McNally's Dare (30 page)

I had told Eberhart everything, from what I saw the day of Nifty’s benefit, to Denny’s dealings with Jeff Rodgers, the toe count, the left hand, Mrs. Talbot’s dying words, and the phone call Holga had made to Vivian Emerson the day Vivian disappeared. I felt like a politician campaigning for votes.

After reading the fax, Eberhart commented, “Lance Talbot told us his mother was an addict and it was the reason Jeff Rodgers was blackmailing him. This only confirms Talbot’s story.”

“Jeff wasn’t killed because he threatened to air the Talbot’s dirty laundry, Lieutenant. He was killed because he knew this joker wasn’t Lance Talbot I’m not saying that Jeff Rodgers is blameless. He tried to use what he knew for personal gain but got in over his head.” Remembering Jeff lying at the bottom of the MacNiff pool, I added, “Excuse the pun.”

“But Lance didn’t kill Jeff,” Eberhart stated. “You know that.”

“I now believe that Claus Brecht was in the tunnel waiting for his chance to get Jeff. I told you Lance was on his cell phone at the time. I think he was calling his father, Claus Brecht, to tell him that Jeff had gone to the pool for his break and was there alone.

“That’s why I asked you to check the passenger rosters of all flights that came into Palm Beach from New York Friday morning. The guy who says he’s Lance told me Brecht was flying in from Switzerland via New York.”

“Look, Lieutenant,” Al said, “we got two murders on our hands, both with the same modus operandi...”

“Chloroform,” I got in, “a doctor’s weapon.”

“Before we have the press saying there’s a serial killer loose in Palm Beach,” Al continued, “which will go national by the evening news and ruin the tourist trade, I think we better check out Brecht and any other lead that comes our way. We can’t afford not to.”

Probably thinking of all those irate hotel and restaurant owners storming the castle, Oscar picked up his phone and talked to the desk sergeant. “If he wasn’t on an incoming flight,” Eberhart said, after instructing his subordinate, “all we’ll have is more circumstantial evidence against these people.”

“But we’ll have enough circumstantial evidence to go to the D.A.,” Al said.

Eberhart was a small guy with a barrel chest and a jaw that defied a razor. He ran a thumb over the stubble now and blasted Al, “You go to the D.A. and tell him to arrest a Talbot because he’s not left-handed.”

It was the Talbot name, more than anything else, that had the socially minded Oscar Eberhart worried. As the Los Angeles police are often intimidated by their movie stars, so the Palm Beach police are loath to badger their billionaires. Justice may be blind, but those doing her bidding are not.

It was like waiting for a jury to come back into the courtroom. We had all had our say and now there was nothing to do but wait for the verdict. If Brecht had flown in on Friday, I was out of business. If he hadn’t, there was a chance Eberhart would go along with my plan, which I had yet to propose.

There was a perfunctory knock on the door before it opened and the officer’s head appeared. “Claus von Brecht flew into Palm Beach on a flight from New York at about noon on Friday.”

“That’s it,” Eberhart shouted, sounding relieved.

“But,” the officer walked in, “he flew out of Palm Beach the night before.”

I jumped out of my seat as Al Rogoff cried, “He what?”

“He flew out Thursday night and back in Friday morning,” the man was reading from his notes. “Since the terror alert the airlines are recording anything of an unusual nature, no matter how harmless it may seem. This guy booked a round trip on Thursday night, returning in less than twenty-four hours—and he’s a foreigner, so they reported it to the feds.”

“You see,” I said to Eberhart, “you see how clever they are. They announced that Claus was arriving from New York on Friday and, leaving nothing to chance, he flew out the night before just so he could fly in on Friday, in case someone checked, as we did. What they didn’t count on was the efficiency of the carrier, which should make us all sleep better. He was in hiding all this time.”

“Why?” Eberhart said. “So he could kill the boy and the woman without being suspected?”

“No,” I sighed. “It’s now all so clear. He was in hiding because he didn’t want them to appear as a family. Mother, father and son. Holga and the imposter had all Palm Beach believing they were lovers, and that’s just what they wanted, to dispel any thought that they might be mother and son. And it worked.

“When they told anyone who would listen that Claus was arriving, the gossips were agog with speculation regarding the strange trio, assuming all the most salacious possibilities, except incest. That would be just too much even for our scandalmongers. And it worked,” I repeated, as if amazed at their audacity—which I was.

