The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  We turned into the driveway of the Jo-Jean Motel. I knew there were two police officers in Cabin Five and two more in the back room of the motel office. They had been stationed there with the enthusiastic cooperation of the owner who probably hoped the Jo-Jean would rival the O.K. Corral, and she’d be featured on the front page of her favorite tabloid.

  But I saw no police cars and no signs that snipers had been deployed to hold Cabin Four in their sights. I could only have faith that Sgt. Rogoff was aware of my plight and was feverishly revising his plans to give my safety precedence over that of Peaches’.

  We pulled up alongside Cabin Four and Otto nudged my ribs with his weapon. “Out,” he said. “Take the money. Walk around to the front door. Frank, you go first and unlock.”

  Within moments we were all inside, the door closed, a floor lamp lighted. I looked about. It was a simple room, exactly like the one Hertha had claimed to see in her vision. There was also a pan of cat litter, a bowl of water, and a plate of cat food.

  “Where is Peaches?” I inquired.

  “At the movies,” Frank sniggered, the first words he had spoken. He needn’t have bothered.

  “Count the money,” his father ordered.

  Frank dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed, stacked the bundles of banded bills. Otto and I remained standing. Nothing was said until Frank finished.

  “All here,” he said. “The bills look legit.”

  “They got the numbers,” Otto growled, “but so what? Where we’ll pass them no one looks at numbers.”

  “May I take the cat now?” I asked, figuring I had nothing to lose.

  Otto looked at me somberly. “I finally figured how you found Charles Girard,” he said. “It was the vet, wasn’t it? At the animal hospital. That was cute.”

  For a minute or two I couldn’t comprehend how he knew I had identified him. Then I remembered I had mentioned the name Charles Girard to Laverne. She had undoubtedly told Frank and he, in turn, had reported to his father that Archy McNally, a blabbermouthed gumshoe, was on his trail.

  “So now you know about me,” Otto said. “And you know about Frank. We don’t have much choice, do we?”

  His meaning was clear and more chilling than a brutal threat.

  “It’s no big deal,” I pointed out. “Catnapping is hardly a capital crime. How heavy a sentence can you possibly get?”

  “When you’ve been inside,” he said darkly, “one more day is too much.”

  He stared at me, and I knew it wasn’t only a charge of catnapping that concerned him. He wouldn’t kill for that. But he was calculating how much I might know or guess about his other activities, including the vicious murders of the Gillsworths. Finally I could see that he had made up his mind, and his fatal decision seemed to relax him.

  “Put the money back in the bag,” he told his son. “Shove the bag under the bed. Then get the cat. We’ll do them both at the same time. I spotted a good place. A deserted canal.”

  It was all I could do to keep from crying, “But I can’t swim!” and laughing hysterically. Somehow I restrained myself.

  Frank hid the money, went into the bathroom, and came out carrying a large cardboard carton that had once held bottles of Jim Beam. It was tied shut with heavy twine, and air holes had been cut in the sides. I heard a few faint meows and the box rocked a bit as Peaches moved.

  “Let’s go,” Otto said.

  Up to that point the motel cabin had been illuminated by a single floor lamp with a low-wattage bulb. But now, suddenly, the interior was flooded with a hard white glare. Beams of bright spotlights came stabbing through the front and side windows of the cabin.

  “What the hell!” Frank yelped.

  Otto moved swiftly. He stood behind the wooden door and leaned to peer cautiously out the corner of the front window.

  “Police cars,” he reported tonelessly. “Four or five at least. And an army of cops.”

  “Oh God,” Frank said despairingly.

  Then I heard Sgt. Rogoff. The bullhorn made him sound harsh and metallic, but there was no mistaking his voice.

  “Cabin Four,” he boomed. “Everyone come out the front door with your hands raised. Now!”

  Frank appealed to his father. “What should we do?” he asked nervously.

  Otto went into the bathroom, stood on the closed toilet lid, and glanced out the small window. He returned to the main room. “No good,” he said. “The back is covered.”

