McNally's Risk

by Lawrence Sanders

  I went into my father's study and sat in his chair behind his desk. Anyone spotting me there might have thought I was contemplating a regicide so I could inherit the throne. Actually, all I wanted to do was use His Majesty's telephone directory. I phoned Lolly Spindrift's newspaper, knowing he worked Saturdays to meet his deadline for the Sunday edition.

  "Lol?" I said. "Archy McNally here."

  "Can't talk," he said shortly. "Busy."

  "Too bad," I said. "And I have something so choice."

  "Never too busy to chat," he said merrily. "What have you got for me, darling?"

  "What are you working on?" I temporized. "Marcia Hawkin's death?"

  "Of course. It's the murder de jour. All of Palm Beach is nattering about it. And now I'll give you a freebie, only because it will be in my column tomorrow morning. Did you know the unfortunate victim had twice attempted suicide?"

  "No, I didn't know," I said slowly, "but I can't say I'm surprised. Where did you hear that?"

  "Oh please," he said. "You know I protect my sources. Now what do you have for me?"

  "I went first last time," I reminded him. "It's your turn."

  He sighed. "What a scoundrel you are. Very well, what do you want?"

  "About Theodosia Johnson, your Madam X . . . She's been in Palm Beach about a year. But only recently has she become the one-and-only of Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth. Do you know if she dated other men before meeting Chauncey?"

  His laugh was a bellow. "Oh, laddie, laddie," he said, "do you think she sat home knitting antimacassars? Of course she saw other men. A horde. A multitude. Very popular, our Theodosia. I have the names of all her swains in my file and, frankly, sweets, I'm amazed that you're not included."

  "I am, too."

  "Perhaps it was because her taste seemed to run to older men of wealth. That would remove you from her list of eligibles, would it not?"

  "Effectively," I said.

  "And now that I've paid my dues," he went on, "what delicacy do you have for me? Tit for tat, you know—although my personal preference is somewhat different."

  "I don't know how you can use this, Lol," I said, "but I'm sure you'll find a way. It concerns Hector Johnson, father of the beauteous Theo. He was racked up for securities fraud in Michigan. Spent some time in the local clink, paid a fine, made restitution, and was banned from the securities business for life."

  "Love it!" Lolly shrieked. "Just love it! Yes, I expect I shall find an occasion to use that gem one of these days. Ta-ta, luv, and keep in touch."

  I sat at father's desk a few moments longer, reflecting on what Spindrift had told me of Theo's social activities prior to her meeting Chauncey. It was easy to believe. A young woman of her multifarious charms would attract scads of beaux: single, married, divorced, or lonely in widowerhood. I was certain she had many opportunities to form a lasting relationship. But she had chosen Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth. Her selection of that noodle, I thought, was significant.

  I had intended to call a few pals and see if anyone was interested in a few sets of tennis or, in lieu of that, driving out to Wellington to watch polo practice while gargling something exotic like a Singapore Sling or a Moscow Mule. But instead I phoned Theodosia Johnson. If my choice was between tennis, polo, or her, it was strictly no contest.

  I was hoping Hector wouldn't answer, and he didn't. But when Theo said, "Hello?" her voice had the tone of sackcloth and ashes.

  "Archy," I said. "Good lord, you sound low. Anything wrong?"

  "A slight disagreement with daddy," she said, "and I'm still seething. But I'll recover. I always do. Archy, I'm so happy you called. I was beginning to think you had forgotten all about me."

  "Fat chance," I said. "Theo, how are you, other than suffering from the megrims."

  "What are megrims?"

  "Low spirits."

  "I'm suffering," she admitted. "Cheer me up."

  "How about this: I drop by around noonish and we drive down the coast. It's a super day and it would be a shame to waste it. We'll have lunch outside at the Ocean Grand and talk of many things."

  "Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—" she said.

  "Of cabbages—and kings—" I said.

  "And why the sea is boiling hot—" she said.

  "And whether pigs have wings," I finished, and she laughed delightedly.

  "The only poetry I know," she said. "Thank you, Archy; I feel better already. Yes, I accept your kind invitation."

