McNally's Puzzle (17 page)

I groaned. “How do I tell Peter he is mentally ill and needs professional assistance? He’s liable to deck me.”

“Possibly,” she agreed calmly. “He may react with hostility. Or he may simply deny there is anything wrong with him. Or he may surprise you and agree he needs help. Whatever his reaction, you’ll have done what you
must
do. The final decision is his.”

“All right,” I said mournfully. “I’ll get through it somehow.”

She rose to pat my cheek. “Of course you will,” she said. “And you will succeed. You are a very charming, persuasive young man. If I were fifty years younger I would be writing you a billet-doux every day.”

“Billy, do?” I said innocently. “But my name is Archy.”

“Out!” she said, pointing to the door.

D
ESPITE THE FINAL LIGHTHEARTED FILLIP,
my conversation with Dr. Gussie left me in a subdued mood. The old chops were definitely in free fall, and a return to my cramped cul-de-sac in the McNally Building was not to be suffered. I needed a spot of alfresco brooding. How does one go about telling a chap he’s around the bend? He’s liable to reply, “So’s your old man,” or some other cutting remark, and that would be the end of that.

Dejected by this and other conundrums of the Gottschalk affair, I drove home, pulled in to our graveled turnaround, and alighted from my barouche. My spirits ascended instanter for Hobo came dashing to me. Clamped in his jaws was a short length of what appeared to be a sawed-off broom handle. He dropped the stick at my feet and looked up expectantly.

I laughed. Listen, it was his game, not mine; I hadn’t taught him Fetch or any other silly trick. But I picked up his baton and gave it a good toss. He whirled and raced after it. A moment later he came trotting back with the prize clenched in his teeth, dropped it and waited.

We continued our sport for about five minutes and I tired before he did. I think he was disappointed when I stroked his head, told him what a splendid retriever he was, and left him to find other entertainment. I went inside feeling upbucked after my short session with the frolicsome Hobo. He had a gift of conveying joy.

We all have our wonts, do we not, and one of mine is to dither when faced with a difficult decision. I was tempted to delay a confrontation with Peter Gottschalk to another day. Perhaps to the next century when, with luck, I might be dead. But that I realized was an ignoble snivel and so, as the Reverend Spooner might say, I lirded my groins and phoned the Gottschalk residence.

“Hello?” a wary female answered. I thought I recognized the voice of Julia or Judith.

“Hello,” I said. “Archy McNally here. Julia?”

“Judith.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “How are you enduring?”

“Such a drag,” she said. “We’ll be happy when it’s over. Julia and I decided we need R and R in Italy to recover. We love Milan. Ever been there?”

“Afraid not.”

“Divine boutiques. All the latest.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “Actually I called to speak with Peter. Is he available?”

“No, he took off.”

“Took off?” I said, astonished. “But I spoke with him this morning. I mean he’s recovering from an attempted suicide, isn’t he. But he’s gone? Where?”

“Who knows?” she said. “He’s perpetually out to lunch. That young man really should be put away. Thanks for calling, Archy.”

She hung up abruptly, leaving me to stare at the silent phone and try to understand her blithe indifference. After all, Peter was her brother, a member of the family. One might expect his condition to be of more concern than Milanese boutiques. I was beginning to get antsy about the Gottschalk twins. Disturbing conduct on their part, wouldn’t you say?

I did my afternoon swim in a sea that was chilly but not painfully so. I attended the family cocktail hour, during which nothing was mentioned about the death of Hiram Gottschalk. Mother said Hobo had padded into her potting shed, curled up in a patch of sunlight, and snoozed for almost an hour, waking occasionally to make certain she was still there.

“He’s such a dear doggie,” she said. “I talk to him and I really think he understands. Do you talk to him, Archy?”

“Frequently,” I said. “Although I can’t fully agree with his opinion of the International Monetary Fund.”

I do believe my father snorted.

Dinner that evening was lamb shanks—one of my thousand favorite dishes. I would have preferred mint jelly but Ursi served it with a ginger sauce. No complaints. Dessert was fresh strawberries drizzled with crème de menthe. A red zin to sluice it all down. Sometimes I imagine my arteries must resemble Federal Highway during the morning rush hour.

