McNally's Gamble

by Lawrence Sanders

  I found myself with a drained glass and headed for the bar again, needing Dutch courage for what I knew I would inevitably endeavor. There was a row of guests clamoring for their drinks to be mixed and I stood aside until the press of the thirsty slackened.

  I saw a tall woman also standing at a distance, gripping an empty glass and apparently waiting a chance to be served. I guessed her age at about eighty but she was erect and seemed untroubled by the noise and confusion about her. It was noteworthy because she was wearing opaque black eyeglasses and there was a white cane hooked over one arm.

  I went up to her and her face turned in my direction. It was a strong, handsome face. There were many wrinkles, many, but the cheekbones were high, the jaw firm. She had a pleasantly amused expression and I reckoned she had laughed a great deal in her lifetime. She wore a tweed suit with a mannish shirt and tie. Her shoes were clunky brogues.

  “Ma’am,” I said, “may I have the pleasure of fetching you a drink?” Her head turned a little more at the sound of my voice so those black specs were facing me directly.

  “You’re very kind,” she said in a deep, rumbling voice, and held out her glass. I took it from her fingers. “Bourbon, please,” she said. “Straight. And quite small; I’ll be leaving soon.”

  It took almost five minutes to get our drinks but when I returned with her half-shot of Jim Beam she was still standing exactly where I had left her.

  “Here you are,” I said. “A small bourbon straight.” She held out her hand and I placed the glass within her encircling fingers.

  “Thank you so much,” she said, and took a sip. “I’m usually able to cope but mobs are daunting. What is your name?”

  “Archy McNally. And yours?”

  “Barney Newfield,” she said.

  “Any relation to Barney Oldfield?” I asked.

  She laughed. “How old are you, Archy?”

  “Thirty-seven, ma’am.”

  “Then how do you know about Barney Oldfield?”

  “I’m a nostalgia buff. And a trivia maven. Barney Oldfield set the one-mile speed record in 1910.”

  “And won many other races as well,” she said. “My father was a car-racing nut and insisted I be named Barney.”

  “Unusual for a woman. It’s a variation of Barnaby, which means ‘son of consolation.’”

  “Does it? I needed consolation when I was a kid and the song ‘Barney Google’ was popular. Have you heard it?”

  “Of course,” I said, happy I could display my knowledge of antique tunes. I sang, “Barney Google, with the goo-goo googly eyes.”

  “That’s the one,” she said, smiling. “My school chums made my life miserable by singing it when I appeared. And now my eyes really are googly. God has a divine sense of humor.”

  “Are you totally blind?” I asked boldly, but she wasn’t offended.

  “Almost,” she said quite cheerfully. “A degenerative condition due to diabetes. Fortunately I had a full career before the curtain came down.”

  “Please forgive my insatiable curiosity,” I said, “but what was your career?”

  “Why, I was a paleontologist. I’m sure a clever young man like you knows what that is.”

  “Similar to a paleoanthropologist?”

  “Very similar. If there’s any difference it’s in the degree of specialization. The ontologist may be interested in the total life-forms of ancient periods while the anthropologist concentrates on fossil hominids. But the fields certainly overlap. All of which explains what I’m doing here drinking bourbon. I was Walter Westmore’s teacher and mentor for many years and the dear man has never forgotten me.”

  “How could he?” I said. “Tell me, is Walter good at what he does?”

  “Good?” she said. “I don’t use the term genius lightly but I consider Walter a genius. Not only does he now far surpass me in technical knowledge but he has a natural talent for demodulation. I do believe he can extrapolate a complete skeleton from a chip of shinbone. The only thing he lacks is field experience.”

  “I know he’s eager to get back to Africa.”

  “And he deserves to go. It’s a bloody shame he can’t get the funds to continue his work. He has a new theory of bipedalism that will cause a sensation if he can prove it out. But it will require more physical evidence than he has now. And the only place to find the evidence is in Africa.” She suddenly turned her head and said, “Walter? We were just talking about you.”

  I also turned and there he was, quite close to us although I hadn’t been aware of his presence.

