McNally's Risk

by Lawrence Sanders

  I feared this monster was capable of collapsing my ribs or snapping my spine, and so I craned and fastened my teeth, uppers and lowers, onto his nose. Of course I had no intention of amputating his beezer. That would have left me with a mouthful of nostrils, an unappetizing prospect. No, I merely hoped to cause him intense pain. And I succeeded admirably. His roars of anguish were sweeter to my ears than Debussy's Clair de Lune.

  I increased the pressure, hearing the creaking of cartilage in his beak. His groans became gasping whimpers. I opened my mandibles, disengaged myself from his clutch, and stood back. He fell to his knees and I stooped and plucked the revolver from his nerveless grasp. He put both hands to his bleeding proboscis and continued to moan.

  I looked down at him and was tempted to utter a dramatic proclamation, such as "Sic semper tyrannis." Instead, I just said, "Tough shit," and rapped him on the occiput with the butt of his gun. It seemed to have little effect so I slugged him again and this time he slid face down onto the carpet. Kaput.

  I began my search, starting in the bedroom at the rear of the condo. Only one bedroom: that perplexed me but I continued to toss the entire apartment. Every few minutes I returned to see if the comatose Hector was stirring. If so, I'd give him another sharp tap on the noggin and he would lapse into deep slumber again.

  I was beginning to ransack the living room when I heard a heavy pounding on the front door. I rushed to the window and saw a police car parked outside, roof lights flashing. I yanked open the door to find Sgt. Al Rogoff with a young officer behind him. Both men had hands on their open holsters.

  "You okay?" Al asked anxiously.

  "Dandy," I assured him. "How did you find me?"

  "I was a few minutes late getting to your garage. I stayed in there for almost half an hour. When neither you nor Johnson showed up I knew something had gone wrong. His condo was the obvious place to start looking for you. Did everything go like you figured?"

  "Pretty much," I said. "Come on in."

  They followed me into the living room and looked down at the prone Hector Johnson. Rogoff knelt and rolled him over.

  "What happened to his nose?" he asked. "Did you bop him?"

  "No," I said, "I bit him."

  Al looked at me sorrowfully. "And I thought you were a gourmet," he said.

  The two cops hauled Johnson to his feet. He regained a groggy consciousness, but they had to hold him upright. The sergeant cuffed him and they hustled him outside and thrust him into the back of the squad car. Rogoff returned, leaving the front door of the condo open. I handed him Johnson's revolver.

  "This might be the gat used to kill Shirley Feebling," I told him.

  "Gat?" he said. "I haven't heard that word since Cagney died." He examined the gun. "It could be," he admitted. "It's the right caliber. I'll send it down to Lauderdale for tests. What about the painting?"

  "Haven't found it yet," I said. "I was just starting on this room when you showed up."

  We searched and came up with zilch. Rogoff went into the kitchen and came back with two tumblers of Chivas and water on the rocks. He handed me one.

  "Drink it," he advised. "You look a little puffy around the gills, and Johnson will never miss it."

  He sat on the couch and I fell into the armchair recently occupied by mine host.

  "Maybe he burned the painting," the sergeant said. "Getting rid of incriminating evidence."

  I shook my head. "I don't think so, Al. That nude is valuable, and I can't see Johnson destroying anything that might prove profitable."

  "Then what the hell did he do with it? Put it in storage?"

  "Maybe he left it at Louise Hawkin's place," I suggested.

  "That's a possibility. Or maybe—hey, why are you grinning like that?"

  "I know where it is," I said. "Not exactly 'The Purloined Letter' but close to it."

  "Cut the crap," Rogoff said roughly. "Where is it?"

  "You're sitting on it."

  "What?"

  "The one place we didn't look. Under that ghastly couch."

  I flopped down on my knees and dragged it out. I propped it up in the armchair and we stared at it. It seemed in good condition, a bit smeared but easily restored. The composition was classic, the colors vibrant, the pose almost lascivious. Perhaps wanton would be a better word: The model was more naked than nude. I looked for the tattoo of the blue butterfly and there it was.

