The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  And so I sallied forth to dance a pas de deux with Hector Johnson, papa of the unknowable Madam X.

  The first thing I did after exiting was to search our three-car garage, hoping to find Al Rogoff lurking in the shadows. He was not. And during the early moments of my drive I tried to spot Al’s parked squad car or pickup. No luck. I was on my own.

  The Johnsons’ condo was brightly lighted and Hector opened the door before I knocked. He was grinning, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me inside with a great show of boisterous good-fellowship.

  “Glad you could make it, Arch!” he shouted. “Sorry about the change of plans, but I figure it’s better this way. Am I right?”

  “Sure, Heck,” I said.

  He practically pushed me onto that cretonne couch of recent fond memory.

  “Hey,” he said, looming over me, “I’m having a Chivas. How about you?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve been drinking wine and it’s instant blotto to mix the grape and the grain. But you go ahead.”

  “I was just pouring a refill when you pulled up,” he said. “Be right back.”

  He went into the kitchen. I didn’t think he was sozzled, but he wasn’t stone sober either. I wanted him to keep drinking, figuring it might impair his coordination if things turned nasty. He returned with a full glass and no ice cubes that I could see.

  “Your daughter is having dinner with her fiancé?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, plopping down in an armchair facing me. “She drove the Lincoln. That guy of hers is a real stiff, isn’t he? What Theo sees in him I’ll never know.”

  “Maybe she sees five million dollars,” I suggested.

  His expression didn’t change, but he took a deep gulp of his Scotch. “I’m glad you brought that up, Arch,” he said. “Listen, I got bad news. I know I told you I had fifty grand and I did, but now I don’t. I was depending on a pal to help me out, but he’s in a bind and can’t come up with the gelt. Arch, I’m really, truly sorry about this, and you have every right to be pissed. I mean I think you’re in the right to ask for a finder’s fee and if I had it I’d be happy to hand it over with a smile. But like they say, you can’t get blood from a turnip. I only wish there was some other way we could work this out.”

  The opening I had hoped for...

  I was silent a moment, looking at him thoughtfully. “There may be, Heck. And it won’t cost you any cash.”

  He took another swig. “No money?” he said. “Then what do you want?”

  “That painting you bought from Marcia Hawkin.”

  “What painting?” he cried. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Heck,” I said, “let’s stop playing games. I know Marcia sold you a painting.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” he said menacingly.

  “Of course not. I just think you’re making a very chivalrous attempt to protect the reputation of that poor, unfortunate girl.”

  He suddenly switched gears. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “That’s exactly what I want to do. Louise has enough problems without that. How did you know?”

  Then I went into my rehearsed spiel, speaking slowly in a grave voice. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t con a con man. His ego is so bloated that it never occurs to him that anyone would even try to swindle him. Bankers have that same fault.

  “Heck, when I spoke to Marcia the afternoon before she was killed she made a confession. I didn’t ask questions; she just wanted to talk. You know what a flake she was.

  “She told me she arrived home while the housekeeper, Mrs. Folsby, was on the phone reporting to the police she had just discovered the body of Silas Hawkin. Marcia went directly to the studio and saw that her father was dead. Murdered. She said he had been working on a nude portrait of her, acrylic on a wood panel, and she was so proud and happy that he wanted her to pose because it was the first painting he had ever done of her.

  “So, she admitted, she stole it. Just wrapped it in a drop cloth, carted it away, and slid it under her bed in the main house before the cops arrived. What she did was unlawful, of course: removing evidence from the scene of a crime.

  “But Marcia said she didn’t care. She felt the painting belonged to her. Not only had she posed for it but it would be her only remembrance from her father. You can understand how she felt, can’t you, Heck?”

  “Yeah,” he said, finishing his triple Chivas. “Sure I can.”

