McNally's Gamble

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Of course, father,” I said. “I’ll leave at once. If I feel it necessary, I’ll phone you from the Westmores’. If not, I’ll report to you this evening at home.”

  “Satisfactory,” he said, nodding. “If you believe a kidnapping is actually in progress—and Edythe Westmore acquiesces—the proper law enforcement agencies should be notified.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, and departed hurriedly.

  Minutes later I found myself zipping along Ocean Boulevard at an illegal rate. I slowed when I realized there was little point in rushing. And being stopped and ticketed by a trooper would be even more unnecessary. So I continued at a more sedate speed and eventually pulled into the Westmores’ driveway and parked behind Natalie’s battered Corolla, the first time I had seen that heap out of the garage.

  The drive southward had given me time to reflect on what my father had told me. If it was true Walter had been kidnapped, who might be responsible for such a heinous crime? My first candidate was the “mean and dangerous punk” Felix Katz. Perhaps he, having learned of Clemens being taken into custody and the collapse of their larcenous scheme, had resolved to recoup by abducting Walter and demanding ransom. It was certainly a remarkable coincidence the kidnappers wanted half a million dollars—the identical sum Clemens and Katz had planned to mulct from Edythe.

  But the bracing December air cooled my perverted imagination; I realized my scenario was ridiculous. Clemens had been led away only a few hours previously. Katz could surely not be aware of it so soon. In any event, Walter apparently disappeared late Monday afternoon. No, Katz in all likelihood had not been involved in the snatch. Then who was next in line as a suspect? I simply didn’t know, and recalling the kidnapping of the Franklin boy, wondered if it might be the work of visiting hoodlums.

  My ring at the Westmores’ door was answered by the lugubrious houseman Algernon Canfield, who obviously had not yet obtained the new job he sought. It seemed to me there was a hint of glee in his expression when he said, “They’re in the sitting room, sir.” I thought it was possible he was relishing the tribulations of the woman he called Madam Nag.

  I found Natalie and Edythe Westmore huddling close on a wicker couch. I noted the missing man’s wife was not present. Both mother and daughter appeared agitated and teary, which was understandable. Nettie rose swiftly’ and rushed to clutch me.

  “Walter is gone, Archy!” she wailed. “He’s been kidnapped!”

  “And they’re demanding half a million dollars,” Edythe added indignantly. “Oh dear, oh dear, whatever shall we do?”

  The first thing, I wanted to say, is to lower your voice, for despite her anxiety she was still braying. I sat down unbidden in an armchair, mostly to escape from Natalie’s embrace, and faced the two women with sympathetic interest in their plight.

  “Now tell me precisely what has happened,” I said. “My father could provide only a few details.”

  They both began speaking at once and I was forced to shush Natalie and let Edythe relate the sequence of events. She added very little to what mein papa had already told me. She did amend her first account by saying the woman who phoned with news of Walter’s abduction and demanded ransom had spoken with a southern, not a foreign accent. Whatever additional information I gleaned was elicited from questions answered by both women.

  “His bed was not slept in last night?”

  Edythe: “No, and his shaving brush was dry. Walter shaves every morning without fail.”

  “Can you be more specific about the last time he was seen?”

  Natalie: “Three o’clock yesterday afternoon. I remember because he came over to the studio to see what I was working on and I asked him the time.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  Natalie: “He was wearing his khaki safari suit with a light sweater under the jacket.”

  “Edythe, were you at home at three o’clock yesterday afternoon?”

  “No, I was at my bridge club. The games were at the home of Mrs. Louis Fortuna on Sea Breeze Avenue.”

  “Did your houseman or cook see Walter yesterday after three?”

  Natalie: “They say no. They say they were both in me kitchen around that time and didn’t see him.”

  “Did his wife see him at that time or later?”

  Natalie: “No. She wasn’t home.”

  Edythe: “And she returned quite late. It was nearly midnight.”

  “So she wasn’t aware Walter was missing?”

  Natalie (bitterly): “And she still doesn’t know. She left early this morning and hasn’t returned yet. Disgusting!”