“They didn’t know they would have to murder anyone,” Al told his disappointed superior, “but when Rodgers and Emerson gummed up the works, they had to go. Brecht, the guy who wasn’t here, could do the dirty work and get away with it.”

“Even that played into their hands,” I said.

“We still have nothing but circumstantial evidence,” Eberhart reminded us.

“I have a plan, Lieutenant.”

“Let’s hear it, Archy”

His reaction was very much like Father’s, only more vocal. “No way,” Eberhart bellowed. “No
[censored]
way. It’s theatrical, it’s dangerous and it involves a decoy who is not a trained member of the force. We go by the book on this one.”

“Claus Brecht wrote the book, Lieutenant.” Remembering his social ambitions, I resorted to temptation. “Dennis Darling is in town, as I’m sure you’re aware, Oscar. I’ll bring him in on this and by next week your name will be a household word. I believe
Bare Facts
magazine also operates a television station. Think about it.”

“If we do like Archy says, Lieutenant, we could make it airtight. The chance of anything going wrong is minimal, at best.”

Gilding the lily, as I often do, I predicted, “You know those true police dramas they run on the cable networks, Oscar? You could star in one.”

On the eve of stardom, Lieutenant Oscar Eberhart looked miserable.

“Y
OU SHOULD HAVE SEEN
me, Mr. McNally. My first film role and I did it in one take.”

“Tell me about it, Todd,” I said, knowing he would whether I wanted to hear it or not.

I was once again in Todd’s furnished apartment, having called, telling him only that I needed a favor.

“I went to the Meecham yacht and Max introduced me to the Hollywood crew. Then he got this great idea. He said I could be in the test.”

“What part did you play?”

“A waiter,” he laughed. “Typecasting, they call it. You see, the shot had Jackson Barnett and this real beautiful gal sort of meandering around the deck like they’re on The Love Boat. Max thought the shot would look more authentic if a waiter came into the scene with a tray of drinks for the lovebirds, and I got my chance.”

Todd had conveniently forgotten that Max Sterling had told him the screen test hoopla was pure Hollywood hype. I guess when you’re part of the hype it gains respectability. But Todd was so thrilled, the exhilaration was catching.

“I know it’s just a test for their big star, but I got my name on the clapboard. Rick Brandt, in white chalk.”

“You’re no longer Todd?”

“Well,” he hesitated. “I’m Edward at home, Todd to the crowd, and Rick in Hollywood. You see?”

No, I didn’t see, but pretended I did. One doesn’t like to be thought dense. “Before you head west, Todd, I need a favor.”

“Name it, Mr. McNally. I owe you my life.”

Bite your tongue, dear boy, bite your tongue.

“I want you to play a scene for me,” was how I phrased it.

“Is that all? I even sing and dance, Mr. McNally.” He cleared his throat and flexed his knees, but I stopped him before he auditioned.

“Sit down, Todd.”

No fool, he quipped, “That bad, eh?”

When he was settled, I let him have it. “I want you to call Lance Talbot. Tell him you’re a friend of Jeff’s, the bartender at the MacNiff party. He’ll know who you are. Trust me.

“Tell him you know Jeff was blackmailing him, and why. If he asks for specifics, just say the words
left hand.
He’ll get it. Say you want ten thousand dollars or you’ll go to the police and tell them he killed Jeff.”

The movie star blanched. “Did he, Mr. McNally?”

Briefly, I let him in on what we now suspected. It was the least I could do.

“What do you think they’ll do?” he asked.

“Try to kill you, I hope,” I answered.

“That’s what I thought. I’ll go down in the
Guinness Book of Records
as the movie actor whose career spanned seventeen seconds.”

“The police and I have given this a lot of thought,” I assured him, “and we have all bases covered. I know the layout here and this is how it’ll work.”

The meeting would take place here, in Todd’s apartment. Counting on Brecht to accompany his son, they would search the place to make sure it wasn’t a trap. No fools they. The patio door was cut into the wall, leaving about six feet on either side of the frame. Two men, with their backs flat against the outside wall, could hide out there and not be seen from within.

“Is there a patio light?” I asked Todd. He showed me the switch. “Even if they put on the light to check outside, they won’t see us and I doubt if they’ll take the time or trouble to come out.”

“What if they do, Mr. McNally?”

