The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  I hadn’t expected to learn anything new and I didn’t. I thanked them for their cooperation and wandered out to the back lawn. Meg Trumble was still slicing back and forth in the pool, wearing the shiny black maillot that looked like a body painting. She saw me approach, paused to wave, then continued her disciplined swim. I moved a sling chair into the shade and waited.

  She finished her workout in about five minutes. I loved the way she got out of the pool. No ladder for her. She simply placed her hands flat on the tiled coping and in one rhythmic surge heaved up and out, a bent leg raised for a foothold. It was a joy to see, and I never could have done it in a million years.

  She came padding to me across the lawn, dripping and using her palms to scrape water from hair, face, arms. “Good morning, Archy,” she said, smiling. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  “Scrumptious,” I said, staring at her admiringly. She really was an artfully constructed young lady. “Would you care to have dinner with me tonight?”

  “What?” she said, startled.

  “Dinner. Tonight. You. Me.”

  “I don’t—” she said, confused. “I shouldn’t—I better—Perhaps if—”

  I waited patiently.

  “May I pay my own way?” she asked finally.

  “Keep talking that way,” I said, “and you’ll be asked to resign from the female sex. No, you may not pay your own way. I’m inviting you to have dinner with me. Ergo, you will be my guest.”

  “All right,” she said faintly. “What shall I wear?”

  I was able to repress the reply that came immediately to mind. “Something informal,” I said instead. “A flannel muumuu in a Black Watch tartan might be nice.”

  “Are you insane?” she said.

  “Totally,” I assured her. “Pick you up around seven.”

  I left hastily before she had second thoughts. I walked through the house, down that long corridor lined with antique weapons. They made me wonder if someone might, at that very moment, be taking a scimitar to Peaches. I do believe the plight of that offensive beast was beginning to concern me.

  I exited and closed the front door behind me. Took two strides toward the Miata and stopped. Turned around and rang the bell again. Eventually the butler reappeared.

  “Sorry to bother you, Leon,” I said, “but a question occurred to me that I neglected to ask before. Was Peaches ever taken to the vet?”

  “Oh sure,” he said. “Once a year for her shots, but more often than that for a bath and to have her teeth and ears cleaned. And once when she got a tapeworm.”

  “How was she taken? Do you have a carrier—one of those suitcase things with air holes and maybe wire mesh at one end?”

  “Yeah, we got a carrier.”

  “Could I take a look at it, please?”

  “I’ll dig it out,” he said and departed, leaving me standing in the foyer.

  I waited. And waited. And waited. It must have been at least ten minutes before he returned. He looked flummoxed.

  “Can’t find the damned thing,” he reported. “It’s always been kept in the utility room, but it’s not there now. It’s probably around here somewhere.”

  “Sure it is,” I said, knowing it wasn’t. “Give me a call when you find it, will you.”

  I drove officeward, not pondering so much on the significance of the missing cat carrier as wondering what inspired me to ask about it in the first place. Frequently, during the course of an investigation, I get these utterly meshuga ideas. Most of them turn out to be Looney Tunes, but occasionally they lead to something important. I had a creepy feeling this particular brainstorm would prove a winner.

  My office in the McNally Building had the spaciousness and ambience of a split-level coffin. I suspected my father had condemned me to that closet to prove to the other employees there was no nepotism in his establishment. But allowing me one miserable window would hardly be evidence of filial favoritism, would it? All I had was an air-conditioning vent.

  So it was understandable that I rarely occupied my cubby, using it mainly as a message drop. On those rare occasions when I was forced to write a business letter, my father’s private secretary, Mrs. Trelawney, typed it for me and provided a stamp. She also informed me when my salary check was available, the dear lady.

  On that morning a telephone message placed precisely in the middle of my pristine desk blotter requested that I call Mrs. Lydia Gillsworth. I lighted and smoked my first cigarette of the day while planning what I might say to a woman who had received a dreadful prediction of her doom.

