McNally's Secret (4 page)

What I was interested in was the distance from the bedroom door to the wall safe. I paced it off. Fourteen long steps. I estimated an intruder could slip into the bedroom, open the safe door, extract the small red leather book containing the Inverted Jennies, close the safe door, and whisk from the bedroom within a minute. Two at the most. It was a cakewalk. But who took the walk?

Then I found another problem. On a bedside table, almost directly below the wall safe, was a large suede jewel case. I lifted the lid: It was like looking into a Tiffany display case. Question: What self-respecting crook would swipe the stamps and then not pause a sec to grab up a handful of those glittering gems? A puzzlement.

Hands in my pocket, I strolled about the bedroom, thinking it was spacious enough to swallow my entire suite at the McNally manse. I believe I was whistling “I’ve Never Been in Love Before” when I wandered to the west windows and looked down.

Lady Cynthia was paddling around in the swimming pool, obviously naked but still wearing her panama hat and sunglasses. Mrs. Marsden stood waiting on the tiled border of the pool, holding a big bath towel. As I watched, Lady C. came slowly wading out, white body gleaming wetly, and I saw how extraordinary she was.

Usually in the presence of great beauty, one has the urge to leap into the air accompanied by the clicking of heels. But now, seeing that incredible nude emerging from the pool—Venus rising from the chlorine—I felt only an ineffable sadness, realizing I had been born forty years too late.

O
F ALL THE COUNTIES
in Florida, Palm Beach is the Ace of Clubs. There is a superabundance: golf clubs, tennis clubs, yacht clubs, polo clubs. Probably the most elegant and exclusive social clubs on Palm Beach Island are the Bath
&
Tennis and the Everglades. But about five years previously, I got together with a bunch of my wassailing pals, and we agreed what the town needed was another club, so we decided to start one. We called it the Pelican Club in honor of Florida’s quintessential bird. Also, most of the roistering charter members resembled the pelican: graceful and charming in flight, lumpish and dour in repose.

We found an old two-story clapboard house out near the airport that we could afford. It was definitely not an Addison Mizner but it had the advantage of being somewhat isolated: no close neighbors to complain about the sounds of revelry. We all chipped in, bought the house, fixed it up (sort of), and the Pelican Club opened for business.

And almost closed six months later. We were lawyers, bankers, stockbrokers, realtors, doctors, etc., but we knew nothing about running a club bar and restaurant. We were facing Chapter 7 when we had the great good fortune to hire the Pettibones, an African-American family who had been living in one of the gamier neighborhoods of West Palm Beach and wanted out. All of them had worked in restaurants and bars, and they knew how an eating-drinking establishment should be run.

They moved into our second floor, and the father, Simon Pettibone, became club manager and bartender. Son Leroy was our chef, daughter Priscilla our waitress, and wife Jas (for Jasmine) was appointed our housekeeper and den mother. Within a month the Pettibones had the club operating admirably, and so many would-be Pelicans applied for membership that eventually we had to close the roster and start a waiting list.

The Pelican Club was not solely dedicated to merrymaking, of course. We were also involved in Good Works. Once a year we held a costume ball at The Breakers: our Annual Mammoth Extravaganza. All the proceeds from this lavish blowout were contributed to a local home for unwed mothers, since so many of our members felt a personal responsibility. In addition we formed a six-piece jazz combo (I played tenor kazoo), and we were delighted to perform, without fee, at public functions and nursing homes. A Palm Beach music critic wrote of one of our recitals, “Words fail me.” You couldn’t ask for a better review than that.

It was to the Pelican Club that I tooled the Miata after my stimulating morning with Lady Horowitz. It was then almost eleven-thirty, but traffic crossing Lake Worth on the Royal Park Bridge was heavy, and it was a bit after noon when I arrived at the club.

No members were present when I entered the Pelican, but Simon Pettibone was behind the bar, polishing glasses and watching the screen of a television set displaying current stock quotations.

I swung onto a barstool. “Are you winning or losing, Mr. Pettibone?” I inquired.

“Losing, Mr. McNally,” he replied. “But I prefer to think of it as a learning experience.”

“Very wise,” I said. “A vodka-tonic for me, please, with a hunk of lime.”

