McNally's Caper (28 page)

Ordinarily I am a sociable bloke but occasionally I like to spend a few hours of selfish solitude, regarding my navel and reflecting on the absurdities of human existence. Actually, my activities on that quiet Sabbath were not quite so highfalutin.

I changed to cerise Speedo swimming trunks, pulled on a purple velour coverup, and shod myself in raffia flip-flops. I gathered up my Yogi Bear beach towel and returned to the kitchen. I mixed a thermos of vodka gimlets and constructed two sandwiches: turkey on wheat (mayo) and liverwurst on sour rye (mustard). I also added an apple to my tote. Then I went down to the beach, coated exposed hide with SPF 15, and reclined in the partial shade of a royal palm.

Time passed. What more can I tell you other than I drowsed, nibbled sandwiches, sipped gimlets, took an occasional dip in the warm sea, stretched my bones, and craftily kept my mind totally blank for five hours—although my father would assure you it required little effort on my part. I returned home to shower and dress for the cocktail hour and dinner. Then I retired to my mini-suite for a long evening of scribbling notes in my journal on everything that had happened since the last entry.

About ten o’clock I received a phone call: my first personal contact that day with the Forsythe hullabaloo.

“Archy?” she said. “This is Gerry.”

“Hey!” I said. “I’ve been meaning to call. When are you leaving?”

“Wednesday afternoon. I just phoned to say goodbye.”

That alarmed me; I wasn’t certain Al Rogoff and I would have the package gift-wrapped and tied with a gold bow by Wednesday. And Gerry’s presence was essential if justice was to triumph.

“Perhaps I’ll have a chance to see you before you leave,” I suggested.

“I doubt it,” she said bluntly. “I have a million things to do; a lot of running around.”

“I can imagine,” I said and then, lying through my molars, I added, “I hope we can get together when you return.”

“That would be nice,” she said with all the effervescence of flat beer.

“Have a good trip, Gerry.”

“I intend to,” she said and hung up.

Not bloody likely, I thought, and mused on the role I imagined Geraldine Forsythe had played in the meshugass now drawing to its close. I could not forgive her for what I surmised she had done. But it seemed to me her transgressions had been more sleazy than cardinal. And probably more venal than either.

I did not believe her a corrupt woman. I theorized that all her offenses had stemmed from loneliness, weakness of will, and a crippled ego. There I go again, playing Dr. Sigmund F. What the hell do I know? Get too involved in psychoanalysis and you’ll hesitate to eat a banana.

If my Sunday was unplanned, my schedule for Monday was rigidly structured—and of course it started to fall apart almost immediately.

I began by oversleeping shamefully. I had a solitary breakfast, dashed out to the Miata, and my pride and joy refused to start. A moment’s inspection revealed the reason: the fuel indicator signaled an exhausted tank. I gave thanks to Vishnu for allowing me to make it home Saturday night before being stranded on a deserted road.

I went back into the house, phoned the West Palm garage I use, and explained my predicament to Susan, my favorite mechanic.

She laughed. “You’re losing it, Archy,” she said. “I’ll get someone out there this morning to give your baby a bottle—enough to get you to a pump.”

“When?” I insisted. “Soon?”

“Before noon is the best I can promise.”

I moaned, went outside again, and found mother chatting to her begonias in the greenhouse. I reported my problem and she readily agreed to lend me her old wood-bodied Ford station wagon. And that was the vehicle I drove to the Trojan Stables.

I must admit that despite the minor annoyances and delays, I was enthralled by that splendid morning. God was not in His heaven; He was in South Florida, and we had the lucent sky, beaming sun, and balmy breeze to prove it. What a perfect day to solve a murder!

I found Mrs. Constance Forsythe at the fence in what was apparently her customary posture: one foot up on the bottom rung as she leaned on the top rail. She was watching a horse galloping on the track. The rider, a woman, wore a helmet, but the fluttering fringe of flaxen hair convinced me it was Sylvia Forsythe.

“Hallo, Archy,” Mrs. Constance said genially as I approached. “Come to visit us again, have you?”

“A pleasure,” I said. “What a lovely morning.”