  “How on earth did you know he was here?” I asked Barney Newfield.

  Westmore laughed. “My aftershave,” he explained. “I’ve been using the same brand for years and Barney can spot it a mile away.”

  “At least,” she said, smiling.

  “I’m glad you two met,” he said. “Barney, I hope you can stay a while longer.”

  “Afraid not,” she said. “I better get home before my companion panics and phones nine-one-one.”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Walter said. Then to me: “Barney lives in Manalapan and her companion, Ruby, is a tyrant.”

  “She is that,” Barney agreed. “But I don’t know what I’d do without the darling.”

  “Ma’am,” I said, “do you require transportation? My car is right outside if you don’t mind riding in an open convertible.”

  “Thanks, Archy,” Westmore said, “but I’ll make sure Barney gets home.”

  “It’s been a joy meeting you, ma’am,” I said, “and I hope we may have another chat sometime soon.”

  “Would you mind if I touched your face?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” I said, and thrust my phiz forward. Her hand found it and she began to trace forehead, eye sockets, nose, cheekbones, lips, chin, and jaw. Her fingertips were light, almost caressing. It was a very pleasurable sensation. Dare I say erotic?

  “Oh my,” she said. “What a handsome man you are!”

  “Thank you,” I said, “but it’s really a plastic mask. Underneath I am The Phantom of the Opera.”

  They laughed and I started away. Walter called after me, “Oh, Archy, Natalie is looking for you.”

  Did I begin to pant? No. Hyperventilate? Yes.

  CHAPTER 17

  I PASSED THE DINING room, glanced in, and there was Binky Watrous grazing at what remained of the buffet. I wondered if he might be stuffing a doggie bag. I didn’t stop to inquire; I no longer had need of a chaperon—not even a quasi chaperon. I continued an increasingly frantic search for Natalie. The crowd was thinning but I was unable to find her.

  Finally, finally, while I was pacing fretfully near the front entrance, she came slowly down the stairway from the second floor. She had donned a ratty coat sweater that concealed her enchanting bare shoulders and arms. (The Earl of Cardigan has a lot to answer for.) I hustled forward to greet her.

  “Good evening, Natalie,” I said beamishly.

  “Good evening, Archy,” she said with what I thought was a tight smile. “Having a good time?”

  “Oh yes. Excellent party. I saw you earlier but you were talking to your brother and I didn’t want to interrupt. What a great outfit you’re wearing. You look smashing!”

  She glanced down at herself. “Mother insisted I wear a dress. Helen picked it out. I hate it.”

  “Oh no,” I dissented. “It really does look super.”

  “It isn’t me,” she said defiantly.

  I couldn’t think of an intelligent response so all I said was, “May I get you a drink or a snack?”

  “No, thank you,” she said coldly. “I don’t drink alcohol and all the food they have is garbage as far as I’m concerned.”

  This wasn’t going well at all. She seemed in a particularly tense mood and my hopes were rapidly evaporating when she came to the rescue. “Archy,” she said, “could we go over to my studio for a while? I have something for you.”

  “Of course,” I said heartily, my pulse going pi
ta-pat. “Be happy to.”

  We started out but paused when Barney Newfield and Walter Westmore came along. She was holding his arm and he was carrying her cane. We all exchanged adieus and they left us. Nettie and I waited outside until they drove away in the lavender Riviera. They waved and we waved back.

  I looked about at the remaining cars. My father’s Lexus was gone but Binky’s heap was still parked and so was Clemens’s Bentley. Then Natalie took my hand and we strolled toward the studio hut.

  “Barney is a wonderful woman,” I offered.

  “A saint,” Nettie said. “She’s done so much for Walter. She’s devoted to him. He should have married her.”

  “There’s a slight age difference,” I pointed out.

  She shook her head. “Doesn’t make any difference,” she said, and I didn’t argue, not wanting a silly disagreement to endanger what I anticipated would be a paradisiacal interlude.

  “Archy,” she said in a low voice, “there’s no electricity in the studio but I have a battery-powered lantern. It should be enough for us.”

