The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  Theo took a gulp from her wine glass. “Jesus!” she said. “We hadn’t thought of that.”

  Did you catch that “We”? I did.

  She gave me what I believe she thought was a brave smile, but it looked rather tremulous to me.

  “You don’t think his mother will approve of a prenup agreement, Archy?”

  “I don’t. Do you?”

  “I guess not,” she said. “The old bitch doesn’t even approve of me. I knew that from the start. What did you tell Chauncey to do?”

  “I stalled him. Until I had a chance to talk to you about it and see how you felt.”

  She reached across the table to pat my cheek. “Good boy,” she said.

  We were silent while our emptied plates were removed. We both declined coffee, but I ordered bowls of fresh raspberries.

  “You’re a clever lad, Archy,” Madam X said. “I’ll just bet you’ve got an answer up your sleeve.”

  “There is one possibility,” I admitted, giving her a straight-in-the-eye stare. “Have your own attorney draw up the prenuptial agreement for five million. My father doesn’t have to know about it and Chauncey’s mother doesn’t have to know about it.”

  The simplicity of my solution stunned her and she took a moment to grasp it. “And you’ll tell Chauncey to sign it?” she asked, almost breathlessly.

  I switched into my enigmatic mode and didn’t give her a direct reply. “Think about it,” I urged her. “Talk it over with your father. Frankly, Theo, I think it’s your only hope. But it’s your decision. Now let’s eat our raspberries. Don’t they look delicious!”

  “Archy,” she said, “daddy is over at Louise Hawkin’s place.”

  “Is he?” I said. “And when is he returning home?”

  “Probably tomorrow morning,” she said, and we smiled at each other.

  I shall not attempt to apologize for my conduct during the remainder of that afternoon. I agree that “reprehensible” is as good an adjective as any to describe my behavior. But I do have an excuse: The devil made me do it.

  We drove back to Theo’s condo. Once again she led me to that appalling cretonne-covered couch, and once again I saw the blue butterfly flutter and take wing.

  She was mystery incarnate. Ignoring her physical beauty—which I certainly did not—I sensed there was a fury in her convulsions. I do not believe I was the cause of her anger; it was her malignant destiny that enraged her, and she rebelled with puissance and a bravado that asserted her strength and independence.

  I returned home exhausted and saddened, although if what I suspected was accurate, there was little reason for my sorrow. Still, I find it depressing when people with admirable attributes put their talents to wicked use.

  I conducted myself with stately decorum during the evening routine of family cocktail hour and dinner. I do not believe either of my dear progenitors had any inkling of the deception I had practiced that afternoon.

  After dinner I retired upstairs to work on my journal. I had hardly started scribbling when Sgt. Al Rogoff phoned.

  “How many chukkers of polo did you play today?” he demanded.

  “None,” I replied.

  “How many sets of tennis?”

  “None.”

  “How many holes of golf?”

  “None.”

  “Heavens to Betsy,” he said, “what’s happening to the primo playboy of Palm Beach? Then what have you been up to?”

  “Investigating,” I said. “I do work occasionally, you know.”

  “You could have fooled me,” he said. “Hey, I told Lauderdale about Reuben Hagler and that Pinky Schatz. They can’t locate him, but they’ve planted an undercover policewoman in the Leopard Club.”

  “Yikes!” I said. “Surely not as a nude dancer.”

  “Nope,” Al said, laughing. “I guess she’s not qualified. They put her in as a waitress. Her job is to buddy up to the Schatz woman and try to get her to spill.”

  “It might work,” I said, “but I doubt it.”

  “Me, too,” Rogoff admitted. “But one never knows, do one?”

  “Al, will you stop stealing my line? You’re infringing my copyright.”

  “Don’t tell me you made it up.”

  “No.” I confessed, “it’s not original. I think Louis Armstrong said it first, or maybe it was Fats Waller. I don’t remember.”

  “Talk about remembering,” he said. “I just did. I owe you ten bucks.”

