McNally's Puzzle (22 page)

After that I had nothing to do but brood, trying to sort out all the ramifications of the Gottschalk puzzle. Meanwhile I smoked two cigarettes and resolved never to light another until Connie called. It was liable to be an effective vow to ensure eternal withdrawal.

Ms. Garcia didn’t phone but Dr. Gussie Pearlberg did.

“I can’t talk long, dollink,” she said briskly. “Busy, busy, busy. But I wanted you to know your friend came in. Peter Gottschalk.”

“Not quite a friend,” I said cautiously. “More of an acquaintance.”

“A very meshuga acquaintance. Poor boy. I now believe I was right: he is manic-depressive. I have sent him to a good man who specializes in such things. This condition can be controlled with proper medication and frequent monitoring. That is the first thing to be done. But also Peter has another problem and this might not be so easy to solve. You understand?”

“A psychiatric problem?” I ventured.

“I cannot discuss it,” she said severely. “But after his manic-depression is stabilized he has promised to return to me and talk some more. I think I can help him. I am calling to tell you what I told him. He is not to drink alcohol or use drugs if he expects his condition to improve. I want you to impress that on him. Definitely no alcohol and no drugs.”

“Dr. Gussie,” I protested, “I see him infrequently. I am not his keeper.”

“But you’ll do what you can?”

“Of course. I know you can’t go into details but could you give me a hint of the nature of Peter’s psychiatric problem?”

Her laugh was short and harsh. “Family,” she said. “What else?”

That did it. I had heard enough wretchedness for one day and needed a respite from the gloom. I drove home, roughhoused with Hobo for ten minutes, and left him exhausted while I went upstairs to change into swimming togs: Speedo trunks in such a virulent orange I was sure to be spotted by a rescuing helicopter if I collapsed during my two-mile wallow.

The sea was delightfully warm and calm. I vary my swimming techniques: crawl, breaststroke, and backstroke. Of the three I prefer the second because it sounds so nice. I emerged from my dunk with eyes smarting from the salt but feeling much relaxed and happy. I had time for a short nap before dressing for the family cocktail hour.

Dinner that evening was a feast of hors d’oeuvres with no main dish. We had marinated grilled scallops wrapped in bacon, Oriental barbecued chicken wings, and tiny meatballs in a curry sauce. The salad was endives (my favorite) with a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. Father and I had Pouilly-Fumé. It was an okay wine, not great but okay. Mother had her usual glass of sauterne. It was her preference but I thought it similar to drinking Yoo-Hoo with oysters.

I went upstairs to my journal after dinner and spent an hour recording the day’s events relating to the murder of Hiram Gottschalk. Finished, I reviewed my notes and decided it was time to question my father. “Beard the lion in his den” isn’t quite an apt expression but it comes close.

If you must know the truth (and I presume you
must
), I find my father a rather intimidating man. It is simply part of his nature and doesn’t diminish my love for him. But I confess I approach our one-on-ones with some trepidation, fearing I may say something or do something to convince him his male offspring is a twerp nonpareil.

The door to his study was firmly closed and I overcame my apprehension sufficiently to rap the portal smartly. I heard his “Come in,” and entered to find him settled behind his magisterial desk and, as usual, smoking one of his silver-banded James Upshall pipes. Also as usual, there was a glass of port on his desk blotter alongside an open book. I recognized it as a leather-bound volume from his set of Charles Dickens. From its bulk I guessed it to be
Little Dorrit
and wished him the best of luck.

“Father,” I said, “may I speak to you for a moment?”

He nodded but didn’t ask me to be seated. It’s his way of telling me to keep it brief.

“It concerns my inquiry into the murder of Hiram Gottschalk,” I started. “I feel I am making progress, but slowly, and it might help if you would tell me the major beneficiaries in Mr. Gottschalk’s will.”

He listened to my request gravely. But if I had mentioned I had a hangnail he would have listened just as gravely. Levity was foreign to him. He thought life a very serious matter indeed, and sometimes I wondered if my own frivolousness was a revolt against the pater’s sobriety. He was not a dull man, you understand, but lordy he was earnest. What a scoutmaster he would have made! I could picture him demonstrating how to start a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together to a group of tenderfeet all of whom carried Zippo lighters.

