McNally's Gamble

by Lawrence Sanders

  I found the sergeant in a tetchy mood but he thawed when he opened the bags of food I had brought.

  “I haven’t had a Reuben in years,” he said. “A welcome change from cheeseburgers and anchovy pizza.”

  “Listen, Al,” I said, “I have a lot to tell you so let’s talk while we eat.”

  “Suits me. You want hot ketchup for your fries?”

  “Why not?” I said. “And don’t bother with glasses for the ale. Just pop the caps.”

  “Great grub,” he said, looking at our food. “You must want something bad.”

  “I do,” I admitted. “But it’s back-scratching time. First of all, how are you doing on the Sydney Smythe homicide?”

  “Getting nowhere fast.”

  “I thought so. Well, I have a confession to make: I didn’t tell you everything Smythe said in his final phone call to me.”

  I related how the antique dealer had spoken of a problem he had and asked for my assistance to help solve it.

  “He was worried?” Rogoff asked.

  “No doubt about it. He was trying to be casual but it was obvious he was in a bind.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  “Because I didn’t think it important. Now I do. And here’s why...”

  I started from the beginning and told him how a client, Mrs. Edythe Westmore, intended to buy a Fabergé Imperial egg through her financial adviser, Frederick Clemens. I explained why I had consulted Sydney Smythe in the first place and how our meeting had led to my fanciful creation of a “surprise” in an invented egg, and how Clemens had adopted my description and repeated it to Mrs. Westmore.

  I even told Rogoff of the scam about my imaginary egg being auctioned by Sotheby’s in New York.

  “Why did you pull that one?” he asked.

  “I wanted to determine just how close Smythe was to Clemens. And if the former repeated my story to the latter, the whole freaky deal might just die.”

  “Yeah,” the sergeant said, “but it was Smythe who died.”

  “Don’t think I don’t feel guilty about that.”

  “All right, so you feel guilty. What else?”

  I spoke of the opposition of Walter and Natalie Westmore to their mother spending half a million for the egg and the enmity Clemens had expressed because of their attitude. (Naturally I said nothing of my personal relationship with Natalie.)

  “What kind of a guy is this Clemens?” Rogoff asked.

  I told him what I knew and what I guessed. I described his office, how he operated, and the puzzling role of his secretary, Felix Katz. I detailed my failed efforts to learn anything about Clemens’s background. I admitted he had committed no crimes of which I was aware.

  “But I now believe the man is a pirate,” I said. “If our client agrees to the deal he has planned, he’s going to grab her bank check, cash it somewhere or sell it at a discount to some other shark, and promptly vamoose, whistling a merry tune. Al, I’ve seen a color photo of the alleged egg involved but I don’t think Clemens has any intention of buying it. The whole thing is an ingenious con game from the git-go.”

  “Could be,” he said, starting on the second half of his sandwich. “You got any proof?”

  “No,” I said miserably. “None.”

  “And your office hasn’t been able to find his name on the records of any financial agency?”

  “Not a mention.”

  He nodded. “It’s probably phony. Archy, producing and peddling fake ID is the most lucrative cottage industry in America.”

  “That’s why I need your help. There are computer files on criminals cross-indexed with their known aliases, aren’t there?”

  “Yep.”

  “Will you do a computer trace on Frederick Clemens and Felix Katz?”

  “Nope.”

  I was angered. “Why the hell not?”

  “You may be right. Those two ginks may have a world-class con in the works. But you have no proof and so far they’ve done nothing illegal. There are no indictments, no warrants, no probable cause. How in God’s name can I justify a nationwide computer trace on the basis of your suspicions?”

  “It’s more than just a swindle,” I said hotly. “I think they’re guilty of the murder of Sydney Smythe.”

  “Why should they kill the old man or have him iced?”