  “Please,” I said. “Give yourselves up. It’s only a charge of catnapping. It’s not worth a shoot-out.”

  “He’s right,” Frank said. “Let’s do what they want.”

  His father looked at him with disgust. “You do what you like,” he said. “I’m getting out. I’m not taking a fall for you again.”

  He reached under the bed, jerked out the bag of cash. He removed several bundles and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he leveled his revolver at me.

  “Turn around,” he said. “You and I are going out of here together. You first.”

  “Cabin Four!” Rogoff’s voice came crashing. “Come out the front door, hands raised. You have exactly one minute.”

  Otto Gloriana stepped up close behind me. He put a heavy hand on my left shoulder. He pressed the muzzle of his weapon behind my right ear.

  “Nothing cute,” he warned. “Or you’re dead. You understand?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Now open the door. Slowly. Step out slowly. Move to the Chrysler. Everything nice and slow.”

  I did as he ordered. We moved out onto the porch almost in lockstep.

  “Hold your fire!” Al screamed. “Hold your fire!”

  The spotlights half-blinded me. I could see nothing but the dark bulk of the cars. I walked as slowly as I could toward the Chrysler.

  We were alongside the car when the bullhorn barked: “Otto! Otto!” But Rogoff didn’t pronounce it “Oddo.” He split the name into two distinct syllables: “Ot-to! Ot-to!”

  Gloriana was so shocked that the police knew his real name that his grip loosened, his left hand slid from my shoulder. The pressure of the gun behind my ear lessened. I was vaguely aware that he had turned slightly toward the source of that raucous shout.

  Then I did something that anyone with an IQ greater than their waistline would have done: I fell down.

  Sounds simple, does it? Well, it isn’t. I am not a tumbler or circus clown trained to fall without risk of injury. I just let myself go and crumpled, bruising shoulders, elbows, rump.

  I hoped Al Rogoff and his troops would have the wit to take advantage of my sudden collapse. They did. I was on the ground and Otto Gloriana was still standing, stunned, when there was an ear-cracking fusillade. I cowered.

  I heard Otto grunt, and he was driven back. His body went slack and he flopped to his knees. Then, as the firing continued, his head bowed and he seemed to stretch out prone onto the earth.

  “Cease firing!” the sergeant bawled. “Cease firing!”

  The silence was deafening. I lay where I had fallen, knowing I was alive but fearing to move my limbs lest broken bones come poking through the skin. I was still shaken by the gunfire and trying to determine what bullets flying overhead sounded like. They did not whine, hum, or whistle. I finally decided the sound was like a sheet of good rag paper being ripped.

  I raised my head cautiously. Sgt. Rogoff and two officers were standing next to Gloriana. One of them plucked away the revolver. The other knelt and turned Otto’s head to peer at his face.

  “He’s gone, sarge,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Al said. “A clear case of lead poisoning. Call for the meat wagon.” He turned and gently assisted me to my feet. I stood shakily. “You okay?” he asked anxiously.

  “I’ve got to get to a john,” I said.

  He laughed, and we started for the cabin door. Two officers came out gripping Frank Gloriana by the arms. He was limp and his feet were dragging. As they hauled him away he raised his head and glanced at me.r />
  “Glad you’re alive,” he mumbled. “Really.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He didn’t look at the corpse of his father.

  We went into the cabin. Al started to pack the spilled money back into the shopping bag. I headed directly for the bathroom. When I came out, Rogoff had gone. The cardboard carton was still sitting in the middle of the floor.

  I leaned down and untied the twine. I lifted the flaps warily. I feared that Peaches, thinking I was one of the miscreants, might leap at my throat and try to wrench out my Adam’s apple with her teeth. But she hopped out of the box and began rubbing against my shins, purring like a maniac.

  “Why, Peaches,” I said, “you know a hero when you smell one, don’t you?”

  When Rogoff returned, I was seated on the bed and the cat was lying on her back next to me, all four paws raised in the air. I was scratching her stomach, and her eyes were closed in ecstasy.