I retired to my third-floor digs intending to spend a quiet night adding to my record of the Gottschalk case. Then I might treat myself to a marc and listen to Ella Fitzgerald sing, “Lover, Come Back to Me,” and wonder how Connie Garcia could possibly be so cruel as not to phone me. Had I completely misjudged her? Was she totally heartless?

But the revelations and surprises of that confusing day had not yet ended. I received a phone call from my loyal but mentally disadvantaged henchman, Binky Watrous. And even before he spoke I thought I heard the brittle clinking of a tambourine in the background.

“Archy?” he said. “Is this Archy?”

“No,” I said, “this is Horace Walpole, author of ‘Mysterious Mother’ and other wildly popular fictions. Binky, what’s
with
you? Of course this is Archy and are you boiled and why do I hear the sound of a tambourine?”

“I am
not
boiled,” he said indignantly. “And I am calling from Bridget Houlihan’s apartment where we are rehearsing our first appearance at a nursing home in Riviera Beach.”

“Excellent,” I said. “And that’s why you called—to announce your theatrical debut?”

“Not exactly. Archy, something happened at Parrots Unlimited I think you should know about. Discreet inquiry stuff.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“Well, you met Tony Sutcliffe, the senior salesclerk there. He knows more about parrots than any of us.”

“Of course I met Tony and his companion, Emma Gompertz.”

“Sure. Well, ever since Hiram died and Ricardo Chrisling took over, we’ve been getting some rare and high-priced birds.”

“I know, Binky. You told me.”

“It seemed to bother Tony. The parrots looked nice to me. Healthy and very pretty. Anyway, this afternoon Tony went into the private office to talk to Ricardo. The door was closed. I don’t know what went on. But about fifteen minutes later Tony came out. Archy, he was as white as an umbrella cockatoo and obviously shook. ‘I’ve been sacked,’ he told us. That’s all he’d say. He began to pack up his personal stuff and Emma started crying. ‘Then I’m going too,’ she said, and the two of them marched out. Doesn’t that boggle the mind?”

“It does indeed,” I said. “Did Ricardo offer any explanation?”

“About an hour later. He said Tony and Emma had resigned for personal reasons and he would hire replacements. Meanwhile he asked Bridget and me to cope as best we could until the new people came aboard. It’s all so strange. Don’t you think it’s strange, Archy?”

“Definitely,” I said. “Did Tony resent Ricardo becoming the mikado?”

“Well, they never were exactly buddy-buddy but I think it was more than just jealousy. I don’t know why Tony got canned and Bridget can’t guess either. I mean he knew an awful lot about parrots. But he suddenly got bounced.”

“Binky,” I said, “you have Tony’s phone number, don’t you?”

“Of course. Somewhere. And if I can’t find it, Bridget is sure to have it. She’s very organized. She even makes shopping lists.”

“Amazing,” I said. “Why don’t you give Tony a call and tell him I’d like to buy him lunch. To commiserate on his sacking. You’re included of course.”

“That would be a decent thing to do,” he agreed. “I’ll give Tony a buzz and get back to you. Know something, Archy?”

“Know what?”

“I don’t think everything is kosher at Parrots Unlimited. I suspect there’s hanky-panky going on.”

“You may be right.”

“I think I’m developing a real talent as an investigator, don’t you, Archy? I mean I’m learning how it’s done.”

“And how is it done?”

“You suspect
everyone
.”

“A good beginning,” I assured him. “And as a fledgling detective, what is your guess as to the nature of the wickedness transpiring at Parrots Unlimited?”

He paused a moment, then said portentously, “It is my considered opinion that Ricardo Chrisling is running a white slave ring.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Or perhaps counterfeiting food stamps. Call me after you talk to Tony.”

What a twit!

No Ella or marc for me that night. I just sat there, neurons atingle, trying to make sense of what Binky had just revealed and wondering if the goings-on at Parrots Unlimited had anything to do with the murder of its late proprietor. I thought there might be a connection, however tenuous, but could not imagine what it might be.

Now we shall fast-forward a few days in this report on
l’affaire
Gottschalk, for nothing of significance happened in the interim. Actually, things of some importance did occur but were negatives, only meaningful by their absence, which, I confess, I hadn’t the wit to recognize.

For instance, Thursday and Friday passed uneventfully, and it was Friday night before I recalled I hadn’t heard from Binky anent the luncheon with the dismissed Tony Sutcliffe. Nor had I been able to contact Peter Gottschalk to arrange a meeting during which I would attempt to convince him he was semibonkers and required professional help.

