McNally's Secret (28 page)

I entered the house through the back door, and in the kitchen I found chef Jean Cuvier and maid Clara Bodkin sparking up a storm. I think they were just trying to have a few laughs on a dismal day, but then again their flirting had an edge to it as if their banter might become serious at any moment.

“Ar-chay,” he said, “tell this innocent she must not be frightened of life, of love, of passion, of romance.”

“And you tell this whale I know all about those things,” she said, “and I am very particular as to whom I bestow my favors.”

I admired her syntax but held up my hands in protest. “Peace,” I said. “I refuse to enlist in this war. I just stopped by to have a word with the lady of the manor. Is she receiving?”

“I don’t know,” Clara said doubtfully. “I think she’s having a bath. Why don’t you go up and knock on her door.”

“So I shall,” I said. “And try to be kind to each other, children. What the world needs is love, sweet love.”

“Just what I’ve been telling her,” the fat chef said.

I went out into the hallway and then up that magnificent staircase to the second floor. I rapped gently on the door of Lady Cynthia’s suite.

“Who?” she called.

“Archy McNally. May I speak to you for a moment?”

“Come on in.”

If it was pewter outside, her chambers were silver, steamy and scented from her bath. The windows were open, but the voile curtains were unmoving. I could hear the susurrus of a rain that was now falling steadily. There was an ambience of quiet intimacy: a secret place fragrant and isolated. What a setting for an orgy a deux! But it was not to be.

She was reclining on the chaise lounge, clad in a peignoir of some diaphanous stuff. It revealed almost as much as it concealed. One leg was extended, bare foot on the floor. Very naked, that leg.

“Pull up a seat,” she said languidly. And so I did, moving a velvet-covered ottoman into a position where I could face her directly.

“What’s on your mind, lad?” she asked.

“At the moment?” I said. “You. I’m sure you’ve heard by now that the police have recovered your counterfeit stamps.”

“My
what?
” she cried, shock and horror oozing from every pore.

“
Oh,
cut the crap,” I said as roughly as I could. “You’re a great actress but not
that
great. You’ve known for weeks that your Inverted Jennies were fakes. Even while you were bugging my father to file an insurance claim for their loss. It’s called fraud, dearie.”

She didn’t order me from the premises immediately. Just turned her head to stare out the window where the rain was still whispering.

“What a filthy thing to say,” she said. “But it’s only your mad fancy. You have no proof, of course.”

“Of course I do. You sent the stamps to Boston, asking Angus Wolfson to have an appraisal made. You had read of that block of four Inverted Jennies being auctioned for a million bucks and you thought: Why not mine? But then Wolfson came to Palm Beach to return your stamps and tell you they were forgeries.”

“You’re just guessing,” she said. “That’s not proof. Go away.”

“Do you take me for an idiot?” I said. “I am not an idiot. Wolfson told his sister your Inverted Jennies were fakes. Roberta Wolfson does not harbor a favorable opinion of you, m’lady. If push comes to shove, she’ll be happy to testify that her brother had determined the stamps were forgeries. And further, he phoned her a few days after he arrived here and told her that he had informed you the stamps were worthless and that you had accepted the bad news calmly.”

(I didn’t bother mentioning that Roberta Wolfson’s testimony, being hearsay, would probably be inadmissible in any litigation.)

Lady C. turned her head to face me. “He told his sister that? What a fool the man was!”

That angered me but I tried to suppress it. “I wondered why you would try to pull an insurance swindle; your net worth is hardly a secret. Then I remembered something you told me during our first conversation. You said, ‘When it comes to money, enough is never enough.’ Greedy, greedy, greedy.”

“You know what happens to greedy people?” she asked. “They get rich. Tell me something, lad. Suppose you discovered that a twenty-dollar bill you were trying to spend was counterfeit. Would you turn it in and take the loss as the law requires, or would you try to pass it along to someone else? Be honest.”

I didn’t answer that. I was afraid to. “That’s twenty dollars,” I blustered. “We’re talking half a million.”

“No difference,” she said. “You’d try to pass it along; you know you would. That’s all I was trying to do. Why should I take the bite? The insurance company has oodles of cash. They should; my premiums are high enough.”

“But it would be outright fraud,” I argued.

