At that moment Sylvia came out of the loo, Tweeny clasping her by the elbow, and they walked toward us.
She took one look at me and gasped, “Dooley! What are you doing here? Have you been arrested, too?”
But Officer Alvarez escorted her firmly into the sergeant’s office and closed the door.
Al looked at me. “Dooley?” he said. “What’s that all about? You haven’t been getting any massages lately, have you?”
“No, no,” I said hurriedly. “It’s just the name I used at Delray Beach.”
“Dooley,” Rogoff repeated, grinning. “Beautiful.”
“Listen, Al,” I said, “if Lou Everton lets you question her in his presence, ask her if Thomas Bingham was in on the deal.”
“Who?”
“Thomas Bingham.”
“Who the hell is he?”
“A friend of Bodin’s. He might have been part of it.”
The sergeant looked at me reproachfully. “Have you been holding out on me again?”
“Al,” I said, “this Bingham is just a walk-on. He might or might not be involved. Ask Sylvia, will you?”
“All right,” he-said grudgingly, “I’ll ask.”
I saw Lou Everton coming through the front door and I went out the back, leaving the attorney and the police officer to their merry-go-round. I climbed into the Miata and headed for the Horowitz spread. I planned to do something exceedingly imprudent. If I had told Rogoff, he’d have had the pip.
Cut-rate justice, also known as plea bargaining, is as prevalent in Palm Beach as it is in Manhattan and everywhere else. Everton and the State Attorney would have disagreements, many arguments, and perhaps many drinks together. Eventually a quid pro quo would be forged: what Sylvia would deliver and the punishment she would receive.
My only problem with it, at the moment, was that it would take time. And there was always the possibility, of course, that Sylvia would refuse to peach on her muscleman. I could not believe loyalty was her strong suit, but I didn’t want to chance it.
So I drove beachward, too impatient to wait for a done deal. When I banged the brass clapper on the Horowitz front door, Mrs. Marsden opened it and didn’t even say hello.
“I hear the cops got the stamps back,” she said immediately, “and arrested the one who took them.”
“Mrs. Marsden,” I said, “the grapevine in this town is astounding. NASA should latch on to it, and they’d be hearing from Jupiter in seconds.”
“Then it’s true?”
I nodded. “The Inverted Jennies have been recovered. Happy?”
“Very,” she said, and led the way into the cavernous foyer.
I saw a set of matched luggage piled near the door. “Someone leaving?” I asked.
“Miss Stanescu,” the housekeeper said. “That Ken Bodin is going to drive her to the airport.”
“Then perhaps I’ll see her for a moment and say goodbye, if I may.”
“Sure, Mr. McNally,” she said. “She’s upstairs.” Then she suddenly grabbed my arm tightly and looked directly into my eyes. “Is everything going to be all right?” she demanded.
“Everything is going to be fine,” I assured her, wishing I was telling the truth. “Exactly the way it was before all this started.”
She nodded, but I knew she didn’t believe me. Things were never going to be exactly as they were before. But Mrs. Marsden had learned to endure change. I was still learning.
The door to Gina Stanescu’s bedroom was ajar, and I glimpsed her packing toiletries into a small leather case. I rapped on the doorjamb. She looked up, smiled, beckoned me in.
“I understand you’re departing, Miss Stanescu,” I said, “and just wanted to stop by to say farewell.”
“Not farewell,” she said. “I prefer the German auf Wiedersehen, which means until we see each other again.”
“Of course,” I said, “and I hope we do. I wish you a safe and pleasant trip home, and Miss Stanescu—” I paused, not wanting to make a promise I might not be able to fulfill.
“Yes?” she said.
“Keep believing in a miracle,” I said. “Even a very small one.”
“A petite miracle?” she said, her smile strained.
“Sometimes they do happen, you know.”
We shook hands and parted. It was my day for goodbyes. And I feared more lay ahead.
I went downstairs and out to the garage. Kenneth Bodin was wiping down the Rolls as gently as a groom might curry a derby winner. He turned around at my approach, glanced at me, went back to his task. His jacket was off, and in his form-fitting T-shirt with cutoff sleeves, he looked a proper anthropoid.
