The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  I didn’t believe that for a minute. I saw that strong, determined face sagging and the heavy body gone limp. Sorrow was taking its toll; she seemed to be shrinking. But there was something else in her expression besides grief. Something I could not immediately identify that I had recently seen and could not recall.

  “Mrs. Hawkin,” I said, “don’t you think it might be wise to ask Jane Folsby to come back to take care of you and the house?”

  “No,” she said at once. “Not her. She knows too much and might talk.”

  Then I knew Mrs. Folsby had been telling the truth but I feigned ignorance. “Knows too much?” I repeated. “About what?”

  “Things,” Louise Hawkin said darkly. She finished her drink and held the empty glass out to me. Obediently I returned to that smelly kitchen, realizing I was no better than Hector Johnson. But if I didn’t fetch her lethe she’d get it herself. Still...

  I sat across from her, leaning forward, intent on keeping up with her fleeting moods.

  “Mrs. Hawkin, I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but I met with Marcia the afternoon before she died.”

  I saw her stiffen. “Did you?” she said. “What did you talk about?”

  “It was a rather disjointed conversation. I didn’t clearly understand it. She was obviously disturbed.”

  “Marcia was insane!” she said forcibly. “I wanted her to get help but she wouldn’t. What did she say?”

  “Something about a business deal she was planning. Very vague.”

  “Oh that!” she said, and her laugh was tinny. “Marcia had mad dreams. She thought Hector Johnson would lend her enough money so she could get her own apartment.”

  “Oh, that’s what it was all about,” I said. I relaxed, sat back, crossed my legs. “So I guess it was Hector she was going to visit after she left me.”

  Then that expression I had previously been unable to identify returned more strongly and I recognized it. It was fear, and the last time I had seen it was during my talk with Pinky Schatz in Lauderdale.

  “It might have been,” Mrs. Hawkin said, shrugging. “It’s not important.”

  “Of course not,” I agreed. “That’s police business, not mine.”

  She responded hotly. “Police business? What do you mean by that?”

  “Why naturally they’ll be trying to trace Marcia’s movements the night she was killed. I suppose they’ll be talking to all her friends.”

  She looked at me. “Marcia didn’t have any friends,” she said flatly.

  That might have been true but it struck me as a cruel thing to say. I remembered that poor waif telling me that I was her best friend.

  I finished my drink and rose. “I think I better run along,” I said. “Thank you for your hospitality and I hope—”

  “No,” she said. “Stay.”

  “I’d like to,” I said. “I really would. But I promised my parents to accompany them to a croquet match.”

  “Too bad,” she said. “I hate to be alone, and Heck’s gone somewhere for the day.”

  “Why don’t you call Theodosia to come over and keep you company.”

  “That bitch?” Louise Hawkin said tonelessly. “I’d rather be alone.”

  I could not reply to that so I made my adieu and departed.

  “Thanks for the glads,” she called after me.

  I drove home slowly, trying to nuzzle things out. My visit to Louise Hawkin had been planned as an ostensible sympathy call, but as I had hoped, it had turned out to be more than that. Nothing conclusive had been learned, you understand, but I was beginning to see things more distinctly—as I’m sure you are also, for I have faith in your perspicacity.

  It was during a long, lazy ocean swim that I realized my seam’s risks, initially treated with sangfroid, could very well prove to be heavier than I had first calculated. They might, in fact, endanger the physical well-being of your humble correspondent. In spite of what I had heard from Mrs. Hawkin I had no intention of abandoning my cunning scheme, but now I recognized its dangers. I am not, I trust, a craven coward, but neither do I claim to be Dudley Doright.

  The perils of what I planned disturbed me. If I should, by evil chance, suddenly be rendered defunct, what I knew and what I suspected would be sponged forevermore. I decided to insure against that unhappy possibility.

  During the family cocktail hour I confessed to the mater I had purloined one of her beloved begonias and had given it to the bereaved Louise Hawkin.

