Why had I striven so mightily to evade the truth? Because if Sydney Smythe had not been murdered by a thieving interloper, then it was possible, perhaps even probable he was killed by someone he knew—a category conceivably including Frederick Clemens and his inscrutable secretary, Felix.
If either or both of those men were involved in Smythe’s quietus the fault was partly mine. If not the fault, then certainly the guilt. For I had launched a ploy which, with an excess of hubris, I thought fiendishly clever enough to precipitate a crisis between Smythe and Clemens if the two were partners in a plan to swindle Mrs. Edythe Westmore.
My scheme had precipitated a crisis all right—resulting in one of the conspirators lying defunct on a scrap of carpeting with a Turkish bayonet thrust into him.
What evidence did I have of a conspiracy? Very little. I had Clemens’s description of the “surprise” in the Fabergé Imperial egg he was selling, which mimicked the imaginary surprise I had portrayed to Smythe. And I had the latter’s final phone call to me during which he spoke of a vexing problem and a need to see me as soon as possible. Could not his call concern the fairy tale I had spun about my invented egg being auctioned in New York?
Not a great deal to go on, I agree. But I surrendered to a conviction Clemens and Smythe had been acting in concert and my sly ruse had had a totally unexpected and tragic denouement. I could not escape my guilt in the death of Sydney Smythe. If he had served as a henchman of an immoral knave he had acted reprehensibly, true. But had he been so culpable as to deserve the ignoble end he earned? I didn’t think so.
I feared I might live the remainder of my life with the acknowledgment of my guilt in the slaying of an aged fop. But there was one way to make partial amends: conclusively identify the killer and bring him to justice.
If I could do that perhaps my self-reproach would fade with time and my egotism would regain its healthy vigor and thrive.
CHAPTER 22
THE MURDER OF SYDNEY SMYTHE did not make blaring headlines in our local newspaper the following morning but it did earn a one-column story titled “Antique Dealer Slain”—leaving it to the reader to decide if the victim dealt in antiques or was an ancient merchant. In this case, both.
I read the article carefully. It stated: “Law enforcement authorities are investigating several leads”—journalese for, “The police are stumped and don’t know which way to turn.” But the account did give the name and address of Smythe’s motel. It also mentioned, “Windsor Antiques has been a fixture on Worth Avenue for almost twenty years.” I scissored the story from the newspaper, folded it carefully, and placed it in my wallet. Then I went to work.
The Real Estate Department of McNally & Son advises clients on the purchase or lease of residences, commercial properties, and raw land. For many years this section has been under the direction of Mrs. Evelyn Sharif, a jovial lady married to a Lebanese who sells Oriental rugs to the nouveau riche with nary a qualm about the prices he charges. But Evelyn was currently on maternity leave, having dropped twins, and real estate matters were temporarily being handled by her assistant, Timothy Hogan.
Hogan’s office was my first stop on Wednesday. I found him working on a large black coffee and two of the loathsome bran muffins available in our company cafeteria.
“Tim,” I said, “did you hear about the murder yesterday on Worth Avenue?”
“Yeah, I saw it on TV last night. A helluva thing. My guess is a dopehead did it.”
“Probably. You know, I’ve been in that antique store a few times. It looked like a rat’s nest, worse than a thrift shop. Never saw any customers in there. Never found anything expensive worth buying. Yet the newspaper report says the store’s been there for almost twenty years. How on earth did the owner manage to stay in business while paying Worth Avenue rents?”
Hogan took a gulp of coffee and then a bite of a bran muffin. “It’s an interesting story. The dealer had a twenty-year lease on the space with no option to renew. The lease is up at midnight on New Year’s Eve this year. I’m betting the rent will triple or quadruple or—what’s larger than quadruple?”
“Fivefold?” I suggested. “Sextuple? Sevenfold?”
“Whatever, the rent is going up one hell of a lot on January first. An antique shop will never be able to make it. The space will be taken over by a trendy boutique or an upscale jewelry store. They can carry the overhead.”
