McNally's luck (mcnally)

by Lawrence Sanders

  "Are you sure you don't want the name of their dentist?" Hogan asked.

  "I know it's a lot of work, Tim," I said, "but see what you can do, will you?"

  "What's in it for me?" he asked.

  "I won't tell the old man you're peddling Irish Sweepstakes tickets on company time."

  "That's called extortion," he said.

  "It is?" I said. "I could have sworn it was blackmail. Whatever, do your best, Tim."

  Back in my private closet, I got busy on the phone calling a number of contacts at banks, brokerage houses, and credit rating agencies. Most of the people I buzzed were fellow members of the Pelican Club, and the only price I had to pay for the financial lowdown I sought on the Glorianas was the promise of a dinner at the Pelican.

  It was late in the afternoon before I finished my calls, and a subdued growl from the brisket reminded me that other than breakfast the only nourishment I had had all day was a glass of iced tea and a cigarette. I was heading out the door for a pit stop at the nearest watering hole when a jangling phone brought me back to my desk. It was Sgt. Rogoff.

  "I'm phoning from the airport," he said. "I just checked with the station and they told me you called."

  "What are you doing at the airport?" I asked. "Leaving for Pago Pago?"

  "Don't I wish," he said. "Actually I wanted to make sure Roderick Gillsworth made his flight. He's taking the casket up north."

  "And he did?"

  "Yeah, he's gone. I'm a little antsy about letting him go, but he swears he'll be back in a couple of

  days. He better be or I'll look like a first-class schmuck for letting him go."

  "Al, don't tell me you still suspect him?"

  "No, but he's a material witness, isn't he?"

  "What kind of condition was he in?"

  "It's my guess he was nursing a hangover."

  "Shrewd guess," I said; "When I left him last night he was sopping up the sauce like Prohibition was just around the corner. Listen, Al, I've got to talk to you."

  "That's what we're doing."

  I sighed. "You want me to be precise? Very well, I shall be precise. It is extremely urgent that I meet personally with you, Sergeant Rogoff, since there are certain letters I wish to show you that may prove to be of some importance in your current homicide investigation. There, how's that?"

  "What letters?" he demanded.

  "Al," I said, "you're going to kill me."

  "Cheerfully," he said.

  9

  Al told me he wanted to drive back to the Gillsworth home to make certain the poet had locked up when he left. I said I'd meet him in an hour.

  "Take your time," he said. "I'll be there awhile."

  I thought that an odd thing to say but made no comment. I grabbed the envelope with the Willigan letters and rode the elevator down to our underground garage. I waved to the security guard and mounted the Miata for the canter home.

  No one was about in the McNally castle so I hustled into the kitchen and slapped together a fat sandwich of salami on sour rye, slathered with a mustard hairy enough to bring tears to your baby blues. I cooled the fire with a chilled can of Buckler non-alcoholic beer, then ran upstairs to get Gills-worth's house keys in case I arrived before Rogoff.

  But when I got there, a police car was parked in the driveway and the front door of the house was open. I walked in and called, "Al?"

  "In here," he yelled, and I found him sprawled in a flowered armchair in the sitting room where Lydia had been murdered. He hadn't taken off his cap, and he was smoking one of his big cigars.

  "Make yourself at home," I said.

  "I already have," he said. "Let's see those cock-amamy letters you were talking about."

  I tossed him the envelope. "Photocopy of the first received by Harry Willigan. The second is the original. Handle it with care; it might have prints."

  He read both letters slowly while I lounged on a wicker couch and lighted an English Oval. Then he looked up at me.

  "Same paper," he said. "Looks like the same ink, same typeface, same even right-hand margins."

  "That's right," I said. "The reason I haven't shown them to you before is that the client forbade it. You know Willigan?"

  "I know him," he said grimly. "A peerless horse's ass."

  "I concur," I said. "And if he ever finds out I've told you about the catnapping, he'll be an ex-client and probably sue McNally and Son for malpractice. Al, will you please keep a lid on this? My father knows I'm showing you the letters; it was his decision. All we ask in return is your discretion."

