McNally's Gamble

by Lawrence Sanders

  Thinking about Nettie moved my thoughts sluggishly to the evening’s romantic fiasco. I had yearned for a perennial wildflower and had ended up with a painted petunia—now hidden hurriedly behind my dresser. It called for gnashing of the McNally choppers.

  But I suddenly found myself succumbing to torpidity. I could no longer concentrate except on the lure of sleep, blessed sleep. So I postponed any attempt to analyze the reasons for Natalie’s cruel rejection. Those vodka gimlets and the beer were doing their soporific best, and I disrobed and fell into bed.

  Scarlett O’Hara’s last line had it right.

  CHAPTER 18

  REGARDLESS OF THE SEASON, weather, or impending nuclear catastrophe, my father plays golf every Saturday—and the next morning was no exception. He was clad in his usual plus fours, argyle hose, and spectator wing tips in brown and beige. He had added the hand-knitted sweater—mother’s birthday gift to him. I noted the pater wore it with cuff rolled up to his elbows to conceal those mismatched sleeves.

  A lesser man might have looked ridiculous in such a costume but the guv, with his erect posture and guardsman’s mustache, carried it off with great dignity. He was an impressive figure on the links for he approached the game of golf with the same thoughtful solemnity he brought to every challenge. For instance, was it de rigueur or gauche to pop a whole hard-boiled egg into one’s mouth rather than nibble at it with a resulting cascade of yolk crumbs? It was a decision requiring intense mulling.

  He paused before leaving for his club to draw me aside in the hallway. His mien revealed nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling.

  “At the party last evening,” he began abruptly, “I was approached by Natalie and Walter Westmore. In concert they asked if they might confer with me with no mention of the consultation relayed to their mother. Archy, do you have any idea why they appeared so eager for a confidential meeting?”

  “Not definitely, no, sir,” I answered. “But if I had to guess I’d say it concerns their mother’s willingness to pay half a million dollars for a Fabergé egg. Both Natalie and Walter are unalterably opposed.”

  He nodded. “I thought it was likely although they gave no reason and I didn’t ask. Have you made any progress in determining the legitimacy of the investment and the probity of Mrs. Westmore’s financial adviser?”

  “Some progress, father, but not enough to state positively the bauble in question does or does not exist. Nor have I yet come to any final judgment on the trustworthiness of Frederick Clemens.”

  (Have you ever noticed that when my father and I converse our speech resembles oral arguments presented by prolix advocates to the Supreme Court?)

  He accepted my temporary failure with no rebuke. “In any event I have agreed to meet with the Westmore siblings at eleven o’clock Tuesday morning. If, during our conversation, they suggest McNally and Son engage in any actions I deem possibly injurious to our client I shall refuse to advise them or act on their behalf. It is a very delicate situation and I think it wise to have a witness present. Will you be able to attend?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But will they accept my presence, sir? It may have the effect of silencing them or at least dampening the confidence they’d have in speaking to you alone.”

  “I shall make it plain to them your attendance or that of another witness is necessary. If they continue to object, I shall then suggest they consult another attorney.”

  Having handed down his decision, there was no appeal to a higher court. He went off to his golf game and, the weather being inclement, I retired to, my digs and set to work recording details of the Westmore cocktail party. It was not the way I would have preferred to spend a Saturday but so much had happened I wanted to have a written reminder.

  I interrupted my labors for a half-hour frolic with Hobo during which we roughhoused and then searched the grounds for any marauding raccoons that might have invaded the McNally acres. Finally I gave his coat a good brushing, which he endured although I think he’d have much preferred watching a rerun of Lassie Come Home.

  I demolished a sardine salad for lunch and then resumed scribbling in my professional diary. I was jotting an honest (and heartrending) account of my misadventure in Natalie’s studio when the recollection of how my lascivious hopes were thwarted drove me to phone Consuela Garcia. I wanted to make certain I had not suddenly become persona non grata to the entire female world.