  “Because he gave them the information about the nonexistent surprise I described to him. And then he had to tell them it and the egg containing it would be auctioned in New York, garnering a lot of publicity that would demolish their plot to fleece Mrs. Westmore. They figured he had made too many mistakes, represented too much of a danger, especially if he decided to talk—to me or to you—and so he had to be terminated.”

  “Proof?” Rogoff asked again. “Hard evidence?”

  “None,” I admitted again.

  “Old buddy,” he said, finishing his sandwich and beginning to peel his Ugli, “I just can’t spend the time on the trace you want. It would mean a lot of work and cost a lot of bucks. And there’s no guarantee a computer check of aliases would succeed. Maybe they’re using new names not on record. Sorry, sonny boy, but no can do. Now if you could supply their fingerprints a search might be a lot easier.”

  “Their fingerprints?” I exclaimed. “How on earth am I supposed to obtain them?”

  He shrugged. “Pinch some papers they’ve handled. Almost anything.”

  “Besides,” I said, half laughing, “they wouldn’t be complete. The one who calls himself Felix Katz is missing a finger.”

  The sergeant stared at me strangely, then rose and began rummaging through a kitchen cabinet, his back turned to me. “I think we can use some paper napkins. Should have put them out before.” He returned to the table with a stack, sat down again, and resumed eating his Ugli. “So Katz has lost a finger?”

  “Correct. Index finger on his right hand.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you, pal. You bring in their fingerprints, of one or both, and I’ll put them through the wringer for you.”

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  “It’s the only thing I can do.”

  I sighed. “All right, I’ll try to get their prints. But don’t ask me how. I have no ideas.”

  “If those two are the villains you think they are, which one do you figure is the honcho? Or are they equal?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Al, but I’d guess Katz is the heavy. He gives me an impression of barely suppressed violence. Clemens is the front man, a smooth salesman with more charm than one man can legitimately use.”

  We had finished the food but there was plenty of pale ale remaining and we settled down with that. It was potable enough but not as tartish as I had hoped.

  I must have been quiet a long time, for Rogoff finally said, “Well? You got more you haven’t told me?”

  I had been silent because I was uncertain whether or not to tell him of my encounter in the restaurant parking lot. I finally decided.

  “There is something,” I admitted. “But I’m not sure it has anything to do with Clemens and Katz.”

  “Tell me!” the sergeant said. “I want to hear it.”

  I was startled by his eagerness. A few moments previously he had seemed indifferent to my recital, showing no enthusiasm for tracing Clemens and Katz. But now he was keen to hear more. I couldn’t understand the abrupt change.

  I told him about my rendezvous with Mrs. Helen Westmore and the attempted abduction by Droopy. Al listened intently.

  “The woman was the bait to get you to the parking lot?”

  “It’s the way I see it.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “She claims she wants a divorce from Walter and—”

  “A lot of that going around these days.”

  “—she asked me to find her a lawyer. Now I think she was blowing smoke. Her sister-in-law, Natalie, hinted Helen has been catting around. I think she might have a thing going with Clemens; they seeme
d awfully cozy when I saw them together at a party. So I figured she was probably lunching with him. But I didn’t spot his car and he was in his office, cool as the proverbial cuke, when I met him at two o’clock. I really don’t know who she was meeting at that vile restaurant.”

  “You think she knew you were an intended victim?”

  “I doubt it. She’s such an airhead I think she set me up only as a favor to someone. Besides, it gave her a chance to act and she used to be on the stage. But I don’t think she knew there was going to be rough stuff involved.”

  “This dorky gunman you call Droopy—he knew your name?”

  “He did.”

  “So it had to be a setup.”

  “Definitely.”

  “By Clemens and Katz?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Why would they want to put you down, Archy?”

  “For the same reasons they bayoneted Sydney Smythe. I represent a danger to their campaign. I’m the guy who fed them the description of the Fabergé ‘surprise.’ Maybe they don’t know Mrs. Westmore told me Clemens’s identical description of the surprise in the egg he’s peddling. Maybe they’re afraid she will tell me and then their con game is blitzed. Maybe they just don’t like the way I part my hair.”

