McNally's Gamble

by Lawrence Sanders

  I thought the old man looked at me with some amazement, surprised no doubt by my apparent proficiency. But then he must have realized I was cribbing from someone (we know from whom, don’t we?), for he gave me a wintry smile and began to smooth his mustache with a knuckle.

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea!” Nettie said excitedly. “How clever of you to think of an investigation, Archy. It’s exactly what should be done. How long do you think it will take?”

  “I’ll start at once,” I promised. “I certainly hope to have an answer one way or another before your mother hands over the half-million.”

  “I should hope so,” she said. “I’m sure you’re going to find out Clemens is just an oily crook.”

  “Please,” I said, “let me urge you again to mention nothing of my inquiry to anyone else. If Clemens is, as you suspect, not to be trusted and he learns of my investigation, he will surely attempt to make my job more arduous.”

  Both the Westmores vowed they would be most circumspect, farewells were exchanged, and they filed out. Father and I looked at each other.

  “I believe it went as well as might be expected,” he commented. “Now, if Mrs. Edythe Westmore learns of your actions and is affronted thereby, we can honestly assert the inquiry was conducted with her children’s knowledge and approval.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “But there is another factor involved here of which you should be cognizant.”

  I told him of Walter’s eagerness to return to Africa to continue his research on the origins of bipedalism and his inability to obtain university or foundation grants.

  “Father, both he and his sister were hoping their mother would finance his work but apparently she refuses. They are rankled by her attitude and so their determination to forestall the Fabergé egg investment is based not solely on filial devotion, a desire to protect their mother from a possibly rapacious swindler. I believe they also harbor a hope that if they prevent a foolish and disastrous loss of half a million dollars she may be grateful enough to contribute to her son’s continued African explorations. It is, I admit, conjecture on my part.”

  He sighed. “Archy, these intrafamily conflicts are one of the most disturbing and difficult problems the legal profession is sometimes called upon to solve. Rarely is there a resolution which satisfies everyone. It is, in effect, a zero-sum game.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Except in the McNally family.”

  His smile was wry-crisp. “Precisely,” he said.

  I returned to my office reflecting we now had a semiofficial go-ahead for a Discreet Inquiry from at least part of the Westmore clan. My main concern, after reviewing the conversation in father’s office, was whether Walter would keep his promise not to tell his wife of the investigation. If Helen learned I was prying into the rectitude of Frederick Clemens I reckoned the subject himself would hear of it within minutes.

  The palaver with the Westmore siblings had given me a thirst and an appetite I judged could only be slaked by a lunch at the Pelican Club chock-full of calories both liquid and solid. I was about to set out when the phone’s ring stopped me and I wondered if it might be Natalie offering a physical bonanza in gratitude for my efforts on her behalf. But the caller was Sydney Smythe.

  “I’m glad I caught you in, dear boy,” he said.

  “Is something amiss, Mr. Smythe?” I said. “You sound subdued.”

  “I do have a slight problem,” he admitted. “But I’m sure a clever lad like you will be able to suggest an answer. Might I see you as soon as possible?”

  “Surely,” I said. “Suppose I drop in this afternoon around three o’clock.”

  Short pause. “Ah,” he said faintly. “No chance of your popping over now?”

  “It’s important?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Quite, dear boy. I think you and I—”

  Suddenly he stopped speaking and there was silence.

  “Mr. Smythe?” I said. “Are you on the line?”

  No response. Then I heard a series of bumps. It sounded to me as if his phone had fallen to the floor.

  “Mr. Smythe!” I shouted. “Are you all right?”

  Again no reply. But I heard a heavier thump, not a crash but the thud of a body falling and a brief scrabbling noise.

  “Hello? Hello?!” I yelled. “What is it? What’s going on?”

  No one spoke. But there were muffled sounds I could not identify. Then nothing more.