  “I just got up twenty minutes ago, hon,” she confessed. “I’m glad you didn’t call earlier. I must have slept ten hours. Managing that dinner wiped me out.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Fine. None of the pols got too drunk or too loud.”

  “Did they bring wives or mistresses?”

  “Are you kidding? It was strictly stag: eleven men and Lady C. Those are the odds she likes.”

  I laughed. “She just doesn’t want competition, Connie. The queen surrounded by her courtiers. Did she ask anyone to stay?”

  “One.”

  “Which one?”

  “I’m not saying.”

  “I’ll bet he was the youngest.”

  “You win your bet. Am I seeing you tonight, sweetie?”

  “Of course. Where and when?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t feel like doing the fancy bit, Archy. I’ve had enough dress-up and rich food to hold me for a while.”

  “How about this...? I’ll pick up a tub of barbecued chicken and maybe some potato salad and coleslaw. And a cold six-pack, naturally. Nothing fancy about that, is there? You pull on a T-shirt and jeans and unfrazzle—the way we planned.”

  “Just right,” she approved. “By the way, how was the Westmores’ cocktail party?”

  “Dull, duller, dullest. I cut out early. I need a little excitement in my life.”

  “Come over around seven,” she said, and giggled.

  Understanding, sympathetic, cooperative Connie!

  I skipped the family cocktail hour and went shopping for provisions. I bought the barbecued chicken at a West Palm deli and asked for half with lemon-pepper sauce and half Cajun. I didn’t forget me potato salad and coleslaw, and added two kosher dills to serve as a green vegetable. And two squares of baklava, dripping with honey, for dessert.

  It turned out to be a splendid evening—everything a growing boy could want. Connie was at her foxiest, a winning combination of sly humor and artless charm. The picnic-type food was just right, although the Cajun chicken could have used a little more cayenne. Afterward we drank beer and listened to the original cast recording of My Fair Lady. Great songs—but I don’t want a woman to be more like a man. What if she turned out to be the spitting image of Binky Watrous?

  There was, glory be, no danger of Connie flipping her gender. She proved that later in the evening and her eagerness was doubly welcome, for not only was I physically pleasured but my masculine ego regained the bloom it needed after being cruelly shriveled by Natalie’s cold dismissal.

  Even more important to me than Connie’s flashy aptitudes is her normalcy. No gym bloomers and middy blouses for her. And no confusing alternations of mood between apathy and scary malevolence. Ms. Consuela Garcia is not a complex woman but her honest simplicity is admirable—and lovable. What you see is what you get—and I see a blessing.

  And so a pleasant time was had by all and I drove home shortly after midnight feeling at peace with the world and singing “With a Little Bit of Luck.” Knowing the sardonicism of fate, I should have been wary of my optimistic humor and crossed my fingers or taken some other action to ward off the evil eye. But I didn’t and within three days destiny had kneed me in the groin and my chirpy tune had become a dismal lament.

  Sunday was sodden and I didn’t stir from the house, not even to accompany my parents to church. (I felt a wee pang of guilt about that—but not for long.) Instead, I read for a few hours, listened to some early recordings of Blind Lemon Jefferson and Big Bill Broonzy, tried (and failed) to balance my checkbook, and generally futzed me day a
way.

  Dinner was Swiss steak, which no one, including restaurants, seems to prepare these days—a sadness because it’s an excellent dish, especially with smothered onions. The meal was enhanced by famer’s decision to uncork one of his bottles of vintage pinot noir, kept in a locked, temperature-controlled cabinet in his study. I know where he hides the key but have never dared filch since he maintains a meticulous inventory.

  I would like to alert you to one other happening on that lazy Sabbath. It was, I thought at the time, of minor import but it had momentous consequences as you shall shortly learn.

  I was at my desk after dinner, enjoying the bite of a small marc, when my thoughts turned to possible scenarios for me visit to Windsor Antiques I planned for Monday morning. I tried several gambits but none of them pleased me. I wanted to believe Sydney Smythe was innocent but I hoped to discover how and why he had informed Fred Clemens about my imaginary 1907 Silver Ghost “surprise.”

