The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  But after a few swigs of brew I began to regain that cool detachment I have always proudly considered an integral part of my character. I frankly acknowledged I was suffering a twinge, a wee twinge, of jealousy, which I had heretofore believed myself incapable of feeling.

  Even worse, I realized, I was guilty of an unconscionable possessiveness. I expected fidelity from Connie, with no desire to provide faithfulness in return. A rank injustice, obviously, and moreover a distressing breach of civilized behavior. I should be ashamed.

  But I wasn’t. Because I recognized too clearly my limitations. I mean I could not soar like a condor, could I? Nor play “Turkey in the Straw” on a zither. Nor remain loyal to one woman. In other words, without the vilest form of hypocrisy, I could not be what I was not. It was a quandary.

  Amidst all this muzzy meditation I slid a cassette of Cole Porter tunes into my player, clamping earphones to my noggin so as not to disturb my parents whose bedroom was directly below. And as I listened to all that evocative music I tried to distinguish between True Love, romantic love, and affection. Precise definitions escaped me.

  And so the night dwindled down as I sat alone, sipping beer, and brooding about love and women and my own incapacity to make a permanent commitment. After a time I realized the poignant songs I was hearing impinged on my perplexities.

  How about “Just One of Those Things”?

  Or “From This Moment On”?

  But the one that summed up my private philosophy most accurately, I mournfully concluded, was “Anything Goes.”

  Chapter 9

  I AWOKE LATE ON FRIDAY morning, as you may have surmised, and after a comforting breakfast of kippers and scrambled eggs I arrived at the office a little before noon. I resolutely shelved my personal problems for the nonce. When duty calls, McNally is not one to cup his ear and mutter, “Eh?”

  I called the phone number of Mrs. Jane Folsby, provided by Jamie Olson, and waited for seven rings. I was about to hang up when a woman said, somewhat breathlessly, “Hello, hello, hello?”

  It was a rich voice, totally unlike Mrs. Folsby’s chirp, and I guessed it might be her sister.

  “Could I speak to Mrs. Jane Folsby, please?” I said.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  When I hear that I’m always tempted to say, “Yes, you may,” and then wait. But it didn’t seem a ripe time for fraternity house humor, so I merely said, “Archy McNally,” and hoped for the best.

  “Just a minute,” she said.

  It was more than a minute but I used the time profitably to light my first English Oval of the day, and what a treat it was. Finally the chirper came on the line.

  “Mr. McNally!” she said. “How nice to hear from you. How on earth did you find me?”

  “My spies are everywhere,” I said. “How are you, Mrs. Folsby?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Glad to hear it. I was sorry to learn you had left the Hawkins.”

  “Sorry?” she said. “No need for that because I’m not. After Mr. Hawkin passed I knew it was time for me to go.”

  I waited for more but she didn’t seem inclined to offer any additional information.

  “Mrs. Folsby,” I said, “I have a question I hope you may be able to answer. Do you happen to know where Silas Hawkin purchased his art supplies?”

  “Why, certainly,” she answered. “He bought all his canvas and paints and things from Grabow’s right here in West Palm Beach.”

  “Grabow’s,” I repeated. “That’s a big help. Thank you so much.” I hesitated a moment, wondering if I dared push her. I decided to take the chance. “Tell me, Mrs. Folsby,” I said as sympathetically as I could, “what was your reason for leaving the Hawkins? I hope there was no unpleasantness.”

  “Mr. McNally,” she said sharply, “there are certain things a lady doesn’t talk about.”

  I could not, for the life of me, imagine what those things might possibly be. But then I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps I had been associating with an abnormal breed of ladies.

  “I understand completely,” I said, although I didn’t. “Thank you again for your assistance and I wish you the best of good fortune in the future.”

  “Thank you,” she said faintly.

  I hung up and finished my cigarette, still mired in the stygian as to what happened at the Hawkin ménage that a lady couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about. Mrs. Folsby was no mossback, and if she refused to utter a word or even drop a teeny hint it had to be something truly horrendous. To say my curiosity was piqued is putting it mildly.