“Then we’re done for, but you’ll be okay.”

Denny and I would be on one side of the door, Al and Eberhart on the other. We would leave the door open a crack so we could hear what was going on. When they made their move, we would burst in, catching them in the act.

“Suppose they have a gun, or a knife,” he wisely speculated. “You couldn’t get in fast enough to stop them.”

“It’s not Brecht’s choice of weapon. Chloroform is, and it takes time to work.”

“I hope you’re right, Mr. McNally.”

So do I, son. So do I.

“You don’t have to do this, Todd. I’ll understand if you refuse.”

He heaved a sigh. “For Jeff, Mr. McNally. I’ll do it for Jeff.”

“Todd, this phone call is going to show if you’ve got the makings of an actor,” I said, to boost his enthusiasm for the plan. “You have to make them believe you’re telling the truth and, at the same time, that you’re stupid enough to leave yourself wide open for their retaliation. But not that stupid. That’s why you insist they come here and not meet you in a dark alley or the Talbot mansion. You play the wise kid, not the wise guy.”

Contemplating that, he said, “I’ll play it like Willy Loman, Mr. McNally. Desperate. It’s not his job going down the drain, it’s his life. I’m stupid enough to do this because my mother needs an operation...”

“Cut!” the director cried. “Let’s try it with less passion and more conviction, kid.”

I knew Lance, or Hans, would fall for it because he had seen Todd at both the MacNiff parties and had asked me if Todd was a friend of Jeff’s. Those who kill to silence an adversary will forever wonder who else knows their secret. Friends of Jeff were all suspects, because the young talk and it was well known that Jeff liked to boast about his achievements, true or false.

The Brechts would be relieved to hear from Todd. The guessing was over and their course clear.

Todd made the call and I silently nominated him for a Tony, an Academy Award and a Golden Globe.

“What should I wear, Mr. McNally?”

“A bulletproof vest.”

I
SPENT THE REST
of the day briefing Denny and Malcolm MacNiff. Denny was packing his bags but said, “I wouldn’t miss it for a Pulitzer, chum.”

Nifty was not as sanguine. “Can’t we leave well enough alone, Archy?”

If two murders and a fortune to the perpetrators was well enough, what was Nifty’s definition of a miscarriage of justice? Guccibaggers lunching at a gentleman’s club, I suspect. I trust Mrs. MacNiff was telling her husband to get with it.

I picked up Denny at his hotel and we drove directly to the station house, where I had arranged to meet Al and the lieutenant at nine. Al was in uniform, Eberhart was not. The four of us were driven to Todd’s house in an unmarked police vehicle, after which the driver left the scene. A second police vehicle unloaded three backup officers in civilian dress who were to remain outside and out of sight unless needed.

Todd had chosen to wear the PB uniform of the youth brigade: sneakers, jeans and white sweatshirt with sleeves pushed up above the elbows. “We who are about to die salute you,” he welcomed us into his home. He was either calmer than any of us or a better actor than I suspected.

“You don’t have to do this,” Lieutenant Eberhart said. “It’s not too late to back out, son. Say the word and we’ll abort the mission.”

“The show will go on, Lieutenant,” Todd told him.

Denny was scribbling in shorthand on a minipad with a ballpoint. “It’s B-R-A-N-D-T. Right, Todd?”

“Yes, Mr. Darling. But for the press it’s Rick Brandt, Jackson Barnett’s costar.”

After that show of bravado we settled down to pacing and looking at our watches. The meeting was scheduled for ten. I asked where Monica was this evening.

“Working,” Todd said. “She’s staying with a friend tonight.”

A few minutes before the appointed hour we went out to the patio and took our places. I turned for a final look at Todd and mouthed, “Break a leg, kid.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and forced a smile. If Denny hadn’t nudged me forward I would have turned back and fled, taking Todd with me.

Denny and I took the right wall, Al and Eberhart the left. As planned we left the sliding glass door open a crack.

The early-morning rain had given way to a light drizzle in the afternoon and partial clearing later on. Now it changed its mind and began to pour as we stood, rigid, our backs to the wall. In minutes we were drenched, but I doubt any of us noticed. The rain muffled any sounds coming from within but in a matter of minutes we heard voices raised in anger. There were two of them. Claus and his son, surely. Then the sound of doors opening and banging shut as one of them searched the apartment.