“You’re probably right, Tim. Enjoy your fiber.”
I returned to my office satisfied but saddened by what I had learned. I reckoned Smythe had really been on his uppers. He had been eking out a barren existence from his antique shop but he was to lose it on the last day of the year; he’d never be able to afford tripled or quadrupled rent.
I could understand his desperation. Retaining the shop had become secondary to bare living: food, shelter, perhaps necessary medicines. His fears must have been horrendous; it was hard to blame him for grasping at any source of income no matter how sordid. The impoverished can afford nothing—not even morality.
His motives and actions might have been justified—can you condemn a starving man for stealing a loaf of bread?—but those of Frederick Clemens were more problematic. I was forced to admit that so far the financial adviser had committed no provable crime or even a minor misdeed. He was simply acting as a broker in the purchase of a valuable object and I had no evidence he would profit unconscionably from the transaction.
But still, as I told my father at the start of this Discreet Inquiry, the whole affair had a distinct aroma of flimflam. The murder of Sydney Smythe only intensified my desire to expose the sins of a man I thought morally corrupt. I had only the vaguest idea how that might be accomplished, but decided I would be guided by Danton: “Audacity, more audacity, always audacity!” And so I phoned Clemens Investments.
Somewhat to my surprise my call was answered by the man himself with no preliminary queries from Felix. We exchanged holiday greetings, and I asked if it might be possible to meet at two o’clock in the afternoon.
He seemed in an expansive mood. “Of course!” he said. “I’ll be delighted to see you. I think you and I will discover we have a great deal in common.”
What a salesman! He made me feel I was important to him. And perhaps I was—if Sydney Smythe had named me as the source of the Fabergé “surprise.”
I had no sooner hung up than my phone rang and I plucked it up again thinking Clemens might be calling back. But it was a woman’s voice, dulcet and wooing.
“Archy McNally?” she inquired.
“Speaking. And with whom do I have the pleasure...?”
“Helen Westmore,” she said with a throaty laugh. “And I’m insulted you didn’t recognize my voice.”
“It will never happen again,” I promised. “How are you, Helen?”
“In the pink,” she said, her giggle calling to mind dented pillows and mussed sheets. “But I do have a personal problem I’d like to discuss with you, Archy. In private.”
“Of course. Would you like me to come to your home or would you prefer my office?”
“Neither,” she said definitely. And she named a restaurant on South Ocean Boulevard. I shall not repeat it here since it is a dreadful place where drinks are served with little paper parasols and the boiled shrimp are consistently limp.
“I have a luncheon date there at noon,” she continued, “but I can arrive half an hour early. I thought we might sit in my car at one end of the parking lot and have our talk. It won’t take more than twenty or thirty minutes and we’ll certainly have privacy. Just don’t park too close; everyone recognizes your little fire engine.”
I thought it an odd arrangement but assured her I would be happy to follow her instructions.
“I knew I could depend on you, Archy,” she said, now using an intimate purr. “You’re such a darling.”
She disconnected, leaving me much bemused by my two recent conversations. First the salesman, then the actress. But it was the latter I found more curious
. Her plan to ensure privacy seemed strange enough but just as queerish was her selection of that touristy restaurant for luncheon. Had her taste buds become atrophied—or was the joint her date’s choice?
I departed at once, happy I was nattily dressed in a navy blazer and gray flannel slacks. Conventional you say? Of course. But the cerise polo shirt gave my garb the distinctive McNally imprimatur—and the puce beret was an added attraction.
I arrived at the designated rendezvous a few minutes early but the enormous parking lot was already filling and camera-laden tourists were hastening toward the restaurant, eager for their mai tais and the specialty of the house: grilled mahimahi on a cinnamon bagel.
