McNally's Caper (11 page)

“Lucy,” I said, “I love you,” and the moment I said it I knew it was true. I leaned down to stroke her silken hair. “So don’t ever believe no one loves you. Many people do, I’m sure, and I’m one of them.”

“That’s okay,” she said bravely. “I’m not going to cry. I decided I’m never going to cry again.”

I had to leave her; I just couldn’t take more.

“Listen, dear,” I said, “I hope you haven’t forgotten about that picnic you and I are going to have.”

“Oh no,” she said, eyes wide. “I remember.”

“Good. Let’s make it real soon.”

“I love you, too,” she said suddenly.

Then I left and stumbled my way back to the main house, sad and shaken. I was ready to return as quickly as possible to the McNally digs and have a wallop to restore my belief in this, the best of all possible worlds. But it was not to be.

As I proceeded down the main hallway to the front door, the Griswold Forsythes, II and III, were just entering in their blazers and flannel bags. We stopped to chat.

“Good voyage?” I asked them.

“Nice cruise,” the younger replied. “Fine lunch with bubbly. But I don’t think we want to buy that particular yacht, do we, father?”

“We don’t want to buy
any
yacht,” the older said sharply. “Archy, may I see you in the library for a moment.”

Griswold III departed, his crest somewhat droopy, and I followed the II into the library. He took the swivel behind the desk and I sat in the armchair alongside. I imagined, with dread, he was about to report another item of value was missing. It turned out to be worse than that.

“My wife and I occupy separate bedrooms,” he said stonily. “Last night I retired shortly before midnight and found this note placed on my pillow.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and then handed me a square of paper. It had two straight and two ragged edges as if it had been torn from the corner of a larger sheet of white foolscap.

Written on it in large block letters were two words: YOUR NEXT. The printing was quavery, as if it had been done with the left hand of a right-handed person, or vice versa. There was no way of knowing if it had been inscribed by man or woman.

I studied those two words a moment and naturally, because I have rather pedantic leanings, I immediately noted the absence of an apostrophe. If the first word was intended to be a contraction of YOU ARE, the writer was obviously a dolt. But perhaps the message was meant to be an abbreviated warning that another of Mr. Forsythe’s possessions would soon disappear: YOUR (something) NEXT.

I explained this to our client. He listened impatiently and didn’t seem impressed.

“I guessed all that myself,” he said irritably. “I am not an idiot, you know. I believe it is a misspelled threat against my person—YOU ARE NEXT, without the apostrophe. Do you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I think that’s the correct assumption. And after what happened to Mrs. Sylvia I urge you to report this to Sergeant Rogoff as soon as possible.”

He looked at me queerly. “It’s a shock,” he said, “to realize that someone in your home plans to do you harm. Strangle you, perhaps.”

“You have every right to feel that way, Mr. Forsythe. It’s a terrible thing. Who has access to your bedroom, sir?”

“Everyone in the house. The door is never locked.”

“All the more reason to call in the police. Would you like me to phone Sergeant Rogoff now?”

He paused a moment. “No,” he said, “not yet. I want to make a few inquiries myself this evening.”

“Please, Mr. Forsythe,” I urged, “don’t postpone it. I take this note very seriously. Your life may be in danger.”

“I am well aware of that, young man,” he said almost angrily. “And this evening I shall lock my bedroom door and prop a chair under the inside knob. I’ll survive the night, I assure you.” He pondered, pulling at his lower lip. Then: “I suggest you, Sergeant Rogoff, and I meet at my office tomorrow. You know where it is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My son has an appointment with his periodontist at noon. Our clerk”—(He pronounced it ‘clark’)—“customarily leaves for lunch at twelve fifteen. If you and the sergeant arrive at twelve thirty I believe we’ll be able to have a private discussion about this unpleasant matter without interruption. Is that satisfactory?”

“I would prefer the police be notified immediately, Mr. Forsythe, but if that is your wish we’ll meet with you tomorrow. You don’t want to discuss it here?”

“No,” he said shortly. “Not in this house.”

“During our talk with Sergeant Rogoff do you intend to inform him about your missing property?”

“No.”

“Have I your permission to tell him?”

“No.”

The Abominable No-Man.

I sighed. “Very well, sir, we’ll do it your way—against my better judgment I might add. May I keep the note?”

