McNally's Dare (17 page)

If Satan asks who sent me I will have a long and prominent list for his perusal.

I called Malcolm MacNiff to relate the disappointing results of my fax to the late Jessica Talbot’s Swiss lawyer. “We’ll just have to wait for his return before we get a detailed account of Jessica’s last days. I also want to know if he can tell us anything about the von Brecht woman.”

Knowing that the MacNiffs had taken financial responsibility for Jeff Rodgers’s funeral, I also told him I thought the service, flowers, et al., were fitting and most moving.

“Thank you, Archy,” he said. “So many young people there. How sad to see them at such a lamentable gathering. And so many from my tennis benefit. I don’t know if I’ll ever have another now that it’s been tarnished with this memory.”

All Nifty wanted was a noble excuse not to cancel his prestigious
Tennis Everyone!
affair, and I gave him one.

“Please reconsider, sir. The fund does so much for young people, I think you should continue it in Jeff’s memory.”

He pounced on it like Othello being tossed a sack of catnip. “What a splendid idea, Archy. That’s just what I’ll do.”

Jeff would adore having his name on the guest list of a classy Palm Beach happening as opposed to being part of the wait staff. In memoriam, true, but better late than never. I was honored to be the catalyst of the tribute.

On a roll, I said, “And you can announce the concept at the pool party, lending dignity to the occasion and making the event more palatable. Your pool, sir, becomes a symbol of hope, not a coffin.”

“I like it better all the time, Archy. My gratitude. As you know I just hated opening the pool again, but it must be done and what better way than this?”

I must say there are times when I astound myself. A little corny, I daresay, but it’s all for a worthy cause.

“Which reminds me,” Nifty said, “the gathering is set for tomorrow at one. Helen left a message for Mr. Darling at his hotel and we’re waiting for his call. We also contacted Lance and he’ll be there with Ms. von Brecht. Helen has invited about a dozen of her crowd to make it look less like an inquisition. Anyone you want to add?”

“Why not Lolly Spindrift to give it the flavor of a press conference.”

“Another good idea, Archy”

Having put together a lethal mix of snoops and suspects for our pool party, I asked, “Did you know Lance was in church this morning?”

“I saw him as we were leaving. I believe he was seated in your pew.”

“Indeed he was. In fact, sir, he asked me to look into Jeff’s murder. To find the murderer, as he put it.”

It took him a moment to reflect on this before responding. When he did it was the same response I got from Denny a few hours ago. “And did you accept?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did he tell you he was an old school chum of the murdered boy?”

“Yes, and that’s about all he told me. Given the time and place our conversation was kept to a minimum. I have an appointment to see him this evening When I hope to learn more about Lance Talbot. I believe he suspects that you have hired me to look into the murder. He also called my father and proposed a business meeting in the near future.”

“What’s the boy up to?” Nifty mused.

“I think he wants to see what we’re up to. This is his way of being kept informed and he’s willing to pay for the privilege. Lance Talbot has something to hide, sir.”

“Confound it, Archy, you have no idea how I detest all this clandestine nonsense. I’ve lived too long, I have. In my day you didn’t need see to your neighbor’s passport to know his name, and poseurs were blackballed from the club.”

“You sound like my father, Mr. MacNiff.”

“A good man, Prescott” he said.

Father would be pleased to have Nifty’s endorsement.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow at one. Do you think Holga von Brecht will wear a thong?”

“Archy!” Mrs. MacNiff scolded. Good grief, she had been on the extension listening to our conversation.

I returned home in time for my swim before dressing for cocktails with Lance Talbot. I covered my patriotic Mark Spitz red, white and blue bikini Speedo with a black hooded terry robe. All I had to do to stop traffic was step out onto Ocean Boulevard and raise my hands. With a nod of thanks, north and south, I hobbled my way to the Atlantic.

I showered, got into my safari togs, and stopped in the kitchen to tell Ursi I would not be home for dinner.

“Don’t fall off any bar stools,” she advised.

A
S I APPROACHED HIS
table, Lance Talbot appraised my raiment thoughtfully and, as if suddenly getting the joke, tossed back his head and laughed. “An avant-garde Beau Brummell,” he said, pointing. He had either memorized my interview or read it again before our meeting.

