McNally's Secret (23 page)

“Seems to me Mrs. Trelawney has been doing most of the donkeywork,” I said. “What about the undertaker? Won’t Angus have to be iced and boxed for shipment?”

Father sighed. “Not the terminology I would have used. Miss Wolfson insists on cremation. She says that was her late brother’s wish and is so stated in his will. She will carry his ashes back to Boston.”

“How did she sound, father? Tearful? Hysterical?”

“No, she seemed remarkably self-possessed. As if she had been expecting a phone call like mine for some time. Very cool, very formal. A proper Bostonian. She treated me with what I can only describe as condescension.”

“It figures,” I said, nodding. “Proper Bostonians believe anyone who lives beyond Beacon Hill is a peasant. All right, I shall meet and escort Miss Wolfson. How long does she plan to stay?”

“As briefly as possible. She hopes to return to Boston on Wednesday.”

I was dubious. “I’m not certain the police will release the body that quickly. I’ll check with Rogoff in the morning.”

“That would be wise. Now then, the other matter I wanted to discuss with you is the theft of Lady Horowitz’s stamps and the murder of Bela Rubik. How is that investigation coming along?”

I told him about Kenneth Bodin and Sylvia, Hilda Lantern, and the attempt to sell Inverted Jennies to a Palm Aire dealer who stated they were forgeries.

Mein papa seemed stunned. When he spoke, his voice was not quite steady. “I think we could use another glass, Archy,” he said.

While I poured, he rose and went over to the sideboard. He began to pack a pipe, his favorite James Upshall. His back was to me.

“Have you told Lady Horowitz that her stamps are counterfeit?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?” he said sharply.

“Because I don’t know for certain that they are counterfeit. All I have is hearsay. When the Inverted Jennies are recovered, an independent examination can be made by experts.”

He came back to his chair and flamed his pipe. I took that as a signal that I could light up an English Oval, and did.

“But what if the stamps are not recovered?” he asked.

“I think they will be, sir,” I said, and explained how Sgt. Al Rogoff was alerting all the dealers along the Gold Coast.

“I hope he’ll be successful,” father said, calming down as he puffed. “The reason I am so concerned is that Lady Horowitz has become insistent on filing an insurance claim. She mentioned it again this morning. But if the stamps are counterfeit, obviously no legitimate claim for a half-million dollars can be made.”

“Can you stall her awhile? If the stamps are recovered and prove to be forgeries, she’ll have no claim. And if they are recovered and prove to be genuine, she’ll still have no claim since they’ll be returned to her.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he said slowly. “I’ll try to convince her to hold off filing, but she is a very strong-minded woman.”

“As well I know,” I said. “Something else about this case is troubling me, father, and I’d like your opinion.”

He nodded.

I described the passionate embrace between Angus Wolfson and Kenneth Bodin I had witnessed the night of Lady Cynthia’s party. Then I related how Wolfson had been found: naked, clothes neatly stacked, unused condom in pocket. These were details I had not previously told my father, and he listened intently.

“Are you suggesting,” he said when I concluded, “that the chauffeur murdered Angus Wolfson?”

“I’m suggesting it’s a possibility.”

“Have you informed Sergeant Rogoff?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what was his reaction?”

“Nothing immediate. Knowing Al, I’m sure he’ll dig into it. But unless he can find a witness or Bodin confesses—both highly unlikely—I doubt if the sergeant will be able to make a homicide case. Then he’ll label it suicide and close the file.”

The master went into one of his reflective trances, and I waited patiently. I thought he would be offended by the story of Wolfson’s predilection, but when he spoke it was more in sadness than distaste.

“I hope Rogoff does close the file,” he said. “What possible good could it do to make public that poor man’s past? He is dead now; I would not care to see details of his life exploited in the tabloids.”

He surprised me. “And let a murderer escape?” I asked.

“If he
was
murdered. You are not certain and, from what you say, the police will not be able to prove a homicide.”

“They might,” I argued. “If the Medical Examiner’s report indicates an assault or a struggle, or Rogoff finds additional evidence to prove the presence of a killer.”

He looked at me somberly. “Archy, don’t let your desire for justice overcome your good sense. It seems to me this is a matter to be quietly swept under the rug. We are all guilty of actions in our lives which, while not illegal, may be morally reprehensible and which we would certainly not wish to be made public.”

