McNally's Puzzle (2 page)

“I suggest you visit Mr. Gottschalk on Monday,” the boss continued. “I should warn you he is, ah, slightly eccentric.”

“Oh?” I said. “In what way?” I remembered the old saw: “The poor are crazy; the rich are eccentric.”

“In various ways,” he said vaguely. “I’ll leave it to you to make your own judgment. It’s possible his fears are completely groundless, but I feel it’s a matter deserving investigation. There’s no point in his going to the police, of course. He has received no written or phone threats. No attempts have been made on his life. It’s just a feeling he has. The police could do nothing with that, and rightly so. But please look into it, Archy.”

“Of course,” I said. “Monday morning.”

He nodded and departed for his golf game. I went upstairs to change my duds for what I hoped would be an active and rewarding weekend during which I planned to play the role of a Palm Beach layabout: a bibulous lunch with Binky Watrous, an ocean swim, dinner with Consuela Garcia at the Pelican Club on Saturday night, golf on Sunday, perhaps a visit to Wellington polo in the afternoon. Good food. Good drinks. Jokes and laughter.

I record this trivia to convince you I do not spend
all
my time outwitting villains and righting wrongs. There is a gloomy Hungarian saying, something to the effect that before you have a chance to look around, the picnic is over. I have no intention of ignoring the picnic, ants and all. Not that I am given to excess. “Moderation in all things,” Terence advised. (He wrote, of course, before the invention of the vodka gimlet.)

After a raucous session of poker with three pals on Sunday night (I won the princely sum of $3.49), I returned home early in the ayem and had a curious and rather unsettling experience.

I was in a beamish mood, a bit tiddly, and as I pulled in to the area fronting our three-car garage I saw in the headlight glare an enormous black bird stalking slowly across the gravel. Lordy but he was huge, and for one wild moment I thought I had spotted the last pterodactyl on earth.

It was a crow of course and not at all spooked by finding himself in the limelight. He turned his jetty head and gave me what I can only describe as a don’t-mess-with-me look. Then he resumed his deliberate walk.

There was something disconcerting, almost ominous in the insolent parade of that funereal fowl. I watched him until he vanished into shadows as dark as he and my élan disappeared with him. I cannot say I felt menaced but I was slightly unnerved by the brief glimpse of that feathered phantom. He seemed so sure of himself, y’see, and totally indifferent to everything but his own desires.

If I wished to anthropomorphize I’d have said the bird personified evil. That’s a mite much, you say? I’d be inclined to agree but Mr. Thomas Campbell was soon to be proved correct when he penned:

“Coming events cast their shadows before.”

I
OVERSLEPT ON MONDAY
, REVERTING
to my usual sluggardly habit. I finally hoisted myself from the pillows, showered and shaved. I dressed with something less than my usual éclat since I intended to meet with Mr. Hiram Gottschalk and wished to convey the impression of a sobersided investigator, a trustworthy representative of McNally & Son. Hey, I even wore socks.

I breakfasted alone in the kitchen and limited myself to only one croissant sandwich of salami and smoked Muenster. Then I set out for the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. I distinctly recall having selected from my large collection of headgear a Monticristi panama I had recently bought. The purchase of that marvelous hat had put a severe dent in my checking account and I had the original black ribbon band replaced with one of snakeskin. Raffish, doncha think?

I left the baseball card with Mrs. Trelawney, my father’s private secretary, and then went down to my own office. It is as commodious as a vertical coffin, and I do believe I have been sentenced to such a windowless cell by
mein papa
so he might never be accused of nepotism. I, of course, thought it prima facie evidence of parental abuse.

I looked up the number of Parrots Unlimited in the West Palm directory and phoned. A woman answered, I identified myself and asked to speak to Mr. Hiram Gottschalk. He came on the line a moment later. His voice was dry and twangy.

“You Prescott McNally’s son?” he demanded. “Archibald McNally?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Call you Archy?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Call me Hi,” he said. “Hate the name Hiram. Makes me sound like a Nebraska farmer.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Hiram Walker and I are old friends.”

He picked up on it immediately. “Say, you sound like a sharp kid. Want to see me, do you?”

“Yes, sir. At your convenience.”

“Right now suits me fine,” he said. “Come on over.”