“I see no reason to withhold that information,” he said finally. “It will soon become a matter of public knowledge. It is an odd testament but as I told you, from the beginning I found Mr. Gottschalk a rather eccentric gentleman. But of course his wishes had to be respected.”

“Of course,” I said, and waited patiently.

“T
HERE ARE A NUMBER OF
minor bequests,” he began. “To old friends, employees, distant relatives, and members of his domestic staff. His home with its furnishings is left to Yvonne Chrisling, his housekeeper. The store, Parrots Unlimited, and the not inconsiderable plot of land on which it is located go to Ricardo Chrisling. The remainder of his assets are to be divided into three equal shares to his son Peter and twin daughters Judith and Julia.” He paused to give me a chilly smile. “All this after the payment of estate taxes of course.”

“Will there be much left after tax?”

“A great deal,” he said briefly. “If his children invest their inheritance wisely it should support them comfortably for the remainder of their lives.”

“Sir, you mentioned minor bequests to his domestic staff. His chef and maid, Got and Mei Lee, have recently left the Gottschalk household. Will their leaving affect their legacy?”

“No.”

“You also mentioned bequests to his employees. Father, have you listened to the local news on radio or TV tonight?”

“I have not. Why do you ask?”

“The bodies of a young couple, former employees of Parrots Unlimited, were found in the Everglades. Both had been murdered, shot to death at close range in what was apparently an assassination-type slaying.”

He stared at me, his expression growing increasingly bleak. “You believe there is a connection between their deaths and the murder of our client?”

“Yes, sir, I believe that—and so does Sergeant Rogoff.”

He was silent a few moments while he went into his mulling mode, mentally masticating information received, comparing it to past experience, essaying various explanations and hypotheses, and eventually arriving at his considered judgment. I would never dare attempt to hurry this process. It would be like urging a sphinx to get his rear in gear.

“Archy,” he said at long last, “are you suggesting this unfortunate couple may have been slain because they were included in Mr. Gottschalk’s will? If so, I believe you are mistaken. Their bequests are five thousand each. People are not murdered for that sum.”

“They’ve been killed for less,” I said tartly. “But no, I do not believe they were shot because of their inclusion in our client’s will. I doubt if their killers were even aware of it. I think another motive was at work. I cannot even guess what it might be but I have no doubt all three homicides are linked and were committed by or effected by the same person or persons.”

(Why, after a few moments of conversation with Prescott McNally, Esq., do I begin to mimic his prolixity?)

“Do you have any leads?” he asked.

“Several but nothing substantive. I believe the key to the puzzle will eventually be found in the store.”

He hoisted one bristly eyebrow. “The store? But all they sell are parrots.”

“I’m aware of that, father, but Parrots Unlimited seems to be the nexus of all the deviltry going on.”

He terminated me abruptly. “Very well,” he said. “Keep at it.” He picked up his glass of port and I departed.

Being somewhat miffed by his cold dismissal, I treated myself to a brandy after climbing to my chamber. I sat at my battered desk and considered what he had revealed. He had described Mr. Gottschalk’s will as “an odd testament” but that was lawyerly opinion. He did not consider what those bequests might signify. He was deliberately an unemotional man because he felt in his profession emotion could not contravene reason.

But emotion was my realm. It really was what I dealt with—all those sealed cans labeled love, hate, revenge, envy, jealousy, spite, fury, and so forth. And so I interpreted our client’s bequests as an index of his heart rather than his head. If you wish to call me Old Softy, you’re quite welcome.

Leaving his home and its furnishings to Yvonne Chrisling—what did that signify? It was a munificent gift.

Just as generous was his bequest of Parrots Unlimited to Yvonne’s stepson, Ricardo. Surely there was a hidden reason for that. The lad was, after all, merely an employee. Or was he more than that?

The division of the major portion of his net worth to his three children seemed straightforward enough. But I had learned from experience the most beautiful Red Delicious apple might prove to be mealy.