  I replaced my own phone, thought a moment of calling 911, and realized I could not accurately describe the emergency although I feared the old codger had suffered cardiac arrest. I hurried out thinking I’d make better time walking quickly rather than driving and bucking midday traffic.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE FRONT DOOR OF Windsor Antiques was slightly ajar, and I paused a moment, not really wanting to enter. I glanced up and down the avenue for no particular reason. I saw cars, pedestrians, the usual bustling activities of noontime. Nothing strange. Nothing suspicious.

  I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, stepped inside. No one in the front room. No sounds.

  “Hello!” I called. “Anyone home?” I added stupidly.

  I threaded my way slowly through the jumble of dusty antiques and rusted curios. I halted at the doorway to the back room, peered in cautiously. The phone was on the floor all right. So was Sydney Smythe.

  I stepped around him carefully to open another door leading to a small loo. No one lurking in there. I returned to the body crumpled on a piece of threadbare carpeting and did a deep knee bend for a closer look.

  I didn’t know how to locate the carotid artery and I had no mirror to hold up to his lips, but I had no doubt the poor man was dead, dead, dead. The pince-nez had fallen off and had been stepped on; the glass was slivered. Blank, unseeing eyes stared at the stained ceiling. I saw no signs of respiration. I did see a steel blade driven into his chest just below the breastbone. The wooden grip of the weapon had a steel pommel and a guard fitted with a ring. I knew what it was.

  There was very little blood: a small puddle and a thin trickle from one corner of his mouth. I stood shakily, glad I had not yet eaten lunch or I might have lost it. He looked so shrunken, you see, so old and sad in his foppish shroud.

  “Good-bye, sir,” I said aloud. I don’t know why.

  I didn’t touch a thing. I left Windsor Antiques, closed the door, walked down the avenue to a bookstore I sometimes patronize.

  “Hi, Mr. McNally,” the clerk said cheerfully. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Happy Holiday!”

  “Same to you, John,” I said. “Have a good one. May I use your phone for a short local call?”

  “Sure thing,” he said. “Help yourself.”

  He wandered away from the counter to give me privacy. I phoned the PBPD, praying Sgt. Al Rogoff would be in. He was.

  “Archy McNally,” I said.

  “Goodness gracious,” he said. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. Why, I was afraid you were mad at me. Listen, sonny boy, call me back in an hour or so. My lunch was just brought in.”

  “An hour?” I said. “Sure. The homicide victim isn’t going anywhere.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Sydney Smythe, proprietor of Windsor Antiques on Worth Avenue. He’s lying kaput in his back room. Someone shoved a blade in his gizzard.”

  Rogoff groaned. “For real?”

  “For real,” I assured him. “He’s gone to the great antique shop in the sky.”

  “What’s with you?” Al demanded indignantly. “This has got to be the third or fourth body you’ve found.”

  “Only the second,” I said. “I think.”

  “Well, don’t touch anything. Wait for me outside on the sidewalk. I’m on my way.”

  I thanked the bookshop clerk, returned to Windsor Antiques, and took up my station outside. It was a super day: warm sun, azure sky with a few shreds of clouds. The cool breeze had a nice salty tang. I felt sick.

  The
police car pulled up about ten minutes later, driven by a young officer I didn’t recognize. No siren. They didn’t want to offend the natives or scare the tourists. Both cops got out to join me on the sidewalk. Sgt. Rogoff was finishing the remnants of a folded slice of pizza.

  “My lunch,” he said to me. “Thanks a lot. Where is he?”

  I led the way to the back room. We stood looking down at the remains.

  “Mr. Sydney Smythe,” I said, introducing the corpse.

  “Is he dead?” the young officer asked.

  “Nah,” Al said. “Just taking a nap with six inches of steel in his brisket. Now you go back to the car and call in an apparent homicide. Alert the crime scene crew, the ME’s office, traffic control, the brass, and so forth. Think you can handle all that?”

  “Sure, sarge. Just like we were taught in training school.”

  “Just like it,” Rogoff agreed. “Except in this school the guy doesn’t get up and go out for a beer.”

  The officer left to alert headquarters.

  “They say you’re getting old when cops start looking young,” I commented.

