He smiled grimly. "Not unless she managed to wring her own neck."
What a curtain line that was! I drove back to the McNally Building with my thoughts awhirl. The Miata had just had a tune-up and I wished my brain could get the same. I mean I simply could not make sense of what was happening: three homicides and the seemingly irrational behavior of the people involved.
Oh, I could concoct several scenarios but all were too bizarre to convince even a fantasist like me. I kept trying to rein in my supercharged imagination and remind myself that usually the most complex evils are the result of the most prosaic of motives: greed and revenge, for instance. But even concentrating on the basics of crime detection yielded no hint as to the connection between the murders of Silas Hawkin, Shirley Feebling, and Marcia Hawkin. If there was a solution to that conundrum, it eluded me.
Only temporarily, of course. I assure you I shall not end this account by confessing failure. You'd never speak to me again.
I had hoped to spend the remainder of that morning sitting quietly in my office composing my expense account. Quiet was necessary since my monthly swindle sheet demands intense creativity. I will not claim it is totally factual but it is based on fact. The theme is exaggeration rather than prevarication. To quote an historic American epigram, "I am not a crook."
But peace was not to be mine. I found on my desk a message from our receptionist stating that Mrs. Jane Folsby had phoned and requested I return her call. I immediately did so and let the phone ring seven times but received no reply. I put the message aside and began assembling the bills, memos, vouchers, and receipts that were to provide evidence, however flimsy, for my claimed reimbursement.
I had hardly started when my phone rang and I hoped it might be Mrs. Folsby. No such luck. I recognized that whiny voice at once.
"Archy?" he said.
"Chauncey," I said, "how are you?"
"All right," he said. "I guess."
"I understand congratulations are in order."
"What? Oh, you mean me and Theodosia. Well, sure, thanks."
"You must be a very happy man."
"Uh, not completely. Archy, I have a problem. I'd like to talk to you about it. Get your input."
"CW," I said, "if it's legal input you require, I suggest you consult my father. I'm just a rank amateur."
"Well, uh, it's not really legal input," he whined. "At least not at this stage. It's more friendly input I need."
By this time the input madness was sending me right up the wall. But I was determined not to be the first to surrender. "Well, I can provide that," I told the Chinless Wonder. "I presume you're speaking of personal input."
"That's right," he said eagerly. "Intimate input."
"Confidential input?"
"Correct! Top secret input."
Then I knew I was never going to win the Great Input War. "Chauncey," I said, sighing, "what exactly is it you want?"
"Can you come over to my office?"
"At the bank? Now?"
He had the decency to say, "Please."
"You wouldn't care to chat over lunch? At Bice perhaps?"
"Oh no," he said hastily. "No, no, no. Someone might overhear. My office would be best."
"Better than my garage," I said, alluding to our previous meeting. "Very well, CW, I'll come at once."
"Thank you," he said, and the whine had an overtone of piteousness.
I walked to his bank, only a short distance on Royal Palm Way. The building was definitely not Florida. It looked like a Vermont relic of the 1920s: heavy granite exterior, towering pillars, a marbled, high-ceilinged interior, brass-barred cages for the tellers. And a funereal silence. Even the antiquated clients spoke in whispers.
And the private office of Vice-president Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth was more of the same. It was huge, oak desk unlittered, furnishings in grave good taste. No file cabinets, no computer terminals, no indication that any business at all was conducted in that somber chamber. And it probably wasn't. CW's sinecure was due to mommy's wealth being invested with the private banking division. If she ever pulled her bucks, the Chinless Wonder might find himself flipping burgers at McDonalds.
"What's this all about?" I asked after he got me planted in a leather wing chair alongside his desk.
Before he replied he made certain his door was firmly closed and locked. Then he returned to the calfskin throne behind his desk.
"It's confidential, Archy," he said portentously. "I trust that's understood."
I looked at him. I was about to make an impudent remark, but then I saw the poor dolt was truly disturbed. As he had cause to be, having been cuckolded before he was married. And I was the lad who had put the horns on him. Levity on my part would have been rather pitiless, wouldn't you say?