  Actually, when I phoned, she could not have been more gracious and lighthearted. She inquired as to my health and that of my parents. She expressed regret that she did not see the McNallys more often. She said she had brought a small Eyelash begonia back from Rhode Island especially for my mother, and as soon as it recovered from jet lag, she would send it over. I thanked her.

  “Now then, Archy,” she said, “Roderick says you’d like to talk to me about that silly letter I received.”

  “If I may, please,” I said. “I really don’t think it should be taken lightly.”

  “Much ado about nothing,” she said firmly. “People who mail letters like that exhaust all their hostility by writing. They never do anything.”

  “I would like to believe you’re correct, Mrs. Gillsworth,” I said. “But surely it will do no harm if I look into it a bit.”

  “Rod said you thought the police should be consulted. I will not allow that. I don’t wish this matter to become public knowledge and perhaps find its way into the tabloids.”

  She spoke so decisively that I knew it would be hopeless to plead with her, but I reckoned her command could be finessed. I have sometimes been called “devious”; I much prefer “adroit.” It calls up the image of a skilled fencer and a murmured “Touché.”

  “No police,” I agreed. “Just a private, low-key investigation.”

  “Very well then,” she said. “Can you come over at two o’clock this afternoon?”

  “With pleasure,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “And I’ll take another look at the Eyelash begonia,” she added. “If it seems fit to travel, perhaps you can carry it back to your mother.”

  “Delighted,” I said bravely.

  After she hung up, I took the box of English Ovals from my jacket, stared at it a moment, then returned it unopened to my pocket. I was attempting to renounce the things and was at the point where denying myself a cigarette yielded almost as much satisfaction as smoking one. Almost—but not quite.

  I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff at the Palm Beach Police Department. Al was a compadre of many years, and we had worked together on several cases, usually to our mutual benefit.

  “Sergeant Rogoff,” he answered.

  “Archy McNally,” I said. “How was the vacation?”

  “Great,” he said. “I spent a week bonefishing off the Keys.”

  “Liar,” I said. “You spent a week in Manhattan and went to the ballet every night.”

  “Shhh,” he said, “not so loud. If that got around, you know what a ribbing I’d take from the Joe Sixpacks?”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I said. “How about lunch in an hour?”

  “Nope,” he said promptly. “I could make it but I’m not going to.”

  “Al!” I said, shocked. “Since when do you turn down a decent lunch? I’ll pay the bill.”

  “You’ll pay the bill for the food,” he said, “but every time I have lunch with you I end up paying a lot more—like more work, more stress, more headaches. No, thanks. You solve your own problems.”

  “I have no problems,” I protested. “I’m not working a case. I merely wanted to have a pleasant social get-together.”

  “Oh sure,” he said. “When shrimp fly. I appreciate the invitation, but I’ll pass.”

  “Well, will you at least answer one little question for me?”

  “Trot it out and I’ll let you know.”

  “Has the De
partment had any complaints lately from people receiving poison-pen letters? Vicious stuff. Threats of murder.”

  “I knew it!” Rogoff said, almost shouting. “I knew you’d never feed me without getting me involved in one of your cockamamy investigations. Who got the letter?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” I said. “Client confidentiality. And I’m not trying to get you involved. I just want to know if it’s part of a local pattern.”

  “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “I’ll ask around but I haven’t heard of any similar squeals.”

  “Al,” I said, “the crazies who mail filth like that—do they ever do what they threaten?”

  “Sometimes they do,” he said, “and sometimes they don’t.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said. “That’s a big help.”

  “We’re here to serve,” he said. Then, gruffly, “Keep me up to speed on this, Archy. I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “I don’t either,” said I, and we hung up.

  I drove home for lunch reflecting that Sgt. Rogoff was right; sooner or later I’d have to get him involved. I needed professional help on the Willigan and Gillsworth letters: analysis of the paper and the printing machine used, perhaps a psychological profile of the writer. I laughed aloud at what Al’s reaction would be when he learned I wanted his assistance to recover an abducted pussycat.