“On my way,” I told him, and hung up, warning myself to be careful in greeting Mr. Gottschalk. “Hi, Hi” just wouldn’t do, would it?

I found Parrots Unlimited with little trouble. It was on Hibiscus Street out west toward Cooley Stadium. I discovered a legal parking space about two blocks away and strolled back, grateful for my panama because the November sun thought it was still July.

The store was larger than I had anticipated and appeared to be well maintained. There were no live birds behind the plate glass windows as one might expect of a pet shop, but there was an attractive display of framed color photos of macaws, lovebirds, cockatoos, parakeets, and one magnificently feathered Edward’s Fig-Parrot. There was also a printed sign: “
BOARDING AND GROOMING AVAILABLE AT REASONABLE RATES
.” And a hand-scrawled notice: “Part-time assistant wanted. Inquire within.”

I opened the door and entered, fearing I would be greeted with a cacophony of squawks and an odor that might loosen my fillings. Nothing of the sort existed. The interior was clean and uncluttered, the cool air smelled faintly of a wild cherry deodorizer, and rather than indignant screeches, all I heard was a subdued peep now and then, leading me to wonder if a wee bit of Valium might not be added to the daily diet of that multicolored aviary.

Just inside the door a large, pure-white parrot was perched on a well-pecked branch of soft wood. It was uncaged and untied. I paused to stare at it and the fowl turned its head to stare back. It had beady, red-tinged eyes, reminding me of my own after I have inhaled three brandy stingers.

I was approached by a salesperson, a plump, attractive young lady who was less parrot than robin redbreast.

“May I help you, sir?” she chirped.

(It always depresses me to be addressed as “sir” by a nubile lass. I dread the day when it may become “pop.”)

“This bird,” I said, gesturing toward the unfettered white parrot. “Why doesn’t it fly away?”

“His wings have been clipped,” she explained. “It’s a completely painless procedure.”

I found that hard to believe. I know I’d suffer if my wings were clipped.

“My name is Archy McNally,” I told her. “I have an appointment with Mr. Gottschalk. Would you be kind enough to tell him I’ve arrived.”

“Just a moment, please, sir,” she said, and left.

I wandered about examining the extraordinary selection of parrots being offered for sale, some in individual cages but many in communal enclosures where they seemed to exist placidly together. There were also racks of bird feed, grooming aids, books, cages, perches, and toys. It was truly a psittacine supermarket, with one glassed-in corner apparently devoted to the grooming and treatment of birds with the sniffles.

The perky clerk soon returned to conduct me to Mr. Hiram Gottschalk’s private office at the rear of the store. It was a smallish chamber with steel furniture and a computer installation on a separate table. The only item rarely found in commercial offices was a large, ornate cage on a stand. Within was a single parrot of a gray-blue color. It turned its head to watch me warily as I entered.

Our client was a short, stringy man sporting a nattily trimmed salt-and-pepper Vandyke. I guessed his age at about seventy, give or take, but his features were so taut I imagined additional years would wreak little damage to that tight visage. His eyes were hazel and alert. Exceedingly alert. A sharp customer, I reckoned.

We introduced ourselves and shook hands. His clasp was dry and firm. He saw me glance at the caged parrot behind his desk.

“Name is Ralph,” Mr. Gottschalk said. “Give him a hello.”

“Hello, Ralph,” I said pleasantly.

“Go to hell,” the bird said.

I glared at him and he glared right back.

“Did you teach him that?” I asked Hiram.

“Not me,” he said. “Unsociable critter. No manners at all. Pull up a chair.”

I sat alongside his desk, trying not to look at Ralph, who continued to eye me balefully.

“Tell me something, Hi,” I said. “Do parrots mimic human speech naturally or must they be taught?”

“Generally,” he said, “they require endless repetition. Audiotapes help. But then, occasionally, they’ll surprise you by repeating something they’ve heard only once.”

“A word or phrase? Something simple?”

“Not always,” he said. “Here’s a story for you.... A few years ago a very proper matron came in with a blue-fronted Amazon. Nothing wrong with the bird—it was gorgeously colored—but she had purchased it from a seafaring man in Key West, and apparently he had thought it a great joke to teach the female parrot to say, ‘I’m a whore.’