“The leopards have already been shot, Archy, but you get an E for effort. Do sit.” He beckoned to a waiter. “I’m having a gin martini. Very American,
ja?”

In spite of Talbot’s chummy use of my given name, his dress and deportment marked him as Eurocentric. His white, open-collar shirt was silk. His navy blazer was perfectly cut to accentuate the classic male torso: broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. A red handkerchief hung rakishly from his jacket’s breast pocket.

And, perhaps because of the German
yes,
his accent seemed more pronounced than when we last talked. Too, he exhibited the haughty air peculiar to Europe’s upper classes—or Eurotrash mimicking their betters.

Conversely, our landed gentry bend over backwards to make us believe they are just one of the boys, which is why Nifty orders a modest wine while feting me at his immodest club.

“A bourbon and branch water,” I said to the hovering waiter as I took my seat.

“Have you ever been on safari?” Lance asked.

“No, but I’ve ambled through the brambles in New York’s Central Park and I once toured our Everglades on a boat called the
African Queen.
Does that count?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said amiably. “Mother and I went on safari in Kenya. You know, of course, the British tried to turn it into England’s breadbasket before the big war. Baronets by the dozens bought up land to farm and proceeded to turn the natives into indentured servants while indulging themselves in an orgy of drugs, booze and wife-swapping that the English label
affairs.
I believe an earl was shot dead by an irate husband and the murder never solved.”

Rather than rehash the saga of poor Josslyn Victor Hay, Earl of Erroll, I asked, “Did you bag anything in Kenya besides the country’s sordid history?”

“Heavens no,” he protested. “We would never kill for sport. A safari these days is more like wandering around a zoo where the animals roam freely. We were sightseers and picture takers and nourishment for the mosquitoes.”

“Now that sounds like our Central Park,” I offered as the waiter served my drink.

Talbot raised his martini. “Here’s to money and the time to spend it.”

Coming from him, the toast was almost apocalyptic. Given his inheritance and age, he certainly had plenty of both to spare and then some. I tried not to forget that what Lance Talbot lacked in years he more than made up for in experience. Safari in Kenya? What other exotic ports of call did he and his mother frequent in his teen years? What forbidden fruits had he indulged himself in before he had reached his majority? Was Holga von Brecht one of them? Was Archy overreacting or envious? I savored my bourbon. It helped, but not enough.

Talbot’s cobalt blue eyes always seemed to be smiling at his surroundings in a most condescending manner.
Been here, done this,
they signaled with a yawn. In short, Lance Talbot was a colossal pain in the you-know-where. How I longed to pull off his right shoe (John Lobb loafers, no doubt) and shout
j’accuse,
punk! But in the Leopard Lounge with the moon on the rise the gesture might be misconstrued.

“So,” he began our meeting, “why did you ask this friend of Jeff’s questions about me?”

“I didn’t,” I answered. “He volunteered the information.”

“More to the point, Archy, why were you asking questions about Jeff Rodgers?”

The use of my given name without permission to use it continued to irk me. “That, Lance, is none of your business.”

He started, then laughed. He had taken a cigarette from a pack of Gauloises and was holding it, unlit, between his fingers. The very gesture seemed to show his irritation at not being able to smoke in a bistro. In Europe, I imagine, one could light up in church if the need arose. I was so glad I had given up the weed—almost. However, I longed to show off my English Ovals.

“I thought you were working for me,” he insisted.

“I’ve not formally taken the assignment,” I reminded him. Here I baited his fancy with, “And should I accept your commission, that does not mean I can divulge information gathered for another client.”

He tapped the imaginary ash off his unlit cigarette. If I was beginning to decompose his composure, it was not unintentional.

To accentuate his frustration, I advised, “You will have to get used to the new rules that govern smoking in our republic, Lance. It’s now something you do outdoors.”

With an arrogant air he waved the unlit Gauloises at me and stated, “I have to get used to nothing, my friend. I have no intention of making my home in Palm Beach, or anyplace else in America. I consider Switzerland my native land and Europe my playground. Here, I am a rich bastard. There, I am only rich.”

He waved to a passing waiter and pointed at our drinks. Being behind, I tossed back my bourbon to catch up. His stand-up martini was already down to a landlocked olive.