It was a leaden two days and the fact that Connie Garcia didn’t phone only increased my angst to the point where I considered I might be happier in a monastery. One with a library including the complete recordings of Bessie Smith. More to my taste than Gregorian chants.

I finally came alert on Saturday morning, which was a puzzle because it was a chill, drizzly day designed for lolling in bed. But no, I felt an ineluctable urge to
do
. I decided some—any—action, no matter how unproductive, was necessary to retain my professional standing as a practitioner of discreet inquiries. And so, about noonish, I phoned Parrots Unlimited.

I recognized Bridget Houlihan’s chirpy voice. “Parrots Unlimited,” she said. “How may I help you?”

“Polly want a cracker,” I said. “Bridget, please forgive a stupid jape. This is Archy McNally. How
are
you?”

“Oh, Archy,” she said, “Binky and I are so rushed. Ricardo promised to hire two more people but no one’s showed up yet. I guess you heard about Tony and Emma leaving.”

“I heard and that’s why I’m calling. Binky promised to set up a lunch with Tony but nothing has happened.”

“I know,” she said, “and it’s very odd. We’ve been calling Tony and Emma two or three times a day and no one answers. And none of their friends have been able to contact them. They just seem to have disappeared.”

“A holiday?” I suggested. “A vacation after Tony got canned?”

“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “But wouldn’t you think they’d tell someone where they were going and for how long?”

She sounded worried.

“I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually,” I told her. “I presume Binky is busy at the moment.”

“Oh yes. He’s selling lovebirds to newlyweds.”

“Very fitting,” I said approvingly. “Tell me, Bridget, how did your act go at the Riviera Beach nursing home?”

“Oh, it was a great success,” she said enthusiastically. “They laughed so hard.”

“I can imagine.”

“And everyone applauded and cheered.”

“A standing ovation, eh?”

“Well, not exactly, since most of them were in wheelchairs. But they want us to come back again. ‘Better than Valium,’ one old man said.”

“Wonderful. Tell Binky I called, will you, Bridget, and if you hear from Tony and Emma please let me know.”

I hung up troubled by what she had told me of the former clerks at Parrots Unlimited. It did seem exceedingly strange a young, gregarious couple would simply take off without telling anyone of their plans. Even if they were stressed by their sudden unemployment they would surely discuss their predicament and options with friends.

I pulled on a liverish nylon golf jacket and my puce beret and went down to the second-floor sitting room where mother was seated at her spindly desk penning chatty letters to her enormous network of correspondents.

“Moms,” I said, “may I borrow your wagon? I have an errand to run, it’s weeping out, and I hate to put the lid on my chariot.”

“Of course, dear,” she said. “I think it has enough gas but don’t trust that gauge. Are you dressed warmly enough?”

“Absolutely,” I assured her. “I’m even wearing socks.” And I swooped to kiss her velvety cheek before taking off.

Mother’s ancient wood-bodied station wagon is a balky beast. But on that Saturday morning it behaved splendidly, carrying me safely to West Palm Beach. I took along my cellular phone in case I couldn’t find Tony Sutcliffe’s home and had to call Binky or Bridget to direct me to the cramped condo where the wine-and-cheese orgy had been held.

M
EMORY SERVED AND I FOUND
the place: a rather scuzzy three-tier edifice of chipped plaster, sun-bleached shingles, and with a dismal lawn that appeared to have been cropped by a bulimic goat.

There was a human-type goat propped against the outside doorframe when I climbed out of the wagon. He was wearing a shabby denim jacket atop splotched painter’s overalls and was mouthing a toothpick apparently surgically attached to his lower lip. He seemed engrossed by the lowering sky and didn’t give me a glance as I approached.

“Good morning, sir,” I said.

How slowly he focused on me. His eyes were so pallid I was tempted to break into a chorus of “Jeepers Creepers.”

“Yo,” he said tonelessly.

“I’m looking for the manager or super,” I told him. “Is such a person available?”

“Me,” he said.

I was reminded of Jamie Olson. The two of them would be worthy adversaries in a monosyllabicity contest.

“I’m a friend of Tony Sutcliffe,” I said. “Do you know if he’s home?”