McNally's Luck

by Lawrence Sanders

  Crime scene tape was still in place around the Gillsworth home, but there were no police cars in sight. Roderick himself answered my knock and greeted me with a wan smile. He said he was alone, finally, and thanked me for bringing the plasma.

  “Have the reporters been a nuisance?” I asked as he led me to his study. (I was happy he hadn’t selected the sitting room where the body was found.)

  “Not too bad,” he said. “Your father handled most of them, and I refused to grant television interviews. Make yourself comfortable while I fetch some ice cubes. Would you like a mix?”

  “Water will be fine,” I said, and when he left, I settled into a threadbare armchair and looked about with interest.

  I had never before been in a poet’s den, and it was something of a disappointment: just a small book-lined room with worn desk, battered file cabinet, an unpainted worktable laden with reference books and a typewriter. It was an ancient Remington, not electronic and definitely not a word processor. I don’t know what I expected to find in this poet’s sanctum sanctorum—perhaps a framed photograph of Longfellow or a Styrofoam bust of Joyce Kilmer. But there were no decorative touches. That drab room could easily be the office of any homeowner: a nook too cramped and depressing to be used for anything but answering threats from the IRS.

  He returned with a bucket of ice cubes, a flask of water, and two highball glasses. He placed them on the table alongside my bottle of Sterling.

  “I’m a miserable bartender,” he confessed. “Would you mix your own?”

  “Certainly, sir,” I said.

  “That’s another thing,” he added. “Your ‘sir’ and ‘Mr. Gillsworth,’ while appreciated, really aren’t necessary. I’ve always addressed you as Archy. If you called me Rod, my ego would not be irretrievably damaged.”

  “Force of habit,” I said. “Or rather force of training. I may be the last son in America who addresses his father as ‘sir’.”

  “Your father’s different.”

  “Yes,” I said, sighing, “he is that.”

  I built my own drink: a little vodka, a lot of water. He mixed his own: a lot of vodka, a little water. I took the armchair again, and he lowered himself into a creaky swivel chair behind his desk.

  “Rod,” I said, beginning to recite a short speech I had rehearsed, “I haven’t had a chance to express my condolences on the death of your wife. It was a terrible tragedy that saddened my parents and me. We shall always remember Lydia as a good neighbor and a gracious lady.”

  “Yes,” he said, “she was. Thank you.”

  I sipped, but he gulped, and I wondered if he swilled in that fashion to make certain he’d sleep that night.

  “It makes my poems seems so meaningless,” he mused, staring into his glass. “So futile.”

  “It shouldn’t have that effect,” I said. “Surely your wife’s tragic death could provide inspiration for poetry in an elegiac mood.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “In time. At the moment my mind is empty of everything but sorrow. I hope you’re right. I hope that eventually I’ll be able to express my bereavement and by writing about it exorcise my pain and regain some semblance of emotional tranquility.”

  I thought that rather much. In fact it sounded like a speech he had rehearsed. But perhaps poets talked that way. Or at least this poet.

  He took another heavy swallow of his drink and slumped in his chair. His eyes were reddened, as if from weeping, and his entire face seemed droopy. I fancied that even his long nose had sagged since I last saw him. He was now a very gloomy bird indeed.

  “Archy,” he said, “I understand that you will continue investigating the poison-pen letters.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You’ll be working with Sergeant Rogoff?”

  I nodded.

  “What do you think of him? Is he competent?”

  “More than competent,” I said. “Al is a very expert and talented police officer.”

  Gillsworth made a small sound I think he intended as a laugh. “I believe he suspects me.”

  “That’s his job, Rod,” I explained. “The investigation is just beginning. The sergeant must suspect everyone connected with Mrs. Gillsworth until their whereabouts at the time the crime was committed can definitely be established.”

  “Well, my whereabouts have definitely been established. I was with you and your father.”

  “Rogoff understands that,” I said as soothingly as I could. “But he can take nothing for granted. Every alibi must be verified.”