He began preparing the drink, and I headed for the phone booth in the rear of the barroom. Did you guess I intended to call Jennifer Towley? You will learn that when duty beckons, there is stern stuff in the McNally male offspring; I phoned the Palm Beach Police Department. I asked to speak to Sergeant Al Rogoff.

“Rogoff,” he answered in his phlegmy rasp.

“Archy McNally here.” I said.

“Yes, sir, how may I be of service?”

When Al talks like that, I know someone is standing at his elbow—probably his lieutenant or captain.

“Feel like a nosh?” I asked. “I’ll stand you a world-class hamburger and a bucket of suds.”

“Your Alfa-Romeo is missing, sir?” he said. “I’m sorry to hear that. It will be necessary for you to file a missing vehicle report. Where are you located, sir?”

“I’m in the barroom at the Pelican.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, “I am familiar with that office building. Suppose I meet you there in a half-hour, and you can give me the details of the alleged theft.”

“Hurry up,” I said. “I’m hungry.”

I returned to the bar where my drink was waiting on a clean little mat. I took a sip. Just right.

“Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “life is strange.”

“Bizarre is the word, Mr. McNally,” he said. “Bee-zar.”

“Exactly,” I said.

Sgt. Al Rogoff owned that adjective. I had worked a few cases with him in the past—to our mutual benefit—and had come to know him better than most of his professional associates. He deliberately projected the persona of a good ol’ boy: a crude, profane “man’s man” who called women “broads” and claimed he would like nothing better than a weekend on an airboat in the Everglades, popping cans of Bud and lassoing alligators. He even drove a pickup truck.

I think he adopted this Joe Six-pack disguise because he thought it would further his career as an officer of the law in South Florida. Actually, he knew who Heidegger was; could quote the lines following “Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?”; and much preferred an ’82 Medoc to sour mash and branch water. He looked and acted like a redneck sheriff, but enjoyed Vivaldi more than he did Willie Nelson.

He hadn’t revealed the face behind the mask voluntarily: I had slowly, patiently, discovered who he really was. He knew it, and rather than be offended, I think he was secretly relieved. It must be a tremendous strain to play a role continually, always fearful of making a gaffe that will betray your impersonation. Al didn’t have to act with me, and I believe that was why he was willing to provide official assistance when my discreet inquiries required it.

By the time he came marching through the front door, uniform smartly pressed, the Pelican barroom was thronged with the lunchtime crowd and people had started to drift to the back area where a posted warning said nothing about jackets and ties but proclaimed: “Members and their guests are required to wear shoes in the dining room.”

I noticed a few patrons glancing warily at the uniformed cop who had invaded the premises. Did they fear a bust—or were they just startled by this armed intruder who was built like a dumpster? Al Rogoff’s physical appearance was perhaps the principal reason for the success of his masquerade. The man was all meat, a walking butcher shop: rare-beef face, pork chop jowls, slabs of veal for ears. And unplucked chicken wing sideburns.

I conducted him to the dining room where Priscilla was holding a corner table for me. We both ordered medium-rare hamburgers, which came with country fries and homemade coleslaw. We also ordered steins of draft Heineken. While waiting for lunch to be served, we nibbled on spears of kosher dill pickles placed on every table in mason jars. The Pelican Club did not offer haute cuisine, but Leroy Pettibone’s food adhered to the ribs.

“How much time do you have?” I asked Rogoff.

“An hour tops,” he said. “What’s up?”

“I want to report a crime.”

“Oh?” he said. “Have you sexually abused a manatee?”

“Not recently,” I said. “But this may not be a crime at all. It is an
alleged
crime. And the alleged victim will not report it to the police. And if you hear or read about it and question the alleged victim, she will claim no crime has been committed.”

“Love it,” the sergeant said. “Just love it. Alleged crime. Alleged victim. And I’ve got to listen to this bullshit for a free hamburger? Okay, I’m not proud. Who’s the alleged victim?”

“Lady Cynthia Horowitz.”

He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “Mrs. Gotrocks herself? That makes the cheese more binding. She’s got clout. And what’s the alleged crime?”

“Possible theft of a valuable possession.”

“The Koh-i-noor diamond?”

“No,” I said. “Four postage stamps.”

He looked at me sorrowfully. “You never come up with something simple,” he said. “Like a multiple homicide or a supermarket bombing. With you, everything’s got to be cute. All right, buster, tell me about the four postage stamps.”

