McNally's Risk

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Yeah?" he said belligerently. "Who're you?"

  "Andrew Jackson," I said, proffering a twenty-dollar bill. "Here is my business card."

  "Oh yeah," he said, grabbing it. "I thought I recognized you. She's over there washing down the Tuchas."

  I turned to look. "Taurus," I said.

  "Whatever," he said, shrugging.

  I was a bit taken aback by my first sight of Ms. Feebling.

  I suppose I had expected a brazen hussy and instead I saw a small, demure brunet who looked rather sweet and vulnerable. There was a waifish innocence about her that made her costume even more outre. She was wearing the bottom section of a pink thong bikini, and she was indeed topless.

  It would be indelicate to describe those gifts that qualified her for employment in a topless car wash. Suffice to say that she was well-qualified.

  I waited until she finished wiping the Taurus dry and had been handed what appeared to be a generous tip by the pop-eyed driver. Then I approached and offered her my business card, a legitimate one this time.

  "My name is Archibald McNally," I said with a restrained 100-watt smile. "My law firm represents Mr. Smythe-Hersforth. I was hoping to have a friendly talk with you so that we might arrive at some mutually beneficial solution of your misunderstanding with our client."

  "There's no misunderstanding," she said, inspecting my card. "Chauncey said he'd marry me, and I've got the letters to prove it."

  "Of course," I said, "but I hope you'll be willing to discuss it. I drove down from Palm Beach specifically to meet you and learn your side of this disagreement. Could we go somewhere reasonably private where we can chat? I would be more than willing to recompense you or your employer for the time you are absent from work."

  She looked up at me. "Will you buy me a pizza?" she asked.

  "Delighted," I told her.

  "Then I'll ask Jake," she said. She went over to the woolly mammoth, talked a moment, then came back. "He wants fifty for an hour. Okay?"

  "Certainly," I said, imagining my father's reaction when he saw this item on my expense account.

  "That's neat," she said, and her smile sparkled. "I'll go get dressed. Just take a minute."

  She went through an unmarked door that I presumed led to a dressing room, or rather an undressing room. I thought she would don a voluminous coverup, but when she reappeared she had added only a T-shirt that had PEACE printed on the front, an affirmation to which I heartily subscribed. But unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on the state of one's hormones—the T-shirt appeared to be sodden, and it clung. Lucky T-shirt.

  "The pizza joint is just two doors away," she said. "All us girls go there. The owner don't mind as long as our boobs are covered."

  A few moments later we were seated in the pizza joint, a fancy palace with real Formica-topped tables and real paper lace doilies under the plates. We decided we would share a Ponderosa Delight, which, the menu claimed, came "with everything." Shirley ordered a Diet Cherry Coke. I asked for a Pepsi since a 1982 Mumm's Cordon Rouge was not available.

  "Miss Feebling—" I started, but she interrupted.

  "You can call me Shirl," she said. "Everyone in the world calls me Shirl."

  "And so shall I," I said, "if you'll call me Archy. Shirl, I know that Chauncey said he loved you, but people do fall out of love, you know."

  "I haven't," she promptly replied. "I still love him and want to marry him like he promised in his letters. He's such a wonderful guy."

  I was about to ask if she didn't find CW somewhat dim. But I refrained, reflecting that Shirley herself might be somewhat dim and had found a soul mate in the Chinless Wonder.

  "Shirl," I said, "you seem to me a very sensitive and intelligent young lady."

  "Thank you, sir," she said coyly.

  "And I am sure you want only the best for yourself—and for Chauncey, too, of course. He has informed you that he wishes to wed another?"

  She nodded.

  "I know you want him to be happy," I pleaded, "even though it might mean your own unhappiness. But a generous cash settlement would help you endure a temporary sorrow."

  "Oh, I don't want any money," she said brightly. "I just want to marry Chauncey."

  "Shirl, it's impossible for me to believe that a young lady of your outstanding attributes hasn't had and doesn't have the opportunity to marry any of a dozen eager young men."

  "Oh sure, I've had the chance," she said, almost dreamily. "But no one like Chauncey."