"Of course," I said solemnly. "What seems to be the problem?"
He drew a deep breath. "Well, uh, Theo Johnson has agreed to marry me. I first asked her father for permission, of course."
"Of course," I said, wondering if he had fallen to one knee while making his proposal to Madam X.
"And mother has given her conditional approval to our union," he added.
Yes, he actually said "our union."
"Then things seem to be going swimmingly," I commented.
"Uh, not quite," he said, not looking at me. "Theo wants me to sign a paper."
I must admit the lower mandible dropped a bit. "Oh?" I said. "What kind of a paper, CW?"
"A sort of a contract," he confessed, fiddling with a letter opener on his desk.
"Are you talking about a prenuptial agreement?" I asked. "A contract that spells out the property rights of both spouses—and their children, if any—in the event of separation, divorce, or death?"
"I guess that's what it is," he said miserably.
"Uh-huh," I said. "And how much is the lady asking?"
He looked up at the ceiling—anywhere but at me. "Five million," he said.
I am proud to say I did not whistle or emit any other rude noise. "Rather hefty," I observed.
"Oh, it's not the sum that bothers me," he said. "Because, of course, Theo and I would never separate or divorce, and we're both in good health. In any event, I'd leave her well-provided for in case I should die. No, the money isn't an issue. The problem is that if I inform mother of this—what did you call it?"
"Prenuptial agreement."
"Yes. Well, uh, if I tell mom about it, she might change her mind about Theo. You understand? In fact, she might become so furious that she'd rewrite her will. And then where would I be?"
"You're her only child, are you not? And the closest family member. I doubt very much if she could disinherit you completely."
"Maybe not," he said worriedly, "but she could cut me down to the bare minimum, couldn't she? And then would I have enough to promise Theo the five million she wants?"
"Ah," I said, "you do have a problem. I presume your mother has been introduced to your fiancée."
"Yes, they've met. Once."
"And how did they get along?"
"Well, uh, they didn't exactly become instant pals."
I nodded, recalling my mother's reaction to Madam X.
Maybe the matrons saw something neither Chauncey nor I recognized. Or perhaps it was merely maternal possessiveness. ("No one's good enough for my boy!")
"What is it you'd like me to do, CW?"
He stroked his bushy mustache with a knuckle. "I don't know," he admitted. "But everyone says you're so clever. I thought maybe you could give me a tip on how to handle this situation in a clever way."
"I'd like to help you," I told him. "But I can't come up with an instant solution this moment. Let me think about it awhile."
"Well, all right," he said grudgingly. "But not too long, Archy. I mean I don't want Theo to think I'm stalling her. You know?"
"Of course," I said, rising. "It's obvious you're very intent on marrying this woman."
"Oh God, yes!" he said with more fervor than I had believe
d him capable of. "I must have her!"
"Quite understandable," I said. "But meanwhile, CW, do not sign any paper, agreement, or contract. Is that clear?"
"If you say so."
"I do say so. Sign nothing!"
We shook hands and exchanged wan smiles. He unlocked his door, and I departed. I ambled back to the McNally Building suffused with a warm feeling of schadenfreude. But that, I admitted, was unkind and unworthy of the McNally Code of Honor, the main principle of which is never to kick a man when he's down. Unless, of course, he deserves it.
When I returned to my own office, which, after an hour spent in Chauncey's cathedral, had all the ambience of a paint locker, the first thing I did was phone Mrs. Jane Folsby again. This time she came on the line.
"Oh, Mr. McNally," she said, "I'm so glad you called. I know you've heard about Marcia Hawkin."
"I have," I said. "Sorrowful."
"Terrible," she said with some vehemence. "Just terrible. She had her faults as we all do, but she didn't deserve to die like that. It wasn't suicide, was it?"
"I really don't know the details," I said cautiously.
"I know it wasn't," she said decisively. "And I have my suspicions. That's what I want to talk to you about."