  I looked up Grabow’s Art Supplies in the Yellow Pages and made a note of the address, telephone number, and proprietor’s name, Luther Grabow. I grabbed up the white linen golf cap I was sporting that day and went downstairs to the Miata, with absolutely no idea why I was jaunting to West Palm to talk to Mr. Grabow. I could claim it was “gut instinct”—that favorite cliché of authors of detective novels. Actually, I had nothing better to do.

  I found Grabow’s Art Supplies in a freestanding building off Dixie Highway. It looked as big as a warehouse and the interior gave the same impression: row after row of steel racks holding an incredible assortment of everything from Crayolas to jointed six-ft. mannequins of polished wood that could be adjusted to any possible position including, I presumed, obscene.

  The man behind the sales counter was seated on a high stool. He was reading a paperback, and I was bemused to note it was a Western. It seemed an odd choice for a clerk in an art supply emporium. He looked up when I approached.

  “Could I speak to Mr. Luther Grabow, please,” I said.

  He inspected me. “I’m Luther Grabow,” he said, “but I’m not buying.”

  “And I’m not selling,” I said. “Mr. Grabow, I understand the late Silas Hawkin was a customer of yours.”

  He continued to stare. “Who told you that?” he demanded.

  “His widow,” I said, lying without hesitation.

  He softened. “Yeah,” he said, “he was a customer. That was a helluva thing, him getting knocked off like that. I don’t say it just because he was a regular customer but because I admired the guy. He was a real professional and knew exactly what he wanted. Never settled for anything but the best. And a good painter. Not great, mind you, but one of the best around.”

  “Mrs. Hawkin told me he stretched his own canvases.”

  “That’s right. The most expensive linen I carry.”

  “Did you sell him the wooden frames?”

  “Assembled? Nah. He bought what we call sticks, the wood sides, top and bottom. Dovetail joints. You put together the size and shape you want. Hey, what’s your interest in all this?”

  He was a wizened little fellow, almost emaciated, with a Vandyke so jetty it looked dyed, and no larger than a merkin. The eyes behind wire-rimmed specs were alert and suspicious.

  I handed him a business card and after he had examined it I plucked it away, remembering Sgt. Rogoff’s warning. “My firm is settling Mr. Hawkin’s estate,” I glibly explained. “We have made a very careful inventory of his unsold works, using his own ledger. The one item we’ve been unable to locate is a painting he was apparently working on at the time of his death. It is carried in his ledger simply as ‘Untitled,’ but there is no indication of its size or subject matter. We were hoping you might be able to help.”

  His stare was owlish. “He was working on it when he was killed?”

  “The police believe so.”

  “And it’s missing?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do the cops think the killer took it?”

  “A possibility.”

  He was silent for such a long time I had almost given up hope of gleaning any additional information when he suddenly sighed and began to speak.

  “I guess there’s no reason I shouldn’t tell you,” he said, “as long as you keep my name out of it. I don’t want to get involved. Okay?”

  “Certainly,” I sai
d.

  “About a month ago Hawkin came in and told me he wanted to try acrylic on wood. It was a technique he had learned in Europe years ago, but then he decided to concentrate on watercolors and oil on canvas. Anyway, he wanted a whole palette of acrylics and a nice piece of wood. I had the primer and colors in stock, but I had to special order the panel from a guy in Boston.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “What kind of wood was it?”

  “Seasoned oak. A beautiful plank. Just perfect. Hawkin was happy.”

  “Do you recall the dimensions?”

  “Sure. Half-inch thick. Eighteen inches by twenty-four inches.”

  “That’s not very large,” I commented. “Most of his oil paintings were much larger.”

  “That’s right,” he agreed. “But where are you going to get a huge plank of oak that hasn’t got a flaw? Not to mention what the damned thing would weigh.”

  “Yes,” I said, “that would be a consideration. So the size Hawkin bought could easily be carried?”

