McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  I disrobed in my adytum (there’s a lovely word; look it up!), sorry my glen plaid suit hadn’t the opportunity to compete with Ricardo Chrisling’s Armani. I donned a new pongee robe embroidered with Chinese characters. I had been told by the merchant the calligraphy could be translated as: “May you have a happy life.” But I suspected it meant, “Suffer, you miserable schlub,” or some other invidious imprecation.

  I poured myself a wee marc and settled down behind my desk for a period of pondering before surrendering to the need for eight hours of Z’s. I found myself smiling because I recalled my father’s comment at the family cocktail hour. He had urged me to attend the Gottschalk party, saying, “Perhaps you may learn something to further your inquiry.” I had doubted it but the senior had been proved right again. Was the man never wrong?

  I had furthered my inquiry at the squirrelly and totally unnecessary “joyous tribute.” Nothing momentous, you understand, but bits and pieces which might prove of value. I had met the new employees of Parrots Unlimited and was not impressed. The recently hired domestic staff was even more questionable.

  But those meetings were of peripheral interest. There had been two developments of more significant concern. To wit:

  I had seen with my own peepers Julia and Judith encouraging, nay urging their brother to swill wine. The sight had disturbed me but I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they didn’t know he was under a doctor’s care.

  But then Yvonne Chrisling had revealed she was aware of Peter’s condition, and so it was reasonable to assume he had also told his sisters he was on a no-alcohol, no-drugs regimen. Yet they were plying him with the fermented grape. Just high spirits on the part of the twins and not deliberate conduct? I didn’t think so. Attributing their behavior solely to their kicky dispositions was enough to dash a balder.

  My second observation of note was—you guessed it—the diamond choker worn by Yvonne. You didn’t believe I missed it, did you, or forgot the mention of a diamond choker by Lolly Spindrift when he was detailing the evidence he had of Ricardo Chrisling’s career of Don Juanism?

  There are many diamond chokers in the world of course, most of them in Palm Beach. But still I thought it a mind-tickling coincidence that Ricardo had recently purchased a choker on Worth Avenue and now Yvonne was wearing a gemmy circlet—to smashing effect I might add.

  Even assuming the diamond choker purchased by Ricardo was the one worn by Yvonne—so what? It could well have been a present from stepson to stepmother, perhaps to celebrate a birthday or some other family occasion. But it was such a lavish gift I found myself questioning the motive of the giver and what the recipient might have done to deserve such largesse.

  I went to bed about an hour later still musing on the horrid murder of Hiram Gottschalk and the two immutable laws of human existence:

  1. Life is unfair.

  2. It’s better to be lucky than smart.

  CHAPTER 27

  I HAVE A VAGUE RECOLLECTION of Thursday starting as a zingy day. It could not have been the weather, for it was droopy, with heavy rain forecast for the afternoon. I suspect my Joy D’Veeve (a stripper I once met at the Lido in Paris) was due to a solid night’s sleep and the fact that I didn’t slice myself while shaving.

  After breakfast with my parents I emerged into a drizzly world but my élan was not diminished, because Hobo came trotting up for a morning pat. His coat was glistening with moisture but he seemed not at all daunted by the damp. I checked his condo to make certain it was dry and snug.

  While I was examining his house Jamie Olson came wandering, gumming his old briar.

  “Morning, Mr. Archy,” he said.

  “Good morning, Jamie. Hobo’s been behaving himself, has he?”

  “Yep,” he said. “The hound amazes me and Ursi. Smarter than most people we know. About a week ago, mebbe two, three in the morning, it was storming hard. Thunder, lightning, everything. Squall woke me up and I heard a scratching at our door over the garage. It was Hobo. He had got flooded out and come up the stairs to our apartment. I let him in, dried him off, spread an old piece of carpet for him. Suited him just fine. Didn’t misbehave or anything, if you know what I mean. Next day it cleared and he went outside again and hasn’t moved in with us since.”

