McNally's Puzzle

by Lawrence Sanders

  I was sound asleep when I was awakened by the insistent shrill of my phone. I roused sufficiently to look at my illuminated bedside clock through bleary eyes. It was almost three a.m. and I feared what ghastly news awaited me. I picked up the phone with a trembling hand.

  “Hiya, Archy,” she said cheerily. “This is Sonia. I got your message and you’re a sweetie to call. Of course I want to see you at nine tomorrow.”

  “Your address,” I said in a sleep-slurred voice. “I don’t know where you live. Wait a mo until I locate pen and paper.”

  She gave me her address and I scrawled it down as best I could.

  “Ooh, I can hardly wait until tomorrow night, darling,” she cooed. “We’ll have such fun. By the way, I like gin.”

  She hung up and I rolled groaning back into bed, hoping to resume the dream I had been having of rescuing Joan Blondell from a burning building.

  When I awoke about eight-thirty on Saturday morning the first thing I did was don my reading specs to make certain my torpid penmanship of the night before was readable. It was; Sonia’s address was legible. Then horror struck. I realized she lived only a few doors away from the abode of Consuela Garcia. What a way to start a new day!

  I phoned Al Rogoff and informed him my date with Sonia was set for nine p.m. I gave him the address. He grunted. I had the feeling his joy was underwhelming.

  Actually it turned out to be a snappy and invigorating Saturday. After a few moments of worried reflection I concluded the chances of Connie spotting me sneaking into the lair of a local Mata Hari were practically nil and I could safely ignore the danger. Also, it was a super day, climatically speaking, and because I’m so attuned to the weather I found it impossible to be gloomy when the sky appeared dry-cleaned and the sun looked like a just minted one-ounce Golden Eagle.

  The golf game was a joy. Binky and I were paired and won easily, earning a nice piece of change. Then we all adjourned to the Pelican Club for a raucous lunch of barbecued ribs and suds. After the gorge we played darts and again I won. Custom decreed the victor buy drinks for the losers, so my triumph cost more than my winnings. Silly, isn’t it? But I didn’t care; I took my luck at golf and darts as a harbinger of more good fortune to come.

  The remainder of the day passed swiftly: the lazy, hazy dream of every Palm Beach layabout. I returned home, had a slow, languorous swim in a soup-warm sea, took a sweet nap, dressed, and joined my parents at the cocktail hour. After dinner I changed my duds to a more sportif costume I thought might impress Sonia. Then I set out on the night’s venture, wondering if this was the way C. Auguste Dupin got his start.

  Sonia had requested gin and my first inclination was to buy the cheapest corrosive available, since if my prediction of what was to happen proved correct we wouldn’t be lifting a celebratory glass. But then I reproved myself for such a non-U decision. It indicated a shocking lack of noblesse oblige. And so I bought a bottle of Beefeater and toted that to the island of our very own Circe, who, as we all know, turned men into swine.

  I parked a few streets away and wandered back no more fearful than if I were scaling the north face of the Eiger. I looked about warily but saw no signs of miscreants. Nor did I spot Sgt. Rogoff and his army. I could only hope they were present.

  I had no problem gaining entrance to Sonia’s den. She was listed on the directory as Sonia Smith. Innocent enough. I pressed the button opposite her name, identified myself on the intercom, and was immediately buzzed in. I rode a rather tatty elevator to the sixth floor, walked down a tattier corridor, and was greeted at the opened door of 6-E by the grinning hostess, who promptly gave me a noisy smooch I could have done without.

  “It’s happy time!” she cried, and yanked me inside, locking, bolting, and chaining the door behind me. I wondered if I’d get time off for good behavior.

  I was pulled into a living room decorated in South Florida Renaissance: glass tables supported on drift-wood, milky paintings of conch shells, and tinted mirrors. Lots and lots of mirrors. I saw myself reflected from every angle: a depressing sight. Was I really beginning to sprout a dewlap?

  Sonia was wearing a stained denim jumpsuit zippered from hither to yon. She looked as if she were ready to change the oil on your Winnebago. She grabbed the brown paper bag from my hands, extracted the bottle to glance at the label.