  He nodded. “No problem.”

  “Did Hawkin say anything at all about what he intended to do with it? The subject matter of the painting?”

  Owl eyes flickered. “Why, no,” he said finally. “He never mentioned a word about it, and I never asked.”

  I knew he was lying, but there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I thanked him for his kind cooperation and walked out. I was not too displeased with the interview. If Hawkin had painted “Untitled” on that wood panel, his killer could easily have tucked it under one arm and strolled away. I knew Al Rogoff would be interested in what I had learned but decided not to inform him pro tem, figuring I might need it in the future for a bargaining chip. Such are the ways of the world.

  I drove back to the McNally Building, and my train of thought (really a trolley car) was curious. It may have been due to seeing all those artists’ supplies, but I suddenly recalled Sargent’s portrait of Madam X. Totally unlike Theodosia Johnson, of course, but I could visualize her in that black velvet gown with the marvelous décolletage.

  Do you think I need professional help?

  I am attempting to make this account as honest as possible so I must confess that after I returned to my office I had contemplated taking a short nap. But it was not to be, for propped against my stained coffee mug (POVERTY SUCKS) was a message stating that Mrs. Louise Hawkin had phoned and desired I return her call, which I did.

  “Mr. McNally,” she said briskly, “Hector Johnson, a good friend, tells me you are a real estate agent.”

  “Not a licensed broker,” I said hastily, “but I do work closely with our Real Estate Department.” That was true enough; I went to all their parties and frequently participated in their office pools.

  “Since Si died,” she went on, “I have decided to put our property here on the market, and I’d like to discuss it with you.”

  “Of course,” I said, having little doubt I could sustain my impersonation of a realtor. “What time would be convenient for you?”

  “Why, right now if you can make it,” she said. “I intend to be in all afternoon.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Be there within the hour. Thank you for calling, Mrs. Hawkin.”

  Ordinarily the Real Estate Department of McNally & Son does not handle residential properties but is limited to recommending to our clients the purchase or sale of commercial parcels and raw land. But occasionally they were called upon to broker the sale of the homes of Palm Beach residents who had gone to the great Gold Coast in the sky, and so they had all the printed forms required for listing.

  I picked up a file of the necessary bumf and headed southward in the Miata, ruminating on Mrs. Hawkin’s mention of Hector Johnson as “a good friend.” That certainly gave credence to what Connie Garcia had told me about Louise and Hector being an “item.” The pot was beginning to boil, I reflected, and the bubbling delighted me. I enjoy the mess other people make of their lives, don’t you?

  And when I pealed the chimes at the Hawkin home, who should open the door but Hector Johnson himself. Surprise! He looked as elegantly jaunty as he had the first time we met and his hearty assurance hadn’t deserted him.

  “Archy!” he shouted, grasping my hand and pulling me into the house. “Glad you could make it! Good to see you again!”

  In contrast to that enthusiasm, my response must have sounded like a mumble but, in any event, I don’t believe he was listening. He led me into the Florida room where Louise Hawkin was half-reclining on a white wicker couch. She was wearing lounging pajamas in a garish flowered pattern, and since she was gripping a tall drink I didn’t offer to shake hands.

  “Mrs. Hawkin,” I said, “I’m happy we meet again. I hope you’re well, ma’am.”

  She gave me a glazed smile. “Tip-top,” she said.

  Not completely smashed, I reckoned, but about halfway there. I mean she spoke intelligently but slowly and carefully as if fearful of slurring. And her movements were also slow, careful, and seemingly planned beforehand as if she might suddenly spill her drink or knock over a lamp.

  “Darling,” Hector Johnson said, and I chalked that up, “you and I are indulging. Surely we can offer our guest the same opportunity. Archy, we’re working on gin and tonics. How does that sound?”

  “Just right,” I said.

  “Shall I mix it?” Hector asked the hostess.

  “I’ll get it,” she said thickly, set her glass aside, and lurched to her feet. “Besides,” she added, “I have to make wee-wee.”