  He finished his drink and poured himself another, as massive as the first.

  “What angers me the most,” he said, “is that he won’t give me any information. I ask him what is being done to find the maniac who killed my wife, and he just mutters, ‘We’re working on it.’ I don’t consider that adequate.”

  “At this stage I doubt if there is anything to tell you. And even when progress is made, the police are very cautious about revealing it. They don’t want to risk raising false hopes, and they are wary about identifying any person as being under suspicion until his or her guilt can be proved.”

  Gillsworth shook his head. “It’s maddening. Now I’ve got to accompany Lydia’s casket up north for the funeral. Her family is sure to ask what is being done to find the killer, and all I’ll be able to tell them is that the police are working on it.”

  “I know it’s frustrating,” I said sympathetically. “It’s difficult to be patient, but you must remember the police have had the case for only forty-eight hours.”

  “How long do you think it will take to solve it?”

  “Rod, there is absolutely no way to predict that. It could be days, weeks, months, years.”

  He groaned.

  “But there is no statute of limitations on homicide,” I said. “The police will keep at it as long as it takes—and so will I.”

  “Thank you for that,” he said. “I see you need a refill. Please help yourself.” While I was doing exactly that, he said, “Archy, will you be exchanging information with Rogoff?”

  “I hope so.”

  “While I’m up north for Lydia’s funeral, may I phone you to ask if any progress has been made? I don’t want to call Rogoff; he’ll tell me nothing.”

  “Of course you can phone me,” I said. I was about to add that naturally I’d be unable to reveal anything without Rogoff’s permission. But Gillsworth’s animus toward the sergeant seemed evident, and not wanting to exacerbate it, I said no more.

  “I’ll really appreciate it if you can keep me informed.”

  “How long will you be gone, Rod?”

  “Two or three days. I’d like to give you a set of house keys before you leave tonight. Would you be kind enough to look in once or twice while I’m gone?”

  “I’d be glad to.”

  “Thank you. Our cleaning lady, Marita, has been given two weeks off, so she won’t be around. And I have handed over a set of keys to the police. I don’t know why they wanted them, but that sergeant grunted something about security. Oh God, what a mess this whole thing is.”

  “Rod, I hate to add to your burdens, but my father asked me to mention something to you. It is imperative that you make out a new will. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed, and your present will is simply inadequate.”

  His head snapped up as if I had slapped him.

  “I hope I haven’t offended you by referring to it,” I said hastily.

  “No, no,” he said. “That’s all right. I was just shocked that it hadn’t even occurred to me. Your father is correct, as usual. As you probably know, Lydia inherited a great deal of money, and now I suppose it comes to me. What a filthy way to get rich.”

  “It was her wish,” I reminded him.

  “I know, but still... Very well, you can tell your father that I’ll certainly give it a lot of thought, and when I return from the funeral I’ll get together with him.”

  “Good,” I said. “A will isn’t something that should be del
ayed.”

  He looked at me with a twisted smile. “A legal acknowledgment of one’s mortality,” he said. “Isn’t that what a will is?”

  “I suppose so,” I said. “But for a man in your position it’s a necessity.”

  He poured himself another drink with a hand that trembled slightly. I wondered how many more of those bombs he’d be able to gulp without falling on his face. I wanted to caution him but it wasn’t my place.

  He must have guessed what I was thinking because he grinned foolishly and said, “I’ll sleep tonight.”

  “That you will.”

  “You know, these are the first drinks I’ve had since Lydia died. I wanted a drink desperately while waiting for the police to arrive, but it seemed shameful to need alcohol to give me courage to see it through. But now I don’t care. I need peace even if it comes from a bottle and even if it’s only temporary. Can you understand that?”

  “Of course,” I said. “As long as you have no intention of leaving the house tonight.”

  “No intention,” he mumbled, his voice beginning to slur. “Positively no intention.”