  “It will do nicely,” I assured her with what sounded to me like a nervous giggle. I mean I felt a certain trepidation about the approaching encounter despite my lickerishness. Doesn’t every man?

  The lantern had been placed on the floor and after unlocking the door Nettie reached in to switch on the light. The small room was flooded with a white glare and I hoped it wouldn’t attract curious guests from the party.

  “Here it is,” she said, motioning toward a watercolor lying on her drawing table. “I worked on it for two days and had it framed yesterday. Do you like it?”

  I looked. “Very nice,” I said. “It resembles a petunia.”

  “Well, I started copying a print of a petunia but then I added things. Do you really like it?”

  “I do indeed,” I lied bravely. “The colors are striking, especially the red leaves.”

  “I’m glad you like it, Archy, because I painted it for you. I want you to have it.”

  I swallowed. “Oh, I couldn’t accept,” I protested. “After the work you did on it. And the frame and all.”

  “No, no,” she said firmly. “I want you to have it. It’s my Christmas gift to you.”

  “You’re very kind. I’ll certainly treasure it.”

  “I have a plastic shopping bag from Publix you can carry it in.”

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  “I think we better go back now,” she said.

  “Must we go?” I said weakly.

  “Yes,” she said.

  A few moments later the light was off, the door locked, and we were walking silently toward the main house. I was carrying my petunia in a shopping bag and feeling a new empathy for Napoleon trudging home from Moscow.

  We were nearing the lighted portico when Natalie stopped me. She was staring at the open front door. I looked and saw Helen Westmore and Frederick Clemens pausing to light cigarettes. Helen was wearing a short mink jacket as a cape. Clemens put his arm about her waist, said something, and they both laughed. Nettie and I heard their continued laughter as they went down to the maroon Bentley and slid in. We waited in the semidarkness until the car pulled away.

  “Bitch!” Natalie said, and I was shocked by the venom in her voice.

  She said nothing more until we were inside. Then she gave me a quick peck on the cheek, muttered good-bye, and darted up the stairs. “Thank you for the painting,” I called after her, but I don’t think she heard me. I wanted desperately to kick something—anything.

  Gruntled I was not. The evening had lost its savor and I determined to make my departure as soon as I found the hostess and thanked her for such a fun occasion. It was easy to locate Mrs. Edythe Westmore. All I had to do was trace a braying voice to its source.

  She was wearing a brocaded gown that looked stiff enough to stand up by itself. And she was festooned with jewelry: pearls and gold and precious stones. Every time she moved she clanked, clinked, chimed, or pealed. I waited for a break in her monologue to two stunned guests before I could catch her eye and smile. She deserted her relieved listeners and bustled to my side. I received a warm, moist kiss.

  “Edythe,” I said, “I must be going but I wanted to thank you for an evening I shall never forget.”

  “It was a wonderful party, wasn’t it?” she crowed. “I’m sure everyone had a marvy time.”

  “Oh, we did,” I agreed, and then topped her dated cliché. “We all had a fab time. Edythe, what was it you wished to say to me?”

  She was puzzled.

  “My friend Binky Watrous said you wanted to tell me something.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, “now I remember. Well, when you and I had that nice lunch together we talked about the Fabergé egg I’m going to buy and you said I should ask Fred Clemens if it contained a ‘surprise’ like all the other Imperial eggs. Fred says it does, and you know what it is?”

  “Can’t guess.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen it of course because the egg is still in Paris, but Fred says you open it up and inside is this tiny, beautiful model of a 1907 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost made of sterling. Fred says it’s the most remarkable thing he’s ever seen. It has a crystal windshield and real leather upholstery. And Fred says the wheels actually turn! Isn’t it the most incredible thing you’ve ever heard?” She looked at me expectantly.

  In previous tales of my adventures I have mentioned how certain unexpected happenings gasted my flabber. But none of those reactions matched the intensity of the astonishment I felt at that precise moment. And when the initial shock subsided I was left in a condition I can only describe as utter bafflement.

