McNally's Gamble

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Well, I don’t like to hear the murder victim was a wrongo but it doesn’t change my job.”

  “Here’s something else you should know,” I said. I told him about borrowing the art book from Penny. I showed him how the page with the color photo of the Coronation Egg had been carefully excised. I explained I thought it had been copied and the reproduction given to Edythe Westmore to convince her the egg she was being urged to purchase actually existed and was a glorious objet d’art.

  “I think you’re right on,” Al said. “It’s just the way Clemens and Katz would work. Those pirates know every crooked trick there is. And if they can’t use an old one they come up with a new one.”

  “Well, I’m going to take the book to Mrs. Westmore tomorrow and show her the egg she plans to buy is really part of the Forbes Magazine Collection. That’ll be the end of Clemens’s scam.”

  “No,” Sgt. Rogoff said sharply. “Don’t do that. Don’t blow the whistle. Not yet.”

  “Why not?” I said indignantly.

  “Look, buster, you and I have been working two different cases, haven’t we? You’re trying to prevent a swindle and I’m trying to clear a homicide. Am I right?”

  I nodded.

  “The swindle isn’t my business because no crime has been committed yet. If Mrs. Westmore had paid Clemens the half-million, then we could rack him up on fraud charges. But not at this moment. So it really isn’t my worry. But it doesn’t mean I can’t help you. I have helped, haven’t I?”

  “You have indeed, Al. A great deal.”

  “Ever wonder why I was acting like a true-blue chum and putting in long hours to make your Discreet Inquiry easier?”

  I looked at him narrowly. “The thought had occurred to me you knew something you weren’t telling me. When I was at your place—the first time I told you about Clemens and Katz—you switched gears on me suddenly. One minute you weren’t particularly interested and the next minute you seemed totally involved and eager to cooperate. I couldn’t figure why you changed so abruptly.”

  He laughed. “I should have known you’d notice. I flipped when you said Felix Katz is missing the forefinger of his right hand.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Remember I told you we took prints off the handle of the bayonet shoved into Sydney Smythe. It was determined they were made by someone wearing pigskin gloves. The odd thing was we got good prints of the thumb and three fingers. But no print of the index finger. There was a gap where that finger should have left a print when the bayonet handle was gripped.”

  I stared at him. “Katz,” I said.

  “Still not proved,” Rogoff said. “But it’s the best lead we’ve got. Sure, I’ve been helping you on the attempted swindle because I’m trying to learn more about Katz, hoping to find something, anything that’ll help pin him.”

  “I follow all that, Al, and it makes sense. But I still don’t understand why I can’t take this book to Mrs. Westmore and prove to her Clemens is a phony.”

  “Because once you do that she’ll contact Clemens, tell him what she’s learned, and he’ll vamoose. Along with Katz. Archy, I think Fred is the weak sister of the Clemens-Katz combo. I’m guessing if push comes to shove he’ll rat to save his skin. It’s my only chance of nailing Katz for the killing. But to persuade Clemens to squeal I need to have him around. If he takes off I’m finished.”

  I was silent. I could appreciate his problem but I had my own. If I didn’t halt the Fabergé egg con within the next two days Mrs. Westmore would be fleeced—and I could imagine my father’s reaction. I explained this to Rogoff and he agreed neither of us had much time.

  “Just give me another day,” he urged. “I still have a few cards up my sleeve and maybe they’ll prove to be aces. Meanwhile I’d like to take this book along for a day or so. Okay?”

  I wasn’t happy about it but I owed him. “Will the book help put Katz away?”

  “It may,” he said.

  “Then take it,” I said. “But if you don’t return it to me you get fifty lashes with a wet noodle.”

  A sad attempt at humor, I admit, but Al knew what I meant. After he left, taking my evidence with him, I cleaned the kitchen and then trudged up to my quarters.

  I found myself in a forlorn mood with no intention of working on my journal and no desire to listen to jazz, inhale a brandy, or puff a coffin nail. I tried to determine the cause of my desolation and finally decided it sprang from my repeating to Rogoff the life story of Sydney Smythe as related by Mrs. Blakely-Jones.