  "Splendid. See you at twelve."

  I went back upstairs to take off jeans and T-shirt, shower, and don something more suitable for luncheon at the Ocean Grand with a smashing young miss. I settled on a jacket of plummy silk with trousers of taupe gabardine, and a shirt of faded blue chambray. Casual elegance was the goal, of course, and I believe I achieved it.

  Then I set out for my luncheon date with Madam X. A duplicitous plot was beginning to take form in that wok I call my brain, and if all went well I intended to start the stir-fry that scintillant afternoon.

  I had imagined Theo would wear something bright and summery, but that woman had a talent for surprise. She wore a pantsuit of black linen. No blouse. Her hair was drawn back and tied with a bow of rosy velvet. Very fetching, and I told her so.

  "No bra," she said.

  "I happened to notice," I said.

  She laughed. "Chauncey never would. And if he did, he'd be shocked."

  "Surely he's not that much of a prig."

  "You have no idea."

  Her obvious scorn of her fiancé discomfitted me. She could think those things, but wasn't it rather crass to speak of them to others? As I soon learned, she was in a sharp, almost shrewish mood that day.

  For instance, as we drove southward along the corniche I remarked, "I had the pleasure of meeting your father's business associate, Reuben Hagler, the other day."

  "Rube?" she said offhandedly. "He's a boozer."

  It wasn't her judgment that startled me so much as her use of the sobriquet "boozer." She might have said, "He drinks a little too much," but she chose the coarse epithet. It was not the first time I had noticed her fondness for vulgarisms. I hoped, for her sake, that her speech was more ladylike in the presence of Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth. That very proper matron, I suspected, would be tempted to put trousers on the legs of a grand piano.

  And not only did Theo seem in a perverse humor that afternoon but she made no effort to conceal her lack of restraint.

  "You were right," she said. "It's a super day. Why don't we just keep driving."

  "Where to?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Miami. The Keys. Check into some fleabag hotel for the weekend."

  "Theo, I don't think that would be wise. Do you?"

  "I guess not," she said. "Just dreaming."

  But I knew that if I kept driving and found a hotel that accepted guests without luggage, she would have happily acquiesced. Her unruliness was daunting.

  We arrived at the Ocean Grand and she was suitably impressed by the elegant marbled interior.

  "This is what it's all about, isn't it?" she commented.

  "You've lost me," I said. "All about what?"

  "You know, Archy. Money. Comfort. People to serve you. No problems. The lush life."

  There was such fierce desire in her voice that I didn't even attempt a reply. She had a vision and it would have been brutal to explain that what she sought was a chimera. She wouldn't have believed me anyway.

  We dined on the terrace of the bistro, overlooking the swimming pool. And beyond was a larger pool: the Atlantic Ocean. I suppose that setting and that luncheon came close to matching Theo's ideal. The omelettes were succulent, the salad subtly tartish, the glasses of chilled chenin blanc just right. And while we lived "the lush life," I initiated my intrigue.

  "Theo," I said earnestly, "I have a problem I hope you'll be able to help me with."

  "Oh?" she said. "What is it?"

  "First of all I want you to know that I have no desire whatsoever to
intrude on your personal affairs. Whatever you do or whatever you plan is no business of mine, and I don't want you to think I'm a meddler. But willy-nilly I've been handed a decision to make that concerns you."

  That caught her. She paused in the process of dredging a slice of smoked salmon from her omelette.

  "Archy," she said, "what is it?"

  "Well, Chauncey and I are really not close friends. Not buddy-buddy, you know, but more like casual acquaintances. However, on occasion he asks my advice on legal matters. I have tried to convince him that I am an ersatz lawyer—no license to practice:—and he'd do better to consult my father, who not only has the education and experience but is the attorney of record for the Smythe-Hersforth family. But I think Chauncey is somewhat frightened of my father."

  "Chauncey is frightened of many things," she said coldly.

  "That may be, but I must admit Prescott McNally can be overwhelming at times. He is a stringent man of high principles. Unbending, one might say. Chauncey prefers to discuss his problems with me."