  Mother beamed, kissed me, and said, “That was sweet of you, Archy.”

  It was indicative of my mood that a bit of wisdom—“A good deed never goes unpunished.”—popped into my mind.

  “Father,” I said, “could you spare me a few minutes after dinner?”

  “How many minutes?” he demanded. He can be something of a martinet at times.

  “Fifteen,” I said, knowing it would be thirty and possibly more.

  “Very well,” he said. “In my study.”

  Dinner that night was another of Ursi Olson’s specialties: medallions of veal, breast of chicken, and mild Italian sausage sautéed with mushrooms and onions and served with a wine sauce over a bed of fettuccine. Father contributed a decent merlot from his locked wine cabinet, and he and I shared that bottle while mother sipped her usual sauterne.

  After a lime sorbet and coffee I followed father into his study and closed the door. He seated himself behind his magisterial desk, and I selected a straight-back chair facing him. I did not want to become too comfortable.

  Ordinarily my liege does not request, nor do I provide, progress reports during the course of my investigations. He tells me he is only interested in results. That may be true but I suspect it is also self-protective. He is well aware that my detective methods, while not actually illegal, might be considered unethical or immoral. And he doesn’t wish to hear the gruesome details. In other words, he wants no guilty knowledge. I don’t blame him a bit; he has more to lose than I.

  But my current inquiry, involving the Smythe-Hersforths, the Johnsons, Reuben Hagler, the Hawkins, Shirley Feebling, and Pinky Schatz, was a special case. I needed someone to share my information and my suspicions so that if I met my quietus (sob!) the investigation could continue and my labors would not be wasted.

  I told him everything: what had happened, what I had learned, what I surmised, and what I planned to do. I spoke for almost twenty minutes and saw his face tighten. But he controlled himself; not once did he interrupt.

  But when I finished, his wrath was evident. His courtroom stare was cold enough to chill all that merlot I had imbibed at dinner.

  “If I thought it would do any good,” he said in a stony voice, “I would absolutely forbid you to do what you contemplate. The potential hazards are too great. But I don’t imagine you would obey my command.”

  “No, sir,” I said. “I would not. There is no real evidence that what I suspect did, in fact, occur. The only way I can prove my hypothesis is to offer myself as a greedy dupe. If there was a less dangerous way of unraveling this tangle, I would happily adopt it.”

  “Archy,” he said, genuinely perplexed, “what is your obviously intense personal interest in all this? It doesn’t directly concern McNally and Son. It’s a police matter.”

  “Not totally,” I said. “There are connections to our clients. And two young, innocent women have been brutally murdered during an investigation we instigated.”

  He looked at me a long time. “Lochinvar,” he accused.

  “No, father,” I said. “Nemesis.”

  His anger was slowly transformed to a concern that affected me. “Is Sergeant Rogoff aware of all this?” he asked.

  “Some of it, but not all. I intend to tell him more tomorrow after my meeting this evening with Hector Johnson. I’m going to ask Al to provide some measure of backup protection.”

  “Yes,” he said, “that would be wise. Do you think you should be armed?”

  “No, sir. If a concealed weapon is found or suspect
ed, it might prove an irritant. A fatal irritant.”

  His smile was wan. “Perhaps you’re right. You’re playing a very risky game. I know you’re aware of it and I won’t attempt to dissuade you. All I ask is that if things become too hairy, you shut down your operation at once and extricate yourself. You understand? If there is no hope of success, give it up and withdraw immediately. Agreed?”

  “Yes, father,” I said. “Agreed.”

  I think we both knew that if I failed, a safe withdrawal would be most unlikely.

  I went upstairs and spent the remaining hour rehearsing my role once again. I tried to imagine what objections might be made and what my responses should be. I reviewed the entire scenario and could see no holes that needed plugging. I felt I had devised as tight a scheme as possible. The only thing I could not be sure of was luck, and it was discouraging to recall Hector’s remark that when you really need it, it disappears.