  That I could believe. But then our Ponderosa Delight and drinks were served, and I postponed further attempts to convince her to reach an equitable compromise.

  She was starting on her second wedge of pizza when I noted she was casting furtive glances over my shoulder.

  "Something wrong?" I asked.

  She leaned forward across the table to speak in a low voice. "There's a man over there who keeps staring at me."

  "Quite understandable," I said cheerily. "You're worth staring at, Shirl, and I'm sure you're aware of it."

  "But I don't like the way he keeps smiling with a smirky grin. Like he knows something secret about me."

  "Have you ever seen him before?"

  "No, I'm sure I haven't."

  "Shall I go over and ask him to stop smirking at you?"

  "Oh no," she said quickly, "don't do that. I don't want to cause no trouble."

  We finished the pizza, and I tried again to persuade her to accept cash in return for CW's mash notes. But she was adamant; she wanted only to marry the man as he had promised, not once but many times, and if he reneged she would have no choice but to make his letters public.

  She was explaining all this, determinedly and with some passion, when she suddenly broke off and said, "Here he comes."

  A man halted alongside our table. I looked up to see a tall, saturnine bloke in raw black silk with a white Izod. He stared down at my companion, and I could agree with what she had said: It was a smirky grin. He didn't even glance at me.

  "Hiya, Shirl," he said in a raspy baritone. "Having a good time?"

  Then he sauntered away, paid his bill at the front counter, and went outside. I noted that he had a profile like a cleaver. I watched him get into a gunmetal Cadillac de Ville and pull away. I turned back to Shirley.

  "You don't know him?" I asked.

  She shook her head.

  "He knew your name."

  "I don't know how," she said, obviously troubled.

  "Perhaps he was a customer," I suggested.

  "No," she insisted. "I'd have remembered. I don't like his looks. He scares me."

  "Nothing to be scared about," I assured her. "I doubt if you'll ever see him again."

  But I couldn't comfort her. Her bouncy mood had vanished; she seemed subdued. "Listen," she said finally, "I've got to get to work."

  I paid our tab and walked her back. I gave her fifty dollars, wondering how much would go to Jake and how much she'd be allowed to keep.

  "Shirl," I said, "it's been a pleasure meeting you. I'll relay what you've told me to our client. But I still hope a mutually satisfactory solution to this impasse can be arranged."

  "Sure it can," she said, "if he marries me."

  "Uh-huh," I said. "May I come back and talk to you again if it proves necessary?"

  "Of course," she said. Then: "You're nice," she added, and stretched up to kiss my cheek. "Thanks for the pizza."

  She marched through the slit canvas curtain, providing me with a final glimpse of her thong bikini, also called a shoestring bikini in South Florida, and sometimes a flosser.

  I drove back to Palm Beach in a reflective mood. It had not been a totally profitless trip, although CW might think so. But I had, at least to my own satisfaction, learned something about Shirley Feebling and could guess at what might be motivating her demands. There were three possibilities, none of which would bring a gleeful smile to the puss of our distraught client.

  1. My discussion with Shirl had been the opening round of wh
at would prove to be lengthy and difficult negotiations. In other words, the lady was hanging tough in order to up the ante.

  2. She was shrewd enough to forgo an immediate cash settlement, no matter how generous, in hopes of marrying the Chinless Wonder and becoming the wife of a man who would inherit millions when his mommy passed to that bourn from which no traveler returns.

  3. And this was the most disquieting: Shirley Feebling was totally sincere and honest. She really did love the simp, wanted to marry him, and was determined to become a loving helpmate. His present or potential wealth had no influence on her decision.

  Very disturbing. I don't pretend to understand True Love. I don't know what it is or how it works. Oh, I know all about affection, attachment, admiration—stuff like that. But True Love stumps me. I am not only ignorant of its nature but suspicious of its effects because whenever I have observed it in others, it has always seemed to me infernally serious. And since my life has been sedulously devoted to triviality, I find the seriousness of True Love to be a fatal flaw.