“Fraud-schmaud,” she said, shrugging. “What’s the big deal?”

Her imperturbability disconcerted me. I had expected heated denials. But she was admitting everything with a cool calmness I found maddening.

“Here’s what I think happened,” I said, trying to regain the initiative. “Wolfson told you the stamps were fakes. It took you perhaps three seconds to cook up the idea of a fake theft and then file an insurance claim. Wolfson didn’t steal the stamps; you
gave
them to him, and told him to get rid of them. Instead, he decided to try to sell them.”

“I told you the man was a fool. He turned out to be greedier than I.”

“Not so,” I said. “He didn’t want the money for himself. He wanted to assist your daughter, Gina Stanescu. She told him her orphanage was in trouble, and he hoped to help by selling the stamps to some unsuspecting dealer and turn over the proceeds to Gina. He was as larcenous as you, but from somewhat purer motives.”

Finally, she was rattled. “Gina’s orphanage needs money? Why didn’t she tell me?”

“She’s frightened of you.”

Her eyes went wide. “Why would anyone be frightened of me?”

“Maybe because they think you’re a barracuda with bucks—a scary combination. Anyway, she told Angus, and he was determined to try to help her. What did he have to lose—he knew he was dying. But the stamps were recognized as counterfeits by dealers, so Angus was never able to deliver. Now, of course, the police think he was the thief.”

That naked leg slipped a little farther from its filmy covering.

“Do they?” she said. “And I suppose you’re going to tell them the truth.”

“Not necessarily,” I said.

She was amused. “Oh-ho,” she said, “it’s deal-making time, is it? All right, lad, what’s your proposition?”

“Two things,” I said. “First of all, give Gina Stanescu enough money to save her orphanage.”

“Done,” she said promptly. “No problem. I can deduct it. What’s the second thing?”

“Give my father the brush.”

I had been wrong about her thespian talents; she
was
a great actress. The most her features revealed was a small ironic smile.

“My, my,” she said, “you
do
get around, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Dump him, Lady Cynthia,” I urged. “You know how little it means to you; just a pleasant interlude a few afternoons a week. You’ll find someone else.”

“And your father?”

“He’ll probably suffer awhile—he deserves to—but eventually he’ll recover. Losing you will not prove a mortal wound.”

“It never does,” she said, the paradigmatic woman of the world. “Although there was a young man in Venice who died after I kicked him out. But he was tubercular.”

Then she was quiet a moment, and I could almost hear the IBM AS/400 in her gourd go into action, circuits clicking.

“And if I don’t?” she asked finally.

“If you don’t,” I said, “I’d feel myself duty-bound to inform my father that you were attempting grand larceny by fraud and deception.”

She was absolutely expressionless. “And I suppose the word would get around.”

“I’d make sure it did,” I said.

“You know, lad,” she said, “‘devious’ isn’t the word for you. You’re a solid-gold sonofabitch.”

“I try,” I said modestly.

Then there was a long silence while she pondered the risk-benefit ratio. I wondered if she had learned mulling from Prescott McNally.

“Your father is something of a bore,” she said at last.

“I know,” I agreed.

“Do you?” she challenged. “Do you also know that he happens to be a very passionate lover?”

“How on earth would I know that?” I asked, reasonably enough.

She made up her mind. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll give your father a pink slip. And in return, you’ll keep your mouth shut and go along with the police opinion that Angus was the thief?”

“Agreed.”

“And that I was unaware the Inverted Jennies were fakes?”

“Again, agreed.”

“Then consider the contract signed,” she said. She lifted her arms above her head in a long, lazy stretch. The peignoir gaped open, a little. It could have been an accident. She looked at me thoughtfully. “Now I must find a replacement,” she said.

“Not me,” I said hastily.

“You have no desire to pinch-hit for your father?”

“I think not. I am not in your class, Lady Cynthia. A lightweight wouldn’t go up against a heavyweight, would he?”

She grinned at me. “I don’t weigh so much,” she said. “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Tell it to the Marines,” I jeered.

“I have,” she said. “Frequently. Are we still friends, lad?”

“I devoutly hope so,” I said, and meant it. “I assure you that I have the greatest respect and admiration for you.”

That naked leg inched toward total revelation.

“Well, it’s a start,” she said, and I got out of there as fast as I could.

