McNally's Puzzle (32 page)

A bit much wouldn’t you say? I disengaged myself and gave her a sad smile. At least I hoped it was a sad smile and not a smirk, for I was in a smirky mood.

There are two things I must tell you from the outset about the conversation to follow in the disordered living room. First, we both remained standing and neither suggested things might go more smoothly if we were seated instead of confronting each other like warring gamecocks.

Second, I was aware she paused a brief instant before answering my questions. Her hesitations didn’t last long, just a beat or two, but I reckoned they gave her time to consider her replies. She was too brainy to be a blurter. Every action, every speech was calculated.

“Archy, have you any idea why Ricardo attacked you?”

“Of course, Yvonne. He knew I had discovered he was dealing in endangered and smuggled parrots. Surely you knew of his criminal activities.”

“I wasn’t sure but I suspected. I know so little about business.”

That should have earned her a hearty guffaw. She knew as little about business as she did about breathing. She was a shrewd bottom-line lady.

“He’ll be fined and may serve time for parrot smuggling,” I went on. “I doubt if you will be accused of involvement in that scheme. Of course it would help if you provide what corroborative evidence you can.”

She was puzzled. “But when you phoned tonight you said I might be involved.”

“You are,” I told her. “But in a much graver matter. Dick will probably be charged with the murder of Hiram Gottschalk and possibly the slaying of Anthony Sutcliffe and Emma Gompertz.”

I had used Ricardo’s diminutive deliberately in hopes of eliciting a response and I won.

“Dick,” she repeated with a small moue of protest. “He hates that nickname. He wants always to be called Ricardo. As for killing Hiram and those other people, it’s just nonsense.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “You came to me not too long ago asking advice for a woman who had knowledge of a crime committed by someone close to her. The woman you described was obviously you. I urged you then to inform the authorities immediately. I now repeat my recommendation, Yvonne. Go to the police at once and make a voluntary statement. Ricardo is in custody and cannot harm you. But faced with a charge of homicide, he may hope to avoid the electric chair by cooperating with the state attorney and implicating you.”

“He would never do that!” she cried.

“Wouldn’t he?” I said, and we stared at each other.

“Besides,” she said, and I thought I detected a note of franticness in her voice, “what proof do they have? They have no proof.”

I improvised boldly. “His car was used to transport Gompertz and Sutcliffe to the Everglades when they were slain. The knife he used to attack me tonight is the same weapon he used to stab Mr. Gottschalk through the eyes.” I thought my repetition of “used, used, used” would spook her and it did.

“But his motive,” she said desperately. “What could possibly have been his motive? Did he think Hiram suspected his connection with parrot smuggling?”

“It may have been part of it,” I conceded, “but I doubt it. Mr. Gottschalk was not a suspicious man; he was a naive man. Even more, he was a good man and could not comprehend others might be evil. No, I think Ricardo’s motives were more complex.”

“More complex?” she repeated. “I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do. Now I must say things I would prefer not to say but I must. You were intimate with Hiram Gottschalk, were you not? You shared his bed.”

She accepted my pronouncement calmly. This woman never ceased to amaze me. But she had no idea of what I had in store for her.

“It is true,” she said equably. “Hiram and I were intimate.”

“Believe me,” I said hastily, “I do not condemn you. I see nothing wrong in your comforting the waning years of a widower. But Ricardo knew what was going on and was jealous, was he not?”

“Ricardo loves me,” she said simply. “And he is a very passionate boy.”

“And too frequently his passion erupts in violence,” I added. “He was furious about your relationship with Mr. Gottschalk—correct? He knew Hiram had eyes for you. He knew Hiram saw you naked in the bed alongside him. The vision enraged him.”

She took a deep breath. “I told him he was courting disaster,” she said.

“Courting disaster”? Don’t you just love it! I wondered what novel she had been reading.

“There was more to it than just jealousy,” I said, playing my trump card. “There was also rivalry. For at the same time you were sharing Hiram’s bed you were also romping with your stepson.”

She slapped my face.

I trust you will recall that was the opening line of this narrative. And now a repetition. I had to wonder if I was becoming the favorite punching bag of the female sex. An unnerving prospect.