  "And am I one of Chauncey's problems?"

  I waved that away. "Of course not. Not you personally. Chauncey declares he is deeply in love with you and I believe him. He wants very much to marry you. What he is concerned about is the prenuptial agreement you have requested."

  "Oh," she said. "That."

  "Theo, I definitely approve of what you're doing to ensure your future, although I do think five million is a wee bit high."

  "He can afford it," she said stonily.

  "Perhaps not now," I said. "I don't think his present net worth could accommodate it. But he'd certainly be capable of a five-million settlement after he inherits."

  "Yes," she said, "that's what I figured."

  A cool one, our Madam X!

  "But that's Chauncey's quandary, don't you see," I said. "I must tell you that Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth is not wildly enthusiastic about her son marrying. Not just to you but to any woman. You know what dominant mothers are like."

  "Do I ever!"

  "So if Chauncey tells her about the prenup, she may change her will and pull the plug on his inheritance."

  "Can she do that, Archy? He's her only child, you know."

  "True, and though I'm not too familiar with Florida inheritance law, I reckon Chauncey would be legally entitled to a certain percentage of her estate. I mean I doubt she could totally disinherit him. And if she tried, he could certainly contest the will. But what if she becomes so angered she decides to diminish her estate while she's still alive? Spend all her millions on a program for spaying cats, for instance. I'm jesting, of course, but it's her money and if she wants to give it all away, or most of it, to worthwhile charities while she's living, she's completely within her legal rights."

  Theo took a gulp from her wine glass. "Jesus!" she said. "We hadn't thought of that."

  Did you catch that "We"? I did.

  She gave me what I believe she thought was a brave smile, but it looked rather tremulous to me.

  "You don't think his mother will approve of a prenup agreement, Archy?"

  "I don't. Do you?"

  "I guess not," she said. "The old bitch doesn't even approve of me. I knew that from the start. What did you tell Chauncey to do?"

  "I stalled him. Until I had a chance to talk to you about it and see how you felt."

  She reached across the table to pat my cheek. "Good boy," she said.

  We were silent while our emptied plates were removed. We both declined coffee, but I ordered bowls of fresh raspberries.

  "You're a clever lad, Archy," Madam X said. "I'll just bet you've got an answer up your sleeve."

  "There is one possibility," I admitted, giving her a straight-in-the-eye stare. "Have your own attorney draw up the prenuptial agreement for five million. My father doesn't have to know about it and Chauncey's mother doesn't have to know about it."

  The simplicity of my solution stunned her and she took a moment to grasp it. "And you'll tell Chauncey to sign it?" she asked, almost breathlessly.

  I switched into my enigmatic mode and didn't give her a direct reply. "Think about it," I urged her. "Talk it over with your father. Frankly, Theo, I think it's your only hope. But it's your decision. Now let's eat our raspberries. Don't they look delicious!"

  "Archy," she said, "daddy is over at Louise Hawkins place."

  "Is he?" I said. "And when is he returning home?"

  "Probably tomorrow morning," she said, and we smiled at each other.

  I shall not attempt to apologize for my conduct during the remainder of that afternoon. I agree that "reprehensible" is as good an adjective as any to describe my behavior. But I do have an excuse: The devil made me do it.

  We drove back to Theo's condo. Once again she led me to that appalling cretonne-covered couch, and once again I saw the blue butterfly flutter and take wing.

  She was mystery incarnate. Ignoring her physical beauty—which I certainly did not—I sensed there was a fury in her convulsions. I do not believe I was the cause of her anger; it was her malignant destiny that enraged her, and she rebelled with puissance and a bravado that asserted her strength and independence.

  I returned home exhausted and saddened, although if what I suspected was accurate, there was little reason for my sorrow. Still, I find it depressing when people with admirable attributes put their talents to wicked use.

  I conducted myself with stately decorum during the evening routine of family cocktail hour and dinner. I do not believe either of my dear progenitors had any inkling of the deception I had practiced that afternoon.

  After dinner I retired upstairs to work on my journal. I had hardly started scribbling when Sgt. Al Rogoff phoned.