  “Yummy!” she yelped. “My favorite. Now you make yourself at home until I slip into something more comfortable.”

  She disappeared with the gin, leaving me bemused. “Slip into something more comfortable.” How long has it been since you’ve heard that line? It was a favorite in the movie romances of the 1930s and 1940s, usually murmured by Ann Sheridan. At the moment I would have liked to slip into something more comfortable, like a flak jacket atop a bulletproof vest.

  My foreboding proved accurate when Sonia did not reappear but instead two gross creatures, seemingly as broad as they were tall, came lumbering from the rear of the apartment. They planted themselves stolidly and stared at me.

  You must believe it when I tell you fright was not my first reaction. Instead I felt a surge of satisfaction at having correctly analyzed the situation and predicted what was likely to occur. But then, as gratification ebbed, terror took over.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said with a silly laugh.

  “Let’s go,” one of them growled.

  “Go where?” I inquired reasonably enough.

  “A little trip,” the other said.

  “Why on earth should I take a trip with you?” I asked. “I have no desire to travel at the moment.”

  “Here’s why, jerko,” ruffian #1 said, and withdrew a snubnosed revolver from his jacket pocket. He pointed the muzzle at me.

  “Well, yes,” I admitted. “A sufficient invitation. May I bid a fond farewell to Sonia?”

  They didn’t bother replying. I was marched out of the apartment, both thugs crowding me so closely I was aware of their scent: something like a geriatric flounder. We waited for the elevator.

  “If someone’s on it,” one of the brutes said, “behave yourself. We don’t want to hurt innocent people.”

  “I’m innocent,” I observed.

  They looked at me.

  Fortunately the elevator was empty and we descended to a lobby apparently just as vacant. My escorts prodded me outside and suddenly it seemed we had stepped onto a floodlighted Broadway stage.

  Three cars were drawn up in an arc, and as we exited, their headlights went on and I was tempted to ask my abductors if they’d care to join me in a soft-shoe routine, perhaps to the rhythm of “Shuffle Off to Buffalo.”

  While we stood frozen in the brilliance, two police officers in mufti came from the lobby behind us and stuck weapons into the ribs of my captors. Their arms rose slowly, just floated up.

  What amazed me most about this beautifully executed operation was the total absence of speech. I mean there were no shouts of “Freeze!” or “Hands up!” or even “Eat dirt, turkey!” But then Rogoff and his cohorts were professionals. And so were my escorts—professional hoodlums. There was no need for dialogue; everyone knew what was going down.

  The two schtarkers were relieved of their guns, cuffed, and hustled separately into two of the parked cars. Headlights were dimmed and the sergeant came strolling toward me, juicing up a fresh cigar. I think he was trying hard not to grin.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Tip-top,” I assured him. “Or will be when the tremors in my knees subside. It was nicely done, Al, and I thank you. But why aren’t any of these vehicles police cars? They all look like they’re privately owned.”

  “They are,” he said. “If I had asked for an official go-ahead on this chancy game the brass would have thought I’d blown a fuse. So I had to recruit a few go-for-broke guys who’d play along just for the fun of it.”

  Then I realized the career risk he had taken on my behalf and I was grateful. What a fortunate SOB I was. That stands for son of a barrister of course. “I owe you a
big one,” I told Rogoff.

  “Sure you do,” he agreed. “Now let’s go up and collect the airhead.”

  “I don’t think she’ll let us in,” I said.

  “Why not?” he said. “We’re nice people. Sonia Smith—right? I checked the directory earlier today.”

  He pressed the button and when she answered on the intercom, her voice sounded a mite shaky. “Who is this?” she asked.

  “Ma’am, this is Sergeant Al Rogoff of the Palm Beach Police Department. May I have a little conversation with you, please? It won’t take long.”

  “I’m busy at the moment,” she said. “Could we make it tomorrow?”

  “On the other hand,” he said pleasantly, “I could order up a SWAT team and have your door blasted open with a nuclear rocket. Would you prefer that, Sonia?”

  Short pause. Then the buzzer sounded and we entered.

  “You do have a way about you,” I said admiringly.

  He shrugged. “What’s the point of having a potsy if you can’t use it?”