Sighing, I propped up my feet and started reading the entire record of the Gottschalk affair from the beginning. And you know, I found a tidbit that enlightened me. I am not pretending to be a Master Sleuth, because I have played fair and square and casually mentioned the item to you previously.

I wouldn’t want you to think I’m cheating. Why, you’d never speak to me again.

The following morning did not begin auspiciously. I do possess an electric shaver but I customarily follow my father’s traditional practice of using a porcelain mug containing a disk of soap, badger-haired brush, and single-edged safety razor to depilate the lower mandible. It was a fresh blade and I sliced my jaw. A styptic pencil saved me from exsanguination but I trotted downstairs to breakfast looking like a nineteenth-century duelist from the University of Heidelberg.

“Did you cut yourself, Archy?” mother inquired solicitously.

“A mere nick,” I assured her.

“Perhaps you stood too close to the razor,” father remarked.

I find his attempts at humor somewhat heavy-handed, don’t you?

We had a satisfying morning meal (blueberry pancakes with heather honey) and discussed plans for Thanksgiving Day, fast approaching. Mother suggested it would be nice to enable the Olsons to enjoy a private holiday by not requiring Ursi to provide the usual turkey feast. Unexpectedly father concurred, and it was decided the family would gobble a gobbler at a restaurant that had the sense to serve a sauce of whole cranberries rather than an effete jelly.

“You might invite Connie,” mother said, beaming. “If she has no other plans I’m sure she’d love to join us and we’d like to have her.”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

I drove to the office intending to spend a few hours creating my expense account for the month. I cannot compose madrigals and my expertise at heroic couplets is limited but when it comes to expense accounts I am a veritable Jules Verne. Imagination? You wouldn’t believe!

I was happily at work, wondering if I might charge McNally & Son for a haircut, when I heard a tentative rap at my office door. I rose to open it and found Judd Wilkins. He was bearing a roll of bumf bound with a low-tech rubber band.

He looked at me with his dreamy eyes. “What happened to your chin?” he asked.

“Attempted suicide,” I said.

He accepted that. “Here’s the download you wanted,” he said, proffering the bundle. “About parrots.”

I was astounded. “So soon? I asked for this stuff just yesterday.”

He gave me a glance I could only interpret as pitying. “It’s not snail mail you know. There may be some late factoids coming in but I think you’ll find what you want here.”

“Interesting?” I asked.

“I thought so.”

“Anything illegal going on?”

“Yep,” he said cheerfully.

“Judd, thank you for your fast work. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he said, and was gone.

I put aside my expense account and began reading the information he had gleaned from cyberspace. It required concentration because the printouts contained misspellings, ellipses, and abbreviations foreign to me. I read the entire record twice to get a general feel of the material and then perused it a third time with close attention to those elements I thought might be significant in solving the Gottschalk puzzle.

Up to that point my interest in matters psittacine had been limited. I mean parrots are beautiful birds, no denying it, but I am usually concerned with more weighty subjects—such as whether or not to drizzle vinegar on potato chips. But after studying the computer-generated skinny provided by Judd Wilkins I became fascinated by the fate of those gorgeously feathered creatures and I hope you will be similarly intrigued.

Here is the gist of what I learned:

The U.S. is signatory to the Convention of International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, a mouthful usually mercifully shortened to CITES. Under that agreement more than a hundred nations attempt to regulate transnational commerce in plants and animals threatened or potentially threatened with extinction.

In addition, our federal and state governments maintain lists of endangered species, about a thousand in number. Overseeing all the multitudinous regulations is the Department of Interior’s Fish and Wildlife Service, and their Department of Law Enforcement when needed.

It has been estimated that 250,000 parrots are imported annually and legally into the U.S., despite the numbing quantity of permits required. Many of these birds become part of domestic breeding programs by legitimate and licensed parrot fanners.

But there are approximately fifty species of wild parrots whose importation is verboten. And that’s where the smugglers take over. Rare and expensive birds are sneaked in from Brazil, Australia, and Africa. Main ports of entry are Miami and Los Angeles. One authority guesses this illicit trade probably exceeds $25 million annually.