  “But then the hostility between Marcia and her stepmother became more venomous. After the death of her father Marcia had no money of her own; her only asset was the last painting by Silas Hawkin. So she decided to sell it. To you. Because she thought you were wealthy and would be willing to help her out. I tried to convince her that what she planned was illegal. She really didn’t own the painting; after her father’s death it became part of his estate and Louise was his beneficiary. But Marcia insisted on going ahead with it. How much did you pay, Heck?”

  The direct question shook him. He gripped his empty glass with both hands and leaned forward tensely. “She told you the painting was a nude of her?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Then he relaxed, sat back, nodded. “I paid her twenty thousand,” he said. “A bargain.”

  “It certainly was,” I agreed. “And now I’m going to offer you another bargain. I’ll take that painting as a finder’s fee instead of the hundred thousand dollars I asked. A nice profit for you, Heck.”

  He rolled his empty tumbler between his palms while he stared at me closely. “You’re so generous,” he said, not without irony. “Why?”

  “Because I like Silas Hawkin’s work. I already own some of his watercolors. And I want to own his last painting, especially since it’s on wood, something he hadn’t done since he was a student in Paris.”

  Johnson kept staring and I still wasn’t certain he had bought my fairy tale. I added more.

  “If you’re afraid of getting involved in the police investigation of Marcia’s murder, forget it. I figure you paid her and she went out to celebrate with some of those crazy dopers and bikers she knew. They partied, things got rough, and she ended up dead.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “That’s the way I figure it, too.”

  “Another consideration is this... What we’re talking about is stolen property. Marcia started by stealing the painting from her father’s studio. You committed an illegal act by purchasing stolen property. But you get out from under by turning it over to me. Then I have the hot potato. Do you think I’m going to hawk it, lend it to an exhibition, or even show it to anyone else? No way! That nude goes into my private collection and stays private for the rest of my life.”

  He was silent and I knew it was his moment of decision. Snowing him as I had was the only way to uncover the truth. And if what I suspected was correct, he would be forced to react.

  He pondered a long time, not speaking, and I didn’t know which way it would go. Finally he said, “Clue me in on this, Arch. What’s my downside risk?”

  That was Wall Street jargon and I remembered he had been a stockbroker cashiered for securities fraud.

  “Your downside risk,” I told him bluntly, “is that the cops question me and I repeat what Marcia told me of planning to sell you a painting. The stained drop cloth was found in her Cherokee when they hauled it out of the lake. That implicates you. Also I’d feel it my duty to inform Chauncey’s mother that her darling son intends to sign a five-million-dollar prenuptial contract with your daughter, contrary to my advice. There goes Chauncey’s inheritance.

  “Your upside potential is that the cops never learn from me what Marcia said, and I advise Chauncey to sign the prenup immediately. And everyone lives happily ever after. If I get the painting.”

  He twisted his features into more grimace than smile. “I don’t have much choice, do I?” he said.

  “Not much,” I agreed.

  “I need a refill,” he proclaimed hoarsely, hauling himself to his feet.
“Be right back.”

  He went into the kitchen. I waited patiently, satisfied that I had given it my best shot. If it didn’t work I’d be forced to consider enrolling in a Tibetan monastery.

  It worked. Hector came slowly out of the kitchen, not with a drink but with a revolver. It looked like a .38 but I couldn’t be sure. I don’t know a great deal about firearms. Badminton rackets are more my speed.

  I rose to my feet. “Judgment day,” I said. “And it’s only Monday. I suggested to Mr. Pettibone it might be tomorrow.”

  “What?” Johnson said, completely bewildered.

  You may not believe this but the sight of him carrying a handgun was a source of exultant gratification more than fright. For I knew I had been right, and what is more pleasurable than saying, “I told you so,” even if they’re your last words.

  He was holding the weapon down alongside his leg, not brandishing it, you know, but gripping it tightly. I took one small step toward the outside door.

  “Is that the gun that killed Shirley Feebling?” I asked him.