  "Sensational," Al breathed. "Better than that portrait of her at the Pristine Gallery. She was making it with Silas?"

  "Whenever it pleased her," I said. "She's a free spirit. But she admits it costs. Naturally Silas was eager."

  "That's why his daughter did him in?"

  "Motive enough, wouldn't you say, Al? Marcia was a woman scorned. Daddy had brief affairs before, but Madam X was an obsession. I can understand that."

  "Who?" he said, puzzled. "Madam X?"

  "That's what I call her. So Marcia killed him, just as her letter said, and swiped the painting that infuriated her. But then she needed money and realized she had the perfect blackmail bait. If she showed the nude to Chauncey and Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth, the marriage would be canceled. Hector didn't have the cash she demanded so he had to put her down and grab the painting. I imagine Reuben Hagler helped him. It would be a two-man job to strangle Marcia and push her Jeep off the pier into the lake."

  Rogoff took a deep breath. "All because of a beautiful broad," he said.

  I was about to quote, "Beauty is power," when, as if on cue, we heard a car pull up outside. We moved to the open door to see Theodosia Johnson slide out of the white Lincoln. She paused a moment when she saw my Miata and the police car. She went over to peer in at the manacled Hector. Then she came marching into the house and confronted us. How I admired her! She was erect, shoulders back, eyes angry.

  "What's going on here?" she demanded fiercely.

  The sergeant showed his ID. "I'm afraid I'll have to take you in, miss," he said.

  "Do you have a warrant?" she said stiffly.

  "No, ma'am," Al said, "but I have probable cause coming out my ears. Do you wish to resist?"

  She considered for the briefest of moments. "No," she said, "I'll come along."

  Rogoff took her arm lightly, but she turned to me.

  "Archy," she said, "I'm very fond of you."

  "Thank you," I said faintly.

  "And if you feel sorry for me I'll never forgive you."

  I felt like weeping but a cliché saved me. "You're a survivor," I told her.

  "Yes," she said, lifting her chin, "I am that."

  She gave me a flippant wave and Sgt. Rogoff led her outside to join Hector. Eventually he returned. By that time I had finished my drink and his as well.

  "What are you going to charge her with?" I asked him.

  He shrugged. "Enough to convince her to make a deal. You had eyes for her, didn't you?"

  "I did," I said, "and I do. I can't see where she did anything so awful. I think her father was the main offender."

  Al didn't look at me. "Archy, Hector isn't her father. I heard from Michigan this afternoon. Her real name isn't Johnson; it's Burkhart or Martin or Combs or whatever she wants it to be. She was a cocktail waitress in Detroit. Model. Party girl. Arrested twice for prostitution. No convictions. She's been Hector's live-in girlfriend for the past three years."

  "Oh," I said.

  18

  I arrived home shortly after midnight. Lights were still glowing in my father's study. That was uncommon; usually m'lord is abed by eleven o'clock. He met me at the back door.

  "You're all right, Archy?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir, I'm fine."

  "Good. Did things go as you hoped?"

  "Mostly."

  He nodded. "Let's have a nightcap."

  We went into his study. I was hoping for a cognac, but he poured us glasses of wine. That was okay; any port in a storm. We got settled and he looked at me inquiringly.

  I started with a brief description of the murd
er of Silas Hawkin.

  "Marcia actually killed her father?" the patriarch said, aghast.

  "Yes, sir. But she had been sexually abused from childhood. Now I think she was more than disturbed; she was psychotic. Understandable. Her father's affair with Theodosia Johnson was, in Marcia's raddled mind, his final act of cruelty and betrayal."

  "What about the Johnsons? What was their role?"

  "I think the three of them—Theodosia, Hector and Reuben Hagler—came down to Palm Beach from Michigan about a year ago with a definite plan. Their financial resources were limited but their main asset was Theo, her beauty and charm. The idea was to marry her off to a wealthy bachelor and take him for whatever they could grab."

  "An intrigue as old as civilization."