“I hear the cops got the stamps back,” he said, still turned away from me.
“That’s right,” I said breezily, “and they nabbed the woman who was trying to sell them. Sylvia Something-or-other. They’re questioning her now. They don’t think she was the thief, so they want to know who gave her the stamps to sell. I understand she’s singing like a bird.”
I had him pegged as a rash lad with nothing but ozone in his bean. I wanted to provoke him into doing something exceptionally stupid, such as taking off as soon as possible: added evidence of his guilt. In his lavender Volkswagen Beetle, he wouldn’t be hard to trace. And if I had any luck at all, he might even resist arrest. That would put the frosting on the éclair.
“How did the cops happen to catch her?” he asked in a low voice, buffing the brightwork on the Rolls.
“Oh, that was my doing,” I boasted, hoping my braggadocio would infuriate him even more. “I told the police to alert every stamp dealer in South Florida. I figured the guy who had the Inverted Jennies was such a complete moron he’d try to convert them to cash locally as quickly as possible. And that’s exactly what the imbecile did.”
Then, reckoning I had pushed him as hard and as far as I could, I called cheerily, “See you around,” and wandered away, well-pleased with myself.
I know it wasn’t Confucius, but it may have been Charlie Chan who said, “Man who pats himself on back risks broken arm.” Right on, Charlie.
I stopped at Consuela Garcia’s office simply because I wanted to see her again. She always gave me a lift. If Jennifer Towley was a marmoreal woman, Connie was a warm, fuzzy type, as comforting as a teddy bear. Also, she laughed at my jokes: an admirable quality.
She was on the phone, as usual, and waved me to a chair.
“Yes, that is correct,” she said in the cold, official tone she used when speaking to reporters. “We understand the police have recovered the stolen stamps. Naturally, Lady Horowitz is delighted. Yes, you may quote me on that. Thank you so much for calling.”
She hung up and grinned at me. “All’s well that ends well,” she said.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Also, look before you leap versus nothing ventured, nothing gained—and where does that leave anyone? How did Lady C. really take the news that her stamps had been found?”
Connie frowned. “Not with wild jubilation,” she said. “In fact, I thought she was shook. She snapped, ‘Who the hell cares?’ A typical Horowitz performance. Listen, Archy, if the stamps are back, it’s obvious she didn’t use them to pay off a blackmailer. So your whole plot is demolished—right?”
“Wrong,” I said. “There’s still plenty of evidence that someone is leaning on her.”
“And you’re going to keep following her?”
“Whenever I can. It’s in her own interest, Connie,” I added earnestly. “She may be in danger.”
She looked at me suspiciously—but what could I tell her? That I was still curious as to why Lady Horowitz wouldn’t reveal her whereabouts at the time Bela Rubik was killed? If I told Connie that, she’d tell me to get lost and probably never give me another “Hola!” as long as she lived.
“Well...” she said hesitantly, “just one more time. And that’s it. She’s taking off tomorrow at one o’clock; destination unknown—to me at least.”
“Thanks, Connie,” I said grateful
ly. “I do appreciate it. You seeing anyone regularly these days?”
“Yeah,” she said in a doleful voice, “my periodontist—and that’s not much fun. In case you ever break up with the Towley woman, I’m footloose and fancy-free.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said. “One more question: The DuPeys have left and Gina Stanescu is on her way; when are Doris and Harry Smythe going to brighten Florida by their absence?”
“Those dolts?” Connie said, then giggled. “Listen to this, Archy: The madam knows a retired British couple who live in Kashmir. They’re both horse people, and for years they’ve been trying to get Lady Horowitz to sell them a Remington bronze she owns. She’s refused up to now, but yesterday she phoned and said she’d sell them the bronze, but they have to invite the Smythes for a two-week stay, beginning immediately. So on Monday, Doris and Harry take off for Kashmir.”
I laughed. “Lady Cynthia is a professional conniver.”
“Oh sure,” Connie said. “And you don’t do too badly in that game yourself. You’re not in her class, of course, but I’d rank you as a talented amateur.”