  "Sure," he said, "I'm good at that. What have you done so far about finding the damned cat?"

  "Not a great deal," I said. "One thing I did do- and this will probably give you a laugh: I went to Hertha Gloriana, the psychic, and asked her help in locating Peaches."

  But he didn't laugh. "Not so dumb," he said. "Cops hate to admit it, but psychics and mediums are consulted more often than you think. Mostly in missing person cases. What did she say?"

  I repeated Hertha's description of the room where she envisioned Peaches was being held prisoner. "She couldn't give me a definite location but said she'll keep trying. Do you think these ransom notes have anything to do with the Gillsworth homicide?"

  "Definitely," he said. "Too many similarities in the letters to call it coincidence. I'll get these off to the FBI and ask for a comparison. I'm betting they were all printed on the same machine."

  "So what do we do now?"

  "Nothing, until we get the FBI report. If Willigan gets instructions on delivering the fifty thousand, let me know and we'll try to set up a snare. I wonder if there's anything to drink in this place."

  "Let me take a look," I said. "I'm a neighbor; Gillsworth won't mind if I chisel a drink or two."

  I went into the kitchen and found my bottle of Sterling vodka in the freezer. It was still a third full. I brought that and two glasses into the sitting room, then made another trip to bring out a bowl of ice cubes and a pitcher of water.

  "Help yourself," I said to Rogoff. "It's McNally booze; I loaned it to Gillsworth last night when he ran dry."

  We built drinks for ourselves and settled back. It was really a very attractive, comfortable room-if you didn't look at the bloodstains that had not yet been scrubbed away or painted over.

  "That cane that killed her," the sergeant said. "You told me Mrs. Gillsworth showed it to you."

  "That's right."

  "Did you touch it?"

  "No, she held it while she was telling me about it."

  "The shank has a lot of prints," Al said. "Hers, Gillsworth's, some other."

  "Probably the antique dealer who sold it to her."

  "Probably, and any other customers who picked it up in his shop. But it also has some interesting par-tials. Our print expert says they were made by someone wearing latex gloves."

  "The killer?"

  "Seems likely, doesn't it? The latex prints were over the old ones, so I've got to figure they were the last to be made."

  "Where does that leave you?"

  "Out in left field-unless you spot a guy in the Pelican Club wearing latex gloves."

  "Surgeons use them."

  "And house painters, window washers, people who scrub floors, dentists, and your friendly neighborhood proctologist. How are you doing with the Glorianas?"

  "They're setting up a private seance for me this week. Irma is handling it."

  "So you met that bimbo. Did she come on to you?"

  "I don't think she's a bimbo, Al, and she didn't come on to me."

  He looked at me quizzically. "But didn't you get the feeling that if you hit on her she wouldn't be insulted?"

  "Maybe," I said warily. "But I think she's a very complex woman."

  "You and your complexities," he said disgustedly. "You can't call a spade a spade. To you it's a sharp-edged implement used for digging that can be inserted into the ground with the aid of foot pressure. To me Irma Gloriana is a hard case with a bottom-li
ne mentality."

  I let it go. Al thinks like a policeman. I think like an aged preppy.

  "I know you've checked the Glorianas through records," I said. "Anything?"

  "No outstanding warrants," he reported. "I've got a lot of queries out and I'm waiting to hear. Something may turn up-but don't hold your breath."

  I told him about the inquiries I had made to determine the Glorianas' financial status.

  "Good going," he said. "I'm betting they're on their uppers-but that's just a guess. Elegant vodka, Archy."

  "It's all yours," I said, finishing my drink and rising. "I've got to get home for the family cocktail hour or mommy and daddy will send out the bloodhounds. Something you should be aware of, Al: You're not Roderick Gillsworth's favorite police officer."

  "Tell me something I don't know. And you think I lose sleep over it?"

  "He asked if he could phone me from up north and get a report on the investigation. He thinks you're holding out on him."