  "How many chukkers of polo did you play today?" he demanded.

  "None," I replied.

  "How many sets of tennis?"

  "None."

  "How many holes of golf?"

  "None."

  "Heavens to Betsy," he said, "what's happening to the primo playboy of Palm Beach? Then what have you been up to?"

  "Investigating," I said. "I do work occasionally, you know."

  "You could have fooled me," he said. "Hey, I told Lauderdale about Reuben Hagler and that Pinky Schatz. They can't locate him, but they've planted an undercover policewoman in the Leopard Club."

  "Yikes!" I said. "Surely not as a nude dancer."

  "Nope," Al said, laughing. "I guess she's not qualified. They put her in as a waitress. Her job is to buddy up to the Schatz woman and try to get her to spill."

  "It might work," I said, "but I doubt it."

  "Me, too," Rogoff admitted. "But one never knows, do one?"

  "Al, will you stop stealing my line? You're infringing my copyright."

  "Don't tell me you made it up."

  "No," I confessed, "it's not original. I think Louis Armstrong said it first, or maybe it was Fats Waller. I don't remember."

  "Talk about remembering," he said, "I just did. I owe you ten bucks."

  "What?" I said, and then I recalled our bet and knew the real reason he had phoned. "You mean that sheet in the back of Marcia Hawkin's Jeep had acrylic paint stains?"

  "Yep," he said, "but it wasn't a sheet. More like a drop cloth. Now tell me how you knew the stains were acrylic paint."

  "Gut instinct," I said, and Al, who has as much contempt for that phrase as I do, roared with laughter.

  "Bullshit!" he said. "You know something I don't know and you're holding out on me. This is a homicide investigation, you charlie, so let's have it."

  "I really didn't know," I said. "I was just guessing. Listen to this Al . . ."

  I told him of my conversations with Luther Grabow, the art supply dealer, and how Silas Hawkin had purchased a palette of acrylics to paint a nude on a wood panel.

  "Nice job, sherlock," Rogoff said when I had finished. "You figure the nude on wood was the painting Hawkin labeled 'Untitled' in his ledger?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  "Oh, boy," he said
. "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble."

  "It's 'Double, double toil and trouble,' " I told him.

  "Whatever," he said. "Got any idea who the model was?"

  "Nope."

  "Could it have been his daughter? She ices him like she said in that letter and then swipes the painting because she's afraid it might incriminate her."

  "Could be," I said. "You reckon she had it in the car when she went in the drink?"

  "A possibility," Rogoff said. "I'll send divers down to look around and see if they can spot it. Maybe it floated out of the Cherokee."

  "If it floated out," I said, "it would be on the surface, wouldn't it?"

  "Yeah, you're right. That scenario doesn't wash. But I still think she had the 'Untitled' painting in her possession sometime during the evening she was killed."

  "And now someone else has it?"

  "Sure," he said. "Unless she burned it or hacked it to splinters. That's what I like about my job: Everything is cut and dried."

  "I know what you mean. Al, did you hear anything from Michigan about Theodosia Johnson?"

  "Not yet. Archy, tell me something: Do you think the Shirley Feebling kill in Fort Lauderdale has anything to do with Marcia Hawkin's murder?"

  I hesitated. "Yes," I said finally.

  "Uh-huh," he said, "that's what I figured. Are the Johnsons involved?"

  "It's all supposition."

  "Sure it is," he agreed. "Like meat loaf; you don't know what's in it. We're tracing Marcia's movements the night she was killed and we've got what we tell the newspapers are 'promising leads.' Maybe they are, maybe they're not, but I'll keep working my end, old buddy, and you keep working yours. Eventually we may take the gold, though I'll settle for the bronze."

  "Me, too," I said.

  "See you," he said shortly, and hung up.

  I sat there, stared at my open journal, and decided I didn't want to labor on a Saturday night. So I pulled on a nylon golf jacket (Day-Glo orange) and clattered downstairs to my wheels. I headed south on Ocean Boulevard to eyeball the Hawkin home, Villa Bile. I didn't have to stop to see that Hector Johnson's white Lincoln was parked outside.