I was wounded. If she had known what I was planning, she’d have upped my rating. Semipro, at least.
Chapter 17
ON THURSDAY MORNING, AFTER breakfast, I futzed around in my nest for an hour or so. I was in a smug mood, believing I was going to set the world aright and eventually get my eternal reward in Heaven. Or, prior to that, a weekend in Paris. Surely there was some way I would be honored for the good deeds I intended.
I decided I would motor at a leisurely pace to the office and spend time bringing my swindle sheet up-to-date. I had tabs for all those sherries consumed by Roberta Wolfson, plus bills for money spent on gas and the rental of the Ford Escort. And, of course, a few expenses of a more creative nature.
I came out into a nothing morning, the sky as colorless as a slate pavement, the air unmoving and damp. It was bloody hot, and a nice, refreshing cloudburst would have been a blessing. But that leaden sky offered no shadows and no hope. All in all, a grayish scene—enough to depress the most chipper of do-gooders and make one ponder the value of crawling out of bed on such a blah day.
I drove into town, thinking of how I might improve my shadowing technique when, later in the day, I tailed Lady Horowitz to her rendezvous at that dump near Manalapan, if that was again her destination. I decided to transfer my zoom binoculars from the glove compartment of the Miata to that of the Escort. I do believe I had some foolish notion of doing Inspector Clouseau: skulking in the underbrush and spying like a demented bird-watcher.
I pulled into the underground garage and glanced at the glassed booth inhabited by Herb, the security guard. I waved but drew no response; he had his nose deep in a paperback book, probably Fun with Piranha. I stopped alongside the Escort and climbed out of the Miata. As I did, Kenneth Bodin straightened up from behind a parked car and advanced toward me with a ferocious grin.
He was wearing jeans and a black leather jacket decorated with steel studs. In this heat? I wondered. Does vanity have no bounds? But then his hands came from behind his back, and I saw he was grasping a baseball bat. It was either a Louisville Slugger or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
He stepped close to me, drew back his shillelagh, and swung. I suspect he had eyes for my kidneys.
He was large and muscular. But dreadfully slow. The bat came around no faster than one of Jennifer Towley’s tennis serves. I leaned back, his cudgel whooshed past. I moved in, shifted my weight to my left leg, and kicked him briskly in the cojones. I am really not as effete as I may have given you reason to believe.
Bodin dropped the bat and fell to the concrete floor of the garage. He curled up into the fetal position, clutching the family jewels and making “Gaugh, gaugh, gaugh” sounds of pain and anguish I found delectable.
“Herb!” I shouted as loudly as I could, and the guard came lumbering.
He looked down at the writhing man on the floor, saw the baseball bat nearby and then, with some difficulty, drew his long-barreled Colt from a dogleg holster. He pointed his ancient weapon at Bodin.
“You okay, Mr. McNally?” he asked anxiously.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
The chauffeur looked up at me accusingly. “You hurt me,” he said between moans.
“That was my intention, old boy,” I said. “Herb, I’m going to call the cops. You stay here and keep your howitzer trained on this vicious assassin.”
“If he gives me trouble,” the guard said, “where should I shoot him?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I imagine the kneecaps would be satisfactory.”
“Small target,” Herb said doubtfully. “How about the brisket?”
Kenneth Bodin groaned.
Sgt. Al Rogoff was in, which was a relief. I explained briefly what had just happened.
“You all right?” he asked.
“A mite shook,” I admitted. “But no injuries.”
“Good,” Al said. “You saved us a lot of trouble. We’ve been looking for that guy since last night. Sylvia talked. Hang on to him; I’ll be right over.”
Herb and I stood alongside the recumbent assailant, observing his physical agony with some satisfaction. We discussed how he had managed to sneak into the garage. The guard decided it had probably happened while he was on one of his periodic security tours throughout the building. I didn’t argue. Herb was a nice enough chap but about as alert as a stuffed sailfish.
Two police cars came rolling down the ramp, sirens dying away to a whisper. Sgt. Rogoff got out of the lead car and two stalwarts exited from the second. All three officers joined us in a circle about the fallen chauffeur, watched his contortions, and listened to his laments.