  Oh, but he was shaken! His face fell apart. Emotions flickered: disbelief, consternation, fear, anger, hatred.

  “You’re a real buttinsky, aren’t you?” he said, his voice an ugly snarl.

  “A professional buttinsky,” I reminded him. “I get paid for it.”

  I took another small step toward the door. He followed as I hoped he would. He was my sole assailant but little did he know that I had two allies: Desperation and Adrenaline.

  I took another step. He came much closer, raising the gun and pointing it at me. When I saw the muzzle I realized it wasn’t a .38; it was the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel.

  “Don’t try to make a break for it,” he warned harshly. “I’d just as soon drop you right here.”

  “And stain your beautiful shag rug?” I said.

  I took a deep breath and made my play, a fast, feint toward the door. It was a singularly adroit move if I say so myself, and I do. His gun swung to cover my anticipated departure. I whirled back and rushed, knocking the revolver aside and embracing him. We hugged, straining, tighter than lovers. He was heavy and he was powerful. It was like pressing a grizzly to one’s bosom.

  I feared this monster was capable of collapsing my ribs or snapping my spine, and so I craned and fastened my teeth, uppers and lowers, onto his nose. Of course I had no intention of amputating his beezer. That would have left me with a mouthful of nostrils, an unappetizing prospect. No, I merely hoped to cause him intense pain. And I succeeded admirably. His roars of anguish were sweeter to my ears than Debussy’s Clair de Lune.

  I increased the pressure, hearing the creaking of cartilage in his beak. His groans became gasping whimpers. I opened my mandibles, disengaged myself from his clutch, and stood back. He fell to his knees and I stooped and plucked the revolver from his nerveless grasp. He put both hands to his bleeding proboscis and continued to moan.

  I looked down at him and was tempted to utter a dramatic proclamation, such as “Sic semper tyrannis.” Instead, I just said, “Tough shit,” and rapped him on the occiput with the butt of his gun. It seemed to have little effect so I slugged him again and this time he slid face down onto the carpet. Kaput.

  I began my search, starting in the bedroom at the rear of the condo. Only one bedroom: that perplexed me but I continued to toss the entire apartment. Every few minutes I returned to see if the comatose Hector was stirring. If so, I’d give him another sharp tap on the noggin and he would lapse into deep slumber again.

  I was beginning to ransack the living room when I heard a heavy pounding on the front door. I rushed to the window and saw a police car parked outside, roof lights flashing. I yanked open the door to find Sgt. Al Rogoff with a young officer behind him. Both men had hands on their holsters.

  “You okay?” Al asked anxiously.

  “Dandy,” I assured him. “How did you find me?”

  “I was a few minutes late getting to your garage. I stayed in there for almost half an hour. When neither you nor Johnson showed up I knew something had gone wrong. His condo was the obvious place to start looking for you. Did everything go like you figured?”

  “Pretty much,” I said. “Come on in.”

  They followed me into the living room and looked down at the prone Hector Johnson. Rogoff knelt and rolled him over.

  “What happened to his nose?” he asked. “Did you bop him?”

  “No,” I said, “I bit him.”

  Al looked at me sorrowfully. “And I thought you were a gourmet,” he said.

  The two cops hauled Johnson to his feet. He regained a groggy consciousness, but they had to hold him upright. The sergeant cuffed him and they hustled him outside and thrust him into the back of the squad car. Rogoff returned, leaving the front door of the condo open. I handed him Johnson’s revolver.

  “This might be the gat used to kill Shirley Feebling,” I told him.

  “Gat?” he said. “I haven’t heard that word since Cagney died.” He examined the gun. “It could be,” he admitted. “It’s the right caliber. I’ll send it down to Lauderdale for tests. What about the painting?”

  “Haven’t found it yet,” I said. “I was just starting on this room when you showed up.”

  We searched and came up with zilch. Rogoff went into the kitchen and came back with two tumblers of Chivas and water on the rocks. He handed me one.