  “What?” I said, and then I recalled our bet and knew the real reason he had phoned. “You mean that sheet in the back of Marcia Hawkin’s Jeep had acrylic paint stains?”

  “Yep,” he said, “but it wasn’t a sheet. More like a drop cloth. Now tell me how you knew the stains were acrylic paint.”

  “Gut instinct,” I said, and Al, who has as much contempt for that phrase as I do, roared with laughter.

  “Bullshit!” he said. “You know something I don’t know and you’re holding out on me. This is a homicide investigation, you charlie, so let’s have it.”

  “I really didn’t know,” I said. “I was just guessing. Listen to this Al...”

  I told him of my conversations with Luther Grabow, the art supply dealer, and how Silas Hawkin had purchased a palette of acrylics to paint a nude on a wood panel.

  “Nice job, Sherlock,” Rogoff said when I had finished. “You figure the nude on wood was the painting Hawkin labeled ‘Untitled’ in his ledger?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Oh, boy,” he said. “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.”

  “It’s ‘Double, double toil and trouble,’” I told him.

  “Whatever,” he said. “Got any idea who the model was?”

  “Nope.”

  “Could it have been his daughter? She ices him like she said in that letter and then swipes the painting because she’s afraid it might incriminate her.”

  “Could be,” I said. “You reckon she had it in the car when she went in the drink?”

  “A possibility,” Rogoff said. “I’ll send divers down to look around and see if they can spot it. Maybe it floated out of the Cherokee.”

  “If it floated out,” I said, “it would be on the surface, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. That scenario doesn’t wash. But I still think she had the ‘Untitled’ painting in her possession sometime during the evening she was killed.”

  “And now someone else has it?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Unless she burned it or hacked it to splinters. That’s what I like about my job: Everything is cut and dried.”

  “I know what you mean. Al, did you hear anything from Michigan about Theodosia Johnson?”

  “Not yet. Archy, tell me something: Do you think the Shirley Feebling kill in Fort Lauderdale has anything to do with Marcia Hawkin’s murder?”

  I hesitated. “Yes,” I said finally.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, “that’s what I figured. Are the Johnsons involved?”

  “It’s all supposition.”

  “Sure it is,” he agreed. “Like meat loaf; you don’t know what’s in it. We’re tracing Marcia’s movements the night she was killed and we’ve got what we tell the newspapers are ‘promising leads.’ Maybe they are, maybe they’re not, but I’ll keep working my end, old buddy, and you keep working yours. Eventually we may take the gold though I’ll settle for the bronze.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “See you,” he said shortly, and hung up.

  I sat there, stared at my open journal, and decided I didn’t want to labor on a Saturday night. So I pulled on a nylon golf jacket (Day-Glo orange) and clattered downstairs to my wheels. I headed south on Ocean Boulevard to eyeball the Hawkin home, Villa Bile. I didn’t have to stop to see that Hector Johnson’s white Lincoln was parked outside.

  Then I made an illegal U-turn and sped off to the Pelican Club. I was in dire need of a plasma injection, for what I envisioned had happened to Silas Hawkin, Shirley Feebling, and Marcia Hawkin seem
ed too awful to endure without Dutch courage.

  It was still early so it was no surprise to find the club relatively quiescent. I tested Simon Pettibone by ordering an obscure cocktail from my antique Bartenders Guide.

  “I would appreciate a Frankenjack,” I stated.

  He stared at me, rolled his eyes upward, concentrated a moment. Then he recited, “Gin, dry vermouth, apricot brandy, Triple Sec.”

  “You’re incredible,” I told him.

  “Served with a cherry,” he added. “You really want one, Mr. McNally?”

  “No,” I said. “A double vodka-rocks will do me fine, Mr. Pettibone. The good stuff.”

  “Sterling or Stoli?”

  “Sterling, please.”

  He poured and placed the tumbler before me.

  “First of the night?” he asked pleasantry.

  “First and last,” I said. “I shall not be a problem.”