"Mrs. Folsby, if you know anything relating to Marcia's death, don't you think you should speak to the police? Sergeant Al Rogoff is handling the case. You've met him."
"No," she said determinedly. "This is something I don't want to tell the police. Because then they'll want a sworn statement and I'll get all involved and might even be forced to testify in court. And I really don't have any proof. But I know what I know, and I've got to tell someone. Please, Mr. McNally. I'll feel a lot better if I tell you, and then you can do whatever you think best. At least my conscience will be clear."
"This sounds serious," I said.
"It is serious. Will you meet with me?"
"Of course. Would you care to have lunch someplace or come to my office?"
"Oh no," she said immediately, "that won't do at all. Could you possibly come over here to my sister's home in West Palm Beach?"
"Be glad to," I told her, and she gave me the address. We agreed to meet at eleven o'clock on Friday morning.
"Thank you so much," she said, and the chirp came back into her voice. "You don't know what a relief it will be to tell someone. I haven't been able to sleep a wink since Marcia died."
And she hung up. Al Rogoff accuses me of overusing the word "intriguing." But at that moment I couldn't think of a better one.
I had absolutely no idea of what Mrs. Jane Folsby wished to reveal to me, so I discarded that topic instanter. I would learn on the morrow.
As for CW's admission that his marriage depended upon his signing a five-million-dollar agreement with his bride-to-be, I could only conclude that Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth might not be as witless as I had assumed. And further, the senior McNally had been his usual omniscient self when he had described marriage as a contractual obligation.
What was perhaps most astonishing to me was my own ingenuousness. When I first met Theodosia Johnson I was convinced her nature had to be as pure as her beauty. Then, after I had been privileged to view that blue butterfly, I became aware of her fiercely independent willfulness. And now third thoughts had superseded the second; she was apparently a young lady with a shrewd instinct for the bottom line.
But then my musing veered from the relations of Madam X with the Chinless Wonder to her relations with yrs. truly. It occurred to me that Theo had been aware from the start that I had been assigned to investigate her bona fides. During that demented deli luncheon, her father had denied she knew of my role. But Hector, I now reckoned, was as consummate a liar as I.
And if Theo was cognizant of what I was about, perhaps the granting of her favors (with the promise of more to come) was her astute method of insuring my willing cooperation in her endeavor to snare the heir to the Smythe-Hersforth fortune. It's possible that was her motive, was it not? Naturally I preferred to believe she had succumbed to the McNally charm. But I could not delude myself by completely rejecting the notion that she had been the seductress and I the object of her Machiavellian plotting.
I simply did not know. And so I left immediately for the Pelican Club bar, seeking inspiration.
14
My parents were not present that evening, having been invited to dinner at the home of octogenarian friends celebrating the birth of their first great-grandchild. And so I dined in the kitchen with the Olsons, and a jolly time was had by all. Ursi served a mountainous platter of one of her specialties: miniature pizzas (two bites per) with a variety of toppings. Romaine salad with vinaigrette dressing. Raspberry sorbet on fresh peaches for dessert. (Please don't drool on this page.)
That delightful dinner numbed me, but I was able to work on my journal in lackadaisical fashion until it became time to depart for my meeting with Sgt. Rogoff. Obeying my mother's dictum—"Never visit without bringing a gift."—I stopped en route to pick up a cold six-pack of Corona. It is one of Al's favorites, but I must admit that when it comes to beers he has no animosities that I'm aware of.
Rogoff's "wagon" is a double mobile home set on a concrete foundation and furnished in a fashion that would make any bachelor sigh with content. Comfort is the theme, and everything is worn and shabby enough so you feel no restraint against kicking off your shoes.
The barefoot host was wearing jeans and a snug T-shirt, and when he uncapped the beer I had brought he put out a large can of honey-roasted peanuts. I said, "Al, I speak more as friend than critic, but your waistline is obviously expanding exponentially. To put it crudely, pal, you're cultivating a king-sized gut."