  Johnson laughed uproariously. I managed a strained smile. She walked from the room in slow motion, and Hector and I sat facing each other in matching armchairs. Then he launched into one of the strangest conversational gambits I had ever heard.

  “What do you think about luck?” he demanded.

  I blinked, then stared at him, wondering if he might be attempting an elaborate joke. But he was quite serious. “Nice to have,” I said lamely.

  “When you need it,” he continued, “desperately need it, it’s gone. When you don’t give a damn—win or lose, who cares?—there it is. Funny thing, huh?”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking, what’s with this man?

  “Real estate agents get six percent from the seller,” he said, looking at me thoughtfully. “Am I correct?”

  “Generally,” I said. “But on commercial properties and undeveloped land it’s usually ten percent.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, still looking at me. “I was the one who told Louise to give you a call.”

  There was no mistaking his meaning, but I wasn’t going to help him. Let him spell it out.

  “You ever pay a finder’s fee?” he asked casually.

  “It’s not unheard-of,” I said.

  “Didn’t think it was,” he said with a wolfish grin, then concluded swiftly with, “Keep it in mind,” as Louise Hawkin came back into the room carrying my drink.

  I sampled it cautiously. Heavy on the gin, light on the tonic. If she had been drinking those bombs all afternoon it was no wonder her smile was glazed.

  “Mrs. Hawkin,” I said, “I presume the property will not be legally yours until your late husband’s will is settled.”

  “No,” she said, “it’s mine now. The title is in my name.”

  “Louise is a lady of property,” Johnson put in. “But that doesn’t pay for the liverwurst, does it, darling? Land-poor is what it’s called.”

  No matter how impeccably he was dressed, it was a louche thing to say, was it not? I mean his words and tone seemed calculated to belittle the widow, reduce her to the role of a hapless mendicant.

  “Did you have a specific asking price in mind?” I asked her.

  She glanced at Hector Johnson.

  “Two million five,” he said promptly. “For everything.”

  “Suppose I send out a professional appraiser,” I suggested. “No cost to you. He or she will know the value of comparable parcels in the neighborhood and will be able to make an informed
estimate of how your property should be priced to sell quickly.”

  “Two million five,” Johnson repeated. “Asking, of course. Louise will be willing to negotiate. Won’t you, sweetie?”

  “What?” she said. “Oh, sure. Negotiate.”

  “Suppose I leave these listing applications,” I said, placing my folder on an end table. “Have your attorney review them before you sign. They’re standard boilerplate by which you grant McNally and Son the right to represent you in the sale of your home for a specified period of time at a specified percentage of the selling price.”

  “Honey,” Louise Hawkin said anxiously, “what do you think?”

  “Sounds legit,” he told her. “I’ll take a look at the contract.”

  “Mrs. Hawkin,” I said, “if your home is sold, do you intend to remain in the Palm Beach area?”

  “Of course she’s going to stay,” Hector answered. “Get rid of this white elephant, use part of the proceeds to buy or lease a smaller place, maybe on the beach, and have enough left over to invest in something that’ll provide her with a guaranteed income. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  The moment he used the phrase “guaranteed income,” my opinion of his financial acumen plunged to subzero. Dear old dad had taught me years ago that there is no such thing as a guaranteed income. As pop said, “Who guarantees the guarantor?” Scary, huh?

  “Whatever Mrs. Hawkin wishes,” I said. “It’s her future happiness that’s at stake, and she must decide how it best may be achieved.”

  “Dear Hector,” she said, gazing at him blearily, “I don’t know what I’d do without your advice.”

  He rose, porky face glowing, and seated himself on the couch next to her. He picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles. “Just like Archy said, baby,” he crooned, “your happiness is all that counts.”

  I must tell you I felt acutely uncomfortable. I was invited, but I had the impression of having barged into an intimate and probably semi-drunken tête-à-tête. I was certain that after I departed they would dance the horizontal hula-hula.