I was tempted to ask if his mother had ever revealed the name of his father to him but thought better of it. If, as Denny suspected, Jeff had known who it was, I deemed it best not to even hint that others had picked up the scent. Also, the label
bastard
had become synonymous with scoundrel as well as illegitimate. How embarrassing if I popped the question and Talbot was not referring to the circumstances of his birth. But surely he was aware that he carried his mother’s maiden name and not his father’s.

“Then there are others interested in finding Jeff’s murderer?” he posed.

“The Palm Beach Police Department, among others,” I asserted.

Waving this aside, as was his annoying habit, he said, “There is an investigative reporter in town who is with a particularly odious tabloid. We played tennis against him and Malcolm MacNiff, as I’m sure you know. Is he interested in Jeff’s murder?”

Were we dueling with rapiers instead of words, it would be time for someone to shout
en garde.
Any doubts that Lance Talbot was fishing were now dispelled. Did he know that he had given away more than the question warranted? I think he did. I also thought he had no choice in the matter.

As Denny and I suspected, Jeff must have put Lance’s secret on the auction block and was waiting to see who, Lance or Denny, would make the winning bid. Lance was now desperate to know how much Jeff had told Denny. If not, why Lance’s interest in the reporter from the odious tabloid?

“If he is here because of Jeff, he would have anticipated the murder,” I said, “which is very unlikely. Dennis Darling arrived in Palm Beach a few days before Jeff was shoved into the MacNiff pool.”

“How silly of me,” he apologized.

To let him know that I was not oblivious to his concern with Denny’s presence, I added, “Unless you have information that links Darling’s visit to Jeff’s murder.”

He leaned toward me across the small table, bringing our faces very close indeed. I took the moment to notice that the area abutting his hairline was noticeably whiter than his tanned face. I concluded that his crew cut was recently acquired, and exposure to our Florida sun had not as yet darkened the skin beneath his newly cropped hair to match his handsome puss. Interesting?

It was then I remembered that I had forgotten to bring the photograph of Lance and the boy we thought was Jeff Rodgers for show and tell. The oversight would prove providential.

The waiter brought our drinks, forcing Lance to pull back, making his body language less foreboding. When he spoke, his words were less curt than they would have been had the waiter not forced him to reconsider.

“Let’s cut the crapola, Archy. I haven’t got the time or the patience for it. I told you I wanted to hire you to find Jeff’s murderer, and I told you why I wanted the fink caught. I was sincere. If you have a client after the same thing, that’s fine. My guess is that it’s Malcolm MacNiff, as the crime was committed on his turf. I know he paid for the funeral. I offered to do the same and was told it had all been taken care of. Use what you’ve already learned and build on it at my expense. I’m willing to pay you double your going rate.”

My going rate, even by Palm Beach standards, was usurious. Doubled it was delightfully iniquitous. Who knows, I might yet get to like Lance Talbot.

“The clock is ticking,” I warned before going in for the kill. “Jeff Rodgers was boasting that he expected to come into a huge chunk of money, compliments of Lance Talbot. I also learned that Jeff was being paid to keep his mouth shut.”

Much to my chagrin, Lance looked amused. “Keep his mouth shut? About what?”

“You tell me. You were the supposed banker.”

He sighed, looking relieved. “Is that what all the fuss is about? Really?”

“Fuss?” I exclaimed. “The guy is dead. Murdered. He threatens you and he’s wasted. That’s not exactly much ado about nothing, my friend.”

He shook his head as I spoke. “No, no. This is all a gross misunderstanding. Jeff never threatened me. That’s preposterous.”

“Had you talked with him since you came back to Palm Beach?” I questioned.

“Naturally. Why not? We were old friends. Classmates at your quaint Day School.”

Quaint? There, yet again, was that continental put-down of things American. And it wasn’t
my
Day School. It was
his.
Or was it?

“Jeff was always a bit jealous of me, Archy,” he explained. “Correction. Let’s be honest. Jeff was always incredibly jealous of me and anyone else who was rich. In this town, that’s a hell of a lot of folks. I was too young to recall exactly how Jeff and I teamed up. I believe his father brought him to the house one day when his own sitter was unable to care for Jeff. Rollo was a widower. After that we were inseparable. At the age of four, one bonds very quickly.