McNally's Puzzle (31 page)

“I should warn you it’s expensive.”

“No problem,” I assured him.

“What I’d like to do if I may is pop over to your place, show you a color photo, and we can discuss it. Is that convenient?”

“Of course.”

“Be there in about twenty minutes,” he said. “I think you’ll like this bird, Archy.” He hung up leaving me excited by the prospect of confirming his illicit trade in parrots on the proscribed list.

Those twenty minutes gave me time to ingest a brawny slug of Presidente brandy. Thus fortified I descended to our driveway and awaited the arrival of Ricardo Chrisling. I cannot to this day believe I never doubted his story about the Spix’s macaw. Which only proves, I suppose, that although I may know the details of the Peloponnesian Wars, when it comes to more quotidian matters I am a complete dope.

He drove up in a new, dark green Cadillac DeVille, and it set an alarm bell chiming softly. The last time I had seen the car it was driven by Yvonne Chrisling. I assumed it was hers. But perhaps he borrowed it. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was his. Perhaps they shared it. At the moment I was flummoxed by an excess of perhapses and hadn’t the time to sort them out.

Ricardo alighted, paused, and seemed to spend an inordinate time inspecting the premises, including the lights burning in my father’s study and Hobo snoozing in the doorway of his condo. Then he came toward me with a flinty smile, hand outstretched. We shook: one hard, wrenching clasp.

“Archy,” he said.

“Ricardo,” I said. “I see you have new wheels.”

“Not mine,” he said. “My mother’s.”

Note the “my mother’s” rather than “My stepmother’s.”

“Ah,” I said, all my perhapses resolved—if I could believe him. “Would you care to come inside? We can have a drink and talk.”

He came closer and looked at me strangely. “I tried,” he said sadly. “I really tried to be your friend.”

Realization arrived. It was slow in coming, I admit, but suddenly there it was. This man was my enemy and intended to harm me.

“You didn’t try hard enough,” I said just as sadly.

Lordy, he was fast. His hand snaked into his jacket pocket and came out with a bone handle. He pressed a button and a thin, naked blade swung out and clicked into a locked position. He moved a step closer.

Earlier in the evening I had faced a loaded revolver and was frightened. But it couldn’t compare to the fear I felt at the sight of that bare, shining sliver of steel. I can’t explain it. A gun can wound or kill as surely as a knife but the latter terrorizes more. Don’t ask me why.

“The weapon you used to murder Hiram Gottschalk?” I asked, and my voice sounded quavery even to me.

He didn’t reply. He was close enough to thrust at my midriff but not so close I wasn’t able to knock his arm aside and grapple. For a moment or two we hugged, straining and swaying. Then he put a heel behind one of my knees, pushed violently, and dumped me onto the ground. He leaned over, stiletto poised, and I regretted I hadn’t apologized to Consuela Garcia for any real or fancied hurt.

It was at that precise instant Hobo came charging, paws scrabbling at the gravel. He was a smallish terrier but he attacked like a fifty-pound pit bull. Marvelous, wonderful, magnificent dog! And the sounds he was making! Bloodcurdling, ferocious growls, lips drawn back, fangs showing. I do believe he was slavering in anticipation.

He launched himself upon my assailant, apparently with the intent of ripping out his throat. Ricardo gave a shrill cry of fear and stumbled back, raising his arms to protect himself. The knife fell from his grasp. I scrambled to my feet and kicked it away. I watched with satisfaction as Hobo’s assault continued. Chrisling had fallen and was churning and writhing on the gravel to avoid those ravening jaws.

Finally I shouted, “Hobo! Enough!”

He stopped his attack but remained astride his recumbent victim and began barking and snarling ferociously. He sounded murderous but made no attempt to bite.

The ruckus was enough to disturb everyone within hearing distance and so it did. My father came to the back door wearing a maroon velvet smoking jacket and carrying one of his James Upshall pipes. He surveyed the scene and uttered a classic line I shall never forget.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

With a great effort of will I refrained from hysterical laughter. “Father,” I said, “I have just been the victim of a knife attack by Ricardo Chrisling. May I request you call nine-one-one and ask them to send police officers as soon as possible. Also, I would appreciate it if you’d phone Sergeant Rogoff—he’s presently at headquarters—and tell him what happened.”