  Sonia opened her door with a bright smile that faded when she saw me. Al displayed his ID. She stood aside to let us enter. She was still wearing the denim jumpsuit but defiance had replaced her former élan.

  “Is this a bust?” she demanded. “If it is, you got to read me my rights and I ain’t saying a word until I talk to my lawyer.”

  “Nah,” Rogoff said, “this is no arrest. I just think it would be to your advantage if you’d come down to headquarters with me and answer a few questions. If you don’t want to, I’ll have to go through the business of getting a warrant and pulling you in. It’s really unnecessary. If you decide to come along you can always change your mind, clam up, and call your lawyer. It’s a very small thing, Sonia. We don’t suspect you of a supermarket massacre or anything like that. All we want is a little information on a minor matter. You’re not being charged with anything. And if you cooperate you get a gold star next to your name on your records. Might help you in the future—right? How about it? Will you help us?”

  He was very persuasive and it didn’t take her long to decide. “Okay,” she said. “Do I have to stay overnight?”

  “Maybe,” Rogoff admitted.

  “Let me get my handbag,” she said, and the sergeant followed her into the inner room. He didn’t miss a trick.

  When they emerged Al was rummaging through her bag. He held aloft a vial of pills. “What’s this stuff?” he asked her.

  “Aspirin,” she said.

  “Now they’re making purple aspirin?” the sergeant said. “Crazy. Come along, luv. You’ll be home again before you know it.”

  We let her lock up the apartment. We were waiting for the elevator when Sonia looked at me directly. “Archy,” she said reproachfully, “I trusted you.” Al and I were convulsed. Wouldn’t you be?

  Rogoff escorted her to the remaining car, keeping a firm grip on her arm. I followed and watched her safely installed in the back seat alongside a cop who offered her a stick of Juicy Fruit.

  “Al,” I said before he climbed behind the wheel, “may I call you tomorrow to find out what you’ve dragged out of the creeps?”

  He finally lighted the cigar he’d been carrying. “Sure. But make it late. It’ll be Sunday and things won’t go fast. All the lawyers will be playing golf. Hey, it turned out to be a blast, didn’t it?”

  “A superblast,” I assured him. “And thank you again.”

  “A big one!” he shouted back as he drove away. I thought at first he was referring to the recent action. Then I realized he was reminding me of my vow: “I owe you a big one.” I intended to honor it.

  Nerves still jangling, I decided a stop at the Pelican Club was called for. I hoped it would be a peaceable retreat where I could sit quietly at the mahogany and down a cognac or two to reduce my level of adrenaline. No such luck. The parking area was crowded and when I peeked inside I saw a boisterous mob of Saturday night revelers. Not for me; I just wasn’t in the mood.

  About to depart, I was stopped by the sight of the parking lot jammed with all kinds of wheels from sleek BMWs to hunky Harley Hogs. I called police headquarters on my cellular phone, identified myself, and asked to speak to Sgt. Al Rogoff. It required many minutes and many dollars before he came on the line.

  “Now what?” he demanded.

  “Al, how did those louts get to Sonia’s apartment and how were they going to whisk me away? Did you look around for a vehicle they may have used?”

  “You think I’m a Binky?” he said indignantly. “Of course we toured the neighborhood, and found a parked white Ford Explorer registered to Ricardo Chrisling. You like?”

  “Very much,” I said happily. “The final nail.”

  He sighed. “Get real, Archy,” he advised. “Try thinking like a rat. Ricardo will claim he loaned his car to a friend or it was stolen. It doesn’t prove a thing. Well, maybe it’s a small piece but not enough to rack him up for murder-one.”

  “Where will you be tonight?” I asked him.

  “Right here. There is going to be an all-night, five-star production with interrogations, lawyers coming and going, endless paperwork, conferences, black coffee, and burgers.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Sure you are. Now go home, go to sleep, and call me never. Some of us toil and some of us spin. I toil; you spin. Good night. I hope.”

  He hung up and I drove slowly home, charged by what he had told me of the presence of Ricardo’s van at the scene of my escapade. Al seemed to take it lightly; I thought it meaningful. I decided a muscular brandy followed by sleep might provide the answers to all my questions. Or at least supply eight hours of forgetfulness.

