The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Oh,” I said.

  Chapter 18

  I ARRIVED HOME SHORTLY after midnight. Lights were still glowing in my father’s study. That was uncommon; usually m’lord is abed by eleven o’clock. He met me at the back door.

  “You’re all right, Archy?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, I’m fine.”

  “Good. Did things go as you hoped?”

  “Mostly.”

  He nodded. “Let’s have a nightcap.”

  We went into his study. I was hoping for a cognac, but he poured us glasses of wine. That was okay; any port in a storm. We got settled and he looked at me inquiringly.

  I started with a brief description of the murder of Silas Hawkin.

  “Marcia actually killed her father?” the patriarch said, aghast.

  “Yes, sir. But she had been sexually abused from childhood. Now I think she was more than disturbed: she was psychotic. Understandable. Her father’s affair with Theodosia Johnson was, in Marcia’s raddled mind, his final act of cruelty and betrayal.”

  “What about the Johnsons? What was their role?”

  “I think the three of them—Theodosia, Hector and Reuben Hagler— came down to Palm Beach from Michigan about a year ago with a definite plan. Their financial resources were limited but their main asset was Theo, her beauty and charm. The idea was to marry her off to a wealthy bachelor and take him for whatever they could grab.”

  “An intrigue as old as civilization.”

  “Yes, father, it is. The only difference was that these creatures were willing to murder to achieve their goal. I believe they thought of Shirley Feebling and Marcia Hawkin merely as impediments to their success. Shirley threatened to make Chauncey’s love letters public unless he married her, and so she had to be eliminated. I suspect it was Reuben Hagler who shot her. And Marcia Hawkin threatened to show her father’s nude portrait of Theo to Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth. That would have resulted in the marriage being called off or Chauncey being disinherited. And so Marcia also had to be eliminated. I have the feeling that Hector Johnson was guilty of that homicide.”

  “Despicable!” father said and rose to refill our glasses. When he was seated again I told him of the personal history of Theodosia Johnson.

  The pater looked at me keenly. “You were attracted to this woman, Archy?”

  “I was,” I admitted. “Still am.”

  He sighed. “It never ceases to amaze me when talented people, intelligent people, imaginative people turn their energies to crime. One wonders what they might have achieved if they had devoted their talent, intelligence, and imagination to legal pursuits. The waste! When virtues are put in the service of vice it becomes not only a societal tragedy but a personal disaster.”

  I nodded gloomily. I was really in no mood for his philosophizing. We sat in silence for several minutes, sipping our port, and I could see he had gone into his mulling status. I wondered what was stirring in the dim recesses of his mazy mind. Finally he spoke.

  “I think you have done an excellent job, Archy, and you are to be commended.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not only have you cleared up a disagreeable mess but I believe it quite likely you have prevented one and possibly two homicides.”

  I stared at him in astonishment. “Prevented? Homicides? How so?”

  “Hasn’t it occurred to you that if Chauncey had signed the prenuptial agreement and married the young woman he might have suffered an early demise, perhaps in an accident craftily planned by this gang of miscreants. Or, in lieu of that, they might have plotted to arrange the death of Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth first. Chauncey would inherit, and then he would be exterminated.”

  I sucked in my breath. “Leaving Theodosia Johnson with the Smythe-Hersforth millions.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you really believe they planned that scenario, father?”

  “I do,” he said decisively. “From what you have told me, I am convinced these people are sociopaths. They are totally devoid of any moral sense. Nothing is good—except money—and nothing is bad. Things just are. And if you believe that, you can commit any heinous act carelessly without a twinge of guilt or remorse.”

  I finished my wine and rose. “I think I better go up,” I said. “It’s been a long, tiring night.”

  “Of course,” he said, looking at me sympathetically. “Get a good sleep.”

  But it was not a good sleep; it was fitful and troubled, thronged with visions I could not identify except that I knew they were dark and menacing. My bed became a battleground on which I fought demons and constantly looked about for hidden assassins.

  It was no wonder that when I finally slept I did not awake until almost noon on Tuesday morning. I staggered to the window and saw the sky had cleared, the sun shone and, I presumed, somewhere birds were chirping.