I thought my voice was steady. Papa wasn’t going to outcool me.

He nodded and went back inside. His place was taken by mother clad in nightgown and robe, fluffy mules on her feet. Then came Ursi and Jamie Olson from their apartment over the garage. Jamie was carrying an iron crowbar and I had no doubt he’d use it as a lethal weapon if necessary.

I can only describe the next hour as organized confusion. Two squad cars appeared, followed soon after by Al Rogoff in his pickup. Eventually there were ten of us surrounding Ricardo, who was still lying supine on the gravel, eyes closed. His face was remarkably calm.

No one wanted to touch him. But when Rogoff arrived he hauled Chrisling unceremoniously to his feet. He was searched, handcuffed, and taken away in one of the squads. Meanwhile Hobo had been shooed back to his house and I had recited an abbreviated report of what had occurred at least three times, the last to the sergeant.

He nodded. “You’ll have to dictate a statement,” he told me.

“Delighted.”

He had taken possession of Chrisling’s snickersnee and he fiddled with it, levering the slender blade back into the bone handle and then pressing the button to watch the steel spring out and lock into striking position. It looked as skinny as an ice pick.

“Could be,” he said, looking at me.

I knew what he meant. “Not could but
is
,” I said firmly.

“No proof,” he said. “There’s got to be a thousand shivs like this in South Florida.”

“Anything from Sonia?” I asked him.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “She claims Ricardo hired her just to get you up to her place. She didn’t know what for—she says. So where does that leave us? The two slobs are letting their lawyers talk for them. Maybe we can cut a deal, maybe not. Anyway, we’ve got Chrisling for assault with a deadly weapon with intent to commit murder. That’s something. He’ll do time.”

“Not enough,” I said angrily.

“You’re right,” Al agreed. “Not enough. It still leaves me with three open homicides. Archy, please don’t call me again tonight. Your life is beginning to resemble
The Perils of Pauline
.”

Finally everyone departed. The only reminder of the hullabaloo was Yvonne Chrisling’s Cadillac still parked in the center of our turnaround. I looked about and there was Hobo sitting quietly outside his mini-mansion. I went over and looked down at him. He looked up at me.

“You’re something you are,” I said. “The smartest, spunkiest dog who ever lived.” I got down on my knees, leaned close, put a palm on his head. “How can I repay you?” I asked him. “Broiled tournedos with green peppercorn sauce? No? A raw sirloin? No? How about your very own package of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies?”

He yawned. I laughed and lightly touched my nose to his. Sickeningly sentimental? Of course it was. But I had to restrain myself from hugs and kisses. I owed him a big one, just as I owed Al Rogoff. I was becoming a habitual debtor.

But I could repay my marker to the sergeant and knew how to do it. The night’s events—two escapes from an early demise—had given me the confidence of P. T. Barnum and his reliance on flimflam. I went up to my barracks and exchanged my Technicolored threads for a suit of navy tropical worsted. Definitely a somber costume. Almost funereal in fact. Exactly the impression I wished to convey.

I phoned Yvonne Chrisling. It was then shortly before midnight.

“Yvonne,” I said in solemn tones, “this is Archy McNally. Please forgive me for calling at such a late hour. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Oh no,” she said. “No, no. I’ve been reading a novel. What is it, Archy? You sound so serious.”

“It concerns a serious matter. About an hour ago your stepson attempted to stab me to death.”

“What?!”

I repeated my statement. I thought her shock was genuine.

She mewled. “Are you injured?”

“Fortunately not.”

“Where is Ricardo now?”

“In police custody.”

She sighed. “He is such a hothead; you wouldn’t believe. I’ll call the authorities first thing in the morning.”

“I’m afraid it might be too late. You may be involved. You know what police interrogations are like.”

I hoped to spook her with visions of thumbscrews and truncheon blows to the kidneys. Apparently it worked, for her voice became shaky.

“Why should I be involved?”

“Because he used your car to come to my home and assault me. The Cadillac is still parked in our driveway.”

“The fool!” she cried wrathfully. “Can you bring it back here and then I’ll drive you home.”

“No, Yvonne, I cannot do that. The police are presently checking the registration and will want to photograph the car in position to prove it was used in the commission of a vicious crime.” All pure fudge of course.