  Since discovering the corpse of the antique dealer I had thought of him only as a murder victim, a thing rather than a dead human being. But Penny had brought him to life, making me share all the triumphs and tragedies of a man who actually existed, who had virtues and vices, exhibited uncommon valor and moral frailty.

  I went to bed that night wondering if my own life would prove to be as strange and unpredictable as his.

  Sleep was an antidote for my dejection and I awoke Tuesday morning with energy restored, resolve strengthened, and the firm belief I could, if called upon, discover who really took a hatchet to Mr. and Mrs. Andrew J. Borden. But then I went down to breakfast and couldn’t decide whether I wanted honey or orange marmalade on my toasted muffin.

  I had a few odds and ends of Christmas shopping to finish and didn’t get to my office until eleven o’clock. I found two messages stating Sgt. Al Rogoff had phoned and wanted me to call him ASAP.

  “Where you been?” he demanded. “I tried you at both your home and office.”

  “Christmas shopping,” I explained. “I’m giving you a salami as big as the Ritz.”

  “I can use it,” he said. “Listen, I’m going over to Clemens’s place. Want to be in on the action?”

  I was surprised. “Have you decided to arrest him, Al?”

  “Not unless I have to. But I’ve got a search warrant. It should be fun.”

  “I want to be there,” I said firmly.

  “Meet me outside his condo in half an hour. Don’t go inside before I get there. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, hung up, grabbed my hat (a pearl-gray trilby), and ran. I was first to arrive outside Clemens’s building. A few moments later two police cars pulled up. Al was in the first with a driver. Two uniformed officers were in the other car. The sergeant came over to me. He was carrying the big art book I had borrowed from Penny.

  “You talk to him on the intercom,” he instructed. “Make it sound important. When you get in we’ll be right behind you.”

  “Now I know why you invited me,” I said. “I’m the bait.”

  “You’ve got it. It’s easier than breaking down the door. Let’s go.”

  The five of us crowded into the smallish outer lobby and I dialed the intercom. I was answered with a caroled, “Clemens Investments. Good morning.” There was no mistaking the voice.

  “Fred,” I said, trying to sound distraught, “this is Archy McNally and I must see you at once. It’s important.”

  “Of course,” he said calmly. “Come right up.”

  He buzzed us in; we all jammed into one elevator and rose in silence to his floor. One of the cops smelled of garlic and I wondered if it was Rogoff.

  The sergeant motioned me to stand in front of Clemens’s door. He and the other officers hid to one side. I pressed the buzzer and the door was opened by a smiling Frederick Clemens. He was wearing his usual vested suit, this one a double-breasted sharkskin with a lapel drape to the lower button. Sharkskin was the perfect fabric for a predator like him.

  “Come on in, Archy,” he said genially, and stood aside.

  I entered and the four cops pushed in behind me. If Clemens was startled he controlled his shock coolly. His sang outfroided mine. He didn’t even say, “What is the meaning of this?” But he did stop smiling.

  “Frederick Clemens?” Al asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I am Sergeant Rogoff of the Palm Beach Police Department.” He
held out his ID but Clemens didn’t so much as glance at it.

  “And?” he inquired.

  “These premises are your residence?”

  “They are.”

  “And your place of business?”

  “Correct.”

  “Are these premises also the residence of Felix Katz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Mr. Katz here at the moment?”

  “No, he is not.”

  There was a brief pause in the questioning. Clemens did not look at me. I think he was uncertain if I was cooperating with the police or if I was present under duress.

  “You’re here for what reason?” Fred finally asked. “Am I to be arrested?”

  “I hope it won’t be necessary, sir,” said the sergeant—a beautifully noncommittal statement. “But I have a legal document authorizing a search of these premises. Do you wish to examine it?”

  “No, I do not,” Clemens said tartly. “If it is not a legal search then it’s useless, isn’t it?”

  Rogoff’s smile was cold. “You know the laws of evidence, Mr. Clemens, and you’re right.”