But then our food was served, and we were silent until Priscilla left. Between bites and swallows, I told him the whole story of the Inverted Jenny and how a block of four of the misprinted stamps was missing from the wall safe in Lady Horowitz’s bedroom. The sergeant listened without interrupting. Then, when I finished, he spoke.

“You know,” he said, “this hamburger is really super. What does Leroy put in the meat?”

“Probably minced Vidalia onion this time of year. Sometimes he uses chopped red and yellow peppers. The man is the Thomas Alva Edison of hamburgers. What about the Inverted Jennies?”

“What about them? What do you want us to do?”

“Nothing,” I said. “If you go to Lady Cynthia, she’ll tell you the stamps weren’t stolen but have been sent to a New York auction house for appraisal.”

“Uh-huh,” Rogoff said. “And who gave her that idea—as if I didn’t know.”

“I did,” I admitted. “But she doesn’t want any publicity.”

The sergeant pushed back his empty plate and stared at me. “You’re a devious lad, you know that?”

“You’re the second person who’s told me that today.”

“Who was the first—Lady Horowitz?”

I nodded. “But it’s not true,” I protested. “I’m not devious. I just want to maintain civility in the world.”

“Of course,” Rogoff said. “And I’m the Tooth Fairy. So if you’re not demanding the PBPD get involved, what
do
you want?”

“A little information.”

“It figures,” he said mournfully. “There’s no free lunch.”

“Have another beer,” I urged.

“Nope. Coffee and a wedge of Leroy’s key lime pie will be fine. I deserve it for listening to your blather.”

Priscilla cleared our table, and I gave her Al’s order. I settled for just coffee. Black.

“Getting a little tubby?” she teased.

“Nonsense,” I said. “I’m still the slender, lithe, bronzed Apollo you’ve always known.”

“Oh sure,” she said. “And I’m the Tooth Fairy.”

“Two ‘devious lads’ in one day,” I complained to Rogoff, “and now two Tooth Fairies in one day. Does everything come in twos?”

“Everything comes in threes,” he said. “You should know that. Now cut the drivel. What kind of information do you want?”

“Those Inverted Jenny stamps,” I said. “They’re extremely rare. Only a hundred of them were originally sold. I imagine all stamp dealers and most collectors know about them. A block of four recently went at auction for a million bucks. I mean they’re valuable and they’re famous. So, assuming Lady Cynthia’s stamps were pinched, what’s the thief going to do with them? It’s been bothering me since I was handed the job. He can’t sell them to a legitimate dealer; he’d want to know where they came from—the provenance. Ditto for auction houses. So how does the criminal profit from his crime?”

Silence while Priscilla served our coffee and Rogoff’s dessert. Then:

“Lots of possibilities,” Al said, digging into his pie. “One is ransom. The perp contacts Lady Horowitz and offers to sell her stamps back to her for X number of dollars. Were they insured?”

“Half a million.”

“All right, if Horowitz won’t play ball, the crook calls the insurance company and tries to make a deal. The insurance people would rather pay out a hundred grand than a half-mil.

“Another possibility is that it was a contract heist. Some collector just
had
to have those cockamamie stamps. He can’t afford a million at auction, but he can afford, say, fifty thousand to hire some experienced burglar to lift them. Believe me, there are collectors like that. They’d never put the Jennies on public display; it would be enough to drool over them in private.

“A third possibility is that the thief will use the stamps as collateral for a bank loan. Take my word for it, there are banks here and abroad that accept collateral like stolen bearer bonds without inquiring too closely how the loan applicant got possession. So the crook gets his loan, defaults, and the bank is stuck with hot merchandise while the bad guy is tanning his hide on the French Riviera.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “I didn’t realize it would be so easy to convert the stamps into cash.”

“Not easy,” Rogoff said, “but it can be done. The simplest way, of course, would be to sell the stamps to a crooked dealer.”

“Talking about dealers,” I said, “do you know of any local experts who could provide more information about the Inverted Jennies?”

He thought a moment. “There’s a guy on the island named Bela Rubik. As in Cube. He’s got a stamp and coin shop off Worth Avenue. He knows his stuff. I’ve used him to help identify stolen property.”