“Naturally the new owner was much disturbed and asked if there was any way to rid her pet of this distressing habit. I told her it was doubtful but by a curious coincidence we were boarding two macaws belonging to a man of God who was then on a religious retreat in Scranton. The minister’s two birds were extremely devout and spent all their time reciting prayers they had obviously learned from their owner.

“I suggested to the matron that her profane bird be placed in the same cage with the two pious macaws, where she might learn to temper her language. The matron eagerly agreed, and that’s what we did.

“The moment the three birds were joined, the female blue-fronted Amazon screeched, ‘I’m a whore, I’m a whore.’ And you know, one of the macaws turned to the other and said, ‘Glory be, Charley, our prayers are answered.’”

Mr. Gottschalk stared at me, absolutely po-faced. “Isn’t that a fascinating story?” he asked.

“Remarkable,” I said, just as solemnly. “Quite remarkable. And did the three parrots live happily ever after—an avicultural
ménage à trois
, so to speak?”

“Something like that,” he said, and we nodded thoughtfully at each other.

“Got a lot of parrot stories,” he went on. “Things you might find hard to believe. They’re very intelligent birds. Some can imitate a dog barking or a faucet dripping. Many researchers think they’re smarter than chimps or dolphins. I’ve known budgerigars who could recite nursery rhymes or indecent limericks. My daughters are in Europe right now—they’ll be home in a few days—and they wrote me how amazed they were to find parrots who spoke French, Italian, or Spanish. What’s amazing about that? The birds will imitate the sounds they’re taught. I once heard of a lorikeet who could mimic a police siren. But enough about parrots. That’s not why you came to see me, is it, Archy.”

“No, sir,” I said. “My father tells me you feel your life is in danger.”

“Not just feel it,” he said decisively. “I
know
it. No threatening letters or phone calls, you understand, but several things I don’t like.”

“Such as?”

“My dear wife departed this vale of tears three years ago. I kept a framed photograph of us on my bedside table. It was taken at an outdoor cafe on the Cap d’Antibes. We were both young then, laughing, holding our wineglasses up to the camera. A lovely photo. I cherished it. The last thing I saw before sleep and the first thing I looked for in the morning. About a month ago I returned home to find the glass shattered and the photograph slashed to ribbons.”

I drew a deep breath. “Ugly,” I said.

He nodded. “A week later I opened my closet door to find a mass card taped to the inside. You’re familiar with mass cards?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You Catholic?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I am. Not a good one, I fear, but once tried, never denied. In any event, the name of the deceased on the mass card was mine.”

I winced. My father had warned me our client was “slightly eccentric,” and after his ridiculous anecdote about the devout macaws I had begun to suspect he might be a total goober. But now, listening to the disturbing events he related, I became convinced he was an intelligent man despite his quirky sense of humor. I believed he was troubled and telling me the truth. I mean, who but a professional novelist could dream up such bizarre incidents as the slashed photograph and the taped mass card?

“One final thing,” Mr. Gottschalk said. “When we bought our house my wife very definitely forbade me to bring in any parrots. She thought they were dirty, selfish, and cantankerous—and indeed some of them are. She finally allowed me one male mynah, only because its coloring matched her decorative scheme for our Florida room.”

“Surely mynahs are not parrots.”

“Of course not,” he said crossly. “Members of the starling family. But I love all birds and mynahs are lovable, this one especially so. His name was Dicky and he was beautiful. Extremely intelligent. Mynahs are superior to parrots in mimicking human speech, you know. Dicky could faultlessly recite the first verse of ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ In addition, he had a delightfully apologetic manner. If he soiled his cage, upset his water, or made a mess of his feeding cup, he’d duck his head and cry, ‘Dicky did it.’ He said it so often it became a family joke, and if any of us had a minor mishap—spilled a glass of wine or broke a plate—we’d say, ‘Dicky did it.’ What a wonderful bird! My wife loved him. I thought we all did.”

He paused. I said nothing, dreading the finale of his tale.

“Last week I went down for breakfast,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and not succeeding. “Didn’t hear Dicky chirping as he usually did early in the morning. Went into the Florida room to take a look. The door of his cage was open. He was lying dead. Someone had wrung his neck.”