  It was not, after all, a major criminal act. In fact, considering Peaches’ personality, I didn’t think it was a crime at all. I remembered The Ransom of Red Chief, and wondered if the case might end with the catnappers paying Harry Willigan to take back his disagreeable pet.

  My mother had departed for the monthly meeting of her garden club so I lunched in the kitchen with Ursi and Jamie Olson. We had a big platter of cold cuts, a bowl of German potato salad, and the marvelous sour rye Ursi bakes once a week. We all made sandwiches, of course, with a hairy mustard and cold bottles of St. Pauli Girl to cool the fire.

  It was all so satisfying that I went up to my digs for a short nap. I had a demented dream that involved Peaches wearing pajamas in convict stripes. The pj’s then turned into a sleek black maillot. Can you help me, Dr. Freud?

  I awoke in time to freshen up, smoke a cigarette (No. 2), and vault into the freshly washed Miata for my trip to the Gillsworth home. I was looking forward to my conversation with Lydia, a lovely woman.

  She was younger than her husband by about ten years, which would put her in my age bracket. But I always thought of her as a married woman and that made her seem older. I can’t explain it. Why do married people strike one as older than singles of the same age? I must puzzle that out one of these days.

  Physiognomically Lydia Gillsworth was unique—at least in my experience. She had an overbite so extreme that I once heard it cruelly remarked that she was the only woman in Palm Beach who could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence. But to compensate for this anomaly she had the county’s most wonderful eyes. They used to be called bedroom eyes: large, deep-set, luminous. It was almost impossible to turn one’s gaze away from those seductive orbs.

  And charm? A plentitude! She had the rare faculty of making you believe she thought you the most fascinating creature on God’s green earth. She listened intently, she asked pertinent questions, she expressed sympathy when needed. All with integrity and dignity. Can a woman be a mensch—or is that a term reserved for honorable men? If it is, then Lydia was a menschess.

  I knew the Gillsworths had no staff of live-in servants but employed a Haitian housekeeper who worked thrice a week. So I wasn’t surprised when the mistress herself opened the door in answer to my knock. She drew me inside in a half-embrace and kissed my cheek.

  “Archy!” she cried. “This is nice! Guess what I have for you.”

  “An autographed photo of Thelma Todd?”

  “No,” she said, laughing, “a pitcher of pink lemonade. Let’s go out on the patio. It’s a super day.”

  She led the way through the Gillsworth home. It was decorated in the French Country style: everything light, airy, in muted colors. Fresh flowers were abundant, and the high-ceilinged rooms seemed to float in the afternoon sunlight. Overhead fans billowed gossamer curtains, and the uncarpeted floor, random-planked and waxed to a high gloss, reflected the antique bestiary prints framed on the whitewashed walls.

  The patio was small but trig. It faced west but a striped awning shielded it from the glare of the setting sun. We sat at a glass-topped table and drank iced pink lemonade from pilsners engraved with a vine design.

  She wasted no time with small talk. “Archy,” she said, “I do wish Roderick hadn’t consulted your father and you about that letter.” She was as close to petulance as I had ever seen her. “It’s so embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing? Mrs. Gillsworth, through no fault of yours, you have received a very venomous message. I could understand your being concerned, but why should you be embarrassed?”

  “Because I seem to be causing such a foofaraw. Isn’t that a lovely word? I’ve wanted to use it for ages. The letter doesn’t bother me; it’s such a stupid thing. But I am upset by the disturbance it’s causing. Poor Rod hasn’t been able to write a line since it arrived, and now you’ve been dragooned into trying to find the writer when I’m sure there are a dozen other things you’d rather be doing. That’s why I’m embarrassed—because I’m causing so much trouble.”

  “One,” I said, “I wasn’t dragooned; I volunteered. Two, there is nothing I’d rather be doing than getting to the bottom of this thing. Three, your welfare is important to your husband and to McNally and Son. None of us take the matter lightly. Speaking for my father and myself, we would be derelict in our duty if we did not make every effort possible to identify the sender. And only you can help.”