“What happened to him?” Al asked me.
“Testicular trauma,” I reported. “Resulting from a sudden, sharp blow from the toe of an Allen-Edmonds cordovan kiltie, size ten-and-a-half.”
The sergeant grinned at me. “Thank you, Bruce Lee,” he said. “Dollars to doughnuts he sues you for causing him emotional distress.” He turned to the other two cops. “Get the bum out of here. Take him in and book him.”
“What’s the charge?” one of the officers asked.
“Impersonating a human being,” Rogoff said. “Just sit on him till I get back.”
We watched as the two hauled Bodin to his feet and dragged him to their car. He was crouched over, feet dragging, and he was still whimpering.
“Thank you, Herb,” I said to the guard. “You behaved splendidly.”
“Happy to be of service, Mr. McNally,” he said. I believe that if he had a forelock he’d have tugged it.
Al and I sat in the Miata. He lighted a cigar and I an English Oval.
“The girlfriend talked?” I asked him.
“Yep,” he said, “but didn’t spill much we didn’t already know. She claims Bodin gave her the stamps to sell.”
“Did she know they were counterfeit?”
“She didn’t say, and I didn’t tell her. But I think both she and Bodin thought they were the real thing. By the way, those Inverted Jennies are fakes, according to the expert we called in.”
“Did Sylvia tell you where Bodin got the stamps?”
“She says they were given to him by an elderly man who was staying at the Horowitz place. That would be Angus Wolfson—right? The deal was that Bodin was to get ten percent of whatever he sold the stamps for.”
“You’re telling me Wolfson lifted the Inverted Jennies?”
Rogoff laughed. “I know what a keen student of human nature you are, Dr. Freud. You already told me it would be completely out of character for Wolfson to steal anything. But in this case I’m afraid you have more crap than a Christmas goose. Wolfson pinched them, all right.”
I thought he had it wrong, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Speaking of Wolfson,” I said, “I hereby confess I was mistaken about his death. You were right; it was suicide.”
He looked at me quizzically. “What convinced you?”
I related what Roberta Wolfson had told me about her brother’s terminal illness, his refusal to undergo radiation and chemotherapy, the constant pain he suffered.
“Reason enough to shuffle off this mortal coil,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” the sergeant agreed. “But he had another reason.”
“Oh? And what, pray, was that?”
“Guilt. While we had Wolfson’s body, we took his fingerprints. They matched up pretty well with the prints we took off the glass paperweight that caved in Bela Rubik’s skull.”
I hadn’t anticipated that, but I wasn’t shocked. The stamp dealer would have unlocked his door for Angus Wolfson, but not for a bruiser like Bodin.
“You’re sure, Al?” I asked. “About the prints, I mean.”
“Seventy-five percent sure,” he said, “and that’s good enough for me. This case is officially closed as far as I’m concerned. Rubik’s homicide is cleared. The killer, Wolfson, is dead. Lady Horowitz gets her fake stamps back. Maybe Bodin will do some time, but it won’t be heavy. Now the PBPD can concentrate on important investigations, like who’s been swiping kiwis and mangoes from the local Publix.”
“Do me a favor,” I urged. “Tell me how you figure the whole thing went down. From the top.”
“Sure,” he said genially, puffing away at his cigar. “Wolfson had a lot of medical expenses, and he wasn’t a rich man to begin with. As you would say, he was getting a bit hairy about the heels. So he swiped the Inverted Jennies, figuring Lady Horowitz had zillions and could stand the loss. Then he does something stupid: he tries to peddle the stamps to a local dealer. I figure he left the Inverted Jennies with Bela Rubik, giving him a chance to make an appraisal. Rubik already had the stamps when you first met him.
“Wolfson goes back to Rubik’s shop on the afternoon the yacht cruise was canceled. Rubik tells him his stamps are forgeries. Knowing Rubik, I’d guess he got hot about it and threatened to tell the police that Wolfson was trying to sell counterfeits. Wolfson panicked and bounced the paperweight off Rubik’s skull. I don’t think he meant to kill him. Just knock him out, get his stamps back, and lam out of there.
McNally's Secret Page 21