“Just perfect,” she said in a dreamy voice. She gazed out over the neatly trimmed acres of her farm, everything trig and glowing in early light. “I can never get enough of this place, Archy. I’ve been thinking of changing the name to Paradise Stables. I mean the combination of Trojan and horses might imply deceit to some people—don’t you think?”

“It might,” I agreed, “and it has another connotation as well.”

She laughed. “What a naughty boy you are!” She turned away to observe the galloping horse and rider.

“Is that Sylvia up?” I asked her.

She nodded. “She’s becoming quite good. I may start her on dressage soon. She’s a natural.”

“Talking about naturals,” I said casually, “is Timothy Cussack about?”

“Nope. It’s his day off. Sundays and Mondays.”

“Oh damn!” I said, snapping my fingers. “I knew that but forgot. Don’t know how I can get in touch with him, do you?”

She took her foot from the rail and turned to face me. “Haven’t the slightest,” she said. “On his days off Timmy is here, there, and everywhere. Why do you want to find him—something important?”

“It may be,” I said. “To him. Look, I trust your discretion, and if you hear from him you might relay this: I’ve been working with the police on the investigation of your husband’s murder. They’ve narrowed the list of suspects to a half dozen names. Cussack is one of them. I like Tim—we’ve hoisted a few together—and I thought I should alert him. He’s liable to be picked up for questioning.”

Her expression didn’t change. I told you from the start she had the face of a mastiff, heavy and somewhat droopy. But there was rugged strength. Mastiffs are great protectors. I reckoned she qualified.

“Why on earth would the cops suspect Timmy?” she inquired, mildly enough. “He had nothing to gain from Griswold’s death.”

“Exactly,” I said. “What could possibly be his motive—the theft of a couple of hundred bucks? I think that’s a crock, but you know what the police are like. In this case I believe they’re simply floundering. Just between you, me, and the lamppost, they have precious little hard evidence and so they’re casting a wide net. I thought I’d mention it to Cussack so it won’t come as a rude shock if he gets pulled in for interrogation.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. “That’s very decent of you, Archy. But Timmy has had run-ins with the law before; he knows how to handle himself.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “I’m sure the whole thing will just dissolve into thin air. But if you hear from Cussack today you might repeat what I’ve told you.”

“I will,” she said. “Thanks, Archy. You’re true-blue.”

I wasn’t; I was just being my usual devious self. But she didn’t know that, and I was pleased. I genuinely liked the woman. She was so strong, you see, so determined, with the resolve of a sergeant major. I wished I had half her assurance. I have trouble deciding whether or not argyle socks can tastefully be worn with a seersucker suit. Important choices like that stump me.

“Enjoy your paradise, Mrs. Constance,” I said, giving her my 100-watt smile (the Supercharmer), and then I departed.

I tooled the station wagon back to the McNally Building, hoping to finagle an audience with m’lord. I felt it was time to brief the executor of the Forsythe estate on what had happened, was happening, and what I anticipated would happen. It would not, I knew, inspire him to leap exuberantly into the air and click his heels with glee.

I went directly to my office—a cubicle small enough to serve as a loo for pygmies—and found on my desk a message to phone Sgt. Al Rogoff as soon as possible. I did and found him in a fractious mood. He wasted no time on idle prattle.

“Did you get out to the horse farm?” he demanded.

“Just got back.”

“Were they there?”

“Yep. Both women.”

“Did you go into your song and dance?”

“A magnificent performance,” I assured him.

“Uh-huh. Well, things are moving right along on this end. It’s beginning to look good. We got a search warrant from a friendly judge and I’m leaving now.”

“I’ll be home all night. Will you phone me and bring me up to speed?”

“Sure, I’ll call.”

“Guaranteed?”

“I told you I’d call,” he said aggrievedly. Al hates to be goosed—as who does not?

He hung up abruptly, leaving me to reflect on what an ass I’d be if my suspicions turned out to be just that—suspicions. But faint heart never condemned fair lady, and so I lighted and smoked an English Oval slowly (first of the day) before I phoned Mrs. Trelawney and asked if
Il Papa
might consent to grant his only son a brief hearing.

She put me on hold and then came back a few moments later to inform me I had been given the gift of fifteen minutes if I arrived at once. And so, hoping my flowered sport jacket (peonies) would not doom the interview from the start, I headed upstairs to my father’s sanctum sanctorum dreading what his reaction might be to the news I was bringing. Why did I suddenly recall the ancient custom of killing the messenger with bad tidings?