  “I don’t see how I can, Archy,” she said, pouring us more lemonade. “I haven’t the faintest idea who might want to murder me.”

  “Have you ever been threatened in person?”

  “No.”

  “Have you had any recent arguments with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “What about some event in your past? Can you think of anyone who might have harbored a grudge, even for years and years?”

  “No.”

  “Have you, however unintentionally, given anyone cause to believe he or she has been injured by you, insulted, offended, or even slighted?”

  “No.”

  I sighed. “Mrs. Gillsworth, the writer of that piece of filth is obviously not playing with a full deck. Please think hard. Is there anyone amongst your friends and acquaintances you have felt, occasionally or often, might be emotionally or mentally off the wall?”

  She was silent a moment, and I hoped she was obeying my adjuration to “think hard.”

  “No,” she said finally, “I know of no one like that.”

  “What about a chance meeting with someone unknown to you? A clerk in a store, for example. A parking attendant. A waiter. Have you had any problems at all with people who serve the public? Any disagreements, no matter how trivial? Complaints you’ve made?”

  “No, I can’t recall anything like that.”

  I could not believe this woman was deliberately lying, but I found it hard to believe her denial of any altercation whatsoever with clerk, waiter, or bureaucrat. The world being what it is, we all have occasional disputes with those being paid to serve us.

  I finished my lemonade. It was a bit sweetish for my taste. Lydia attempted to fill my glass again, but I shook my head, held a palm over the glass.

  “Delicious,” I told her, “but I’m fighting a losing war against calories. Mrs. Gillsworth, do you know of anyone who envies you?”

  She was startled, then looked at me with a wry smile. “What an odd question to ask.”

  “Not so odd,” I said. “You are an attractive, charming lady. Everyone in Palm Beach knows you are well-to-do, if not wealthy. You are happily married to an intelligent, creative man. Your life seems to be serene and trouble-free. You h
ave a lovely home and you dress beautifully. It appears to me that there are many reasons why you might be envied.”

  That discomposed her and she showed her perturbation by standing suddenly to lower the patio awning farther so that we sat in warm shade.

  “You know, Archy,” she said, frowning, “it has never occurred to me that I might be envied. But when you list my blessings in that fashion, I can understand why I might be. But I assure you I have never heard anyone express anything that could be construed as envy. Oh, I’ve had compliments on my gowns or on the house, but those were just conventional social remarks. Nothing that suggested the speaker was jealous.”

  Then we sat in silence a moment. I was depressed by all her negative reactions to my questions. She had given me nothing, not a hint of a lead that might give direction to my discreet inquiries. She caught my mood, because she leaned forward and placed a hand lightly on my arm.

  “I’m sorry, Archy,” she said softly. “I really think you should drop it.”

  “No, ma’am,” I said stubbornly, “I won’t do that. The letter you received frightens me.”

  She gave me a smile that surprised me. It was an amused smile, as if she appreciated my concern but thought my determination excessive.

  “Let me try to explain how I feel,” she said. “And give you the reason why that letter doesn’t terrify me. I don’t know whether or not my husband spoke to you about my faith, but I believe deeply that life is but one form of existence and what we call death is another. I believe that when we die, we pass into another world as viable as this one but much more wonderful because it is inhabited by all those who have gone before. The soul never dies. Never! So corporeal existence is just a temporary state. When we give it up, voluntarily or not, we pass to a higher spiritual plane, just as a butterfly emerges from a cocoon. I am not trying to convert you, Archy; really I’m not! I’m just trying to explain why death holds no terrors for me.”

  I abstained from reminding her that the death promised by the poison-pen letter involved torture and agony; it would not be a peaceful passing to her higher spiritual plane. But I was curious. “Tell me, Mrs. Gillsworth, are there many people, do you think, who share your beliefs?”