  "I am," Rogoff said with a hard smile. "Do me a favor, will you? If he calls you, tell him I've been acting very mysteriously and you think I've got a hot lead I'm not talking about."

  "Do you? Have a hot lead?"

  "No."

  "Then why should I tell him that?"

  "Just to stir him up, keep him off balance."

  "Is your middle name Machiavelli or Borgia?"

  "It happens to be Irving, but don't tell anyone."

  I laughed and started out, then paused. "You're staying?" I asked him.

  "For a while. I thought I'd look around the house."

  "What for?"

  "One never knows, do one?"

  "Hey," I protested, "that's my line."

  "So it is," Al said, "and you're welcome to it."

  He was pouring himself another shot of Sterling when I left.

  I started the Miata and drove up Via Del Lago toward the beach. As I did, a car turned off Ocean Boulevard and came toward me. I recognized that clunker, an ancient Chevy that needed an IV. And as it passed I recognized the driver from her carroty hair. It was Marita, the Gillsworths' Haitian housekeeper who, according to Roderick, had been given two weeks off. I pulled to the curb, stopped, and watched in my side mirror.

  Marita parked next to the police car, not at all daunted, got out, and went into the house. She was a tubby little woman who walked with a rolling gait. And there was no mistaking that dyed hair.

  I started up again and drove homeward. I never doubted for a moment that she had been summoned by Sgt. Rogoff. Their meeting was prearranged, but for what purpose I couldn't even guess. Obviously Al wasn't telling me everything about his investigation. But then I wasn't telling him everything about mine: e.g., the relationship between Laverne Willigan and the Glorianas.

  There was something else I hadn't told him, something I hadn't really told myself, for it wasn't a fact or even an idea; it was just a vague notion. And I have no intention of telling you what it was at this juncture. You'd only laugh.

  The family cocktail hour and dinner went off with no untoward incidents that evening. After coffee, mother went to her television in the second-floor sitting room, father retired to Dickens in his study, and I trotted upstairs and got to work on my journal.

  I was interrupted that night by two phone calls. The first was from Connie Garcia.

  "You swine," she started. "Why haven't you called?"

  "Busy, busy, busy," I said. "I do have a job, you know, and I work hard at it. I'm not just another pretty face."

  She giggled. "I'll testify to that. Have you been seeing Meg Trumble lately?"

  "Haven't seen her in days," I said, feeling virtuous because I could be honest. "She may have gone back up north."

  "I hope she stays there," Connie said. "Listen, I have a family thing for tomorrow night-a bridal shower for one of my cousins-but I'm available for lunch. Make me an offer."

  "Connie, would you care to have lunch with me tomorrow?"

  "What a splendid idea! I'd love to. Pick me up around noon-okay?"

  "You betcha. I have a new hat to show you-a puce beret."

  "Oh God," she said.

  I went back to my journal, scribbling along at a lively clip until I started on an account of my meeting with Irma Gloriana. Then I paused to lean back and stare at the stained ceiling, trying to bring her into sharper focus.

  I had thought Frank Gloriana functioned as Her-tha's business manager. But Irma's role in setting up the seance and her authoritative manner led me to believe that perhaps she was the CEO of the Gloriana menage.

  If the Glorianas were engaged in hanky-panky, as I was beginning to think they were, then Irma was the Ma Barker of the gang, a very robust and attractive chieftain. That would make son Frank her foppish henchman. But what part was Hertha playing? I could not believe that sweet, limpid innocent could be guilty of any wrongdoing. Her lips were too soft and warm for a criminal. (I know that is a ridiculous non sequitur; you don't have to tell me.)

  My musings were interrupted by the second phone call, this one from Roderick Gillsworth in Rhode Island.

  "How are you getting along, Rod?" I asked.

  "As well as can be expected," he said. "Isn't that what doctors say when the patient is in extremis? The funeral is scheduled for tomorrow after a church service at noon. Then I am expected to attend a buffet dinner at the home of an elderly aunt. I fear she may serve dandelion wine or chamomile tea so I shall be well fortified beforehand, I assure you. I'll get through it somehow."