“Keep the damned thing,” he said roughly. “The writer has made his point.”

“Or hers,” I said.

He stared at me a sec. “You may be right,” he said.

I stuffed the note into my pocket and rose to depart.

“Archy,” Griswold Forsythe II said formally, “I wish to thank you for your efforts on my behalf.”

It was a gentlemanly thing to say and also, considering the circumstances, rather gallant and touching. He was not lacking in courage. Foolhardy perhaps, but not a craven.

I drove home at a carefully disciplined speed because if I surrendered to my baser instincts I would have broken all local and state laws dealing with the reckless operation of a vehicle. But once inside the McNally kitchen I mixed a vodka and water with such haste that Ursi Olson, preparing our dinner, looked at me with surprise.

“Thirsty?” she asked.

“Parched,” I told her.

I took my plasma into father’s study and used his phone to call Sgt. Rogoff at his office. He wasn’t in, but the desk sergeant who knew me said he was on a forty-eight. I had Al’s home phone number and called him there. After seven rings he answered and I knew at once I had wakened him.

“ ʼLo,” he said sleepily.

“Aw,” I said, “I interrupted your nappy-poo. Sorry about that, chum.”

“I’ll bet,” he said. “What’s on your mind—if I may exaggerate?”

“You and I have a date tomorrow,” I said.

“Oh goody,” he said. “How shall I dress? Long gown?”

“Just shut up,” I said. “Al, this is serious.”

I told him about the note Mr. Forsythe had found lying on his pillow.

“Son of a bitch,” Rogoff said bitterly. “Something screwy is going on in that joint. I hate these family cases; they always turn out to be a mess. Give me a straight, cut-and-dried mugging any day. Who’s got the note now?”

I said I did and would deliver it to him when we met at the Forsythes’ office at twelve thirty on Wednesday to discuss the situation with Griswold II.

“Why there?” Al asked.

“Because he refused to meet at his home. Perhaps he’s afraid the place is bugged. I’m beginning to believe the entire family are paranoids.”

“Or maybe just plain wacky. Well, I’m supposed to be off duty tomorrow but I’ll be there. Thanks so much for dumping this slumgullion on my plate.”

“That’s what friends are for,” I said and hung up.

I went into the living room and then out onto our little terrace that afforded a good view of the ocean. I saw a lot of whitecaps and decided a swim would be dicey. So I climbed upstairs to my dorm and worked on my journal until it was time for the McNally cocktail hour.

We dined on vichyssoise that night, followed by crab cakes with a salsa that had a zing. Dessert was an almond torte with a white chocolate frosting, which meant that the waistbands of my slacks would continue to shrink.

I huffed and puffed to my lair and continued bringing my professional diary up-to-date. When my phone rang around nine o’clock I was certain it would be Connie Garcia calling to set a time for our dinner date Wednesday night. So I answered with a warm “Hi!”

My caller laughed. “This is Sylvia Forsythe,” she said. “Do you customarily answer your phone by shouting, ‘Hi!’?”

“Hardly,” I said. “But I was expecting a call from my grandfather in Spokane and he’s a bit hard-of-hearing.”

“What a faker you are!” she marveled. “Archy, I was disappointed you had left when I returned from my ride this morning. I was hoping we might have lunch.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “But I didn’t know how long you’d be gone. We’ll make it another time.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she said. “You and I have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

That was a poser. But it would have been boorish to ask, “About what?” So I said nothing.

There was a pause requiring a pregnancy test; apparently the lady was awaiting a reply. Finally, when there was none, she said, “What did you think of Tim Cussack?”

“Seems like a solid fellow,” I answered, lying valiantly. “Very handsome.”

“Isn’t he?” she said with some enthusiasm. “All the women go gaga over him.”

“You too?” I asked boldly.

“Me too,” she admitted. “But the competition is fierce.”

She talked in riddles and I was lost. I decided to switch to less intimate topics.

“Still playing your harpsichord?”

“Oh yes. I’d go mad without my music.”

“And riding.”

“And riding,” she agreed. “And other things,” she added throatily.

The sexual innuendo again.

“As long as you’re happy,” I said lamely.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, laughing again. “But I’m working at it. Archy, the next time you’re in-residence I insist you give me a few minutes. I may be plinking away at Vivaldi or I may be in my bedroom. In any event, do look me up. Okay?”