"So what?" he said. "I've noticed you're no longer the thin-as-a-rail bucko you once were."
"Touché," I said, "and I hope it will be the last of the evening. I've been meaning to ask, did you ever get to see that portrait of Theodosia Johnson by Silas Hawkin in the Pristine Gallery?"
We were sprawled in oak captain's chairs at the sergeant's round dining table. He had put on a cassette of the original cast recording of "Annie Get Your Gun," and what a delight it was to hear Ethel Merman belt out those wonderful tunes, even if the volume was turned down low.
"Oh yeah," Rogoff said, "I saw it. Great painting. And a great model. She's a knockout."
"My sentiments exactly," I said.
He looked at me quizzically. "Taken with the lady, are you?"
"Somewhat."
"You're asking for trouble."
"Odd you should say that, Al. Priscilla Pettibone at the Pelican Club told me the same thing."
"Smart girl," he said. "But I don't expect you to take her advice or mine. You're a hopeless victim of your glands. But enough of this brilliant chitchat. I've got the skinny on Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler. The agreement was that you tell me why you want it before I deliver. So let's hear."
"It's a long story."
He shrugged. "And it's a long night. We've got your six-pack and another of Molson in the fridge. Get started."
I told him everything relevant: my first glimpse of Hagler while I was with Shirley Feebling; learning that Hagler was one of Hector Johnson's bank references; his hole-in-the-wall office as an investment adviser; my luncheon with the two men; and my accidental meeting with Hagler when I had traveled to Fort Lauderdale to question Pinky Schatz.
"My, my," Rogoff said when I finished, "you have been a busy little snoop, haven't you. You figure these two guys are close?"
"Peas in a pod."
"And you think Hagler shot Shirley Feebling?"
"That's my guess."
"Motive?"
"Haven't the slightest," I admitted. "Pinky Schatz might know, but she's not talking. At least not to me."
"How did you get chummy with her in the first place?"
"Told her I was Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth."
The sergeant laughed. "What a scammer you are! If you ever turn your talents to crime, Flor
ida will be in deeeep shit. Well, it's not my case but I'll give Lauderdale Homicide a call and tell them about this Reuben Hagler. I don't think I've ever seen the guy. What's he like?"
"Dracula."
"That sweet, huh? And what was the name of the woman you talked to?"
"Pinky Schatz. She's a nude dancer at the Leopard Club."
"Your new hangout?" he said. "Well, I guess it's better than collecting stamps."
"Oh, shut up," I said. "Now tell me what you learned from Michigan."
"Hector Johnson used to be a stock broker. Racked up for securities fraud. He was fined, made restitution, and was banned from the securities business for life. He never did hard time but apparently while he was in jail for a few weeks he met Reuben Hagler. This Hagler has a nasty file: attempted robbery, felonious assault, stuff like that. He's done prison time: three years for rape. He was also suspected of being an enforcer for local loan sharks."
"Sounds like he'd be capable of killing Shirley Feebling."
"I'd say so," Rogoff agreed. "And now he's an investment adviser in Fort Lauderdale?"
"That's what the sign on his office claims. But in view of Johnson's history, Hagler might be a front and Hector is calling the shots."
"Wouldn't be a bit surprised. What do you suppose Johnson's angle is on all this?"
I shook my head. "Can't figure it," I confessed, "but there's obviously frigging in the rigging."
We sat in silence awhile, trying to imagine scenarios that made some loopy kind of sense. But neither of us had any suggestions to offer.
"Al," I said, "how did you make out this morning when you talked to Louise Hawkin?"
"You were right," he said. "The lady was totally befuddled. And you know what? I think Hector Johnson means to keep her that way."
I will not say his comment was the key to the whole meshugass. But it did start me thinking in a new direction. I began to get a vague notion of what might be going on.
"Do you believe that letter Marcia Hawkin gave me?" I asked the sergeant. "Do you think she really did kill her father?"
He shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe yes, maybe no. If he had given her motive, I'd be more certain one way or the other."
McNally's Risk Page 17