  But then I comforted myself with the thought that his dictum applied to him as well as to me, and perhaps his disappearing luck would be my good fortune. It was a zero-sum game.

  A few minutes before ten o’clock I went downstairs and stood outside the back doorway. The portico light was on and I placed myself directly below it so he’d be sure to see I was alone. I lighted a cig and waited. He was almost fifteen minutes late but that didn’t bother me. I was certain his tardiness was deliberate; it’s a common ploy to unsettle one’s adversary. I’ve used it myself on several occasions.

  Finally the white Lincoln Town Car came purring into our driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. It stopped, the headlights went off, flicked on, went off again, and I stepped down to join Hector Johnson.

  The first thing I noted after I had slipped into the front passenger seat and closed the door was the mélange of odors: 86-proof Scotch, cigar smoke and, overpowering, his cologne, a musky scent I could not identify.

  “Hiya, Arch,” he said with heavy good humor. “Been waiting long?”

  “Just came down,” I lied cheerfully. “How are you, Heck?”

  “If I felt any better I’d be unconscious,” he said and laughed at his own wit. “Hey, the reason I’m late is that I stopped at Louise Hawkin’s place to check on how she’s doing. She tells me you dropped by today and brought her a plant. That was real nice.”

  “From the McNally family,” I said. “To express our condolences on the tragic death of her stepdaughter.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “that was a helluva thing, wasn’t it. First her husband, then Marcia. The poor woman is really taking a hit. Listen, would you object if I lighted up a stogie? If it would bother you, just tell me.”

  “Not at all,” I assured him. “Go right ahead.”

  We were silent while he extracted a cigar from a handsome pigskin case. He bit off the tip and spat it onto the floor at his feet. He used an old, battered Zippo lighter, which made me wonder how much he knew about cigars. No connoisseur of good tobacco would use anything but a wooden match.

  “I guess you and Louise had a long talk,” he said, puffing away and blowing the smoke out his partly opened window.

  “We did,” I admitted. “She seemed in the need of a sympathetic listener.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to be. She tells me you talked to Marcia the afternoon before she was killed.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And that lunatic kid said she was going to ask me for money so she could get her own apartment.”

  “Heck,” I said, “if Mrs. Hawkin told you that, she’s confused. I said only that Marcia spoke of a business deal she was planning. It was Mrs. Hawkin who suggested she was going to ask you for money.”

  “That figures,” he said, showing me a warped grin. “Louise is a little nutsy these days. But that’s neither here nor there. What I really want to talk about is Theo’s prenuptial agreement. Let’s see if I’ve got this clear. Chauncey comes to you and tells you about it. But he’s afraid to tell his mother because then she might put the kibosh on the marriage. Have I got that right?”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “And what did you tell him to do, Arch?”

  “Not to sign anything until I had a chance to think about it.”

  “That was smart,” Johnson said. “So you thought about it and figured Chauncey could sign the agreement without telling mommy. That’s what you told Theo—correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Now I get the picture,” he said. “He’ll sign if you tell him to?”

  “I think he will.”

  “Sure he will. We get a shyster to draw up the papers. Chauncey signs, and his mother and your father know nothing about it. It’s our secret.”

  “That’s right, Heck.”

  He turned slowly to look at me. “So why do we need you?” he demanded. “You’ve already told us how to handle it.”

  “Two reasons,” I said. “First of all, I could tell Chauncey not to sign.”

  “Wouldn’t work,” he said, shaking his head. “If he wants my daughter—and I know he’s got the hots for her—he’ll sign regardless of what you tell him. You’re just not built right, Arch; you can’t compete with Theo.”

  “That’s probably true. But the second reason is that you’re asking five million. A lot of money. I’d like a small piece of the action.”

  At least he had the decency not to express sorrow that his image of me as a “straight arrow” had suddenly been demolished. He just bit down hard on his cigar and stared grimly through the windshield at the night sky.

  “For what?” he said. “So you won’t tell Chauncey’s mommy?”

