McNally's Risk (7 page)

The crime scene tape still surrounded the studio building, and there was a sole uniformed officer on guard. But the main house appeared to be open to all comers. I rang the chimes, expecting they would be answered by Mrs. Jane Folsby, the live-in servant I hoped to question.

And she indeed opened the door, recognized me, and smiled warmly. "Good afternoon, Mr. McNally," she said. "It's good to see you again."

"And it's a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Folsby," I said. "I can imagine what you've been going through. You have my sympathy, I assure you. What a shock it must have been."

She stood aside to allow me to enter, then closed the door.

"It
was
a shock," she said in a low voice. "I found him, you know."

"So I heard. A horrifying experience."

She sighed deeply. "He had his faults," she said, "but don't we all? But he wasn't a mean man, and no one should have to die like that."

"No," I agreed, "no one should. Mrs. Folsby, I'd like to ask you a few questions. But first I want you to know I am not part of the police investigation, and it's entirely up to you whether or not you choose to answer."

She looked at me steadily. "Questions about the murder?"

"Yes," I said. "That and other things."

"Why do you want to ask?"

"Because your answers possibly, just possibly, might have some bearing on a private inquiry I am making: a credit check on a person Mr. Hawkin knew."

She considered a long time. "Very well," she said finally, "you ask your questions and then I'll decide whether or not to answer them."

"Excellent," I said. "Sergeant Rogoff, a friend of mine, told me you went to the studio after you phoned your employer and received no reply. Is that correct?"

She nodded. "The wife and daughter were out, and he hadn't come over for dinner. So I called to ask if he wanted me to bring him a plate. I did that sometimes when he was working late. He didn't answer, but I could see the studio lights were on, and I got concerned."

"Of course."

"So I went over to see if everything was all right. To tell you the truth, I thought maybe he had fallen asleep. Or passed out."

"Passed out? He was a heavy drinker?"

"He did his share," she said wryly. "Rum, mostly."

"Uh-huh. Tell me this if you will, Mrs. Folsby, when you entered the studio, did you see anything that might lead you to believe that he had been working? For instance, was there an unfinished painting on one of his easels?"

She thought a moment. "No," she said, "there was nothing on the big easel. That was the one he liked to use for his portraits. And nothing on the two smaller ones either."

I was disappointed. "So you saw absolutely no evidence that he had been working in the hours prior to his death?"

She closed her eyes briefly as if trying to recall details of that frightful scene. "Now that you mention it," she said hesitantly, "there was something odd. On the taboret next to the big easel was Mr. Hawkin's palette and the paints on it were still wet. I could see them glistening under the lights. Also, there was a long-handled brush alongside the palette, and that had wet paint, a kind of creamy crimson, on the bristles. That wasn't like him at all because he was very finicky about cleaning his brushes and palette when he wasn't working."

"But you saw no evidence of what he might have been working on?"

She shook her head.

"Curious," I said, "but I suppose there's a very obvious explanation for it." (I didn't suppose anything of the sort, of course.) "Another question, Mrs. Folsby: When Mr. Hawkin was doing a portrait, did he ever allow anyone else in the studio other than the sitter?"

"Never," she said definitely. "He was very strict about that. He said the presence of an observer would distract the model and destroy his rapport with whomever he was painting."

"I expect most portrait artists feel that way. A final question, please. You know how people in Palm Beach love to gossip. I've heard rumors there was serious discord in the Hawkin family, an atmosphere of hostility in this house. Would you care to comment on that?"

"No," she said stonily.

I persisted. "You mean no discord or no, you don't wish to comment?"

"I don't wish to comment."

I admired her. There was loyalty up. I hoped there would be loyalty down.

"Perfectly understandable," I said, nodding, "and I wish to thank you for your patience and cooperation. You have been very helpful."

"I have?" she said, mildly surprised.

I bid her good-bye and left the house. Marcia Hawkin was coming up the walk carrying one of those miniature Tiffany's shopping bags. She saw me and stopped suddenly.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I stopped by for just a moment to express my sympathy to Mrs. Folsby on the death of your father."

She made a sound. I believe she intended it to be a sardonic laugh, but I thought it more a honk.