  Edythe: “Nettie, behave yourself.”

  “I presume Helen was driving the Riviera.”

  Natalie: “Yes, she was. She acts like it’s her car. Walter paid for it.”

  Edythe: “He bought it for both of them, dear.”

  Natalie: “But he never gets a chance to use it!”

  “Did either of you or your staff see a strange car on the estate at any time yesterday?”

  Both: “No.”

  “Did either of you—”

  But I was interrupted by the shrill of the telephone. We all looked at one another.

  “It may be the kidnappers,” I said quickly. “I want to listen in. Where is the nearest extension?”

  “In the hallway,” Natalie said. “Just inside the front door.”

  “Edythe,” I said, “you answer and if it’s the same woman try to keep her talking. Tell her you want to speak to Walter to make sure he’s all right.”

  I ran out but by the time I found the hall extension and picked up the receiver delicately, the conversation was well along.

  “... the police or the FBI,” I heard a woman say with a molasses accent. “Not if you want to see him again.”

  “How do I know he’s still alive?” Edythe said desperately. “Please let me speak to him.”

  “Okey-doke,” the woman said.

  Within a moment Walter came on the line. He sounded almost cheery. “I’m fine, mother,” he said. “They’re feeding me. Do what they say and everything will be all right. Try not to worry.”

  Then there was a shuffling sound as if the phone had changed hands. The woman with the syrupy voice came back on.

  “You remember now,” she warned. “No cops or your son is a goner. You get the cash together—half a million, no bills bigger’n a twenty. We’ll call again and tell you how and when to deliver. ’Bye now.”

  She disconnected and I hung up thinking half a million dollars in twenties would have to be delivered in a U-Haul truck. I went back into the sitting room, where Edythe was weeping and Natalie was trying to console her, one arm about her mother’s shoulders. I thought Nettie looked devastated, not by her own fear but by her mother’s grief.

  “Did you hear?” Edythe asked me between sobs.

  I nodded.

  “I’ll pay,” she said mournfully. “I’ll pay anything to get my boy back.”

  “The police—” I started, but Natalie broke in.

  “No!” she said sharply. “Absolutely not! You heard what the woman said. No police and no FBI if we want to see Walter again. Don’t you agree, mother?”

  The despairing woman bobbed her head up and down.

  “It’s your decision,” I said. “I won’t attempt to advise you what to do. Edythe, if you need assistance obtaining the cash or making the delivery, please contact my father or me. We’ll do all we can to help.”

  “Thank you, Archy,” she said, and at last, finally, her voice was low.

  I left the Westmore home in a wrathy mood. I thought I knew what was going on and I didn’t like it one whit.

  It was a simple task to confirm or negate my suspicion. The moment I arrived home I looked up the number of Barney Newfield in Manalapan and phoned. A woman answered.

  “Miz Newfield’s residence,” she cooed.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Wrong number.” And I hung up.

  But it wasn’t the wrong number of course. Beca
use the last time I had heard that sugar-coated voice the owner had been asking for half a million in twenty-dollar bills.

  CHAPTER 32

  WEDNESDAY WOULD BE A day of reckoning, I decided when I awoke. I had to bring my Discreet Inquiry to a successful conclusion—a tidying up, so to speak. It was the only item on my agenda for I had finished my Christmas shopping with gifts for everyone on my list except myself. I couldn’t decide which I wanted more: a mulberry fez with a tassel or mauve briefs decorated with flying champagne corks.

  I had roused in time to breakfast with my parents, which proved fortunate since Ursi had baked an enormous chicken pie. If you think it an odd dish for a matutinal meal I suggest you try it sometime; you’ll be ecstatic.

  Father had apparently not informed mother of Walter Westmore’s disappearance and so I made no reference to it. Nor did I mention the collapse of the Fabergé egg swindle or the solution of the Sydney Smythe homicide. I knew m’lord would consider it bad form to discuss such matters at the breakfast table. Besides, I was so busy with the chicken pie my conversation was limited to, “May I have a bit more, please.”

