McNally's Gamble (8 page)

“I don’t mean to go out,” Natalie said. “I’m uncomfortable in restaurants and bars. I’m not a social creature. But I thought you might like to come by occasionally and we could just, you know... talk.”

“I’d enjoy that,” I said at once, happy with her suggestion. Connie would never in a million years discover me engaged in extracurricular activities within a ramshackle shed on an Ocean Boulevard estate. “But I don’t want to be a nuisance. Suppose I give you my unlisted home phone number and when you feel like company give me a call and I’ll come running. How does that sound?”

“Yes,” she said, “I think it’s the best way.”

I had felt certain she would approve. It gave her control of our liaison, y’see—exactly what she wanted.

I stood up (with some effort) and began dressing. “Then let’s do it that way. Why, we might even have a picnic in here. That would be fun.”

“Fun?” she said, seemingly surprised by the word. “I’m not sure I know how to have fun.”

“Yes, you do. You just proved it.”

Her smile was a revelation. She positively beamed for one brief instant.

I jotted my phone number on a scrap of discarded drawing paper. Then I leaned down to kiss her upturned face. “Thank you, Nettie,” I said. “Please, do give me a call when you’re in the mood.”

“Yes,” she said, “I shall. What’s that cologne you’re wearing?”

“Not cologne. Aftershave. ‘Obsession.’ Like it or hate it?”

“Like it,” she said, and repeated “Obsession” as if it had a special meaning for her.

I lifted a hand in farewell, unbolted the door, and stepped outside. I paused to light a cigarette and heard her close the inside bolt on her secret place.

I was preparing to remount the Miata when a lavender Buick Riviera came purring up the driveway and halted in front of the garage. I waited until the driver alighted and slammed the door. She spotted me and came sauntering. Something insolent in her jouncy walk.

“And who might you be?” she asked.

“I might be Ludwig the Second, the Mad King of Bavaria,” I said. “But actually I am Archibald McNally. I have just lunched with Mrs. Edythe Westmore and have been given a tour of the premises by Natalie.”

“Ah,” she said. “A new friend of the family?”

“I hope to be. And I presume you are Mrs. Helen Westmore?”

“You presume correctly,” she said with a smile so scintillant it made my Jumbocharmer look like a night-light. “But friends of the family call me Helen. And may I call you Archy?”

“It would please me,” I assured her.

But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at me, up and down, with a look I can only define as appraising. What a bold, almost brazen look it was! I feared she might step forward to examine my teeth and squeeze my biceps to judge their bulk.

She was a zaftig woman who carried herself with impudent self-confidence. Her manner was more than forward, it was fast-forward, and I reckoned there were few pleasures she denied herself. Women who have a taste for instant gratification scare me. I always think of female arachnids who select an amorous mate, copulate, and then devour the poor chap.

“I hope to see more of you, Archy,” she said, her voice almost a purr.

“I’d like that,” I said. I may have stuttered.

“Ta-ta, luv,” she caroled, gave me a wink and a flip of her hand, and danced up the steps into the house.

I thought of those spiders again. I’m too young to die.

I
T WAS THEN PUSHING
four o’clock, obviously too late to return to my orifice. (I wish I could stop spelling it that way.) So I tooled the Miata homeward, musing on my eventful afternoon with the Westmore women. They were not exactly the three witches from
Macbeth
but they were not the three Graces either. An odd and intriguing triumvirate I decided.

When I was seated behind the spavined desk in my very own sitting room, shoes off and tie loosened, I remembered to phone Sydney Smythe at Windsor Antiques. We exchanged cordial greetings, and he then explained the reason for his original call.

“You know, dear boy,” he said, “I have been thinking about the Fabergé egg you told me about—the one included in the estate of a deceased client.”

“Ah, yes.”

“You wished to learn something of its provenance and current market value. I fear I was unable to provide much information, not having examined the egg. But I do possess several excellent illustrated volumes on the art of Peter Carl Fabergé. It occurred to me that if you would open the egg and describe to me the ‘surprise’ it contains, I might be able to identify it in one of my reference books and answer your questions in more detail.”

“That would certainly be a help, sir,” I said, wondering where my fabricated story was leading me and how I could finesse the dealer’s request. “I’ll certainly open the egg at the first available opportunity and report to you what, if anything, I find inside.”