  "Of course you will. When are you returning?"

  "I have a flight on Wednesday morning. Tell me, Archy, is there anything new on the investigation?"

  I hesitated, long enough for him to say, "Well?"

  "Nothing definite, no," I said. "But I spoke to Sergeant Rogoff today and he was rather mystifying. He seemed quite pleased with himself, as if he had uncovered something important. But when I asked questions, all he'd do was wink."

  "Dreadful man," Gillsworth said. "If I can't get any satisfaction from him when I return on Wednesday, I intend to go directly to his superior and demand to be told what's going on."

  I made no reply to that. "I stopped by your home early this evening, Rod," I said. "Just to make certain it was locked up. Everything is fine."

  "Thank you, Archy," he said. "I may call you again tomorrow to ask if you have learned anything new."

  "Of course."

  "I appreciate all that you and your father have done for me. You might tell him that I've been thinking about my new will. I'll probably have the terms roughed out by the time I return."

  "Good," I said. "He'll be happy to hear that."

  I hung up, having lied as requested by Al Rogoff and wondering what the sergeant really wanted to accomplish by giving Gillsworth false hopes that the murder of his wife was nearing solution. Sometimes Al moves in mysterious ways.

  It was almost midnight before I finished my journal entries. I decided I didn't want to smoke, drink, or listen to Robert Johnson singing "Kindhearted Woman Blues." So I went to bed and thought happily of Meg Trumble arriving on the morrow. I hoped she would be kindhearted and I would have no cause to sing the blues.

  I was awakened early Tuesday morning by the growling of what sounded like a brigade of power mowers. I stumbled to the window and looked down to see our landscape gardener's crew hard at work. They showed up periodically to mow the lawn, trim shrubbery, and spray everything in sight.

  They were making such a racket that I knew it would be futile to try resuming my dreamless slumber-which explains why I was showered, shaved, and dressed in time to breakfast with my parents m the dining room. It was such a rare occurrence that they looked at me in astonishment and mother asked anxiously, "Are you ill, Archy?"

  I proved to her I was in fine fettle by consuming a herculean portion of eggs scrambled with onions and smoked salmon. Over coffee, I told my father about Gillsworth's call the previous evening, and that the poet would be returning on Wednesday ready
to draw up a new will.

  He looked up from The Wall Street Journal long enough to nod. I then informed him I expected a hectic day so I would drive to the office in my own car rather than accompany him in the Lexus. That earned me a second nod before he went back to his paper. The master doesn't like to be interrupted while he's checking the current value of his treasury bonds.

  I ran upstairs to collect a fresh box of English Ovals, my reading glasses, and the puce beret, which I rolled up and tucked into a jacket pocket. I wore my madras that day, a nifty number gaudy enough to enrage any passing bull.

  I arrived at my miniature office just in time to receive a phone call from Mrs. Irma Gloriana.

  "Good morning, Mr. McNally," she said crisply and didn't wait for a return greeting. "I have arranged a private seance for you and your companion tomorrow evening at nine o'clock. Will that be satisfactory?"

  "Completely," I said. "Shall we-"

  "It will be held here in the apartment," she continued. "We have found that an informal, homey setting is more likely to result in a successful session than a meeting held in a commercial office."

  "I can-"

  "Please be prompt," she went on, and I despaired of contributing to the conversation. "As you can imagine, these sittings are quite a strain on Hertha, and if they are delayed it only adds to her spiritual tension."

  "We'll be on time," I said hurriedly and just did get it out before she hung up.

  What a peremptory woman she was! I wondered what had happened to her husband. Had he died of frustration because he couldn't get a word in edgewise? Or had he divorced her for a more docile woman who welcomed small talk and could schmooze for hours about his gastritis and her bunions? My own guess was that Irma's husband went out to buy a loaf of bread, vamoosed, and was now employed as a tobacco auctioneer.

  I worked fitfully on my expense account that morning, a monthly task that challenged my creativity. My labors were interrupted by three phone calls from informants I had queried about the Glorianas' financial status and credit rating.