  “Amazing,” I said hoarsely. “Yes. Truly astounding.”

  “I knew you’d be impressed,” she said brightly, pleased with the effect her words had caused.

  I was finally able to flee when other guests came up to make their farewells. I left Binky to continue his depredations at the bar and buffet and staggered outside to the Miata, still lugging my petunia. The evening, I decided, had been a crazy quilt of frustrations and perplexities. And to heighten my distraction I realized I had eaten nothing since lunch and was suddenly stricken by a hunger so extreme I feared I might faint if I didn’t soon quiet my stomach’s growl. I sped homeward.

  Ursi Olson had not prepared dinner for the family, believing we would eat our fill at the party. It was an accurate assessment of my parents; they had dined at the Westmore buffet. But I was famished and headed for the kitchen immediately, not even pausing to give Hobo a pat.

  I discovered the Olsons’ dinner had been mutton, which they loved but never served to us. Many people loathe mutton and my mother and father are two of them. I admit eating the flesh of a geriatric sheep is an acquired taste but I fancy the strong, gamy flavor of the meat. So you can imagine my delight when upon jerking open the refrigerator door I discovered an enormous mutton chop still retaining a bit of warmth from the broiler. I glommed on to it, grabbed a cold bottle of Rolling Rock, and scuttled upstairs to enjoy a delayed feast.

  I was glad no one was present to see me tear into the chop at my desk. I was ravenous, devoured every shred of meat and was sorry my teeth weren’t strong enough to grind the bone to meal. Naturally by the time I finished, my hands and mug were a greasy mess and I needed a washup before I could relax with the beer and muse on the bewilderments of the evening.

  I found I had no desire to reflect on the unusual relationship between Barney Newfield and Walter Westmore or the apparent intimacy shared by Helen Westmore and Frederick Clemens. Nor—and you may find this difficult to believe—did I wish to ponder the reason for Natalie dooming my hope to test the resilience of her new steel cot. Later, I knew, I would brood on the cause of my failure and the resulting wound to my amour propre.

  No, what concerned me most, to the exclusion of everything else, was Edythe Westmore’s account (via Frederick Clemens) of the surprise contained within the Fabergé egg she intended to buy. It was an exact du
plication of the invented surprise I had told Sydney Smythe was inside the imaginary egg of an equally imaginary deceased client.

  Coincidence? Impossible! If Clemens had said the Imperial egg supposedly in Paris contained a tiny reproduction of a classic motorcar, marque and model year not specified, I might have accepted it as an extraordinary similarity. But not only was the description detailed but many of the words and phrases used were mine! I had created an illusion only to be informed it actually existed.

  Did I believe that? Of course. And I also have an abiding faith in the tooth fairy.

  The only possible conclusion was that somehow, at some time, for some reason Sydney Smythe had communicated what I had told him of the fictitious surprise to Frederick Clemens. Their exchange might have been quite innocent, of course. Perhaps Clemens stopped at Windsor Antiques by chance. and began to chat with the proprietor about Fabergé eggs, a subject of interest to both of them. And during the conversation Smythe had repeated my scam, including my paean to the 1907 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost.

  But if Sydney Smythe’s role in this incident was blameless, what was I to make of the behavior of Clemens? When questioned by Edythe Westmore, he had told her the Paris egg he was recommending she purchase as an investment contained a surprise he obviously knew didn’t exist. Was it because he didn’t know what it contained and didn’t wish to reveal his ignorance? Or was it because the egg itself was a chimera?

  I decided my first step would be a meeting with Mr. Smythe. During small talk I should be able to ascertain if he was acquainted with Fred Clemens and had repeated to him my feigned report on the dead client and the Fabergé egg included in his estate.

  Now all I needed was an innocuous excuse for visiting Windsor Antiques. The answer was easy. I still hadn’t purchased a Christmas present for Natalie Westmore—and she had already given me a gift beyond compare. Shopping for some unusual curio would provide a perfect pretext for pawing through the shop’s hodgepodge while I casually elicited from the decrepit dandy what I needed to know.