  I had feared my story of the attempted kidnapping would amuse Rogoff and he would respond with laughter and a ribald comment. But no, he accepted my account with nary a smirk. In fact, he seemed to give it more import than I.

  “You want us to look for this Droopy gink?”

  “Don’t waste your time, Al,” I said. “If he took my advice—and I expect he did—he’s out of town by now.”

  “Archy, I think you better start watching your back.”

  I was touched by his concern. “I intend to. The first attempt was a farce. I don’t want the second to be a tragedy.”

  “You don’t own a gun, do you?”

  “Good lord, no! Wouldn’t know which end to point. But I am armed with faith, righteousness, and a pure heart.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Lots of luck. Finished your ale? How about taking off and letting me get some sleep.”

  “Sure. Thanks for listening to my tale of woe.”

  “Thanks for the grub. The Reuben was super. Listen, don’t neglect those fingerprints. Try to get them to me as soon as possible.”

  Once more I was perplexed. What had begun as an offhand suggestion now seemed an urgent request. I wondered what had impressed him enough to justify his remarkable conversion.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when I started home. I was reasonably content with the way our klatch had gone. Sometimes Al and I are competitors but our rivalry is usually in methods, not in aims. We both want the same happy ending.

  I customarily sing when I drive alone at night but I didn’t feel like warbling on that occasion. I was too intent in mulling over what impels men like Clemens and Katz. Inordinate greed, I suppose, and surely covetousness is the most sordid of the Seven Deadly Sins, even more than sloth or gluttony.

  I remember Lady Cynthia Horowitz once told me, “When it comes to money, enough is never enough.” It implies a kind of addiction in those like Fred and Felix: a compulsive need requiring larger and larger injections to produce a satisfaction always temporary. Avarice is a passion doomed to be unconsummated.

  The Good Book has it right. Money is not the root of all evil. It is the love of money.

  CHAPTER 25

  I DIDN’T EVEN CONSIDER going to the office on Thursday. After breakfast with my parents I changed to sweats and planted myself at my desk, determined to bring my journal up to date even if it required eight hours of labor. It almost did because I was interrupted by several phone calls and discovered I preferred yakking to scribbling.

  The first was from Sgt. Al Rogoff.

  “I had one of your leftover ales for breakfast,” he announced. “Hit the spot.”

  “And that’s what you called to tell me?”

  “Nah. I thought you’d like to know Sydney Smythe’s English cousin is in town.”

  “Oh? What kind of a guy is he?”

  “She. A very straight, solid lady. We explained we can’t release the body for a few days and it didn’t upset her. Says it’s her first visit to the Land of the Brave and she plans to look around a little. Want to meet her?”

  “No.”

  “Still got the guilts, huh? The cousin—her name’s Penelope Blakely-Jones—found out Smythe owed two months’ rent at his motel. I guess the guy was scraping bottom.”

  “I think he was.”

  “Anyway she’s going to take a few personal things and give the rest of Smythe’s belongings to the motel owner to sell for the back rent.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Have you unsealed his apartment?”

  “Yep. We went through all his stuff. A lot of junk. Nothing was any help. You get the fingerprints of Clemens and Katz?”

  “Al,” I protested, “it was only last night you told me you wanted them. Give me some time.”

  “The sooner the better,” he said, and hung up.

  I went back to scrawling in my professional journal. Memories of the previous day’s events came crowding and I dutifully jotted them down without attempting to judge their importance or significance. It was purely mechanical labor requiring little thought and so enabled my fancy to soar.

  Lest you think me totally gormless (actually I have as much gorm as me next chap), my dreams were firmly rooted in reality. The facts were these:

  Lady Cynthia Horowitz, doyenne of Palm Beach society, was temporarily deserting our shores on Friday morning to spend the holiday season at her St. Tropez villa. During her absence her social secretary, my very own Consuela Garcia, was driving south to spend Christmas and New Year’s with her multitudinous family in Miami.