  "Yes, father, it is. The only difference was that these creatures were willing to murder to achieve their goal. I believe they thought of Shirley Feebling and Marcia Hawkin merely as impediments to their success. Shirley threatened to make Chauncey's love letters public unless he married her, and so she had to be eliminated. I suspect it was Reuben Hagler who shot her. And Marcia Hawkin threatened to show her father's nude portrait of Theo to Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth. That would have resulted in the marriage being called off or Chauncey being disinherited. And so Marcia also had to be eliminated. I have the feeling that Hector Johnson was guilty of that homicide."

  "Despicable!" father said and rose to refill our glasses. When he was seated again I told him of the personal history of Theodosia Johnson.

  The pater looked at me keenly. "You were attracted to this woman, Archy?"

  "I was," I admitted. "Still am."

  He sighed. "It never ceases to amaze me when talented people, intelligent people, imaginative people turn their energies to crime. One wonders what they might have achieved if they had devoted their talent, intelligence, and imagination to legal pursuits. The waste! When virtues are put in the service of vice it becomes not only a societal tragedy but a personal disaster."

  I nodded gloomily. I was really in no mood for his philosophizing. We sat in silence for several minutes, sipping our port, and I could see he had gone into his mulling status. I wondered what was stirring in the dim recesses of his mazy mind. Finally he spoke.

  "I think you have done an excellent job, Archy, and you are to be commended."

  "Thank you."

  "Not only have you cleared up a disagreeable mess but I believe it quite likely you have prevented one and possibly two homicides."

  I stared at him in astonishment. "Prevented? Homicides? How so?"

  "Hasn't it occurred to you that if Chauncey had signed the prenuptial agreement and married the young woman he might have suffered an early demise, perhaps in an accident craftily planned by this gang of miscreants. Or, in lieu of that, they might have plotted to arrange the death of Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth first. Chauncey would inherit, and then he would be exterminated."

  I sucked in my breath. "Leaving Theodosia Johnson with the Smythe-Hersforth millions."

  "Exactly."

  "Do you really believe they planned that scenario, father?"

  "I do," he said decisively. "From what you have told me, I am convinced these people are sociopaths. They are totally devoid of any moral sense. Nothing is good—except money—and nothing is bad. Things just are. And if you believe that, you can commit any heinous act carelessly without a twinge of guilt or remorse."

  I finished my wine and rose. "I think I better go up," I said. "It's been a long, tiring night."

  "Of course," he said, looking at me sympathetically. "Get a good sleep."

  But it was not a good sleep; it was fitful and troubled, thronged with visions I could not identify except that I knew they were dark and menacing. My bed became a battleground on which I fought demons and constantly looked about for hidden assassins.

  It was no wonder that when I finally slept I did not awake until almost noon on Tuesday morning. I staggered to the window and saw the sky had cleared, the sun shone and, I presumed, somewhere birds were chirping.

  I took a hot shower, shaved, and dressed with special care. Not because I had important social engagements that afternoon but I needed the lift that nifty duds always give me. I went downstairs to a deserted kitchen, inspected the larder, and settled on a brunch of a garlic salami and cheddar sandwich (on pump) and a frosty bottle of Heineken. The old double helix began twisting in the wind.

  I went first to my father's study, sat at his desk, used his phone, and called Sgt. Rogoff.

  "What's happening?" I asked him.

  He laughed. "It's finger-pointing time," he said. "Hagler, Johnson, and the bimbo are—"

  "She's not a bimbo," I protested.

  "Whatever," he said. "Anyway, the three of them are all trying to cut deals. Johnson says Hagler shot Shirley Feebling. Hagler says Johnson strangled Marcia Hawkin. These are real stand-up guys. Not!"

  "What do you think they'll draw?"

  "You want my guess? I don't think they'll get the chair. The evidence isn't all that conclusive. But they'll plea-bargain down to hard time."

  "And Theodosia?"

  "She'll walk," he admitted. "She's being very cooperative. And she agrees that she'll get out of Florida and never come back. Good riddance."

  "Yes," I said.

  I wanted to tell him that I thought Madam X was a self-willed, undisciplined woman who just didn't give a damn. But she was smart, sensitive, and fully aware of her excesses and how they doomed her. I didn't say it, of course; Rogoff would have hooted with laughter.