  Al said, “That’s the most sickening sight I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”

  “You’re just jealous,” I said, “because no one does it for you.”

  “What makes you so sure?” he said.

  “Al, can I return Peaches to Harry Willigan?”

  “Yep. Tell him we’ll have to hang on to his fifty grand for a while. Evidence. He’ll get it back eventually. Come on, I’ll give you a lift back to your car.”

  “I have to call the old man first. I promised.”

  I used the phone in the motel office. Father answered so promptly that I knew he hadn’t been sleeping. It was then about two A.M.

  “Archy, sir,” I said. “I’m fine, and the cat has been rescued.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Tell me about it tomorrow.” Then he added precisely, “Or I should say later today.”

  Rogoff drove me back to the convenience store in a squad car. I had left the cardboard carton in Cabin Four and held Peaches on my lap. She was content.

  “What about Irma?” I asked.

  “We picked her up at midnight. She’s acting the haughty, insulted grande dame and won’t say a word until she sees a lawyer.”

  “And Hertha?”

  “She wasn’t in the apartment. Neighbors say they haven’t seen her around for two or three days. They don’t know where she is.”

  I could guess, but said nothing to the sergeant.

  When I got out to transfer to the Miata, he said casually, “Nice work tonight, Archy.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You behaved admirably yourself. I’ll call you after I get some sleep. Al, I don’t believe Frank Gloriana is a strong character. Sweat him.”

  “I intend to,” he said grimly.

  I drove with Peaches curled up in the passenger bucket. When we arrived home I thought she might be hungry and offered her a slice of pastrami from the fridge. She ate it with obvious enjoyment. Smart cat.

  She slept at the foot of my bed for the rest of the night. When I awoke around eight o’clock I discovered she had upchucked the pastrami onto the cover of my journal.

  You can’t win ’em all.

  Chapter 17

  I BREAKFASTED WITH MY parents on Tuesday morning. Peaches sat patiently alongside the dining room table, and when I gave her a hunk of brioche, she nibbled it daintily, a perfect lady. Mother was delighted with her. We had had no animal in the family since Max, our golden retriever, died, and I wondered aloud if we might invite a pup, perhaps a Dandie Dinmont, to join our menage. Father promised to consider the suggestion.

  After breakfast I drew him aside and gave him an abbreviated account of the police action the previous night.

  “Then Otto is dead?” he asked when I had finished.

  “Definitely.”

  “And the son is in custody?”

  “That’s correct, sir. And also Mrs. Irma Gloriana. I expect Al Rogoff will be questioning them today.”

  He nodded. “I’d like to speak to the sergeant,” he said. “Do you think he could come over this evening?”

  “I’m sure he’s awfully busy, father, but he might be ready for a break by tonight.”

  “Ask him,” he said. “Tell him it concerns Roderick Gillsworth’s holographic will and may possibly affect his investigation.”

  I knew it would be useless to ask questions, so I told him I’d try to reach Rogoff. Then he departed for the office in his Lexus, and I lifted Peaches into my Miata and headed for the Willigan home. The cat sat upright in her bucket seat, sniffed the morning air, and looked about rather grandly.

  I carried her up the Willigans’ stoop, but before I had a chance to ring, the door was flung open and Harry rushed out, arms outflung. “Peaches!” he screamed. “Peaches is home!” I swear there were tears in the poor goof’s eyes.

  He reached for his pet, but the cat had other ideas. She leaped from my arms, darted through the opened door, and went scampering down the long corridor. Willigan lumbered after her, shouting, “Sweetums! Sweetums baby! Papa is here! Come to papa, darling!”

  Gruesome.

  They disappeared, and I entered the house, closing the door behind me. I wandered down the hallway and out onto the back lawn. Laverne was lying supine on a chaise, wearing a hot-pink French-cut bikini. She also had a plastic shield over her eyes.

  “Good morning, Laverne,” I called as I approached.

  She lifted the shield long enough to glance at me, then replaced it. “Hi, Archy,” she said in a flat voice.