  Still, although I know no more about TL than I do about Babylonian cuneiform, I cannot ignore the testimony of poets and Tin Pan Alley tunesmiths. It is obvious that True Love does exist, and I reckoned Ms. Feebling might very well be infected with a particularly virulent strain. If so, it did not bode well for the Chinless Wonder.

  Which led me to musing about his intended fiancée, Theodosia Johnson, and wondering if my own reactions to that stellar lady might be True Love or merely gonadal twinges. I just didn't know and decided that only another personal meeting with the radiant Theo might provide the answer.

  I was then approaching South Palm Beach and on a sudden whim (the guiding principle in my life) resolved to stop at the Hawkin residence. You may ask, and justly so, what on earth I thought I was doing since I was not part of the official homicide investigation and my assistance had not been requested.

  The answer to your question is simple: I am nosy. I admit it and don't give a tinker's damn—or dam, depending on your erudition—who knows it. Also, there were several puzzling aspects about the murder that piqued my curiosity. I could have asked Sgt. Al Rogoff, of course, but would he have told me? Fat chance.

  Al is a closemouthed gent, even when he doesn't have to be. He and I worked several cases together in the past, to our mutual benefit, but he never tells me everything he knows any more than I Reveal All to him. I think that in addition to our friendship we keep the scimitar of competitiveness keenly honed, sensing that it contributes to our success.

  The crime scene tape still surrounded the studio building, and there was a sole uniformed officer on guard. But the main house appeared to be open to all comers. I rang the chimes, expecting they would be answered by Mrs. Jane Folsby, the live-in servant I hoped to question.

  And she indeed opened the door, recognized me, and smiled warmly. "Good afternoon, Mr. McNally," she said. "It's good to see you again."

  "And it's a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Folsby," I said. "I can imagine what you've been going through. You have my sympathy, I assure you. What a shock it must have been."

  She stood aside to allow me to enter, then closed the door.

  "It was a shock," she said in a low voice. "I found him, you know."

  "So I heard. A horrifying experience."

  She sighed deeply. "He had his faults," she said, "but don't we all? But he wasn't a mean man, and no one should have to die like that."

  "No," I agreed, "no one should. Mrs. Folsby, I'd like to ask you a few questions. But first I want you to know I am not part of the police investigation, and it's entirely up to you whether or not you choose to answer."

  She looked at me steadily. "Questions about the murder?"

  "Yes," I said. "That and other things."

  "Why do you want to ask?"

  "Because your answers possibly, just possibly, might have some bearing on a private inquiry I am making: a credit check on a person Mr. Hawkin knew."

  She considered a long time. "Very well," she said finally, "you ask your questions and then I'll decide whether or not to answer them."

  "Excellent," I said. "Sergeant Rogoff, a friend of mine, told me you went to the studio after you phoned your employer and received no reply. Is that correct?"

  She nodded. "The wife and daughter were out, and he hadn't come over for dinner. So I called to ask if he wanted me to bring him a plate. I did that sometimes when he was working late. He didn't answer, but I could see the studio lights were on, and I got concerned."

  "Of course."

  "So I went over to see if everything was all right. To tell you the truth, I thought maybe he had fallen asleep. Or passed out."

  "Passed out? He was a heavy drinker?"

  "He did his share," she said wryly. "Rum, mostly."

  "Uh-huh. Tell me this if you will, Mrs. Folsby, when you entered the studio, did you see anything that might lead you to believe that he had been working? For instance, was there an unfinished painting on one of his easels?"

  She thought a moment. "No," she said, "there was nothing on the big easel. That was the one he liked to use for his portraits. And nothing on the two smaller ones either."

  I was disappointed. "So you saw absolutely no evidence that he had been working in the hours prior to his death?"

  She closed her eyes briefly as if trying to recall details of that frightful scene. "Now that you mention it," she said hesitantly, "there was something odd. On the taboret next to the big easel was Mr. Hawkin's palette and the paints on it were still wet. I could see them glistening under the lights. Also, there was a long-handled brush alongside the palette, and that had wet paint, a kind of creamy crimson, on the bristles. That wasn't like him at all because he was very finicky about cleaning his brushes and palette when he wasn't working."

