from his set of Charles Dickens. From its bulk I guessed it to be Little Dorrit and wished him the best of luck.

  “Father,” I said, “may I speak to you for a moment?”

  He nodded but didn’t ask me to be seated. It’s his way of telling me to keep it brief.

  “It concerns my inquiry into the murder of Hiram Gottschalk,” I started. “I feel I am making progress, but slowly, and it might help if you would tell me the major beneficiaries in Mr. Gottschalk’s will.”

  He listened to my request gravely. But if I had mentioned I had a hangnail he would have listened just as gravely. Levity was foreign to him. He thought life a very serious matter indeed, and sometimes I wondered if my own frivolousness was a revolt against the pater’s sobriety. He was not a dull man, you understand, but lordy he was earnest. What a scoutmaster he would have made! I could picture him demonstrating how to start a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together to a group of tenderfeet all of whom carried Zippo lighters.

  “I see no reason to withhold that information,” he said finally. “It will soon become a matter of public knowledge. It is an odd testament but as I told you, from the beginning I found Mr. Gottschalk a rather eccentric gentleman. But of course his wishes had to be respected.”

  “Of course,” I said, and waited patiently.

  CHAPTER 24

  “THERE ARE A NUMBER OF minor bequests,” he began. “To old friends, employees, distant relatives, and members of his domestic staff. His home with its furnishings is left to Yvonne Chrisling, his housekeeper. The store, Parrots Unlimited, and the not inconsiderable plot of land on which it is located go to Ricardo Chrisling. The remainder of his assets are to be divided into three equal shares to his son Peter and twin daughters Judith and Julia.” He paused to give me a chilly smile. “All this after the payment of estate taxes of course.”