  I waited at home until ten o’clock, when I phoned Sgt. Rogoff. I told him firmly I wanted the art book because I intended to show it to Mrs. Westmore and reveal the scam to which she had almost fallen victim.

  “Okay,” Al said. “You can have it. The State Attorney’s man has seen it and we have a signed statement from Clemens, so it’s served its purpose. But I can’t get away right now. Can you pick it up?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Half an hour.”

  I was on time and Rogoff came out of his office bearing the book. He handed it over.

  “I’d ask you in,” he said, “but Clemens is there singing his heart out and I don’t want to interrupt the flow of his true confessions. And put quotation marks around true. Let’s go outside for a minute.”

  We stood near my car in the bright morning sunlight. Al looked rested and sounded confident. I guessed things were going well with the interrogation of the Master Criminal.

  “Has Clemens really confessed?” I asked.

  “To everything,” Al said. “Only he says he didn’t do anything. Felix Katz did it all.”

  “He’s fingering Katz?”

  “Yeah. Middle-fingering. He claims the whole schmear was Katz’s idea. Felix thought up the Fabergé egg con, contacted Sydney Smythe, cut the photo of the Coronation Egg from the book and had it copied.”

  “How much did they pay Smythe?”

  “Ten grand. But then the dealer learned how much they stood to make—a cool half-million—and demanded fifty thousand more. Like you figured, he took up his old hobby of blackmail again. Katz said he had to be eliminated or he’d keep bleeding them. Also, he had already screwed up on what was inside the egg, feeding them your description of an imaginary ‘surprise.’ So, according to Clemens, Katz did the dirty deed. He went to Smythe’s shop intending to strangle the old man but saw the bayonet handy and decided to use it. He returned to the office and told Clemens what he had done. They then both went out for a spaghetti dinner. A couple of choice beauties, those lads.”

  “Where is Katz now—do you know?”

  “No idea. We’ve got the cops of three counties looking for him. And by the way, we found his pigskin gloves! The stupid bozo didn’t throw them away. Stay tuned.”

  He returned to his office. I hopped into the Miata and made tracks for the Westmore home. What Rogoff had related was expected but I had no feeling of triumph. And I supposed when they apprehended Katz and detailed the evidence against him, he’d say, “Clemens told me to do it.” The Nuremberg defense: “I was just obeying orders.”

  The only car parked in the Westmore driveway was Edythe’s white Cadillac. I peeked into the garage to make certain Natalie’s Corolla was gone. It was. The houseman opened the front door for me and I walked back to the sitting room carrying Fantastic Jewelry of Royalty.

  I found Mrs. Westmore seated at a small wicker desk close to the white phone. She was listlessly turning the pages of a magazine, Smart Money, looked up when I entered, and gave me a wan smile.

  “I haven’t heard anything, Archy,” she said. “No one has phoned.”

  “Everything’s going to be all right,” I told her. “You’ll get your son back unharmed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just a hunch. Meanwhile I have something to show you.”

  I opened the art book and displayed the color photo of the Coronation Egg. I informed her it was part of a famous collection of Fabergé eggs in New York. I explained how the photo had been cut out, copied, and the reproduction given to her as part of a plot by Frederick Clemens to defraud her of half a million dollars. There was no egg in Paris. Clemens was a crook.

  Her mouth had fallen open when I showed her the photo and remained ajar during my recital. By the time I finished, her outrage had temporarily banished fears for Walter’s safety. Her face had become positively vermilion with fury. She jerked to her feet bristling like an enraged porcupine.

  “Why, that’s—that’s illegal!” she roared.

  “It is indeed,” I agreed.

  “I’m going to call Fred Clemens this minute and give him a piece of my mind,” she shouted angrily.

  “You won’t be able to speak to him, Edythe. He’s in police custody facing a variety of charges.”

  “Well, I should think so!” she said. “And if they want me to testify against him I’ll be happy to. Archy, does this mean all the money I gave him for other investments is lost?”