  And so that Thursday night would be my last opportunity to enjoy Connie’s company until the new year. We had agreed on a farewell dinner at the Ritz-Carlton in Manalapan and decided it should be a black-tie occasion. I had already made our reservation and had my Christmas gift to her, diamond stud earrings, gift-wrapped and ready to be handed over with many wishes for a fabulous Christmastide.

  And then after dinner? As stated, I allowed my fancy to soar and my anticipatory visions had me snorting like a randy sophomore.

  My daydreams were demolished by a second phone call, this one from Walter Westmore.

  “I know it’s too soon to expect results, Archy,” he said anxiously, “but Natalie and I wondered how your investigation is coming along.”

  “Excellently,” I said, lying briskly. “I have already queried the professional agencies I mentioned in my father’s office. No replies received as yet. Also—and this is entre nous you understand—I have persuaded law enforcement officers to conduct a computer trace on Clemens and his secretary to determine if any criminal record exists. In addition, I have managed to place my assistant, an extremely clever and experienced operative, as an employee of the subjects to observe and report on their activities. He will serve as an undercover agent, one might say.”

  “It sounds like you’re really making progress,” Walter said relievedly. “When do you think you’ll have something definite to tell us?”

  “As soon as possible,” I said, wearying of the repetition.

  “Wait a sec,” he said. “Natalie wants to speak to you.”

  “Archy,” she said in a snarky voice, “you’ve really got to do something. Clemens talks to mother every day, and I’m afraid he’ll get her to hand over the money before you can prove he’s an oily crook.”

  “Natalie,” I said as equably as I could, “you must be patient. I’ve been overseeing this investigation for only two days, you know, and Walter will tell you how much I have already accomplished.”

  “You must do more,” she said, still snappish. “And if you take too long, Walter and I will have to do something ourselves. I don’t think you realize how important this is to us.”

  I did not relish be
ing dressed down by a client—and a nonpaying client to boot. (At the moment I would have liked to.)

  “I fully realize its importance,” I said coldly, “and am doing my best to bring the matter to a successful conclusion. You’re quite at liberty to seek assistance elsewhere, you know, if that is your wish.”

  “Oh God!” she wailed. “You can be such a prig!”

  She slammed down the receiver and I yelled, “I detest your petunia!” at the dead phone.

  It took a cigarette to soothe my shredded nerves. I finally calmed sufficiently to resume my chores as a diarist. I recalled Fred Clemens had referred to the Westmore siblings as kooks, as children from hell, and as a gruesome twosome. I was beginning to think he was a perspicacious analyst of human behavior.

  I prepared my own lunch, only a small salad of ersatz crabmeat because I had already decided what Connie and I would have at dinner: a luscious Chateaubriand. Or perhaps, if it was available, beef Wellington. I returned to my desk debating a proper wine for the tender slab of meat I envisioned. Merlot? Pinot noir? A fine old cabernet? Burgundy? It was, I decided happily, a no-lose decision.

  I finished my journal entries about three o’clock with the feeling I had achieved a great deal. The illusion faded when I reread my jottings. All the details were there but the pattern, the big picture, eluded me.

  Connie phoned in an exuberant mood compounded of her freedom from her employer’s whims for two weeks (she was sometimes referred to by enemies as Lady Horrorwitz); the planned visit to her family in Miami; and our dinner date that evening. I hoped it was the last that made the biggest contribution to her high spirits.

  I promised to pick her up at six o’clock and the moment we disconnected I flopped into bed for a short nap, knowing it was going to be a long evening. I awoke in time to shower, shave, and don my black tropical worsted dinner jacket and all its accoutrements. Then I made certain I had keys, handkerchief, wallet, credit cards, cigarettes, lighter, and Connie’s gift.