  “What are you looking for?” Fred demanded. “All my records, correspondence, licenses, and legal documents are in unlocked file drawers. It would save time and trouble if you will specify exactly what you hope to find.”

  Al stared at him. “Not your business records, sir,” he said grimly. “We hope to find a pair of pigskin gloves.”

  CHAPTER 31

  FINALLY, FINALLY FRED CLEMENS was shaken. Instead of growing pale his face suddenly flushed, shoulders slumped, fists were clenched to conceal the tremor of his fingers. He seemed to me more deflated than defeated but it was obvious he had been rattled, Rogoff noted it; his questions became more rapid.

  “Is the name Frank Clement familiar to you?” he asked.

  “No,” Clemens said.

  “Floyd Clifford?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “That’s right; you don’t,” Al said reasonably. “But you’re not under oath so what harm can it do?”

  “Well, I never heard of Floyd Clifford.”

  “Do you know Mrs. Edythe Westmore of Palm Beach?”

  Then Clemens glanced at me before replying. “Yes, I know Mrs. Westmore. She is a client of mine.”

  “And you’re trying to sell her a Fabergé egg?”

  “I’m not trying to sell her anything. I’m merely advising her to purchase a Fabergé egg from a French seller as an investment with a large profit potential.”

  “Uh-huh. Is this a picture of the egg in question?”

  The sergeant opened the art book and held it out. Clemens looked down at the color photo of the Coronation Egg. Then he paled.

  “It appears to be the egg, yes,” Fred said in a voice now flat and toneless, totally lacking resonance.

  “You gave an identical photo to Mrs. Westmore?”

  Clemens hesitated just long enough to realize he could not deny it. “I did,” he said. “The photo I gave Mrs. Westmore was sent to me by the egg’s present owner in Paris.”

  “This particular egg is part of the Forbes Magazine Collection in New York,” Al said. “I verified it by phone this morning.”

  Clemens gave an excellent imitation of horrified amazement. “You mean I’ve been duped?” he gasped.

  Rogoff laughed. “You’re good,” he said. “Really good. This page of this book was cut out and later taped back in place after it had been copied at a local photo shop. It was the copy you gave Mrs. Westmore as part of an intended swindle.”

  “Ridiculous,” Clemens said. “I did no such thing.”

  Al addressed one of the cops: “Tom, how long did it take you? An hour?”

  “Less than that, Sarge.”

  Rogoff turned back to Clemens. “Tom here went out this morning to find the photo shop which made the copy. It didn’t take him long because he started with the place nearest this address. The clerk in the photo shop recognized me shot of the Coronation Egg and remembers the customer who brought it in to have it copied. He remembers because me customer was missing the trigger finger of his right hand. Felix Katz has an index finger gone, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Clemens said tightly. “So do a lot of other men.”

  “Oh sure. But this man paid for the copying job with a Clemens Investments credit card. Smart, huh?”

  “Our corporate credit card was stolen several weeks ago,” Fred said quickly.

  Rogoff’s smile was bleak. “That’s the first dumb thing you’ve said. The credit charge was signed by Felix Katz. The photo shop has a copy of the bill and so does the credit card company. That partner of yours may be a muscle but it’s mostly between his ears.”

  Clemens’s face had become increasingly stricken as he heard the sergeant detail the evidence of his culpability. But then I saw him recover. His spine stiffened, chin lifted. No pushover he.

  “Katz is merely an employee,” he said. “He is not my partner.”

  “No?” Al said. “Glad to hear it. Because if he was you’d be in the pasta fazool as deep as he is, wouldn’t you? Mr. Clemens, I’m going to ask you to do something that’ll benefit you as much as me.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me to headquarters voluntarily. I would prefer not to arrest you. If you come in voluntarily it will count in your favor. I just want to talk with you while a rep from the State Attorney is there. And you can call in your own lawyer if you like. All I want to do is discuss the situation with you and see if we can work something out. What do you say? Will you come in voluntarily?”

  Clemens didn’t reply.

  “Save yourself,” Rogoff said softly. “Save yourself.”