But to my relief I found him in a benevolent mood. Not exactly cheery, you understand—he hated to have his daily routine interrupted—but not spleenish either. We sat at opposite ends of his bottle-green leather chesterfield, and I launched into my speech.

I told him the whole schmear: what I knew, intuited, and presumed. My report took longer than the allotted fifteen minutes but not once did he interrupt. As I spoke, his features became increasingly stern, darkened with an ineffable sadness. We sat in silence after I finished. I awaited his reaction with some trepidation.

Finally he stirred, shifted position on the couch, and crossed his legs, being careful not to crush the crease in his trousers. “If what you say proves to be correct, Archy,” he said in his precise courtroom voice, “I cannot represent any family member in this affair. It would constitute an obvious conflict of interest. If they ask me to recommend competent counsel to represent them, I believe I could do that.”

“Yes, sir.”

He fell silent again. I have commented several times in these chronicles on what a champion muller my father is. But at that moment, from his expression and manner, I deduced he was not mulling but he was brooding. There is a difference, you know. One may mull over whether to request a two-minute or a three-minute boiled egg. But one broods on the existential meaning of boiled eggs.

“How fragile life is,” he eventually observed, and I knew I was in for a short lecture in Philosophy 101. “We all know accidents happen, illnesses appear without warning, chance defeats us all. But the greatest danger surely must be human passions and follies. We look for reasons and meaning in human behavior and they simply don’t exist. We are left with only awe or despair or foolish hope.”

“Yes, father,” I said, longing to be gone.

He must have sensed my impatience from the tone of my voice for he looked at me sharply. “Assuming your suppositions are substantiated, how long do you estimate it will take to resolve this mess?”

“By tomorrow,” I said boldly. “If it hasn’t unraveled by then, I’ll be proved totally wrong and we’ll start all over again.”

He sighed. “Archy,” he said somberly, “everyone knows death is inevitable. But that realization is not much consolation when a man’s or woman’s life is ended violently before its time. That is why I desire very strongly that the murderer of Griswold Forsythe be apprehended, convicted, and punished. I appreciate your efforts to make that desire a reality.”

He was thanking me! My old man was thanking me! What a delightful surprise. And he hadn’t even lifted a hairy eyebrow at my peony-patterned sport jacket. I left his office feeling like one of Hannibal’s elephants. Having crossed the frozen Alps I had debouched into sunny Italy. It felt so
good
!

I trundled the station wagon home and switched to the Miata. Jamie Olson informed me it had been given a high-octane IV, as Susan had promised. I slid into the leather bucket with a groan of content and sped off to West Palm where I had the tank filled and the windshield washed free of mashed bugs—a constant South Florida vexation.

And then, being in the neighborhood so to speak, I headed for the Pelican Club. After that exhausting morning I was in dire need of refreshment, liquid and solid. What awaited me that afternoon, I knew, required that I be in tiptop physical and emotional condition, ready for a spot of derring-do. And so I had a double cheeseburger with chips and coleslaw at the bar, the cholesterol helped on its way by two bottles of Heineken.

Before I departed I used the public phone in the rear of the bar area and called the Forsythe home. Fern Bancroft answered.

“Fern,” I said, “is Anthony Bledsoe there?”

“Sure,” she said, “Tony’s here. You want to talk to him?”

“No, no,” I said hastily. “I just wanted to confirm his presence. I’ll drive out and speak to him
mano a mano
.”

“What?” she said.

I hung up and went back to the bar to pay my bill. “Mr. Pettibone,” I said to our wise majordomo, “why do so many women fall in love with absolute rotters?”

He looked at me with mild astonishment. “Why does a chicken cross the road?” he asked—quite reasonably I thought.

F
ERN HAD EVIDENTLY INFORMED
him of my impending arrival for when I scrunched to a stop on the Forsythes’ driveway, the front door jerked open and Anthony Bledsoe stood glowering at me, completely lacking in the hospitable welcome department.

“Good afternoon, Tony,” I said.

“You want to talk to me?” he said truculently.

I decided it would be wise to establish the tone of our interview immediately. After all, I came not as a supplicant but as a succor. And I had had quite enough of his petulance.