“Excellent!” he said with more enthusiasm than I thought my reply warranted. “I love investigations into the history of beautiful antiques, and I’ve become quite consumed with curiosity about this particular Imperial egg. Do keep me informed, dear boy.”

He rang off and I replaced my phone thoughtfully. His interest in the Fabergé egg I had invented did seem to me excessive but that wasn’t the only oddity I found fascinating. Mr. Smythe had asked me to describe the surprise in
my
egg, and a few hours previously I had asked Mrs. Westmore to describe the surprise in
her
egg.

Of course mine was imaginary and I still had to determine if the Fabergé egg being hawked by investment adviser Frederick Clemens was also whole cloth or actually existed. And if it did exist, was it authentic or a counterfeit being peddled by one or more villains who had selected Mrs. Edythe Westmore as their mark?

I noted these puzzles in my journal along with a description of the Westmore estate and Mrs. Edythe’s comments anent Frederick Clemens. I interrupted my scribbling a few times to phone Binky but was informed by the Duchess’s houseman that Master Watrous had not yet returned home. I thought it strange. I could not believe his meeting with Clemens was still in progress. Unless the goof was regaling the investment adviser with a recital of birdcalls, including the peep of a titmouse.

I showered and changed into casual duds before descending for the family cocktail hour. As we were sipping our traditional dry martinis I casually mentioned I had lunched with Mrs. Edythe Westmore and had met both her daughter and daughter-in-law.

“Did you, Archy?” mother said, much interested. “Tell me, what did you think of Helen Westmore?”

I was glad she hadn’t asked my reaction to Natalie! “Why, I think Helen is a very attractive woman in a flamboyant sort of way.”

“Flamboyant,” the mater repeated. “Yes, it’s a good word for her.”

“Do you know anything of her antecedents, mother?”

“Oh, it’s a very romantic story. She was on the stage, you know, and played a role in a road company that gave a week of shows at the little theater Edythe helps support. Walter Westmore saw her in one of the performances and fell head over heels in love. The road company moved on but Helen remained, staying with the Westmores. She and Walter were married about a month later. It was love at first sight.”

“Apparently so,” I said. “Do you happen to recall the play Helen was in when Walter was smitten?”

She thought a moment, head tilted. “I think it was
The Odd Couple,”
she said finally.

I thought I heard a muffled snort from father but I may have been mistaken.

Dinner that night was Brunswick stew, a tasty concoction that usually contains the meat of game animals—squirrel, raccoon, boar, venison, etc. Ursi Olson’s version had only chicken and rabbit but to give it a little zip she had added small dumplings spiced with cracked black pepper. They did the trick; the stew was ready to erupt.

I climbed slowly back to my aerie after dinner, happy the meal had been more than adequate compensation for Mrs. Westmore’s insipid lunch. I collapsed at my desk and had a wee brandy to soothe my inflamed uvula. I phoned Binky Watrous again and this time the wannabe sleuthhound was home. I thought his greeting was giggled.

“Binky, are you potted?” I demanded.

“Not quite, old boy,” he said, his words slushy. “Still upright. Still vertical.”

“But not for long,” I predicted. “What on earth prompted this disgraceful descent into blottoland?”

“He took me to dinner.”

“Who took you to dinner?”

“Frederick Clemens.”

“You josh.”

“I do
not
josh. We were sitting around discussing heavy financial matters and Fred looked at his Rolex and said it was nearing time for a c-tail—that’s what he calls them: c-tails—and would I care to join him for a glass or two and a spot of dinner. Naturally I said I would be delighted and so we did. A funky little Italian place. I had brains.”

“Too late,” I said.

“With eggs,” he added. “Plus lots and lots of vino. It was a very jolly din-din.”

“Binky,” I said desperately, “before you become totally unglued I am going to ask you a number of questions. Please try to be as concise and accurate as is possible for one in your benumbed condition. Primo, does Clemens work out of his home or does he have an office?”

“Both. He inhabits this very posh condo—acres of space—and one big room is the office. Lots of glass, chrome, black wood. Elegant, y’know. Computer with all the bells and whistles. Three telephones on his desk: red, white, and blue.”

“A Yankee Doodle dandy. And the assistant you spoke to on the phone—was he present?”