  But my crystal ball had cracked; the night didn’t turn out as I anticipated.

  One never knows, do one?

  CHAPTER 33

  I GARAGED THE MIATA AND noted the lights were on in my father’s ground-floor study. It probably meant he was sipping port and doggedly continuing his self-imposed task of reading his way through the entire oeuvre of Chas. Dickens. It pleased me that in a world of senseless greed and gratuitous violence boredom still exerted its peculiar attraction. A somnifacient, I suspect.

  Hobo had roused and come to the entrance of his house when I arrived. I gave him a wave and wished him a sweet slumber. He rewarded me with a single tail thump, then lay down with his chin resting between his paws and closed his eyes. I hoped to emulate him shortly—but it was not to be.

  I was upstairs preparing an injection of 80-proof plasma when my phone rang. I think I may have repeated aloud Sgt. Rogoff’s querulous query: “Now what?”

  “Good evening, Archy,” Ricardo Chrisling said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all,” I made myself say.

  “Something came up and I thought of you immediately. Martin, my assistant, mentioned you were interested in obtaining a rare parrot.”

  “True,” I said. “A gift for my antiquated grandfather who’s a demon collector of birds, the rarer the better.” (I remembered my lies.)

  “I’ve been able to locate a Spix’s macaw,” he went on. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the species but it’s an extremely uncommon Brazilian bird. Only thirty-two known to exist. Collectors would love to have one but since we’re friends I thought I’d give you first chance. It’s a healthy male and very attractive. Dark blue with a gray-blue head. Yellow eyes. Interested?”

  “I am indeed,” I said, certain the bird he described would be an endangered species.

  “I should warn you it’s expensive.”

  “No problem,” I assured him.

  “What I’d like to do if I may is pop over to your place, show you a color photo, and we can discuss it. Is that convenient?”

  “Of course.”

  “Be there in about twenty minutes,” he said. “I think you’ll like this bird, Archy.” He hung up leaving me excited by the prospect of confirming his illicit trade in parrots on the proscribed list.


  Those twenty minutes gave me time to ingest a brawny slug of Presidente brandy. Thus fortified I descended to our driveway and awaited the arrival of Ricardo Chrisling. I cannot to this day believe I never doubted his story about the Spix’s macaw. Which only proves, I suppose, that although I may know the details of the Peloponnesian Wars, when it comes to more quotidian matters I am a complete dope.

  He drove up in a new, dark green Cadillac DeVille, and it set an alarm bell chiming softly. The last time I had seen the car it was driven by Yvonne Chrisling. I assumed it was hers. But perhaps he borrowed it. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was his. Perhaps they shared it. At the moment I was flummoxed by an excess of perhapses and hadn’t the time to sort them out.

  Ricardo alighted, paused, and seemed to spend an inordinate time inspecting the premises, including the lights burning in my father’s study and Hobo snoozing in the doorway of his condo. Then he came toward me with a flinty smile, hand outstretched. We shook: one hard, wrenching clasp.

  “Archy,” he said.

  “Ricardo,” I said. “I see you have new wheels.”

  “Not mine,” he said. “My mother’s.”

  Note the “my mother’s” rather than “My stepmother’s.”

  “Ah,” I said, all my perhapses resolved—if I could believe him. “Would you care to come inside? We can have a drink and talk.”

  He came closer and looked at me strangely. “I tried,” he said sadly. “I really tried to be your friend.”

  Realization arrived. It was slow in coming, I admit, but suddenly there it was. This man was my enemy and intended to harm me.

  “You didn’t try hard enough,” I said just as sadly.

  Lordy, he was fast. His hand snaked into his jacket pocket and came out with a bone handle. He pressed a button and a thin, naked blade swung out and clicked into a locked position. He moved a step closer.

  Earlier in the evening I had faced a loaded revolver and was frightened. But it couldn’t compare to the fear I felt at the sight of that bare, shining sliver of steel. I can’t explain it. A gun can wound or kill as surely as a knife but the latter terrorizes more. Don’t ask me why.