I was shocked. My father is usually the most logical and coldly judicial of men when forming and expressing his opinions. Now it seemed to me his reasoning was confused and his pronouncements perilously close to blather. I could not understand this crumbling of his Olympian standards.

“Homicide is illegal,” I reminded him.

“I am quite aware of that,” he said. “I am merely pointing out that sometimes the law must yield to decency and the protection of human dignity. It is a fine line, I admit, but there is a gray area where the rights of society conflict with the rights of the individual. Try not to be too rigorous in the defense of society. The day may come, Archy, when you will plead for mercy for yourself rather than justice.”

I grinned. “One never knows, do one?”

“And that’s another thing,” he said testily. “I do wish you would stop saying that. Not only is it ungrammatical, but it is a superficial observation on the uncertainties of existence.”

“I’ll try not to use it again in your presence, father,” I said gravely, wondering if there had ever been such a stodgy man.

I returned to my quarters, smiling at the final go-around with the pater. I don’t know why I derived such pleasure from stirring him up occasionally. Perhaps I fancied I was saving him from priggery. Or it may have been a very small declaration of independence. I was well aware that only my father’s largess enabled me to drive a snazzy sports car, dine young ladies, and wear silk briefs emblazoned with images of
Tyrannosaurus rex.
But even the lowliest of serfs must assert himself now and then. (But not too often and not too loudly.)

I phoned Jennifer Towley, and to my horror I woke her up.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I really am. Please go back to sleep and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No, no,” she said. “I’m awake now, and I haven’t spoken to you in ages.”

“I know,” I said. “Last Friday.”

“Well, it
seems
like ages. That was a fabulous indoor picnic.”

“The best,” I agreed. “How about dinner tomorrow night?” Pause. Then: “Oh, I can’t, Archy. I’m so sorry, but I promised a client she could come over and we’d select a fabric for her Louis Something-or-other love seat.”

“What a shame,” I said. “May I call you late tomorrow? Maybe you’ll feel like dashing out to the Pelican Club for some light refreshment.”

“Well...” she said doubtfully, “all right. I should be finished around nine o’clock.”

“I’ll call,” I promised. “Sleep well, dear.”

“You, too,” she said. This time she didn’t add “darling.” She hung up, and I sat there with the dead phone in my hand, the green-eyed monster gnawing away like a mastiff. But after a while I convinced myself she really was going to spend the evening with a client discussing the upholstering of a love seat.

Did you say you had a bridge in Brooklyn for sale?

A
FTER MY FATHER DEPARTED FOR
work on Tuesday morning, I moved into his study and sat in his swivel chair behind the big, leather-topped desk, feeling like a pretender to the throne.

My first phone call was to Mrs. Trelawney. She gave me the number and time of arrival of Miss Roberta Wolfson’s flight from Boston. Also the number of the suite at The Breakers that had been reserved for her use.

“Those charges will be billed directly to the company,” Mrs. T. explained. “If there are any other expenses, pay with your plastic and add them to your next swindle sheet, Mr. Dillinger.”

“Bless you,” I said. “I’ll call you from Saint-Tropez.”

I then phoned The Breakers and arranged for fresh flowers to be placed in the suite reserved for Miss Roberta Wolfson. I figured if Lady Horowitz was picking up the tab, there was no point in scrimping.

My third call was to Sgt. Al Rogoff, who sounded a mite churlish. From this I deduced he had not yet had his fourth cup of black coffee that morning.

“Anything new on Wolfson?” I asked.

“Some,” he admitted. “The doc says he drowned all right, but he was also full of painkillers. Heavy stuff. You told me you thought he was sick. So maybe he went for a midnight swim and couldn’t fight the undertow. The doc says that stuff he was taking could have weakened him.”

“It didn’t happen that way, Al,” I said. “Wolfson couldn’t swim; the DuPeys told me that. He’d never take a dip, especially in the ocean at night.”

“Then it was definitely suicide,” he said.

“Don’t be so sure,” I said. “What about those bruises?”

“The ME says they could have been made in the surf, the body banging around on the bottom.”