  “That’s wise,” I said, finished my drink, and stood up. I had no desire to witness this stricken man’s collapse. “Then if you’ll give me your house keys, I’ll be on my way.”

  He rooted in the top drawer of his desk and finally handed me three keys strung on an oversized paperclip. “Front door, back door, and garage,” he said.

  “I’ll look in while you’re gone,” I promised. “And may I tell father you’ll consult him about a new will when you return?”

  “Yes,” he said. “New will. I’ll think about it.”

  He didn’t stagger when he accompanied me to the front door, but he moved very, very slowly and once he placed a palm against the wall for support. He turned to face me at the entrance. I couldn’t read his expression.

  “Archy,” he said, “do you like me? Do you?”

  “Of course I like you,” I said.

  He grabbed my hand and clasped it tightly between both of his. “Good man,” he said thickly. “Good man.”

  I gently drew my hand away. “Rod, be sure to lock up and put the chain on.”

  Outside, the door closed, I listened until I heard the sounds of the lock being turned and the chain fumbled into place. Then I took a deep breath of the cool night air and drove home.

  I garaged the Miata and saw lights in my father’s study. His door was open, which I took as an invitation to enter. He was seated in the leather club chair, a glass of port at his elbow. He was reading one of the volumes from his leather-bound set of Dickens. The book was hefty, and I guessed it to be Dombey and Son. He was stolidly reading his way through the entire Dickens oeuvre, and I admired his perseverance. Even more amazing, he remembered all the plots. I don’t think even Dickens could do that.

  He looked up as I entered. “Archy,” he said, “you’re home. You saw Gillsworth?”

  “Yes, sir. He gave me a set of his house keys and asked that I look in once or twice while he’s up north at the funeral.”

  I was waiting for him to ask me to sit down and have a glass of something, but he didn’t.

  “You brought up the subject of the will?”

  “I did. He said he’d give it some thought and consult you when he returned.”

  “I suppose that’s the best that can be hoped for. What condition is he in?”

  “When I left him, he was half in the bag and still drinking.”

  One of father’s eyebrows ascended. “That’s not like Gillsworth. I’ve never known him to overindulge.”

  “Emotional strain,” I suggested.

  “No excuse,” the lord of the manor pronounced and went back to his Dickens.

  I climbed the stairs to my perch, thinking of what an uncompromising man my father was. And as I well knew, his bite was worse than his bark.

  I undressed, showered, and scrubbed my choppers. Then I pulled on a silk robe I had recently purchased at a fancy-schmancy men’s boutique on Worth Avenue. It bore a design of multicolored parrots carousing in a jungle setting. One of those crazy birds had a startling resemblance to Roderick Gillsworth.

  I treated myself to a dram of marc and lighted an English Oval—my first cigarette of the day! I slouched in the padded swivel chair, put my bare feet up on the desk, and ruminated on why the poet had asked if I liked him. His question was as perplexing as Hertha Gloriana’s kiss.

  I didn’t think it was the vodka talking; Gillsworth was seeking reassurance. But of what—and why from me? I could only conclude that his wife’s death had left him so bereft that he had reached out to make contact with another human being. I happened to be handy.

  But that explanation was not completely satisfying. Sgt. Rogoff has often accused me of having a taste for complexity, of searching for hidden motives and unconscious desires when I’d do better to accept the obvious. Al could be right, and mother was correct in suggesting that Gillsworth was simply lonely. But I was not totally convinced.

  Take as a case in point the recent behavior of yrs. truly. When the poet had asked, “Do you like me?” I had automatically replied, “Of course I like you.” That was the polite and proper response to an intimate query from a man who was apparently suffering and needed, for whatever reason, a boost to his morale. And I had duly provided it.

  But if the truth be known, I didn’t like him. I didn’t dislike him; I just felt nothing for him at all. That was my secret, and hardly something I’d reveal to him. I mention it now merely as an illustration of how the obvious frequently masks reality.