Silence. Then she wailed, “What shall I do, Archy?”

“I suggest I come over to your place now and we discuss the situation. Perhaps we can find a solution to your predicament.”

“Oh yes!” she said, instantly relieved. “Come to me immediately, darling.”

I hung up grinning. Zorro strikes again!

I had trouble maneuvering the Miata from the garage; Yvonne’s phaeton was blocking the way. But I finally slid free and drove slowly to the Gottschalk home, slowly because I needed time to rehearse my role. And if my tardy arrival made the lady anxious, so much the better.

But she was not my first encounter with one of the dramatis personae. I parked, approached the entrance, and found Peter Gottschalk slumped on the top step. He looked up at me.

“Archy!” he said. “Just the man I wanted to see. I was going to phone you but I lost my nerve.”

“It doesn’t take nerve to call me, Peter,” I said. “A whim will do. How are you feeling?”

“I’m getting there. I’ve been walking the straight and narrow. No booze, no grass. I’m taking my medication and I go twice a week to get monitored.”

“Bravo!” I said. “Keep it up.”

“Listen, I guess you thought I was bughouse, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t believe that,” I told him. “You were seriously ill and acting irrationally.”

“I’ve been doing a lot of heavy thinking lately,” he went on, “and now I can see things clearer than I ever saw them before.”

“Such as?”

“My dear sisters. They were trying to keep me wacko so they could control my share of pop’s estate. Am I right?”

I knew he was but I said nothing.

“At first, when I realized what they were up to, I wanted to kill them. Then I figured they weren’t important enough to kill. Just a couple of greedy bubbleheads. The best revenge is to get healthy and let them keep buying junk until they run out of funds.”

“Yes,” I said. “A wise decision.”

“While I’m letting my hair down,” he continued, putting a hand over his eyes, and I wondered if it might be to hide his weeping, “I might as well tell you it was me who slashed the photograph of my mother and father. And then I broke the phonograph record she had given him. Because I loved my mother so much, and I didn’t like the way he was behaving. I know now what I did was totally goofy.”

“You were ill,” I consoled him. “Wild mood swings. Did you tape a mass card inside your father’s closet door?”

“No, I didn’t do that.”

“Did you strangle the mynah?”

“Dicky? Not me. I liked that bird.”

I nodded and started toward the door but he held up a hand for a final confession.

“I told you I hated my father, Archy. Maybe I did at the time. But I don’t hate him now. He was just human, wasn’t he? I mean he wasn’t a god without sin or without weaknesses. None of us are.”

Except
moi
of course.

“You’ve got it,” I said. “I’m going to call you and we’ll have a nonalcoholic lunch and trade X-rated jokes.”

He smiled weakly, wiping his eyes. “I’d like that.”

I left him there, sitting alone on the steps of what had formerly been his father’s home. I hoped he was recovering from his illness, but he seemed so forlorn. His physical condition might be improving but his spirit seemed sodden. I thought I might call Dr. Gussie Pearlberg to ask if there was anything she could do to rejuvenate his
joie de vivre
.

I was grateful for our brief conversation but he had really told me little I hadn’t already guessed. I knew his sisters, Julia and Judith, were willing victims of the most common of the seven deadly sins: covetousness. The avaricious twins were quite capable of posting the mass card after they learned of their father’s plan to establish a foundation. And for the benefit of parrots! Horrors! He was going to give away their inheritance. It was not to be endured and he had to be warned of the danger of retribution. Stupid? Of course it was. But that’s the power of greed.

Most interesting of all were Peter’s comments about his father. He had slashed the photograph and shattered the phonograph record, he said, because he loved his deceased mother and didn’t like the way his father was behaving. More grist for the McNally mill.

I rang the bell of the Gottschalk home—soon to be the Yvonne Chrisling home—wondering if I might qualify for a Nobel prize awarded for Unprovable Conclusions.

S
HE WAS WEARING A KHAKI
pantsuit of military twill. I was surprised it didn’t sport epaulets, a name badge, and two rows of campaign ribbons. I mean the lady was dressed in a uniform. Give her a swagger stick and she’d have made a splendid drill instructor at Sandhurst or Parris Island.

She clutched my hands. “Archy!” she exclaimed. “Sweetheart! My savior!”