  I took a hot shower, shaved, and dressed with special care. Not because I had important social engagements that afternoon but I needed the lift that nifty duds always give me. I went downstairs to a deserted kitchen, inspected the larder, and settled on a brunch of a garlic salami and cheddar sandwich (on pump) and a frosty bottle of Heineken. The old double helix began twisting in the wind.

  I went first to my father’s study, sat at his desk, used his phone, and called Sgt. Rogoff.

  “What’s happening?” I asked him.

  He laughed. “It’s finger-pointing time,” he said. “Hagler, Johnson, and the bimbo are—”

  “She’s not a bimbo,” I protested.

  “Whatever,” he said. “Anyway, the three of them are all trying to cut deals. Johnson says Hagler shot Shirley Feebling. Hagler says Johnson strangled Marcia Hawkin. These are real stand-up guys. Not!”

  “What do you think they’ll draw?”

  “You want my guess? I don’t think they’ll get the chair. The evidence isn’t all that conclusive. But they’ll plea-bargain down to hard time.”

  “And Theodosia?”

  “She’ll walk,” he admitted. “She’s being very cooperative. And she agrees that she’ll get out of Florida and never come back. Good riddance.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  I wanted to tell him that I thought Madam X was a self-willed, undisciplined woman who just didn’t give a damn. But she was smart, sensitive, and fully aware of her excesses and how they doomed her. I didn’t say it, of course; Rogoff would have hooted with laughter.

  “Al,” I said, “thank you for your help and keep me up to speed on this megillah. Okay?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I hung up and sat a few moments in the guv’s chair, reflecting. I shall not claim I was wading barefoot through the slough of despond. It wasn’t true and you wouldn’t believe me anyway. Instead, I found myself in a remarkably serene mood. Which made me wonder if I had truly been in love with an associate of killers, a woman soon to be banished from the sovereign State of Florida.

  I had been enthralled by her and still was. If she had used me, where was the harm? I had enjoyed it. I knew I did have and still had a strong affection for her. Was that romantic love? I didn’t know.

  I went outside into a brilliant noonday. I decided to drive down the coast and let the sun shrivel and the wind blow away all complexities. I wanted my life to be simple, clear, easy to understand. I really enjoy a broiled lobster more than paella. And that jaunt did rejuvenate me. Except that I found myself touring past the Ocean Grand and through Mizner Park, places where Theo and I had memorable luncheons. But I didn’t stop.

  I drove directly back to Palm Beach and arrived in time to visit the Pristine Gallery before it closed for the day. Silas Hawkin’s portrait of Madam X was no longer displayed in the front window nor was it displayed within. The proprietor was wandering about disconsolately.

  “Mr. Duvalnik,” I said, “what happened to that beautiful painting by Hawkin?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” he said. “Theodosia Johnson has been arrested, the marriage is off, and now Chauncey Smythe-Hersfort
h refuses to pay. He commissioned it and I suppose I could sue, but I don’t want the hassle.”

  “So it becomes the property of Mrs. Louise Hawkin?”

  “I suppose so,” he said glumly. “I talked to the widow and she really doesn’t want it. Told me to sell it for whatever I could get. One of the tabloids offered a thousand dollars but that’s ridiculous. I end up with three hundred? No thanks. I spent more than that on Hawkin’s exhibition.”

  “I’d be willing to pay ten thousand for the portrait,” I told him, “if you’d sell it to me on time, perhaps ten or twelve monthly payments.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I am.”

  He brightened. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Hawkin. I’ll tell her of your offer and urge her to accept.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Duvalnik,” I said. “I admire the painting and would be proud to own it.”

  “And why not?” he cried. “It’s a masterpiece!”

  “It is indeed,” I agreed.

  I tooled homeward, convinced that eventually I would become the legal owner of Silas Hawkin’s painting of Madam X. Not the nude. I knew that wood panel would remain in police custody as evidence during a criminal investigation. I had no interest in its final disposition. I didn’t want it. Too many bad vibes.