  “How do you think I feel?” Al said. “The kid could be my son.” He squatted alongside the body.

  The sergeant is limber enough. And fast? You wouldn’t believe. But he’s a heavy hulk with a squarish body and a big head. He has a truculent walk and some of his gestures look as if he’s pounding a tough steak. Despite the good ol’ boy persona he projects, he’s a closet balletomane—a secret shared by only a few friends but none of his colleagues.

  “Crazy-looking shiv,” he said. “You got any idea what it is?”

  “I know exactly what it is,” I told him. “It was part of Smythe’s stock-in-trade. He picked it up somewhere a few years ago and showed it to me then. I guess he was never able to sell it. It’s a Turkish Mauser bayonet, circa 1915. Ten-inch blade. The ring on the top of the guard encircled the muzzle of the rifle. That bayonet may have been used at Gallipoli.”

  “Thank you, professor. It was kept with the other garbage in the front room?”

  “Correct. When Smythe first showed it to me it was in a steel scabbard.”

  “You buy a lot of stuff here?”

  “No. One or two purchases a year. Occasionally I dropped by just to chat awhile. He was interesting. Knew a great deal about antiques.”

  “Is that why you were here today—just stepped in to gab?”

  I hesitated a beat. Then: “No, he phoned me around noon at the office. He said he wanted to see me as soon as possible.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. He started to explain but suddenly stopped speaking. I heard what sounded like his phone dropping to the floor. Then there was a louder thud. I presumed it was him falling. I hurried over fearing he might have had a heart attack.”

  “How did he sound to you on the phone?”

  This time I didn’t hesitate. “He sounded all right. Normal. I thought he might have acquired a rare bibelot he wanted me to see.”

  “Bibelot,” Rogoff repeated. “Love the way you talk.” He stood up and dusted his palms although he hadn’t touched anything. “You think it’s possible someone was in the store while he was talking to you on the phone?”

  “Yes, it’s possible.”

  “How about this scenario: Someone was in the front room who spooked him. He was afraid of being robbed so he came back here and called you for help?”

  “Why wouldn’t he call you or nine-one-one?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t certain he was in danger and didn’t want to phone in a false alarm.”

  “Yes, Al, that too is possible.”

  The sergeant stared at me. “You wouldn’t be scamming a guardian of law and order, would you, kiddo?”

  “Not me. I’ve told you what happened.”

  “Uh-huh. Do you know where he kept his cash?”

  “I remember once he made change from a tin box in the upper left drawer of the desk.”

  Rogoff used one fingertip to pull the drawer open. The black tin box was in there. He lifted the lid with the point of a pencil. The box was empty.

  “How much cash did he keep in there—do you know?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t make much difference,” he said. “These days you can be snuffed for fifty-nine cents.”

  “You think that’s what it was, Al—a robbery?”

  “Could be. A crime of opportunity. A wrongo wanders in. Nothing on his mind. No weapon. No plan. He hasn’t even cased the joint. Then he sees the bayonet, picks it up, slides the blade out of the scabbard. Nice. He realizes he’s alone in the place with the owner. Maybe he figures he’ll just threaten the old man. But then he hears Smythe phoning and he panics, figuring he’s calling the cops. So he sticks him with the bayonet, makes a quick search, finds cash in the tin box, grabs it and runs.”

  “Is that what you think happened?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said. “A panicky killer and crook wouldn’t waste time closing the lid of the tin box and sliding the drawer shut.”

  We heard the sounds of several sirens and the blasting of horns and whistles.

  “The troops are arriving,” Sgt. Rogoff said. “You’ll be in the way. Take off and I’ll contact you later. I’ll need a signed statement from you.”

  “Sorry I spoiled your lunch, Al.”

  “Anchovy pizza,” he reported. “I got to eat half of it. By the way, do you know Smythe’s next of kin?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he lived?”

  “No.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know, isn’t there, buster?”

  “Too much,” I admitted.