  "Al," I said, "thank you for your help and keep me up to speed on this magillah. Okay?"

  "Sure," he said.

  I hung up and sat a few moments in the guv's chair, reflecting. I shall not claim I was wading barefoot through the slough of despond. It wasn't true and you wouldn't believe me anyway. Instead, I found myself in a remarkably serene mood. Which made me wonder if I had truly been in love with an associate of killers, a woman soon to be banished from the sovereign State of Florida.

  I had been enthralled by her and still was. If she had used me, where was the harm? I had enjoyed it. I knew I did have and still had a strong affection for her. Was that romantic love? I didn't know.

  I went outside into a brilliant noonday. I decided to drive down the coast and let the sun shrivel and the wind blow away all complexities. I wanted my life to be simple, clear, easy to understand. I really enjoy a broiled lobster more than paella. And that jaunt did rejuvenate me. Except that I found myself touring past the Ocean Grand and through Mizner Park, places where Theo and I had memorable luncheons. But I didn't stop.

  I drove directly back to Palm Beach and arrived in time to visit the Pristine Gallery before it closed for the day. Silas Hawkin's portrait of Madam X was no longer displayed in the front window nor was it displayed within. The proprietor was wandering about disconsolately.

  "Mr. Duvalnik," I said, "what happened to that beautiful painting by Hawkin?"

  "Haven't you heard?" he said. "Theodosia Johnson has been arrested, the marriage is off, and now Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth refuses to pay. He commissioned it and I suppose I could sue, but I don't want the hassle."

  "So it becomes the property of Mrs. Louise Hawkin?"

  "I suppose so," he said glumly. "I talked to the widow and she really doesn't want it. Told me to sell it for whatever I could get. One of the tabloids offered a thousand dollars but that's ridiculous. I end up with three hundred? No thanks. I spent more than that on Hawkin's exhibition."

  "I'd be willing to pay ten thousand for the portrait," I told him, "if you'd sell it to me on time, perhaps ten or twelve monthly payments."

  "You're serious?"

  "I am."

  He brightened. "I'll speak to Mrs. Hawkin. I'll tell her of your offer and urge her to accept."

  "Thank you, Mr. Duvalnik," I said. "I admire the painting and would be proud to own it."

  "And why not?" he cried. "It's a masterpiece!"

  "It is
indeed," I agreed.

  I tooled homeward, convinced that eventually I would become the legal owner of Silas Hawkin's painting of Madam X. Not the nude. I knew that wood panel would remain in police custody as evidence during a criminal investigation. I had no interest in its final disposition. I didn't want it. Too many bad vibes.

  But I wanted the formal pose: Theo seated regally in an armchair framed by crimson drapes, her lips caught in an expression so mystifying that it made Mona Lisa's smile look like a smirk.

  I would not hang the portrait on the wall of my bedroom, of course. That would be a bit much. I would hide it in a closet, and occasionally I would take it out, prop it up, and look at it fondly while remembering and perhaps listening to a tape of Leon Redbone singing "Extra Blues."

  I had time for a curtailed ocean swim, then returned home to shower and dress in a slapdash fashion for Lady Cynthia Horowitz's informal seafood buffet. We skipped the family cocktail hour that evening, and at seven o'clock the McNallys set out. My parents led the way in father's black Lexus. I followed in my flaming Miata, feeling more chipper than I had any right to be.

  The Horowitz estate was all aglitter with ropes of Chinese lanterns, and a goodly crowd had already assembled by the time we arrived. Tables had been set up around the pool and the buffet was being arranged by caterers, pyramiding seafood onto wooden trenchers lined with cracked ice. A small outdoor bar was already busy, and in the background a tuxedoed trio played Irving Berlin.

  I sought out our hostess. Lady Cynthia was an old friendly enemy and she gave me a warm welcoming kiss on the lips.

  "My favorite rogue," she said, tapping my cheek. "Have you been behaving yourself, lad?"

  "No," I said, "have you?"

  "Of course not," she said. "At my age naughtiness is a necessity—like Fiberall."

  "At my age, too," I said, and we both laughed as she drifted away to greet newly arriving guests.