I drove home in the rain, not caring that both I and the Miata were getting drenched. Along the way I sang, “Yes! We Have No Bananas,” never wondering why it gave me so much pleasure to finagle other people’s lives.

B
UT BY FRIDAY MORNING
, my joy had evaporated, and I suffered a seizure of introspection and doubt.

For the sake of McNally family unity I had brought an end to my father’s fling with Lady Horowitz. I termed it a “fling,” but what if it had been the world’s greatest romance since Bonnie and Clyde? In other words, I had played God—and who gave me the divine right to manipulate people? I was, I acknowledged briefly, guilty of hubris, if not chutzpah.

It was a miserable day, and I had a mood to match. Flurries of rain came boiling in from the sea, and if there was a sun up there behind that fat mattress of clouds, there was no sign of it.

After breakfast I went back to my haven and mooched around awhile. I decided there was no point in driving to the office and sitting in my cramped sepulcher creating fictions for my expense account. I came to the conclusion that to prevent a fatal onslaught of the megrims I absolutely had to see Jennifer Towley, for lunch or dinner. That wonderful woman would elevate my spirits and give me a reason to go on breathing.

I called instanter and was rewarded with a mechanical message from her answering machine, followed by that damnable
beep.
I recited a piteous statement, pleading with her to call me as soon as possible. After I hung up, I wondered where on earth she might be so early in the morning on such a venomous day.

I told myself that jealous suspicion was an unworthy emotion, perilously close to paranoia, and I would have none of it. So I resolutely set to work on my journal, completing the record of the Inverted Jenny Case. I didn’t call Jennifer again for almost an hour. Then, hoping she might have returned home and neglected to replay her messages, I phoned. All I got for my effort was the machine. Derisive, that gadget. I hung up, gnashing my molars in frustration.

Finally, close to noon, my phone rang and I leaped for it.

“Hello!” I caroled as melodiously as I could.

“What the hell?” Sgt. Rogoff said. “Are you yodeling or something?”

“Hello, Al,” I said sheepishly. “Just clearing my throat. What did you learn from Kenneth Bodin?”

“His story’s the same as Sylvia’s. He says Wolfson gave him the stamps to sell and promised him a ten percent commission.”

“Did Wolfson tell him how he got the stamps?”

“He claims Wolfson said Lady Horowitz gave them to him to sell.”

“Do you believe that?”

“You think I was born yesterday? Of course not. The chauffeur knew damned well that Wolfson had stolen the stamps. But he didn’t care; he just wanted a piece of the action.”

“Uh-huh. What are you going to do with Sylvia and Bodin?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot. You want to bring assault charges against him?”

“Good lord, no!”

“Then I think we’ll just tell him to take his playmate and vamoose. If we get both of them out of the county I’ll be satisfied. By the way, he says Thomas Bingham wasn’t connected with the caper in any way, shape, or form. I think he’s telling the truth.”

“Probably,” I said. “It was just a wacko idea. Thanks for checking it out. So you’re closing the file?”

“You betcha. I gave the stamps to your father. He’s going to return them to Lady Horowitz this afternoon and tell her they’re fakes. Lucky man!”

“Yes,” I said, “isn’t he. When are you leaving on your vacation?”

“As soon as the rain lets up. And the way it’s coming down, that might be next year.”

“Where are you going?”

“Lourdes,” he said. “My hemorrhoids are killing me.”

It was the first laugh I had all day. “Have a jolly time, Al,” I said. “Give me a call when you get back and we’ll get hammered at the Pelican Club.”

“Will do,” he said and hung up.

It wasn’t the telephone call I wanted, but it soothed the fantods a bit. I wasn’t even depressed to learn that Tom Bingham had nothing to do with the theft of the Inverted Jennies. Thinking he might be involved had been a selfish wish on my part, very unprofessional, and I was happy to have been proved wrong before I made an even bigger ass of myself.

I went down for lunch about twelve-thirty. Mother and I sat in the kitchen with the Olsons, and we all shared a big salad bowl of shrimp, crabmeat, and chunks of sautéed scallops, along with a basket of garlic toast. Mother was in a frolicsome mood and drank a glass of sauterne. No use telling her it was the wrong wine; it was right for her.