The lavender Riviera was at one end and, following orders, I parked some distance away and walked over. Mrs. Helen Westmore was seated behind the wheel wearing something too tight, too short, and too sheer. She saw me approaching and leaned to open the passenger door. I slid in, closed the door, and was immediately greeted with a fervent embrace and kiss that knocked my beret awry. I took it off, becoming aware the interior of the car was fuggy with Helen’s scent, a ripe perfume suitable for a Persian odalisque.
“You sweetheart!” she yelped. “A friend in need is a friend indeed.”
“And your wish is my command,” I said with a goofy grin.
Suddenly she sobered, became solemn and intent. “Archy, I’ve decided to divorce Walter.”
She paused and stared, waiting expectantly for my reaction. All I could manage was a weak “Ah.”
And just as abruptly she became desperate. Her moods seemed to flip with every speech. She needed a new scriptwriter or a clever director.
“It’s hopeless!” she cried. “I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried.”
“Surely—” I started.
“We’re just two different people,” she said as if uttering a profound truth. “Two completely different people.”
“Can’t you—”
“It was wrong from the beginning,” she mourned, and I guessed she wished for a little square of cambric to dab nonexistent tears. “Oh, Archy, I should have known. But I had stars in my eyes.”
And diamonds on your fingers, I thought, glancing at the rocks she was sporting.
“But I can no longer live a lie,” she declaimed dramatically, and I was tempted to applaud and shout, “Brava!” “Archy, please help me.”
“What can—”
“I need a lawyer,” she rattled on. “Someone sympathetic and smart.”
“But I’m not—”
“Someone who will understand me. Someone I feel here”—she pressed a palm to her imposing bosom—“is on my side. Someone nice and not too expensive.”
It was all so stagy I couldn’t stand it and spoke rapidly before she could interrupt again. “Helen, I am not an attorney and our firm does not handle divorce actions. But I can ask my father to recommend a lawyer I’m sure you’ll find suitable.”
She turned widened eyes on me, leaned close to put a warm hand on my knee. I should have felt stirrings of music but her heavy perfume made me sneeze.
“Bless you,” she said, back to a throaty voice again. “When will you be able to give me a name?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Good. I don’t want to waste any time. I want it settled quickly in case Walter goes back to his old bones in Africa. Darling, I can’t tell you how much better I feel now. You’re the first person I’ve told.”
I was startled. “Walter doesn’t know?”
“Not yet,” she said breezily. “And not Edythe. And definitely not Natalie. Boy, are they going to be surprised.”
“I can imagine.”
“Listen, toots,” she said, “I’ve got to get to my lunch. Don’t bother walking me to the door. It’s best if we’re not seen together.”
I nodded, having absolutely no idea what she implied. I received a hasty cheek kiss in farewell. We both alighted from the Riviera, she gave me a toothy smile, and I watched her dance away to the restaurant. I wasn’t the only male admiring her undulations. All she needed was the head of John the Baptist on a platter.
I strolled back to the Miata, tugging on my beret, and found a lanky individual slouched against the right front fender. He straightened as I came up but even then he was droopy. I mean his nose and jowls drooped, his shoulders drooped, and his soiled seersucker suit drooped.
“You Archy McNally?” he demanded.
I saw no reason to identify myself. “Who are you?” I asked.
“Police Department,” he said. His voice had a smoker’s rasp.
“Oh? Which one?”
“Local.”
“Town of Palm Beach?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you must know Roscoe Arbuckle,” I said. “The one they call Fatty.”
“Sure, I know Fatty.”
“Remarkable,” I said. “Since he died in 1933. If you are, as you claim, a member of the gendarmerie, you’ll have no objection to showing me your ID.”
Droopy glanced about to see if any arriving lunchers were observing us. None were. He fished a short-barreled revolver from the sagging pocket of his jacket and held it, muzzle down, close to his leg. “How’s this for ID?” he rasped.
“Is it loaded?” I inquired, proud of my coolth. You say there is no such word? There is now.