  I was still musing gloomily on the strangeness of human nature when my phone rang. It was then almost midnight, and a call at that hour was not calculated to lift the McNally spirits. My first thought was: Now who’s died?

  “H’lo?” I said warily.

  “Archy?” A woman’s voice I could not immediately identify.

  “Yes. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Such elegant grammar! Meg Trumble.”

  Relief was better than a schooner of marc.

  “Meg!” I practically shouted. “How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  “Of course not. It’s the shank of the evening.”

  “Well, I did call earlier, but I guess you were out. Behaving yourself, I hope.”

  “Unfortunately. You’re calling from King of Prussia?”

  “Yes, but I’m leaving early tomorrow morning, and I do mean early. I should be in Florida by Tuesday.”

  “Can’t wait,” I said. “Listen, if you arrive in time, give me a call and we’ll have dinner. You’ll be ready to unwind after all that driving.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” she said. “I’m not even telling Laverne when I expect to arrive, but I’ll phone you as soon as I get in. See you Tuesday night.”

  “Good-o,” I said. She hung up, and I sat there grinning like an idiot at the dead phone.

  It was incredible what a goose that phone call gave to my dismal mood. I was immediately convinced I would rescue Peaches, find the killer of Lydia Gillsworth, the sun would shine full force on the morrow, and I would lose at least five pounds.

  When A. Pope wrote about hope springing eternal, he obviously had A. McNally in mind.

  Chapter 8

  I DON’T BELIEVE I’VE ever mentioned my peculiar infatuation with hats. I love hats. When I was attending Yale Law (briefly), I wore suede and tweed caps, fedoras, bowlers, and once, in a moment of madness, a fez. But all that headgear was a mite heavy for South Florida, so when I returned to Palm Beach I opted for mesh caps, panamas, and a marvelous planter’s sombrero with a five-inch brim.

  Recently I had written to a custom hat maker in Danbury, Conn., and had ordered three linen berets in white, puce, and emerald green. They arrived on Monday morning, and I was highly pleased. They were soft enough to roll up and tuck in a hip pocket, yet when they were donned and the fullness pulled rakishly
over to one side, I felt they gave me a certain devil-may-care look.

  I went down to a late breakfast wearing my new puce beret. Fortunately my father had already departed for the office so I didn’t have to endure his incredulous stare. Mother took one look, laughed delightedly, and clapped her hands.

  “Archy,” she said, “that beret is you!”

  I was so gratified by her reaction that I wore the cap while breakfasting on fresh grapefruit juice, three slices of Ursi Olson’s marvelous French toast with honey-apricot preserve, and a pot of black coffee. I was finishing my second cup when mater remarked casually, “Oh, by the way, Archy, Harry Willigan phoned just before you came down. He’d like you to call him as soon as possible. He sounded in a dreadful temper.”

  Dear mother! She made certain I had a nourishing breakfast before breaking the bad news. I went into father’s study and called the Willigan home. Julie Blessington, the maid, answered the phone. I identified myself and asked to speak to the master. In a moment our splenetic client came on the line and began screaming at me.

  He was spluttering and shouting so loudly that it was difficult to grasp the reason for his rancorous outburst. I finally determined that a second ransom note had been found that morning, slid under the Willigans’ front door.

  “When was it found?” I asked.

  “I told you already—this morning.”

  “How early this morning?”

  “Very early. When Ruby Jackson came down to make breakfast.”

  “You think it was delivered last night?”

  “Who the hell knows? You’re the detective, aincha?”

  “Plain white envelope?”

  “Yeah, same as before.”

  “Who in your house has handled it?”

  “Ruby handled the envelope. I handled the envelope and the letter inside.”

  “Don’t let anyone else touch it, Mr. Willigan. What does the letter say?”

  “Peaches is crying a lot. Poor Sweetums. She misses me.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “What else?”

  “They want me to put together a bundle of fifty thousand dollars. Used bills, unmarked, no numbers in sequence, nothing over a hundred.”