“Yep. Name is Felix. No last name mentioned. Tall, skinny guy. I mean really tall and really skinny. Never smiles. Wearing a white suit, black shirt, white tie.”

“The return of George Raft,” I said. “Did he go to dinner with you and Clemens?”

“No. He chauffeured us to the restaurant in a maroon Bentley and then picked us up later. I don’t much like Felix.”

“Why not?”

“He scares me. I think he’s a wrongo.”

“Because of the way he dresses?”

“And he stared at me. Not a nice stare. Cold. Also he uses a fruity cologne. Also one of his fingers is missing.”

“Which finger?”

“Index on his right hand.”

“At least he can’t pull a trigger,” I said. “Unless he’s sinistral.”

“Archy, I’m getting sleepy. Can I go to bed now?”

“No, you cannot,” I said. “You’re doing fine and I need to know more. Especially about Clemens. How old a man is he?”

“Fortyish. Hard to tell exactly. I think he does facials and manicures. I mean he shines.”

“Not oily?”

“Oily? No way. A splendid chap. Sort of Spencer Tracyish. A fast man when it comes to picking up a tab. And tips like a zillionaire.”

“Sharp dresser?”

“Not sharp but rich. Wearing a flannel suit you’d kill for. Had on cuff links like miniature gold ingots. Archy, you should see the way he was shaved. I wish I could shave like that. I always seem to leave patches.”

“I gather you approve of the man.”

“I do, I really do. Sterling character. No front to him. True-blue.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Did he offer any suggestions on how to invest your fifty grand?”

“He says I should buy three-month Treasury bills.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “No oil wells or tin mines?”

“Nope. He said I’ll sleep better at night with T-bills. And he offered me a job.”

“A job?”

“Well, not a regular nine-to-fiver. He wants me to recommend people I know who might be interested in investment advice. If he lands anyone as a client, I get a hundred bucks as a finder’s fee. A soft touch, huh, Archy?”

“You’re going to do it?”

“Sure I am. I already gave him a short list. You’re at the top.”

“What! You actually gave him my name?”

“I couldn’t see any harm. If he calls, you can turn him down or go see him.”

I was about to scream at him but then I thought he might have stumbled into a seemingly clever way for me to meet Clemens. I wouldn’t seek him out; let him come to me. It would surely be as circumspect an introduction as my father required.

I recalled Mrs. Westmore telling me how difficult it was to persuade the investment adviser to enroll her as a client. “He doesn’t just accept everyone.” But here he was paying Binky to lasso new customers. I began to appreciate the thespian talents of Frederick Clemens.

“Sleep,” Binky said pleadingly. “I beg you, Archy, let me sleep now.”

“All right,” I said. “Off you go. It was a stellar performance, old boy, and I thank you.”

I hung up, pleased with the background info Binky had provided. Not earthshaking, you understand, but basic stuff that would help me limn an accurate picture of Clemens and his operation. Nothing I had learned so far proved the man a legitimate investment counselor or a charlatan eager to make a big score.

I had intended to scrawl an immediate journal precis of Binky’s report but found I was brooding on a completely different subject. All afternoon and evening I had held it at bay, feeling there were more important tasks to be accomplished, more important thoughts to be thunk. But now I simply
had
to recollect and try to find meaning in that incredible escapade with Natalie.

If I saw Mrs. Edythe Westmore as a Percheron of a woman and Mrs. Helen Westmore as a lustful soubrette, how was I to characterize Nettie, encapsulate her personality in a phrase? I could not. The conflicting clues in her behavior perplexed me.

Did the spells of apathy spring from weltschmerz or was she indifferent to everyone and everything about her because she was so intensely self-centered? She had certainly proved herself capable of physical passion but had regained control by setting the terms of an encore—if there was to be one.

At times she had seemed to me perpetually angry, carrying chips on both shoulders and atop her head. Yet she had also displayed loving tenderness and a puppy’s desire to please. As for her outlandish flower paintings—some sexually explicit—I had absolutely no idea what they might signify.

No doubt about it: she was a fey young woman, and I went to bed with the conviction that a continued relationship with her could only mean trouble for yrs. truly. But such a foreboding had never dissuaded me from previous romantic gambles. As a matter of fact, I have found the presentiment of danger frequently acts as a stimulant, just as pleasure is heightened by a sense of guilt.