  “You never are,” he assured me. “Until you start reciting Shakespeare.”

  “Dear old Willy,” I said. “What would I do without him? Tell me something, Mr. Pettibone: Do you believe that money makes the world go ’round?”

  “Not entirely,” he replied. “I do not believe it is money itself. After all, that is just metal and paper. No, it is the power money confers that makes the world go ’round.”

  “Power,” I repeated reflectively. “Ah. As in comfort, people to serve you, no problems, the lush life?”

  “You’ve got it, Mr. McNally.”

  “No,” I said, “but I wish I did. However, I wouldn’t kill for it. Would you?”

  “Kill? Another person?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” he said, “I would not do that. I enjoy my sleep too much.”

  “Well put,” I said. “But I suspect there are those who would kill for money and sleep as soundly as you.”

  “Oh yes,” he agreed, “there are those. But they will get their deserts on judgment day.”

  “And when will that be, Mr. Pettibone? Next Tuesday?”

  He didn’t laugh or even smile, so I ordered another belt. I finished that and departed. The Pelican was beginning to fill up with a riotous Saturday night throng and I was in no mood for revelry.

  I returned home, undressed, and donned a silk nightshirt. But before I took to the sheets I consumed a dollop of marc and smoked one cigarette. To insure a deep, untroubled slumber, you understand. I finally went to bed absolutely convinced I would awake the next day with a clear head, a settled turn, a sweet breath—and possibly five pounds lighter.

  Chapter 16

  OF COURSE MY HOPES were more than dashed on Sunday morning; they were obliterated. But I shall not weary you with a detailed account of my agonies. The only thing more boring than another person’s dream is another person’s hangover. Suffice to say that it was almost noon before the McNally carcass calmed to the extent that I ceased thinking of suicide as the only cure for my woes.

  But my physical fragility was not the only reason I stayed at home that day; I was awaiting a phone call from Hector Johnson. I was certain his daughter had told him of our conversation during that luncheon at the Ocean Grand, and I was just as certain dear old Heck would gobble the bait.

  A word of explanation is in order here. The reason for my scheming was that I had no proof. I had suspicions aplenty, but they might well have been skywriting, so ephemeral were they without a test of their validity and permanence. And the only way I could do that was by scamming the scammers. It may sound unnecessarily devious, but bear with me.

  I was in my rooms and it was almost one-thirty before my phone rang. I grabbed it up.

  “Archy?” he said. “This is Hector Johnson.”

  A surge of satisfaction dissolved the last remnants of my Katzenjammer. “Heck!” I said cheerily. “Good to hear from you.”

  “Likewise,” he said. “Listen, Arch, I think you and I should get together for a little man-to-man.”

  “Oh? Concerning what?”

  “I can’t discuss it on the phone,” he said brusquely. “It’s about what you mentioned to Theo yesterday.”

  “Ah,” I said, “that. Yes, I agree you and I should have a chat. Where and when?”

  “I’m leaving in a few minutes for Fort Lauderdale. I’ve got some business down there and I’ll be gone all day. But I should be home tonight. Is, say, ten o’clock too late for you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Suppose I come over to your place. I know the address. We can sit in my car and talk.”

  “Surely you’ll come in and have a drink.”

  “No, thanks,” he said shortly. “My car would be best. Private, know what I mean?”

  “Whatever you prefer,” I told him. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Just you and me,” he said. “Right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” he said. “See you at ten.”

  He hung up and I did everything but dance a soft-shoe, thinking my plot was developing nicely.

  Is it elitist to recognize there are cheap people? There are, you know. I don’t mean “cheap” in the sense of stingy, but cheap as meaning shoddy, of inferior quality. I thought Hector Johnson was a cheap person, and so was his old buddy, Reuben Hagler.

  But sleazy people can sometimes be remarkably clever and remarkably dangerous. I do not take their tawdriness lightly. And so I spent some time devising and rehearsing my dialogue with Hector that evening. I knew the role I had to play. I believed I knew his and could only hope I was correct.