“Of course it’s loaded,” he said indignantly. “Now you and me are going to take a little ride in your wagon. You drive.”
“‘You and I’ is the correct grammatical construction,” I instructed him. “And I have no desire whatsoever to take a ride with you anywhere at any time.”
“But I’ve got a gun,” he protested plaintively.
“So you do,” I acknowledged. “And if I persist in my refusal to accompany you, which I fully intend to do, you may decide to shoot me. However, please let me call to your attention the number of passersby certain to be alerted by the discharge of a firearm. Surely some of them will be capable of serving as witnesses, giving a detailed and accurate description of your appearance as you flee the scene. And, I might add, able to pick you out of a lineup after you have been apprehended. Assuming you possess a brain, I strongly urge you to use it now and recognize your dilemma.”
He looked about wildly, flummoxed. “It’s my first job,” he confessed. “I ain’t never done anything like this before.”
“We all must start at the bottom,” I consoled him, “and ascend the ladder of success rung by rung. Who hired you?”
“I won’t tell you,” Droopy said. “But they’re going to be plenty sore.”
“That you made a botch of a kidnapping possibly planned to end with an assassination? How much were you paid?”
“Half,” was all he’d say.
“In advance—the remainder to be paid on the delivery of my corpus?”
“Yeah.”
“My advice to you is take the money and run. Don’t return to your employer and try to explain your failure. Use your advance to get as far out of town as possible.”
“I already spent it—the advance,” he said sadly.
I sighed. “I can let you have fifty,” I told him. “It’s not much but it will get you on your way. You have a car?”
“A clunker.”
“As long as you have wheels.”
He pocketed the revolver and plucked my fifty-dollar bill eagerly.
“You’re okay,” he said.
“Of course I am,” I agreed. “And I suggest you get in another line of business. You simply do not have the resolve and gumption required for strong-arm work.”
He was offended and addressed four words to me. They were not “Have a nice day.” Then he turned and slouched away, droopier than ever.
Unless I had just been bilked by an imaginative panhandling scam, which I doubted, I had been the intended victim of a setup designed with the connivance of Helen Westmore to facilitate my premature extinction: a shivery realization. Along with exultancy at my escaping such a fate came co
ntempt for the stupidity of my would-be executioners in employing such an inept hit man as Droopy. But then we all know, do we not, how hard it is to get good help these days.
As for the identity of the rotters who launched the ridiculously ineffectual plot, I certainly had my suspicions as I’m sure you have yours. But my truncated legal education had taught me the nullity of suspicion in a court of law. Evidence and proof are rightly demanded, and at the moment those requisites were in short supply.
I started the Miata and made a slow tour through the parking area, up one lane and down the next. I was looking for a maroon Bentley, y’see, but didn’t spot it. I was disappointed; I could have sworn that vehicle had conveyed Helen Westmore’s date.
I headed northward on Ocean Boulevard and decided to stop at home for a spot of lunch. I found Ursi Olson in the kitchen preparing a meat loaf for dinner. She paused long enough to make me a three-egg omelette with shallots. I also had a hefty portion of warm German potato salad and two slices of Ursi’s homemade sour rye, toasted and slathered with a cream cheese spread alleged to contain smoked salmon although I could not detect it. And a cold bottle of lager.
Thus fortified, I set out for my meeting with Frederick Clemens. I had a lunatic idea of how I might rattle his cage. One never knows, does one?
CHAPTER 23
I FOUND THE DOOR of Clemens Investments closed and locked. Taped to the jamb was a neat typewritten note: “Please ring the buzzer for entrance.” I thought it incorrect. One doesn’t ring a buzzer; one rings a bell and buzzes or presses a buzzer. Do you think I suffer from a terminal case of pedantry?
Anyway I pushed the buzzer button and a moment later the door was opened by a smiling Fred Clemens, who shook my hand most heartily, drawing me into the reception area and closing the door behind us. I heard the snap of a lock.
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