  I walked back to the McNally Building, reclaimed the Miata, and drove to the Pelican Club. I found it packed with the luncheon crowd but I finally found space at the bar and asked Simon Pettibone for a Remy Martin.

  “Before lunch?” he said. “Since when has cognac been an aperitif?”

  “Since right now,” I said. “Due to serious trauma of the nervous system.”

  “Have one of Leroy’s double cheeseburgers with bacon,” he advised. “It deadens all pain.”

  “Splendid idea,” I said.

  But the burger didn’t work; the pain persisted. Not pain exactly but sorrow. I could not stop brooding on the death of Sydney Smythe, trying to find meaning in what Al Rogoff had called a crime of opportunity, the result of chance and accident.

  It had to be a stranger, maybe a druggie, who had wandered into Windsor Antiques, found himself alone with the aged proprietor, and decided to rip him off. Murder had followed when he thought he heard Smythe phone for assistance. I discounted what Rogoff had said about a panicky assailant not pausing to close the tin box or shut the desk drawer. How long would it take—a second or two? And the man might not have been panicky at all, but a cool villain moving steadily and deliberately.

  I am a great believer in Occam’s razor, a principle which, roughly stated, holds that when more than one solution to a problem exists, the simplest and most obvious answer is likely to be the most valid. Ergo, Sydney Smythe was slain by a stranger, an intruder who acted from conscienceless greed.

  I held to that belief throughout lunch and the remainder of the day. It was after dinner when I had retired to my aerie in the McNally manse that I attempted to phone Sgt. Rogoff, hoping the confused initial stages of the investigation had been concluded. I found him still at headquarters and inquired if any progress had been made.

  “Some,” he said cautiously. Al doesn’t like to tell me all he knows and, as you are undoubtedly aware, I treat him in a similar fashion. “We found where he lived: a fleabag motel out in the West Palm boonies. The owner says Smythe had been a tenant for almost five years. The place looked to me like the last stop before skid row. We sealed his rooms until we can toss them.”

  “Have you located his next of kin?”

  “So far it looks like a cousin in England. Get this: the coz lives in a village cal
led Thornton-le-Beans. How do you like that?”

  “Intriguing,” I said.

  “Yeah. Your favorite word.”

  “Discover anything about his private life?”

  “We discovered he didn’t have any—if you can believe the motel owner, which I don’t. Anyway, he claims Smythe never went out at night, never had visitors, had no friends, made no phone calls, and never talked about his past. Nada, zip, zilch, and zero.”

  “Al, I still think he was killed by a stranger, maybe an addict, who just happened to wander in, found himself alone with a fragile old man, and decided to score—even a few bucks.”

  “You believe that, do you?”

  “It certainly looks like a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “Not to me it doesn’t,” the sergeant said. “We found the steel scabbard you mentioned. It was on the floor in the front room. Looked like it had just been dropped amongst all the other junk. We dusted the scabbard and the wooden grip of the bayonet for prints.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Sure did. But not fingerprints. Gloves. Our wonk thinks the last person to handle the scabbard and bayonet was wearing pigskin gloves. Who in south Florida wears gloves unless he wants to cover his hands during the commission of a crime? Am I right? And if our desperado was wearing gloves it’s a clear indication of premeditation and planning. Isn’t that intriguing?”

  “I guess so...” I said faintly.

  He laughed. “There goes your random killing theory. Listen, I’ve got to cut this short and get back to work. Talk to you tomorrow or whenever.” He hung up.

  Was I shocked by Rogoff’s suggestion of a premeditated and planned murder? I was not. Ever since I had discovered the crumpled body a tiny pilot light of suspicion had been burning. But I had willfully ignored it, deluding myself with the fantasy of a drugged stranger stabbing Sydney Smythe during a stupid theft.

  But in view of what Rogoff had just told me, my re-creation of what had happened became a base exercise in self-deception. My scenario and my dependence on Occam’s razor had all been part of an almost irrational attempt to disavow the tiny pilot light. But now it was a large, consuming flame and I could no longer deny it.