  I recognized there was a certain degree of risk involved. Good ol’ Heck did not impress me as a man who would accept defeat resignedly. But if he became physical, I was breezily confident I could cope. A perfect example of my damnable self-deception.

  But before we met there was something I needed to do. Not because it might aid my investigation but because it was simply something I felt necessary. I dressed conservatively and went downstairs to my mother’s greenhouse. She and father were still at church, I could not ask her permission, so I stole one of her potted begonias. It was the Fiesta type with red flowers. I was certain mother would forgive the theft when she learned the purpose.

  I drove south to the Hawkin home, slowed to make certain Hector Johnson’s Lincoln was not present, then turned into the driveway and parked. I carried the begonia up to the front door and knocked briskly. Nothing. I tried again and there was no response. My third attempt brought results; the door was opened slowly and Mrs. Louise Hawkin stared at me dully.

  Oh lordy, but she was a mess. I did not believe she was drunk but she seemed in a stupor, and I wondered if she was drugged. I wasn’t sure she recognized me.

  “Archy McNally, ma’am,” I said. “I want to offer the condolences of my parents and myself on your stepdaughter’s tragic death.”

  But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at the plant I was carrying and I thought she brightened.

  “Glads,” she said.

  “No, Mrs. Hawkin. It’s a Fiesta begonia.”

  “The red flowers,” she said. “My mother always had fresh glads in the house. She went to the market every three days. All colors but mostly she liked red. So cheerful. I should have bought fresh glads every three days.”

  “May I come in?” I asked.

  She allowed me to enter and watched while I carefully placed the plant on a glass-topped end table. Then she came forward to touch the rosettes tenderly. It was a caress.

  “So lovely,” she murmured. “So lovely.”

  I feared she had been sleeping and I had awakened her. She was wearing a wrinkled robe of stained foulard silk. Her hair was unbrushed and looked as if it needed a good wash. Her makeup was smeary, the polish on her fingernails chipped and peeling.

  “Mrs. Hawkin,” I said, “is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Do?” she asked, seemingly bewildered.

  I looked around the littered room. Overflowing ashtrays. A spilled drink. A tilted lamp shade. New
spapers scattered on the floor. An odor of grease and mildew. Total disarray.

  “Perhaps a cleaning woman,” I suggested. “I can find someone for you.”

  Unexpectedly she flared. “Everyone is always picking on me,” she howled.

  “Picking?” I said, and then realized she meant hassling. “I didn’t wish to upset you, ma’am, and I apologize. Would you like me to leave?”

  She calmed as abruptly as she had exploded. “No, no,” she said, then added coquettishly, “Sit thee down, lad, and I’ll get us a nice drinkie-poo.”

  I should have declined, of course, but at the moment a drinkie-poo was exactly what I needed. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hawkin returned from the kitchen with two tumblers filled with a clear liquid. After a cautious sip I discovered it was warm gin.

  “Have the reporters been bothering you?” I asked.

  “Everyone,” she said. “Everyone’s been bothering me. Reporters, policemen, photographers, friends, strangers who park outside to stare at the house.”

  “Awful,” I said.

  “I can’t stand it!” she shrieked. She threw her filled tumbler away from her. The contents spilled, the glass bounced on the shag rug without breaking. Then she fell to wailing, face buried in her hands.

  Shaken, I did what I could to clean up the mess. Then I went into the kitchen, a pigsty. I poured about a quarter of my gin into a reasonably clean glass and added ice and water. I made another like it for Louise and brought it to her.

  She had stopped keening. “Thanks,” she said huskily and gulped down half. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  “You’ve been through a horror,” I told her. “First your husband, then your stepdaughter. It would shatter anyone. It’s amazing that you’re coping as well as you are.”

  She stared at me blankly. “Coping? Is that what I’m doing?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m not,” she said. “I’m dead. I can’t feel anything anymore.”