“What a despicable thing to say!” Yvonne spat at me. “I told you Ricardo loves me and I love him. But it is an affectionate love. There has never been anything physical between us. You have no reasons for saying such a detestable thing.”

No reasons? Well, perhaps no ironclad proof, but indications I found convincing.

Item: The decoration of Ricardo’s apartment, which displayed a woman’s influence.

Item: The diamond choker purchased by Ricardo and presumably given to Yvonne.

Item: The report in Lolly Spindrift’s column of Ricardo’s romantic activities being merely a blind to conceal a secret infatuation.

Item: Yvonne’s new Cadillac. Who had provided the funds for that bauble?

“There is absolutely nothing sexual between Ricardo and me,” she repeated sternly.

“If you say so,” I said, a wishy-washy comment if ever I heard one. I had hoped for a full confession but I was prepared for denial. “Disregarding Ricardo’s motives for the moment, consider the facts as they exist. Your stepson is accused of being a murderer. He is presently under arrest and is being questioned. I told you the evidence against him is strong. You don’t know what he might say in an effort to lessen his punishment. I urge you to forestall him by making your own statement to the police as soon as possible. Yvonne, save yourself!”

She gave me a look dark and hard enough to stop an attacking hyena. Then she turned from me and began stalking about the room hugging her elbows, head lowered. She was obviously considering her options. I waited patiently, knowing this was make-or-break time. Finally she stopped her pacing and came forward to face me again.

“All right,” she said, her voice tense, “here is what happened...”

She had left Hiram’s bedroom to return to her own adjoining bedchamber. It was true she and her employer were having an affair but they slept separately. She heard sounds coming from Hiram’s room: footfalls, a gasping cry. She hurried back, fearing he might be ill, perhaps suffering a heart attack.

She found her stepson, dripping knife in hand, retreating from the room, leaving behind the body of Hiram Gottschalk, his eyes bloodied.

“I was shocked,” Yvonne wailed. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Ricardo, she claimed, was as distraught as she. He seemed totally disoriented and she was forced to take command even though she was torn between horror at what he had done and her desire to protect a stepson she loved. And so she had helped him to escape from the house. They had, in their agitated state, broken the glass of the patio door, hoping the police would think the murder had been committed by an intruder.

It was, she admitted, a foolish thing to do. Then, after Ricardo had departed, she waited perhaps thirty minutes, weeping, before she called the police and roused the household.

“And that’s exactly what happened,” she concluded, putting a hand on my arm. “You believe me, don’t you, Archy?”

“Of course I believe you,” I said. Did I? C’mon, do you take me for a dunce? The lady’s story had more holes than a wedge of Emmentaler and the police would spot them as easily as I did.

How had Ricardo gained entrance to the Gottschalk home? There was no reason for him to have a key. Why hadn’t the other residents—the twins, Peter, the staff—been awakened by the sounds from Hiram’s bedroom Yvonne had described, as well as her conversation with Ricardo? And why hadn’t she called 911 immediately in hopes of saving Hiram? How did she know he was dead? She had said nothing of examining the victim’s condition.

Oh, her story was not a complete falsehood, you understand, but it was a half-truth. She had put her own spin on reality in an effort to protect herself. It was understandable but would be wasted on Sgt. Rogoff just as it had been on me.

What had actually happened? You know, don’t you? Of course you do. The two of them, stepmother and stepson, lovers, were in it together. The crime had been planned. Yvonne had unlocked the front door to allow Ricardo to enter, after making certain Hiram and everyone else in the house was asleep. The murder was perpetrated noiselessly. The smashing of the patio glass was a mistake but a minor one. The killer departed as silently as he had arrived. Yvonne gave him time to get away and then called the police and went into her grief-stricken act.

Their motive? Remember the song “Money, Money” from
Cabaret
? The lyrics state “money makes de vurld go round.” And so it does. With Hiram Gottschalk dead Ricardo would inherit a successful business and a convenient outlet for his nefarious activities. Yvonne would have a home of her own and the two of them would live happily ever after. Why did they need the old man?

“May I call Sergeant Al Rogoff now?” I asked her gently. “He’s a friend of mine and I’m sure he’ll treat you with respect.”