  “I just returned Peaches,” I said. “She was recovered last night.”

  “I know,” she said tonelessly. “We heard it on the radio this morning.”

  “Will you please tell Harry the police have his fifty thousand? They’re holding it temporarily as evidence. He’ll get it back eventually.”

  “I’ll tell him,” she said.

  I don’t know why I felt sorry for her. One has to pay for one’s stupidity in this world—ask me; I know!—and Laverne had certainly behaved stupidly. But I supposed she had her reasons and obviously they were sufficient for her.

  “I’ll try to keep you out of it,” I said, “but I’m not sure it can be done.”

  “Out of what?” she said in a dead voice.

  “Laverne, please,” I said. “The police are holding Frank Gloriana. I don’t know how much he’ll tell them.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said listlessly.

  I sighed and started away. I was almost at the screen door when she called, “Archy,” and I turned back. Now she was sitting on the chaise, hunched over, head bowed. She was twirling the eye shield in nervous fingers.

  “You really think you can keep my name out of it?” she asked, looking up at me.

  “Laverne,” I said, “let me be frank...” Then I caught myself. “Oh lordy,” I said, “don’t let me be Frank!”

  She smiled for the first time.

  “Look,” I said, “Frank is not a stand-up guy. He’s liable to tell the police you talked him into it, that he went along because he was in love with you.”

  Then she frowned. “That’s crazy. How could he say that? The ransom notes were written on his word processor.”

  “The police already know that. But you did sneak Peaches out of here in her carrier, didn’t you?”

  “It was a laugh,” she said. “Frank needed money, and Harry has plenty. As for Frank being in love with me, that’s bullshit. It was just a game with us.”

  “It’s gone sour, Laverne. If Harry finds out, you know what’ll happen to you, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” she said dolefully. “Out on my can. With no pre-nup.”

  “You took an awful risk,” I marveled.

  “A girl gets bored,” she said, shrugging. “Listen, Archy, if you can keep me out of it, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  And she put her hands behind her, leaned back, crossed her legs. She looked up at me, smiling again. There was a lot of her.

  I laughed. “Laverne,” I said, “you’re incorrigible.”

  She
licked her glossed lips, still smiling. “Think about it,” she said.

  I got out of there as hastily as I could. I don’t care how macho a man claims to be, when a woman says Yes, his first reaction is not desire, it’s fear.

  I drove away with the feeling that this was going to be Dénouement Day with all current problems solved and complexities unraveled. It didn’t turn out quite that way, but it came close.

  There was a question I wanted to ask Hertha Gloriana, and I thought I knew exactly where to find her. I guided the Miata up to Riviera Beach and within a half-hour I was tapping on the door of Meg Trumble’s apartment.

  “Why, Archy,” she said, “what a pleasant surprise.”

  The “surprise” I could buy; the “pleasant” was iffy. But she allowed me to enter and, sure enough, Hertha was curled up on the couch. There was a box of Kleenex on the cushion beside her, and she was dabbing at her eyes.

  Despite the medium’s tears and Meg’s rather frosty demeanor, both women looked extraordinarily attractive to me. They were wearing identical short-shorts of white twill with men’s work-shirts, the tails knotted about their waists to reveal a few inches of midriff. And they displayed a quartet of splendidly tanned legs.

  “Did you hear the news?” Meg demanded. “About Hertha’s husband and her in-laws?”

  “I heard,” I said, nodding. “Have you been to the police, Hertha?”

  She shook her head.

  “I really think you should,” I said gently. “They may want to question you. Ask to speak to Sergeant Rogoff.”

  “Hertha knows nothing about that cat,” Meg said angrily. “I don’t see why she should get involved.”

  I sighed. “Meg,” I said, “she is involved. Her husband and mother-in-law have been arrested and her father-in-law shot dead. If she doesn’t go to the police, they’ll start looking for her. Sooner or later they’re sure to find her, and then they’ll want to know why she didn’t come forward.”