  There was a long quiet while we all just stood there awaiting the decision. I could guess what was going through Fred’s mind: a hurried weighing of pros and cons, knowledge of the evidence against him and fear of more he hadn’t been told of. And there was his relationship with Katz to consider. What bargaining chips did he have? None but the fate of his ally. And his own future depended on that.

  Finally Clemens drew a deep breath, adjusted his cuffs, made certain the knot of his cravat was in place. “All right,” he said.

  The sergeant moved swiftly. Two officers were detailed to search the apartment. Clemens, Rogoff, his driver, and I descended to the street. Fred was conducted to a police car but not before he looked at me sadly and said, “I’m disappointed in you, Archy.” I could live with that.

  Rogoff took me aside before we went our separate ways. “I’d like to keep the art book till tomorrow,” he said. “I want to show it to the legal eagles.”

  “Only until tomorrow,” I agreed. “Then I’ve got to play Mr. Fix-It. Al, why did you ask him if Katz was there? I thought you had a tail on the guy.”

  “We did but we lost him last night. Who knows where he is now or what he’s up to.”

  “Well, their maroon Bentley is parked over there next to my buggy. If Katz is wheeling around it’s probably in Helen Westmore’s lavender Riviera.”

  “Could be. Keep watching your back, kiddo.”

  “I will,” I said. “One more thing: Did you have a warrant for Clemens’s arrest?”

  “Nope,” he said, grinning cheerfully. “But he thought I did. I conned the con man.”

  I watched the police car pull away and then I swung aboard my own scooter and drove to the Pelican Club for lunch. The joint was wall-to-wall celebrants since two companies were having early Christmas parties. McNally & Son was planning a brief and sober gathering in our cafeteria on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. All employees would be certain to attend, not for the cherry Kool-Aid and oatmeal cookies but because it was the occasion when annual bonuses were distributed.

  I had a hasty burger and then fled the noise and confusion for the quiet serenity of my own miniature hideaway. I settled down with an English Oval and thought of how Rogoff had manipulated Clemens, massaging the man’s ego, being stern and unfor
giving when he had to be, and concluding by appealing to the swindler’s instinct for self-preservation and deep-seated desire to avoid a stay at the resort community of Durance Vile.

  I had little doubt Clemens-Clement-Clifford would eventually be allowed to walk with perhaps a slap on the wrist. But in return for his freedom he would condemn Felix Katz for the murder of Sydney Smythe and provide enough hard evidence to convict the thug and guarantee his long incarceration. I didn’t think the prosecutor would seek the death penalty; it was an iffy proposition when the main witness (Clemens) was something less than an upright citizen.

  I could accept it. It wasn’t perfect but since when has justice been perfect? As for Clemens’s perfidy in ratting on his associate—pooh! We all know there is as much honor amongst thieves as honesty amongst politicians.

  My ruminations were reaved by a phone call from Mrs. Trelawney informing me the seignior demanded my presence forthwith. Miffed at having my reverie shattered and wondering why I was being so imperiously summoned, I climbed the back stairs to my father’s archaic throne room. I found him standing erect at his antique desk, frowning with what I initially thought was anger but turned out to be puzzlement and concern.

  “Mrs. Edythe Westmore phoned a few moments ago,” he said, forgoing a greeting. “She sounded hysterical and it was only after a rather disjointed conversation that I was able to grasp what she was saying. She believes her son Walter has been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?!” I said. “Walter? What details did she give?”

  “Apparently he has not been seen since late yesterday afternoon. He didn’t appear for dinner and his bed was not slept in last night. Mrs. Westmore claims she received a ransom demand by telephone about an hour ago. A woman with what Mrs. Westmore described as a foreign accent insisted on a payment of five hundred thousand dollars if Walter is to be released unharmed. And that, in toto, is all I was able to learn of the matter.”

  “Bewildering,” I commented.

  “It is indeed,” he agreed. “Mrs. Westmore called to request counsel and assistance. I suggest you proceed at once to the Westmore home and determine exactly what is happening.”