“And those scratches that looked as if they had been made by fingernails?”

“There was stuff under Wolfson’s nails indicating he might have scratched himself, clawing at his chest in that last minute.”

“Did you search the beach?”

“Of course we searched the beach,” he said crossly. “A mile north and a mile south. Nothing. By the way, Wolfson had a surgical scar on his abdomen. The doc estimates the operation was done about a year ago. He couldn’t say positively what it was for.”

“But Wolfson did drown?”

“Sure he did.”

“Al, he could have been dragged underwater.”

“What’s with you, Archy?” he demanded. “You’re really trying to pin a killing on the chauffeur, aren’t you? What have you got against the guy?”

“He carries a cigarette behind his ear.”

Al roared. “And if he used a salad fork on steak, you’d want me to charge him with rape—right?”

“Bodin’s a nogoodnik; I just know it.”

“Beautiful. I go to my boss and tell him I’m arresting Bodin for first-degree murder because Archibald McNally says he’s a nogoodnik. Will you please, for God’s sake, talk sense.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said, sighing. “Maybe I’m just trying to inject a little drama into this.”

“You’re trying to complex things up is what you’re doing. As usual.”

I told him the next of kin, a sister, Miss Roberta Wolfson, would be arriving at the Palm Beach International Airport a few minutes after noon. I would meet her and drive her to The Breakers. After she was settled, I would deliver her to police headquarters.

“She wants to claim the body and personal effects,” I said. “All right?”

“I guess so,” Rogoff said slowly. “What time do you figure to be here?”

“Around two o’clock or so.”

“Well, if I’m not here I’ll have a policewoman standing by to help her with the paperwork.”

“And you’ll release the body?”

“I’ll have to get the okay of the brass on that, but I don’t think they’ll have any objections. I still think it was a suicide, and that’s the way I’m going to sell it.”

“Al, it’s just the ambiguities that bother me.”

“Ambiguities?” he said. “The story of my life. If you can’t live with them, you really should be in another line of business.”

My final phone call was to the airline Roberta Wolfson was flying. They reported her flight was on time. I had heard that fairy tale before but thought it better to hie myself out to the airport in case they were correct this time.

I had dressed as conservatively as my wardrobe allowed: navy tropical worsted suit, white shirt, maroon tie, black penny loafers. I even tucked a chaste white handkerchief into the breast pocket of my jacket. My sartorially retarded father would have been proud.

I thought the screaming-red Miata might be a bit too animated for the occasion, so I drove to the office garage and switched to the black Ford Escort, a sober and more suitable vehicle. I needn’t have bothered. Roberta Wolfson turned out to be such a self-possessed woman I think she would have been at ease if I had shown up in a two-horse chariot.

I arrived at the airport in time to see her plane taxi up to the gate. I waited for the passengers to disembark, and hoped it would not be necessary to have her paged. It wasn’t. All the others were wearing T-shirts and Bermuda shorts, and then appeared this tall, stately lady, confident and aloof.

I recognized immediately the image she called to mind: the Gibson Girl. She had that forthright, don’t-give-a-damn air about her, and I could see her in an ankle-length middy dress, wearing a boater, or, in the evening, a wine-dark velvet gown by Worth. Her posture was splendid, her features pleasantly horsey. She was carrying an enormous tapestry portmanteau with bone handles.

I approached her. “Miss Roberta Wolfson?” I inquired.

She looked down at me from what seemed a tremendous height. “I am,” she said in a deep, resonant voice. “And who might you be, young man?”

“Archibald McNally,” I said. “I believe you spoke to my father yesterday.” I proffered a business card.

She was wearing a lightweight tweed suit (with sensible brogues), and beneath the jacket was a frilly jabot with a high neckband of lace. Pearls, of course. Dangling from her wishbone was a pince-nez framed in gold wire. It was attached to a fine chain released from a spring-loaded disk pinned to her bodice. I had never seen a gadget like that before.

She used the small spectacles to examine my card. “McNally and Son, Attorney-at-Law,” she read aloud. She caught it at once. “Two individuals, one attorney. Which one?”

“My father,” I said. She requested no further explanation, for which I was grateful. “Miss Wolfson, may I express the condolences of my father and myself on the passing of your brother.”