  "But you saw no evidence of what he might have been working on?"

  She shook her head.

  "Curious," I said, "but I suppose there's a very obvious explanation for it." (I didn't suppose anything of the sort, of course.) "Another question, Mrs. Folsby: When Mr. Hawkin was doing a portrait, did he ever allow anyone else in the studio other than the sitter?"

  "Never," she said definitely. "He was very strict about that. He said the presence of an observer would distract the model and destroy his rapport with whomever he was painting."

  "I expect most portrait artists feel that way. A final question, please. You know how people in Palm Beach love to gossip. I've heard rumors there was serious discord in the Hawkin family, an atmosphere of hostility in this house. Would you care to comment on that?"

  "No," she said stonily.

  I persisted. "You mean no discord or no, you don't wish to comment?"

  "I don't wish to comment."

  I admired her. There was loyalty up. I hoped there would be loyalty down.

  "Perfectly understandable," I said, nodding, "and I wish to thank you for your patience and cooperation. You have been very helpful."

  "I have?" she said, mildly surprised.

  I bid her good-bye and left the house. Marcia Hawkin was coming up the walk carrying one of those miniature Tiffany's shopping bags. She saw me and stopped suddenly.

  "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  "I stopped by for just a moment to express my sympathy to Mrs. Folsby on the death of your father."

  She made a sound. I believe she intended it to be a sardonic laugh, but I thought it more a honk.

  "My father was a goat," she said. "A goat!"

  Then she strode into the house and slammed the door. The Villa Bile indeed.

  I drove directly home, looking forward to an ocean swim that would slosh away, even temporarily, all the clotted human emotions I had dealt with that day. But it was not to be. I was just tugging on my new, shocking pink Speedo when my phone shrilled.

  "What were you doing at the Hawkin place?" Sgt. Al Rogoff said in that gritty voice he uses when he's ready to chew nails.

  I sighed. "Who squealed on m
e, Al? Mrs. Folsby? Marcia Hawkin?"

  "Neither," he said. "That guard I parked outside the studio had orders to watch for visitors. He just reported seeing a guy wearing purple slacks and driving a maroon Miata. Who could that be but Monsieur Archibald McNally?"

  "The slacks were lilac," I protested, "and the car is screaming red."

  "What were you doing there?" he repeated. "Nosing around?"

  "Of course," I said. "Any objections?"

  "Not if you don't get in my way," he said. "Learn anything?"

  "Al, is it trade-off time?"

  "Run it by me first."

  I related what Mrs. Folsby had told me: When she entered the scene of the crime she saw no painting on the easel but had noted wet pigments on Silas Hawkin's palette and brush.

  Rogoff was silent a moment. "How do you figure it?" he asked finally.

  "I don't," I said. "But it's intriguing, isn't it?"

  "Your favorite word," he said grumpily. "You find things intriguing that I find a pain in the ass. If the guy was working on a painting before he was offed, where is it?"

  "A puzzlement. Did you check Si's ledger? Is anything missing?"

  He replied with a question of his own. "That guy you said you were doing a credit check on, Hector Johnson, is he related to Theodosia Johnson?"

  "Her father."

  "Uh-huh. Well, she's in the ledger. Hawkin did an oil portrait of her."

  "I know, Al. I saw it at the Pristine Gallery. It may still be on display. Positively enchanting."

  "Yeah? I'll have to go take a look. But the thing is—and I know you're going to find this intriguing—right after her portrait is listed in Hawkin's ledger another painting is noted. It's just called 'Untitled.' "

  "That's odd."

  "Not half so odd as the fact that we can't find it. All the other paintings in the studio have titles and are recorded in the ledger. The widow, the daughter, and the maid say they know nothing about 'Untitled,' don't know what it is, never heard Hawkin mention a word about it."

  "And now you're guessing the same thing I'm guessing, aren't you, sergeant? That 'Untitled' was the painting Si was working on before he was murdered."

  "Could be," Rogoff said. "And the killer walked off with it. Listen, Archy, are you still checking out this Hector Johnson?"