  “Knows enough to come in out of the rain,” I observed.

  “Yep, and he knows a lot of other things he ain’t telling. That dog is deep.”

  I drove to work pleased my faith in Hobo had been justified. I was no sooner in my cubicle when a knock on the door announced a visitor. It was Judd Wilkins, our computer whiz.

  “I asked the security guard to give me a call when you showed up,” he said without a greeting. “Got a minute or two?”

  “Sure I do,” I said. “Come on in.”

  This time he sat in the steel chair alongside my desk. I thought I detected a certain tenseness in his manner. His eyes had lost their dreaminess. He seemed distant, as if he were concentrating on solving the puzzle of the Pyramid Inch.

  “What’s up, Judd?” I asked him.

  “We’ve been hacked,” he said.

  I had absolutely no idea what he meant. “Hacked?”

  “Invaded,” he said. “Someone’s got into our computers and is rummaging around.”

  It didn’t, at first, seem to me a matter of great concern. Although, as I’ve mentioned, I’m a computer illiterate, I am aware cyberspace does not provide complete privacy. PCs offer a tempting target for hackers, thieves, competitors, or innocent tyros attempting to expand their keyboard expertise.

  “I thought we had a security system,” I said.

  “Model-T,” Judd said. “I’ve sent a dozen memos saying we’ve got to upgrade and get state-of-the-art firewalls. No response.”

  “Doesn’t everyone with a computer on his or her desk have a private password?”

  He grimaced. “Passwords? Not worth diddly-squat. One of our senior partners—know what his password is?”

  “What?”

  “‘Password.’ That’s his personal, private password: ‘Password.’”

  “Beautiful,” I said.

  “Your father has a PC. He doesn’t work it but his aides do. Want to know his password?”

  “Tell me.”

  “‘McNally.’”

  I groaned. “Why didn’t he make it ‘Open Sesame’? Judd, are you certain we’ve been tapped?”

  “Absolutely. Someone is inside us and searching around.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know,” he said definitely. “Some stuff has been switched, some is out of order or jumbled, tallies of references are out of sync with past records. Look, it’s like someone got into your closet and shuffled your suits. You’d know it, wouldn’t you?”

  Suddenly the import of what he was saying sank in and I was shaken. “Are you telling me a stranger now has access to all our personal files? Wills, contracts, trusts, agreements, litigation, partnerships, the affairs of our clients, even our personal records and tax returns?”

  “Everything,” he said.

  “Oh lordy,” I said, “My father will have a conniption. You want me to break the bad news? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Part of it,” he said. “I want you to tell him what’s happened and how we’ve got to put more muscle in our security. But there’s something else.”

  My morning vivacity, already diminished, now seemed doomed. “Let’s have it,” I said, expecting the worst. It was.

  “I’m guessing now,” Judd said, “but there’s a good chance I’m on target. We’ve been computerized for almost five years with no security problems. I kept warning it could happen but all the fuds said who would want to hack a South Florida law firm. Well, now it’s happened. I hate to tell you this but I think you’re responsible.”

  “What?” I cried.

  “Not you personally. But you asked me to go on line and see what I could get on parrots, especially anything illegal. It couldn’t ha
ve been more than twenty-four hours after I queried the nets that we got invaded. Like I said, I’m guessing but I think the parrot inquiry brought in the cyberpunk. I could be wrong but I believe I’m right.”

  We stared at each other, unblinking. I was, I admit, stunned by his disclosure. My first impulse was to phone immediately for a one-way airline ticket to Shanghai. First-class of course. But my cravenness was vanished by the remembrance of a long-ago incident when, not completely sober, I was confronted by a would-be mugger in New Haven. He was wielding a knife that appeared to be just slightly shorter than a scimitar.

  I had looked at him sadly, wagged my head, and said, “Somewhere a mother’s heart is breaking.”

  He was so disconcerted by my remark I was able to escape. At full speed I might add.