“Of course.”

“Bye-bye,” she cooed and hung up.

I took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. She had just succeeded in putting the kibosh on Geraldine Forsythe’s dizzy scenario: Sylvia Forsythe was making nice-nice with Timothy Cussack, her sister-in-law’s former lover. But that plot now wilted. If she and the matinee idol were having an affair, why on earth was she coming on to me so blatantly? A puzzlement.

I continued scribbling in my journal and it couldn’t have been more than five minutes later when my phone jangled again. This time I was certain it was Connie Garcia. “Hi!” I said ardently.

There was a short silence, and then the caller, a woman, asked, “Is this Archy McNally?”

“It is,” I confessed.

“This is Geraldine Forsythe. Do you usually answer the phone by saying ‘Hi!’?”

“A slight mistake,” I said. “I was expecting a call from my dear old grandmother who’s in the hospital with a severe case of shinsplints resulting from her run in the Boston Marathon. How are you, Gerry?”

“Very well, thank you. Archy, I was wondering if you’ve managed to meet Timothy Cussack.”

“As a matter of fact I have, just this morning.”

“And what is your take on him?”

“Seems to have a great deal of charm,” I said cautiously.

Her laugh was flimsy. “Oh yes,” she said, “charm is Tim’s stock-in-trade. You’re going to follow up on it, aren’t you?”

“You’re referring to your suspicions?”

“They’re more than suspicions, Archy. Believe me, I know I’m right. But I need evidence and I’m depending on you to provide it. You will try, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“This is very important to me, Archy. I’m sure you realize that.”

“I do.”

“Good. I won’t be able to pay you with money but I think you’ll be happy with your reward. Nighty-night, darling!”

She hung up, leaving me to reflect that Al Rogoff had been correct: the Forsythes were a clan of wackos.

To make a long story short (if it’s not too late) when my phone rang fifteen minutes later I was careful to answer formally, “Archibald McNally.” And of course it was Connie Garcia. We made a date for the following evening at the Cafe L’Europe at seven thirty. Our conversation was brief because Connie was watching a Bugs Bunny Festival on cable TV.

“Bugs reminds me of you, Archy,” she said before she hung up.

After reviewing my three phone calls I didn’t feel like Bugs Bunny; I saw myself more like Pepe Le Pew. It made me wonder if since taking on the Forsythe case I had been living in a cartoonish world. I longed for the day I could stutter, “Th-th-that’s all, folks!”

Wednesday morning brought reality and I dressed with less than my usual panache, preparing for the meeting with Griswold Forsythe II at twelve thirty. I breakfasted with my parents in the dining room and mother remarked how “spiffy” I looked in my black suit, white shirt, maroon tie.

“Is it graduation day?” father asked with heavy good humor, but I could see he was pleased that for once I wasn’t attired like Carmen Miranda.

He drove to work in his black Lexus and I followed in my jauntier surrey. I went directly to my tiny oubliette and began working on my monthly expense account, a fictional masterpiece that might be entitled “Great Expectations.” I smoked one cigarette that morning and made one phone call—to the Cafe L’Europe, reserving a table for two that evening.

Shortly after twelve o’clock I left the McNally Building and strolled westward on Royal Palm Way to the structure housing the Forsythes’ office. It was a rather grungy three-story edifice of indeterminate age and something of an eyesore. In fact, local newspapers occasionally published indignant Letters to the Editor demanding that the damned thing be demolished in favor of a more attractive building suitable for that prestigious avenue.

It was a warren of small offices, occupied mainly by attorneys and real estate and insurance agents. The Forsythes’ cubby, I recalled, was on the top floor, reached by a creaky automatic elevator. I remembered their suite as being a smallish reception room, hardly large enough for the clerk’s desk, and a larger office in the rear that held a handsome oak partners’ desk, used by father Griswold and son Griswold.

I waited across the street in the shade of a plump bottle palm. At about twelve-twenty I spotted Sgt. Al Rogoff’s pickup cruising slowly along while he scanned building numbers. I waved, he saw me, waved back. He turned the corner and apparently parked, for a few minutes later he appeared on foot, trundling along like a fire hydrant on wheels. He was wearing a loose-fitting khaki safari suit and if he was armed, as I assumed he was, it was not noticeable.