"My father was a goat," she said. "A
goat!"

Then she strode into the house and slammed the door. The Villa Bile indeed.

I drove directly home, looking forward to an ocean swim that would slosh away, even temporarily, all the clotted human emotions I had dealt with that day. But it was not to be. I was just tugging on my new, shocking pink Speedo when my phone shrilled.

"What were you doing at the Hawkin place?" Sgt. Al Rogoff said in that gritty voice he uses when he's ready to chew nails.

I sighed. "Who squealed on me, Al? Mrs. Folsby? Marcia Hawkin?"

"Neither," he said. "That guard I parked outside the studio had orders to watch for visitors. He just reported seeing a guy wearing purple slacks and driving a maroon Miata. Who could that be but Monsieur Archibald McNally?"

"The slacks were lilac," I protested, "and the car is screaming red."

"What were you doing there?" he repeated. "Nosing around?"

"Of course," I said. "Any objections?"

"Not if you don't get in my way," he said. "Learn anything?"

"Al, is it trade-off time?"

"Run it by me first."

I related what Mrs. Folsby had told me: When she entered the scene of the crime she saw no painting on the easel but had noted wet pigments on Silas Hawkin's palette and brush.

Rogoff was silent a moment. "How do you figure it?" he asked finally.

"I don't," I said. "But it's intriguing, isn't it?"

"Your favorite word," he said grumpily. "You find things intriguing that I find a pain in the ass. If the guy was working on a painting before he was offed, where is it?"

"A puzzlement. Did you check Si's ledger? Is anything missing?"

He replied with a question of his own. "That guy you said you were doing a credit check on, Hector Johnson, is he related to Theodosia Johnson?"

"Her father."

"Uh-huh. Well, she's in the ledger. Hawkin did an oil portrait of her."

"I know, Al. I saw it at the Pristine Gallery. It may still be on display. Positively enchanting."

"Yeah? I'll have to go take a look. But the thing is—and I know you're going to find this intriguing—right after her portrait is listed in Hawkin's ledger another painting is noted. It's just called 'Untitled.' "

"That's odd."

"Not half so odd as the fact that we can't find it. All the other paintings in the studio have titles and are recorded in the ledger. The widow, the daughter, and the maid say they know nothing about 'Untitled,' don't know what it is, never heard Hawkin mention a word about it."

"And now you're guessing the same thing I'm guessing, aren't you, sergeant? That 'Untitled' was the painting Si was working on before he was murdered."

"Could be," Rogoff said. "And the killer walked off with it. Listen, Archy, are you still checking out this Hector Johnson?"

"Oh yes."

"And his daughter, too?"

"Definitely."

"Have you met them?"

"I've met her briefly, but I haven't met Hector."

"Keep on it, will you?" Al said. "Maybe Silas told them something about that untitled painting."

"I'll be happy to ask," I said. "It gives me an excuse to see her again."

"Oh-ho. A winner, is she?"

"Divine is an understatement," I assured him. "I think I'm in love."

"So what else is new?" he said.

I finally got him off the phone after promising to report on my meeting with Theodosia and Hector Johnson. It was then too late for a dip in the Atlantic. So I peeled off my snazzy Speedo, showered, and dressed in time to attend the family cocktail hour and dinner.

I then retired to my one-man dormitory to bring my journal au courant with the day's events. After reading over what I had scribbled, I was dismayed to see how my initial inquiry into the trustworthiness of Theo Johnson appeared to be interacting with the investigation into the murder of Silas Hawkin.

I simply refused to believe that the beautiful Madam X could possibly be involved in that heinous crime. But then Lucrezia Borgia was hardly a gorgon, and neither was Lizzie Borden. It was all enough to make one ponder the advantages of celibacy.

Which I did, and finally decided there were none.

5

A weekend intruded here, and a very welcome intrusion it was. For two sun-spangled days I was able to enact my favorite role of blade-about-town. On Saturday morning I played tennis with Binky Watrous on his private court— and lost. I treated Connie Garcia to lunch at the Pelican Club, challenged her to a game of darts—and lost. In the evening I played poker with a group of intemperate cronies—and lost.