  The recollection of this daring act enabled me to face the current crisis with some aplomb. “All right, Judd,” I said. “I shall urge my father as strongly as I can to install more formidable security in our computer system. Now about your belief my inquiry about parrots sparked the break-in—I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

  He suddenly relaxed, slumping in the hellish steel chair, gratified by my response.

  “I know little about computers,” I continued. “As I’m sure you’re fully aware. But is there any way we can discover who is trespassing and sharing our secrets?”

  His eyes closed slowly, remained shut for a moment, then popped open again. “It can be done,” he said, “but I can’t do it. Don’t have the software or the know-how. But I’m exchanging E-mail with a guy down in Miami. He’s a real tech-head, the nerdiest of the nerds. He works for a computer security outfit and I’ll guess he’s their house genius. I’m betting he could track our virus to its source.”

  “Can we hire him?”

  “He’s out of everything unless it comes in bytes. I mean he knows nothing about free-lance work, contracts, fees, and so forth. But we could hire the company he works for with the understanding their first job is to find who infected us. If they succeed we can promise them the assignment of redesigning our whole setup to beef security. How does it sound?”

  “Great,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  “That’s a go-ahead?”

  I bit the bullet. “Yes,” I said. “A definite commitment from McNally and Son. I’ll take the responsibility.”

  His look wasn’t doubtful but it was wary. “Your father will go along?”

  “I’ll convince him,” I said with more assurance than I felt.

  He departed and I phoned Mrs. Trelawney immediately, fearing if I dallied my resolve would simply ooze away. I asked for an audience with m’lord but she said he was busy with a client. When he was available she would inform him I had called and relay his reaction.

  “Tell him it’s a matter of life and death,” I said.

  “Whose life?” she asked. “And whose death?”

  “All of us,” I said hollowly. “And I kid you not.”

  I settled back to await her call. I shook an English Oval from the packet but didn’t light it. I just fingered it as a satiated infant might fondle a pacifier. The fog I had been in since the death of Hiram Gottschalk was beginning to dissipate. Not whisked away but softly shredding. And what I saw wasn’t pretty.

  My summons arrived sooner than expected and I climbed the back stairs to my father’s sanctum with some trepidation. After all I wouldn’t be the first messenger in history executed for bringing bad news.

  I found him seated in his swivel chair before his antique rolltop desk. He waved me to a seat on the green leather chesterfield. He seemed in a genial mood.

  “Mrs. Trelawney tells me you wish to discuss a matter of life and death,” he said with some amusement.

  “A slight exaggeration, sir,” I said, “but very slight.”

  I then reported what Judd Wilkins had told me. I left nothing out, including the probability of my inquiry about parrots being the cause of the invasion.

  When I finished, he stood and began striding about his office, hands thrust into his trouser pockets. I do not believe a stranger or even a casual acquaintance would have recognized the depth of his wrath. He was a disciplined man, a controlled man, and loath to display his emotions. But he was my father; I knew him as well as he knew me and I saw the signs of his fury: a hardening of the eyes, a grim set to the jaw, a stiffness in his neck. He was riven by anger and doing his best to control it.

  “What you’re telling me,” he said tonelessly, “is that a stranger is now privy to all the confidential data of this firm.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Wills, trusts, litigation, contracts—the whole caboodle.”

  He stopped his pacing to stare at the floor. “The world is too much with me, Archy,” he said. “I know less about computers than you do, I’m sure, but the more I read about the digital revolution, the more I am convinced it means the end of privacy. We could have been burglarized before computers, of course. Documents could have been stolen or copied. But now a teenaged desperado fiddling at a keyboard is able to enter and share our very existence: past, present, and future. It is an obscenity.”

  “I agree, father,” I said. “But there is no need to surrender meekly to electronic assaults without fighting back.”

  I told him I had authorized Judd Wilkins to hire a computer security company with the understanding that if they were able to identify our assailant they would be given a contract to redesign our computer setup with state-of-the-art safeguards.