  “Let’s call it a finder’s fee,” I said. “Just like you wanted for telling me about Mrs. Hawkin’s intention to sell her property.”

  His laugh was short and not mirthful. “You got a great memory, boy. Okay, let’s say you tell Chauncey to sign the prenup and you agree not to squeal about it to Mrs. Smythe-whatshername. How much do you figure that’s worth?”

  “A hundred thousand,” I said brazenly. “Two percent. Very modest.”

  “Sure it is,” he said. “Cash, I suppose.”

  “You suppose accurately.”

  He tossed his half-smoked cigar out the window. “Doesn’t taste so great,” he said. “Tastes like shit.”

  “Too bad.”

  He turned his head to stare at me. “I guess I underestimated you.”

  “Many people do.” I smiled at him.

  “A hundred grand,” he said. “Is that your asking price?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t enjoy haggling. That’s the set price.”

  “Like the song goes: ‘All or Nothing at All.’”

  “Exactly,” I agreed.

  “That’s a lot of loot to raise in cash,” he said.

  “You can’t swing it?”

  “I didn’t say that. When it comes to my little girl’s happiness I’d go to hell and back.”

  “Of course you would,” I said approvingly. “She’s worth it.”

  “Listen, Arch, let me think about this and make a few phone calls. Maybe we can work it out. I’ll be in touch.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “I should know by tomorrow. I’ll give you a buzz.”

  “Can you make it early, Heck? I’m going to be running around all afternoon and wouldn’t want to miss your call.”

  “I’ll make it early,” he promised.

  I nodded and got out of the car. I stood at the opened door. “Sleep well,” I said.

  This time his laugh was genuine. “You’re a nervy bastard,” he said. “I’ll say that for you.”

  I watched him drive away and then tramped up to my digs. I was generally satisfied with the way our face-to-face had gone. I believed he had taken the bait. Now all I had to do was set the hook.

  My most worrisome problem had been to determine how large a bribe to demand. If I had asked for a million, for instance, or even a half-million, I knew he would have rebuff
ed me instantly. But a hundred thousand sounded reasonable: not too outlandish, not too covetous.

  Of course I was gambling that there was no way on God’s green earth that Hector Johnson could raise a hundred thousand dollars in cold cash. I had an approximate idea of his bank balance, I didn’t think Reuben Hagler was rolling in gelt, and Mrs. Hawkin would be on short rations until her late husband’s estate was settled. I calculated Hector would make a counterproposal, and I could launch the second part of my scam.

  I thought my plan was brill. But if, by any chance, Johnson handed over the hundred thousand bucks I’d be a puddle of chagrin.

  Chapter 17

  THERE WAS A TROPICAL depression moving slowly northward over the Atlantic about two hundred miles off the coast. It was no threat to South Florida, according to the weather wonks, but it turned Monday morning into a kind of soup. Well, consommé, at least. The air was choky, hard to breathe, and the sun gleamed waterily behind a scrim of clouds the color of elephant hide.

  I awoke early enough to breakfast with my parents. It was an unusually quiet meal because a woolly day like that blankets the spirits and, if you’re wise, you remain silent so you don’t start snapping at other people or maybe tilting back your head and howling.

  However, before father departed for the office he asked how my meeting with Hector Johnson had gone. I held up crossed fingers and he nodded morosely. That was the extent of our communication.

  I returned to my journal, donned reading glasses, and began scribbling. I must confess that I mention my daily labors so frequently because the record I keep becomes the source of these published accounts of my investigations and brief romances. I just don’t want you to think I’m making it all up.

  I plodded along steadily, hoping for a morning phone call from Johnson. It didn’t arrive until almost eleven o’clock, by which time I had begun to fear my crafty plan had gone awry.

  “Listen, Arch,” Hector said with mucho earnestness, “I know you’re not an unreasonable man.”

  “No, I’m not unreasonable,” I readily agreed.

  “Well, to make a long story short, I can’t come up with the total number you suggested. You capisce?”