  “Not necessarily. It depends on how much he has in assets. If they are sufficient and he is forced to make restitution you may recover all or a portion of the sums you invested with him.”

  “Fred Clemens a scoundrel,” she said wonderingly. “I can scarcely believe it. He was so charming.

  “His stock-in-trade. I assure you other people were fooled by his manner as well as you. Edythe, you’ll probably be hearing from the police about this matter. I know you’ll cooperate and, even if it causes you embarrassment, answer their questions fully.”

  “Will I ever!” she vowed. “That thief deserves to spend the rest of his life behind bars.”

  “I doubt if he will. But you can console yourself with the thought of having saved half a million by his nick-of-time exposure.”

  “Half a million dollars,” she repeated. “Just what I need to ransom my son.”

  “Not yet,” I said, and with that delphic utterance I left her to reflect on the treachery of charming men.

  I was about halfway down to Manalapan when Natalie’s Corolla passed me going north at a lively clip. I’m sure she saw me—a fire engine-red Miata is hard to miss—but she didn’t even give me a friendly tootle of the horn, nor did I make any similar effort. At the moment I was not harboring any cordial feelings for that young lady.

  About an hour later I was parking outside the residence of Barney Newfield. It was a pleasant, two-story house not far from the Waterway. The front lawn was hemmed by a white fence, attractive even though the pickets were vinyl. The landscaping was verdant enough but rather formal for a South Florida home on the water.

  I carried the art book up the steps to the porch, noting a well-worn banister undoubtedly used by the vision-impaired owner. (Oh, Connie, how well you taught me!) I rang the bell and in a few moments the door was opened by a diminutive, middle-aged woman who wore a pink apron over tight denim slacks and a black T-shirt.

  “Yessir,” she said softly, and I knew at once she was the possessor of the cloying voice and probably the companion Barney had mentioned at the Westmore cocktail party. I strove mightily to recall her name. Was it Jewel? No. Pearl? No. Ah! I had it.

  “Ruby?” I asked.

  “Why, yes,” she said, puzzled. “We met?”

  “Not until this moment. My name is Archy McNally. Would you be kind enough to ask Ms. Newfield if she would be willing to receive me?”

  “Jus’ a minute
now,” she said, and closed the door.

  It was more than a minute but eventually the door was opened and Ruby said, “Walk this way, please, sir,” and sashayed down a hallway. I followed and called, “I’ll never learn to walk that way,” and was rewarded with a fleeting smile tossed to me over her shoulder.

  Barney Newfield was in a small chamber at the end of the corridor. It seemed to be more a conservatory than a room, for it was only one story high with the ceiling and three walls entirely glass. It had obviously been added after the house was built, for the scanty woodwork was new and burnished while the paneling and floor of me hallway had a patina of many years.

  The greenhouse was filled with what appeared to be hundreds of potted plants, large and small. Many of them were flowering and the sweet aroma was almost overpowering. But the blossoms made a lovely rainbow and I thought it sad all this beauty was invisible to the owner. But Walter had said her sense of smell was incredibly acute so perhaps the scent of the plants was pleasure enough.

  Barney was seated in a motorized wheelchair, her white cane hooked over one arm. She turned her opaque glasses toward me when I entered. “Archy!” she said. “How nice of you to visit. Forgive me for not rising but I twisted my ankle the other day and I’m temporarily confined to this vehicle.” She held out a hand.

  I stepped forward to shake it but wasted no time on pleasantries. “Where is he, Barney?” I asked.

  And she wasted no time on futile denials. “Upstairs,” she said. “I told him it wouldn’t work.”

  “Does he realize his mother is suffering?”

  “He knows and it troubles him. But he says it was the only way to keep her from being cheated.”

  “The fool! Why didn’t he leave it to professionals? The man who tried to swindle Mrs. Westmore is now in police custody. She’s not going to be cheated and all his stupid fake kidnapping has accomplished is to cause her grief. Was it his idea or his sister’s?”

  Her handsome, wrinkled face became set. “He says both but I think Natalie heard of a local kidnapping and decided it was the only thing they could do.”