  “Drink it,” he advised. “You look a little puffy around the gills, and Johnson will never miss it.”

  He sat on the couch and I fell into the armchair recently occupied by mine host.

  “Maybe he burned the painting,” the sergeant said. “Getting rid of incriminating evidence.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Al. That nude is valuable, and I can’t see Johnson destroying anything that might prove profitable.”

  “Then what the hell did he do with it? Put it in storage?”

  “Maybe he left it at Louise Hawkin’s place,” I suggested.

  “That’s a possibility. Or maybe—hey, why are you grinning like that?”

  “I know where it is,” I said. “Not exactly ‘The Purloined Letter’ but close to it.”

  “Cut the crap,” Rogoff said roughly. “Where is it?”

  “You’re sitting on it.”

  “What?”

  “The one place we didn’t look. Under that ghastly couch.”

  I flopped down on my knees and dragged it out. I propped it up in the armchair and we stared at it. It seemed in good condition, a bit smeared but easily restored. The composition was classic, the colors vibrant, the pose almost lascivious. Perhaps wanton would be a better word: The model was more naked than nude. I looked for the tattoo of the blue butterfly and there it was.

  “Sensational,” Al breathed. “Better than that portrait of her at the Pristine Gallery. She was making it with Silas?”

  “Whenever it pleased her,” I said. “She’s a free spirit. But she admits it costs. Naturally Silas was eager.”

  “That’s why his daughter did him in?”

  “Motive enough, wouldn’t you say, Al? Marcia was a woman scorned. Daddy had brief affairs before, but Madam X was an obsession. I can understand that.”

  “Who?” he said, puzzled. “Madam X?”

  “That’s what I call her. So Marcia killed him, just as her letter said, and swiped the painting that infuriated her. But then she needed money and realized she had the perfect blackmail bait. If she showed the nude to Chauncey and Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth, the marriage would be canceled. Hector didn’t have the cash she demanded so he had to put her down and grab the painting. I imagine Reuben Hagler helped him. It would be a two-man job to strangle Marcia and push her Jeep off the pier into the lake.”

  Rogoff took a deep breath. “All because of a beautiful broad,” he said.

  I was about to quote. “Beauty is power,” when, as if on cue, we heard a car pull up outside. We moved to the open door to see Theodosia Johnson slide out of the
white Lincoln. She paused a moment when she saw my Miata and the police car. She went over to peer in at the manacled Hector. Then she came marching into the house and confronted us. How I admired her! She was erect, shoulders back, eyes angry.

  “What’s going on here?” she demanded fiercely.

  The sergeant showed his ID. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take you in, miss,” he said.

  “Do you have a warrant?” she said stiffly.

  “No, ma’am,” Al said, “but I have probable cause coming out my ears. Do you wish to resist?”

  She considered for the briefest of moments. “No,” she said. “I’ll come along.”

  Rogoff took her arm lightly, but she turned to me.

  “Archy,” she said, “I’m very fond of you.”

  “Thank you,” I said faintly.

  “And if you feel sorry for me I’ll never forgive you.”

  I felt like weeping but a cliché saved me. “You’re a survivor,” I told her.

  “Yes,” she said, lifting her chin, “I am that.”

  She gave me a flippant wave and Sgt. Rogoff led her outside to join Hector. Eventually he returned. By that time I had finished my drink and his as well.

  “What are you going to charge her with?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “Enough to convince her to make a deal. You had eyes for her, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” I said, “and I do. I can’t see where she did anything so awful. I think her father was the main offender.”

  Al didn’t look at me. “Archy, Hector isn’t her father. I heard from Michigan this afternoon. Her real name isn’t Johnson; it’s Burkhart or Martin or Combs or whatever she wants it to be. She was a cocktail waitress in Detroit. Model. Party girl. Arrested twice for prostitution. No convictions. She’s been Hector’s live-in girlfriend for the past three years.”