  A direct, brusque question was never seriously considered. It would sound accusatory and might offend Mr. Smythe. In which case his further cooperation would be snuffed. Besides, direct questions are not my style; I much prefer dissembling.

  I finally devised a plan that made me smile because it was almost diabolical in its cunning. At the same time it offered a simple and elegant solution to my problems. It would help determine the closeness of the Smythe-Clemens relationship. And it could conceivably push the investment adviser to rash actions which might reveal his true colors.

  I was so impressed by my wiliness I treated myself to a second brandy. I thought my scheme was designed for complete success. The oft misquoted proverb declares pride goeth before a fall. I never did quite understand it; shouldn’t pride goeth after a fall? However you slice it, I took a fall, as you shall see, and my pride wenteth.

  Monday made its appearance, and I was happy to greet a clear, sunshiny day, taking it as a good omen. I saw no reason to make an early appearance at work and so I dawdled at home, collecting my laundry and dry cleaning for the weekly pickup. I drove to the McNally Building around ten-thirty, parked in our underground garage, and walked over to Worth Avenue. I recall I was wearing a new fedora in a jazzy taupe shade. It was wide-brimmed and I fancied it made me look like Ronald Colman in Lost Horizon. Connie’s vote was for Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend.

  Once again I was startled at how grungy Windsor Antiques looked on that street of sparkling jewelry stores and trendy boutiques. I was amazed Sydney Smythe hadn’t been evicted for maintaining a public eyesore—if such an act is proscribed by law. I doubt if it is or half the falafel joints in the country would be shuttered.

  I entered, called “Hallo!” to the empty shop. The proprietor came mincing from the back room he uses as an office and, I suspect, to take an occasional nap, since it includes a black leather couch so ancient and crackled it could have been original equipment in Sigmund’s study.

  Mr. Smythe greeted me genially with two outstretched hands and we exchanged the usual salutations. He was wearing his habitual seedy apparel and I was sad he apparently could not afford a new silk ascot. Perhaps, I thought suddenly, I’ll give him a handsome foulard for Christmas.

  “Mr. Smythe,” I said, “I’m looking for an unusual gift for a young lady of rather eccentric tastes. Can you suggest something different she might like?”

  “A bracelet?” he offered. “Earrings? A necklace?”

  “I think not,” I said. “She’s the denim jeans type and I’ve never seen her wear jewelry.”

  He thought a moment, eyes glittering behind his pince-nez. Then he snapped his fingers. “Ah-ha!” he cried. “I think I have a treasure that will delight you, dear boy. And your young lady as well. Be right back.”

  He darted into the back office and emerged a moment later bearing a small object swathed in tissue paper. He unwrapped it carefully to reveal a little porcelain box with a hinged lid. It was hand-painted and scarcely large enough to contain a dozen Turns. Atop the cover was a bouquet of flowers, none of which I could identify.

  “Isn’t it exquisite?” Smythe said. “Limoges, you know. A fine collectible.”

  “Just the thing,” I agreed. “She worships flowers.”

  “Two hundred,” he said. “And for you, dear boy, I’ll put a penny inside for good luck.”

  “I’d prefer a twenty-dollar gold piece,” I said. “I need more than a penny’s worth of good luck.”

  We both laughed and he accepted the credit card I offered. “Unfortunately I cannot gift wrap it,” he said. “I lack the paper and ribbons.”

  “No matter,” I said. “I’ll do the honors. Just swaddle it in tissue again and pop it into a bag.”

  Our transaction was concluded and I prepared to launch my planned spiel but he forestalled me.

  “Incidentally,” he said, “about the ‘surprise’ in the Fabergé egg you mentioned, the 1907 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost—I was unable to find any reference to it in the books and catalogues I consulted.”

  “Disappointing,” I said.

  “Not completely unexpected. As I told you during our first discussion, there are several Imperial eggs that have never been discovered so to speak. I mean they are not in museums and have never been exhibited in public by private collectors. They include the final two eggs made for Czar Nicholas in 1917. While some or even all of the missing eggs may have been lost or destroyed, the chances are just as good that several are being held by persons who, for whatever reason, do not want it known they possess a Fabergé egg.”