  Since Prescott McNally, Esq., could not confront the information superhighway with any hope of response, he decided to concentrate his rage and frustration on his mild-mannered scion: me.

  “You did what?” he demanded in a tone I can only describe as glacial.

  I repeated my commitment of McNally & Son. I then arose from my slump on the leather couch and stood erect. If we were to have an altercation I had no wish to be in a subservient physical position.

  “You had no right to make such an agreement,” he said sternly. “The decision was mine to make and you should have obtained my approval before obligating us to an unspecified expense.”

  “Father,” I said, “be reasonable. You want to ensure everything be done that can be done to prevent future break-ins. And I want to do all I can to obtain the name of the person who is so curious about my interest in parrots. The solution to that mystery may possibly lead to the identity of Hiram Gottschalk’s killer. It seems to me the expense I approved is justified by the results we hope to obtain.”

  “It’s not the money,” he said, still steaming, “it’s the principle of the thing.”

  (Nota bene: When people say it’s not the money it’s the principle, it’s the money.)

  “Sir,” I said, “I do not feel I exceeded my authority. It was important to get things moving as quickly as possible. If I had delayed until I received your permission, what would have been accomplished? Surely you would approve the hiring of computer security experts, would you not?”

  “That’s not the point,” he said testily.

  “Then what is the point?” I asked, becoming just as heated as he. “That I went over your head. If it disturbs you unendurably you may have my resignation as soon as I can write it out.”

  He glared at me. “Oh, don’t be such an ass,” he said grumpily. “All I’m suggesting—strongly suggesting—is you consult me in the future before committing McNally and Son to an expensive and problematic course of action.”

  I had won a small victory but it was not enough. “No, father, I cannot promise that. Situations may arise similar to the present matter when I feel it best to make an instant decision before clearing it with you. Either you trust my judgment or you do not.”

  He looked at me with what I can only describe as a sardonic smile. “The apple never falls far from the tree,” he observed.

  And that inanity reminded me of an undergraduate jape I’ve mentioned before: The turd never falls far from the bird.

  “I will no
t undo what you have done,” he pronounced in a frigid voice, turning to his desk. “Now go back to work.”

  CHAPTER 28

  I RETURNED TO MY OFFICE in a mood I can only label as festive. I had climbed into the cage with the king of beasts and tamed him—temporarily at least. But then, on further reflection, my coup was moderated. I became conscious my relationship with my father had been subtly altered during our wrangle. It was not a sea change, mind you, but perhaps the beginning of one.

  I was about to resume inventing my expense account when Binky Watrous phoned. He seemed joyous, bubbly in fact.

  “Binky,” I said, “are you calling from Parrots Unlimited?”

  “No, boss, I am not,” he said with a giggle. “I have been fired. Along with Bridget.”

  I gulped. “When did this happen?”

  “About an hour ago. Ricardo showed up, back from one of his business trips, and gave both of us the old heave-ho.”

  “Did he offer any reason?”

  “Said the business couldn’t afford a sales staff of four—which is a crock. The store is doing a booming business. I mean we weren’t just standing around. The place was always busy. In fact, Bridget and I are thinking of opening a bird store of our own. Not just parrots, you know, but all kinds of chirpy pets: canaries, mynahs, swans, penguins.”

  “Swans?” I said, startled. “Penguins? Why not an ostrich or two?”

  “Why not?” he said gaily.

  “Listen, Binky, how about you and Bridget meeting me for lunch at the club. Around noonish. You can tell me all about your sacking and your plans for the future.”

  “Ripping idea. We’ll celebrate our release from gainful employment.”

  I hung up puzzled by this new development. It was apparent Ricardo was revamping Parrots Unlimited, as he had every right to do since he was now the manager and, after Mr. Gottschalk’s estate was settled, would be the sole owner. I just wondered what plans he had for the psittacine emporium. A discount store? Something like a feathered Kmart?