She nodded. She wanted respect. I used her phone and eventually was put through to Rogoff.

“You again?” he said, groaning. “You promised no more calls tonight.”

“Sergeant,” I said formally, “I am with Yvonne Chrisling at the moment. She wishes to come to headquarters and make a voluntary statement.”

He picked up on it immediately, realizing the woman was present and listening to me.

“A voluntary statement?” he repeated. “Regarding the Gottschalk homicide?”

“Correct.”

“Bring her in,” he said, and could not hide the exultancy in his voice. “I shall await your arrival with open arms.”

I was about to say, “That’s better than with bated breath,” but said nothing and hung up. I gave Yvonne a small smile. “Let’s go,” I said.

I drove her to headquarters in my Miata. We did not speak during the trip. Rogoff and a female officer were waiting for us. Just before Yvonne exited she leaned forward to kiss my ear.

“When this is all over and I am free,” she said in a sultry voice, “you and I must spend a wonderful night together. Not so, Archy, darling?”

I was tempted to ask, “A down payment on a lifetime of ecstasy?” but again I bit my tongue and said only, “Of course.”

Then I turned her over to the cops.

I drove home in a pensive mood, not as eager for sleep as I thought I’d be, considering the hour and the harrowing events of a tumultuous day. When I was safe in my own sanctum, slowly disrobing, I was still pondering the role I had played in bringing to justice the killer or killers of three innocent people. I wished I could have done more but I was satisfied with what had been accomplished. The final solution now rested with Sgt. Rogoff and his colleagues.

They had two prime suspects in custody and I knew how they would proceed. They would interrogate Yvonne and Ricardo separately of course, suggesting to each that her or his partner in crime was talking freely and condemning the other. “Yes, Yvonne, but he says...” “Yes, Ricardo, but she says...” The two would find their “love” shriveling away as they attempted to save themselves. The same would be true of their legal counselors, who would urge each to shift the guilt as much as possible in order to cut a more advantageous deal. Justice can be messy. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

There was one final puzzle in need of a solution: Who strangled Dicky, the mynah? I thought I knew, but had no intention of mentioning it to my father or Al Rogoff. Both would think I had gone completely crackers. But I shall tell you because I hope you may be more understanding and agree, “Yes, it could have happened as you say.”

I believed Ricardo killed the bird because of its repeated squawk, “Dicky did it, Dicky did it.” Not only was the use of the diminutive an affront to Ricardo’s amour-propre, his insistence on the use of his full first name, but “Dicky did it” was also a constant, disturbing reference to the crimes he was committing and those he planned to commit.

It was a theory but I thought it valid. Ricardo’s misdeed was senseless. But we all occasionally act in a manner others may find irrational. I myself have been known to add sliced radishes to a bowl of sour cream.

D
ID I SLEEP IN ON
Sunday morning? Late, later, latest! By the time I awoke, my parents and the Olsons had departed for their churches. I put together a skimpy breakfast: a couple of toasted muffins with slices of sharp Muenster and two mugs of black caffeine. Okay but dull; definitely not animating.

I was still feeling logy and decided I needed a Bloody Mary to get me up to speed. I very rarely drink anything alcoholic before noon but this, I told myself, was a special occasion. A discreet inquiry was being resolved and I deserved a small reward. But the drink didn’t get my corpuscles dancing; I was still feeling feeblish when my parents returned.

I cornered my father before he could settle down with his five-pound Sunday newspaper. “A few moments, sir?” I asked.

He nodded and led the way into his study. He was not, I could tell, in a sunshiny mood.

“What a ridiculous sermon,” he said angrily. “Archy, do you really believe ‘Ask, and ye shall receive...’?”

“It hasn’t worked for me,” I said, and he laughed. “Father, I want to give you a summary of the investigation into the murder of Mr. Hiram Gottschalk. I’ll make it as brief as possible.”

I delivered an account of everything that had occurred since my last report. I told him Yvonne and Ricardo Chrisling were presently being held by the police and I strongly suspected they were both guilty of homicide. Ricardo could certainly be convicted for his attack upon me and his involvement in the smuggling and illicit trade in endangered birds.