  But I wanted the formal pose: Theo seated regally in an armchair framed by crimson drapes, her lips caught in an expression so mystifying that it made Mona Lisa’s smile look like a smirk.

  I would not hang the portrait on the wall of my bedroom, of course. That would be a bit much. I would hide it in a closet, and occasionally I would take it out, prop it up, and look at it fondly while remembering and perhaps listening to a tape of Leon Redbone singing “Extra Blues.”

  I had time for a curtailed ocean swim, then returned home to shower and dress in a slapdash fashion for Lady Cynthia Horowitz’s informal seafood buffet. We skipped the family cocktail hour that evening, and at seven o’clock the McNallys set out. My parents led the way in father’s black Lexus. I followed in my flaming Miata, feeling more chipper than I had any right to be.

  The Horowitz estate was all aglitter with ropes of Chinese lanterns, and a goodly crowd had already assembled by the time we arrived. Tables had been set up around the pool and the buffet was being arranged by caterers, pyramiding seafood onto wooden trenchers lined with cracked ice. A small outdoor bar was already busy, and in the background a tuxedoed trio played Irving Berlin.

  I sought out our hostess. Lady Cynthia was an old friendly enemy and she gave me a warm welcoming kiss on the lips.

  “My favorite rogue,” she said, tapping my cheek. “Have you been behaving yourself, lad?”

  “No,” I said, “have you?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “At my age naughtiness is a necessity—like Fiberall.”

  “At my age, too,” I said, and we both laughed as she drifted away to greet newly arriving guests.

  I looked about for Consuela Garcia but couldn’t immediately spot her. So I ordered a kir royale at the bar and joined the gossiping throng of friends and acquaintances. You must understand that you are required to pass a Gossip Aptitude Test before you are allowed to live in the Town of Palm Beach.

  That evening the only topic being bandied about was the Chauncey-Theodosia affair. There were many reports, rumors, hints, insinuations, and much ribald laughter. I listened but contributed nothing.

  Finally I espied Connie. Zounds but she looked a winner! She was wearing a mannish suit of white linen, fashionably wrinkled, and a choker of black pearls I had given her. With her bronzy tan and long ebony hair she made the other women at that soiree look like Barbies. I hastened to her side.

  “Hello, stranger,” she said with a bright smile.

  “Connie,” I said, “you look marv. May I have the first dance?”

  “I’ll be too busy getting the place closed up after dinner.”

  “Then may I see you home, later?”

  “I have my own car,” she said and looked at me speculatively.

  I interpreted that look to be half-challenge, half-invitation. “Suppose I tailgate you to make certain you arrive home safely,” I suggested.

  “If you like,” she said. “Now go eat before all the prawns are gone.”

  I dined at a table for four with my parents and Mr. Griswold Forsythe II, a superannuated bore who had depleted his repertoire of anecdotes fifty years ago, which didn’t prevent him from repeating them ad infinitum. The only things that saved me were that piscine buffet and the bottle of chilled sancerre on each table, replaced as needed.

  After that yummy feast was demolished, dancing commenced on the pool verge and the cropped lawn. I watched affectionately as my parents waltzed to a fox-trot, and then I lured mother into joining me for a sedate lindy. We did beautifully, and it was a moment to treasure.

  The night spun down, Mr. and Mrs. McNally departed, other guests shouted their farewells and were gone. The caterer cleared up, spurred on by Connie Garcia, and the trio packed up their instruments and left. The bar closed, lanterns were extinguished, and quiet took over. The hostess was nowhere to be seen and, knowing Lady Cynthia, I suspected she had retired to her chambers with the pick of the litter. And I assure you he would not be the runt.

  Finally, only Connie and I remained. We met at our cars in the driveway and, giggling, she displayed her loot: two bottles of that sharp sancerre.

  “Bless you, my child,” I said gratefully.

  She drove back to her condo and I followed closely. We arrived without incident and within fifteen minutes were lounging on her miniature balcony, gazing down at a shimmering Lake Worth and sipping sancerre. What more, I wondered, could life hold for a growing boy.