  “So it’s possible our deceased client’s egg and its surprise are authentic?”

  “Oh my yes,” he said. “Other Fabergé surprises included a model coach, yacht, and a train, so it’s likely a tiny motorcar was fashioned. If it’s as remarkable as you described, it is quite valuable.”

  My time had come. “I’m glad to hear you say that,” I told him. “The heirs and beneficiaries have agreed to send the egg and its surprise to Sotheby’s in New York for auction.”

  The pince-nez fell from his nose to the floor. He stooped to retrieve it. When he slowly straightened up I saw no change of expression in his face. No change at all. I thought it significant.

  “An auction at Sotheby’s,” he repeated. “In New York?”

  “Correct,” I said cheerily. “I expect you’ll be seeing a lot of publicity in newspapers, magazines, and on TV. I’m sure Sotheby’s will make a media event of its auction. Why, they might even persuade Rolls-Royce to feature a color photo of Fabergé’s miniature model in their ads.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Shouldn’t wonder.”

  Obviously he didn’t wish to comment further on the matter. Nor did I. So we wished each other a happy holiday and I departed carrying Natalie’s Christmas gift in a brown paper bag.

  CHAPTER 19

  I LUNCHED AT TA-BOO (grilled salmon with sweet pepper salsa) but it was not until my second cup of oolong that I allowed myself to review the conversation with the decadent proprietor of Windsor Antiques.

  I was satisfied with the way things had gone. My fabricated story would, I reckoned, have one of two possible results. If the relationship between Smythe and Clemens was merely a casual onetime thing, occurring by chance, the investment adviser would probably never learn of the Sotheby’s auction fantasy.

  But if the two men were closer than I imagined, Clemens would hear of the auction soon enough. And if he did, I could envision his fury and despair. He had described the “surprise” in the Fabergé egg Mrs. Westmore planned to buy, and now it was to be hawked in New York with a blizzard of publicity. Edythe would be sure to ask some very pointed questions. Panic time, folks.

  Unless of course the silver-tongued financial counselor could convince his client Fabergé had created identical surprises for two Imperial eggs—but I thought it highly unlikely. No, Mr. Clemens would be confronted with a crisis—and the fact it had been wholly invented by your scribe did not affect the peril he faced.

  I returned to Royal
Palm Way in a chipper mood. I am never happier than when I have launched a devilish scheme, especially when it may result in the discomfiture of miscreants. Why should villains have all the fun?

  Back in the McNally Building I did something I should have done days ago: I visited the office of Mrs. Lenore Crittenden, who heads the department of McNally & Son dealing with estate planning and investment advising.

  Lennie is a frisky middle-aged lady, cheerfully overweight, with a fondness for loose dresses in flowered Pulitzer prints. She is one of the two women I’ve known who use a monocle, which she wields with great éclat. Her knowledge of high finance is awesome and her judgment so sensible that father is content to let her handle the firm’s capital. She manages it very well indeed.

  I found the money whiz at her desk lunching on a toasted BLT and what appeared to be a chocolate milk shake.

  “On a diet, Lennie?” I asked pleasantly.

  “Go to hell, Archy,” she said just as pleasantly. “And if you’re looking for a stock tip, here it is: Buy low and sell high.”

  I sighed. “I know a bartender who repeats the same mantra. Actually, I was hoping you could spare me some time.”

  “If you have a candlelit dinner for two in mind I’m afraid I can’t make it tonight. My husband’s in town.”

  “Doggone it,” I said. “And I was chilling the bubbly. Well, maybe some other time. Lennie, I’m investigating a bloke who claims to be an investment adviser, financial planner, money manager—whatever. He says he’s worked for a few brokerage houses and a banker. He also says he had no bad marks except for a few arbitration hearings settled in his favor. He apparently moved to West Palm from California about a year ago. Question:. Are there government agencies and professional associations which might provide the inside poop on this guy and say whether he’s soiled or as pure as the d.s.?”