I was more successful on Sunday. I spent most of the afternoon gamboling on the beach with Connie and a Frisbee, and demolishing a bottle of a chilled Soave I had never tried before. Tangy is the word. Then we picked up two slabs of ribs barbecued with a Cajun sauce and returned to Connie's digs with a cold six-pack of Heineken. A pleasant time was had by all. I was home and in bed by ten o'clock and asleep by 10:05, sunburned, slightly squiffed, exhausted, and oh so content.

I overslept on Monday morning, as usual, and found a deserted kitchen when I bounced downstairs. I fixed myself a mug of instant black, and built an interracial sandwich: ham on bagel.

I used the kitchen phone to call the office. I asked Mrs. Trelawney if the honcho could spare me a few moments that morning. She put me on hold, and I listened to wallpaper music a few minutes while she went to check. She returned to tell me His Majesty would grant me ten minutes at precisely eleven o'clock.

"Thank you, Mrs. T.," I said. "Tell me, have you ever cooked a goose—or vice versa?"

"Why, no," she said. "But I once took a tramp in the woods."

She hung up cackling, and I trotted out to my chariot, much refreshed by that silly exchange of ancient corn.

Twenty minutes later I was in my crypt at the McNally Building and lighted my first English Oval of the day, considering it a reward for having spent the entire weekend without a gasper. On my desk was a sheaf of faxed replies to my inquiries to national credit agencies regarding the financial status of Theodosia and Hector Johnson.

I read them all slowly and carefully, and, to put it succinctly, my flabber was gasted. It was not that they contained derogatory information about the Johnsons; they contained no information at all.

If those reports were to be believed, Theo and Hector had never had a credit card, never had a charge account, never bought anything on time, never made a loan or had a mortgage, never purchased anything from a mail order catalogue, never received a government check for whatever reason, had no insurance, owned no assets such as real estate, stocks, bonds, or other securities, and had never filed a tax return.

Improbable, would you say? Nay, dear reader. Utterly impossible! In our society even a toddler of three has already left a paper trail, carefully recorded on a computer somewhere. I refused to believe that two adults had no financial background whatsoever. Even if they scrupulously paid cash for all their purchases, what was the source of the cash and why was there no mention of bank accounts, checking and savings, and no record of having paid federal, state, and local taxes?

They had names and Social Security numbers. And that's all their dossiers revealed.

I tried to puzzle it out, resisting the urge to light another cigarette. The more I gnawed at it, the more ridiculous it seemed to me that the Johnsons could be totally without a financial history. There must be a logical explanation for it, but whatever it might be I could not imagine. I hoped my Palm Beach contacts would help solve the riddle.

It was then pushing eleven o'clock, and I rushed upstairs to my father's office, for if I was even one minute late he was quite capable of canceling the appointment.

Prescott McNally, Esq., was standing solidly planted before his antique rolltop desk, and in his three-button, double-breasted suit of nubby cheviot, looking somewhat of a relic himself. He cast a baleful glance at my awning-striped seersucker jacket and didn't invite me to be seated.

I recited a condensed account of my interview with Shirley Feebling in Fort Lauderdale and finished by suggesting the lady might be sincere in professing love for Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth.

"She seemed totally uninterested in a cash settlement, sir," I remarked.

"Nonsense," father said sharply. "Did you make a specific offer?"

"No, I did not."

"That was a mistake, Archy," he said. "The mention of dollars would have concentrated her mind wonderfully. I'm afraid the lady bamboozled you. Her protestations of love were merely a bargaining ploy. And even if she is smitten, as you seem to believe, how can she possibly profit from an unrequited love? She can't force that young fool to marry her, you know."

"No, sir, but she can carry out her threat to sell his letters to a tabloid."

"Don't be so certain of that," he admonished me. "I would have to research relevant law, but it might be claimed the letters are his property since he created them, and if so ruled, the sale and publication could be legally enjoined. But before we go to that trouble, I suggest you consult with Smythe-Hersforth. Obtain his approval of your returning to Fort Lauderdale and making a definite offer to this woman. I believe the proposal of an actual cash payment will persuade her to talk business."