  “Tell me, Archy,” Connie said lazily, “what have you been up to?”

  “Busy, busy, busy,” I said. “Dinners, parties, dances, and licentiousness. And you?”

  “More of the same,” she said, and we both burst out laughing. “Actually,” I said, “it’s been sluggish.”

  “A drag,” she said.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Zip,” she said.

  We were contentedly together.

  “Must you go?” she asked in a wispy voice.

  “No,” I said, “I must not.”

  “Promise not to snore?”

  “I never snore,” I said indignantly.

  “Perhaps not but you do burble occasionally.”

  “I’ll promise not to burble if you promise not to kick.”

  “I never kick,” she said firmly.

  “Do so.”

  “Do not.”

  “Then you sometimes jerk in your sleep. You convulse.”

  “Convulse?” she said. “Is that fun?”

  “It can be,” I said. “Under the right circumstances.”

  She refilled our glasses. “I’ve missed you, Arch,” she said casually.

  “And I’ve missed you, Connie,” I said, just as casually.

  “It’s been silly-time,” she added.

  “Too true,” I concurred.

  “Right now?” she asked.

  “Barkis is willin’,” I told her.

  “Who’s Barkis?”

  “A close friend of mine.”

  “I think I’ve had enough of your close friends,” she said.

  I skinned down and had popped between the sheets before Connie finished locking up and dousing the lights. She left a single bulb burning in the bathroom and when she came out starkly naked I almost swooned with longing. What a delight she was! And no tattoos.

  She climbed into bed and we moved close.

  “Let’s go for it,” she said.

  I still refuse to believe romantic love is a myth. But an intimate friendship between a man and a woman is better.

  I think.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Archy McNally Series

  1

  AFTER A GREAT DEAL of heavy reflection I have come to the conclusion that everyone
is nuts. And I mean everyone, not just a sprinkling of ding-a-lings.

  You think me a misanthrope? Listen to this...

  I am the chief (and sole member) of the Discreet Inquiries Department of McNally & Son, Attorney-at-Law. (My father is the Attorney, I am the Son.) We represent some very prestigious clients—and a scurvy few—in the Town of Palm Beach. Occasionally they request the services of a private and prudent investigator rather than take their problems to the police and risk seeing their tribulations luridly described in a supermarket tabloid, alongside a story headlined “Elvis Lands in UFO!”

  One of our commercial clients is a sinfully luxe jewelry store on Worth Avenue. They had recently been plagued by a shoplifter who was boosting a choice selection of merchandise. Not their most costly baubles, of course; those were locked away in vaults and shown only in private. But they were losing a number of less expensive items—brooches, rings, bracelets, necklaces—that were on public display.

  Their concealed video camera soon revealed the miscreant. They were shocked, shocked to recognize one of their best customers, a wealthy widow who dropped at least a hundred grand annually in legitimate purchases. I shall not reveal her name because you would immediately recognize it. Not wishing to prosecute such a valued patron, the jewelry store brought its distressing predicament to McNally & Son, and I was given the task of ending the lady’s pilfering without enraging her to the extent that she would purchase her diamond tiaras elsewhere, perhaps at Wal-Mart or Home Depot.

  It was a nice piece of work and I started by learning all I could about the kleptomaniacal matron. I consulted Consuela Garcia first. Connie is employed as social secretary to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, possibly the wealthiest of our chatelaines. Connie is my inamorata and au courant with all the latest Palm Beach rumors, scandals, and skeletons that have not yet emerged from the closet.

  I also phoned Lolly Spindrift, the gossip columnist on one of our local rags. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of the peccadilloes, kinks, and outré personal habits of even our most august residents.

  From these two fonts of impropriety, if not of wisdom, I learned that the shoplifter in her younger years (several decades ago) had been an actress. Not a first-magnitude star, but a second-echelon player who had never quite made it to the top. I mean that in films she always lost the hero to the leading lady and in TV sitcoms she invariably played the wisecracking but sympathetic roommate. She did very well financially, I’m sure, but I doubt if sophomores ever Scotch-taped her photo to dormitory walls.