McNally's Puzzle (33 page)

The pater interrupted. “Have you been able to determine if our security was invaded by the computer at Parrots Unlimited?”

“No, sir, I have not yet heard from Judd Wilkins. But I think it’s now moot. I believe the police will ignore the smuggling charge and the felonious assault and go for a murder-one indictment.”

He nodded. I expected him to say, “A dreadful affair,” but he said, “A dreadful matter.” Well, I was close.

“I shall be in touch with the authorities,” he stated, “and determine how these arrests, charges, indictments, and so forth may affect the probate of Mr. Gottschalk’s last will and testament. Thank you for your assistance, Archy.”

He began to shuffle through his
New York Times
and I was dismissed. I went back upstairs and because I had made no golf or tennis dates for the day I set to work completing my journal record of the Gottschalk case, relieved my psittacosis was ended.

I was interrupted only once, by a phone call from Al Rogoff, and marveled he could still be awake and in such a buoyant temper.

“It’s going as planned,” he reported happily. “Sonia, the two punks, Yvonne, Ricardo—everyone’s singing. We really need a choral director. They all want to cut deals.”

“Al, do you have enough to convict?”

“I think so. Maybe no one will fry but Yvonne and Ricardo will do hard time. It’ll be a while before we decide who takes the heaviest hit. The mills of the law grind slowly.”

I sighed. “The correct reference is to ‘the mills of God’ but I’ll accept hard time for those disgustful creatures.”

“Yep,” he said cheerily. “Me, too. Stay tuned.”

Al’s call should have lightened my spirits but it did not. And I knew the cause of my depression. When I was lying defenseless on the gravel, Ricardo’s dirk at my throat, I did not think, Mother-of-pearl, is this the end of Archy McNally? No, what might have been my last thought was regret I had not made amends for my disagreement with Consuela Garcia, the cause of which was lost in the mists of history.

I did not gird my loins—not knowing exactly how it was done—but I dealt my ego a sharp blow to the solar plexus and summoned up the courage to phone her, unable to endure my despondency another moment.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Garcia?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Archibald McNally.”

“I don’t recognize the name,” she said coldly. “What is this in reference to?”

“It is in reference to a poor, miserable wretch calling to express his most abject apologies and plead for your forgiveness.”

“Plead,” she said, still chilly but thawing.

“I have acted like a complete rotter,” I said. And then overcome by the pleasure of confession I added, “An utter scoundrel. There is no reasonable excuse I can make for my execrable conduct. It was folly and all I can do now is ask for mercy. I know you are a kindhearted woman and I pray you will be generous enough to pardon my stupidity and give me another chance to prove my fidelity.”

Short silence. Then: “Perhaps. What did you have in mind?”

“I would appreciate the opportunity of apologizing to you in person rather than over the phone. And I feel it should be a meeting à deux, not in a restaurant or at a bar. I would like to come to your apartment as soon as possible. I would also enjoy bringing sufficient provisions for a light but nourishing Sunday dinner.”

“Very well,” she said. “Come ahead. But I am still very cross with you, Archy.”

“As you have every right to be,” I assured her, and hung up, mad with delight.

I had neglected to shave that morning but I did so then. I also changed to more informal duds, including a linen shirt of alternating aqua and lavender stripes which I knew Connie admired. During these preparations I thought of playing a tape of Louis Armstrong singing, “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love.” Then I decided, under the circumstances, the sentiment expressed was just too hokey. So I put on Satchmo’s rendition of “I’ve Got the World on a String.” Much better.

Let’s see, what else did I do in the following hour? I phoned Leroy Pettibone at the Pelican Club, hoping he would be there preparing the luncheon menu. He was present and I explained my problem: I wanted to buy five pounds of stone crabs but knew local retail fishmongers would not be open on Sunday.

“No problem, Archy,” he said. “Our wholesale supplier works on Sunday getting ready for Monday deliveries. I’ll give him a call and tell him to take care of you. He’ll probably charge you retail price and it wouldn’t hurt if you slipped him a few extra bucks.”

“I’ll give him an additional fin,” I promised. “Perfect for a fish dealer.”

“I’ve heard better jokes than that,” Leroy said.

“Who hasn’t?” I said, and he gave me the address of the supplier.

I went down to the kitchen and found Ursi Olson preparing our Sunday dinner. I told her I would not be able to join my parents and she was disappointed.

“Oh, Mr. Archy,” she said, “it’s a leg of lamb with fresh thyme.”

“One of my favorite legs,” I said, “but duty calls and I regret I cannot share the feast. But if there are any leftovers, Ursi, be sure to save them for me. I may be in dire need later tonight.”

I rummaged through our pantry and found a bottle of a decent muscadet and a jar of mustard sauce. It was a commercial product and not half as good, I knew, as the homemade but it would do. I packed both wine and sauce in the insulated bag with plenty of ice cubes and was on my way.

I found the fish supplier in West Palm Beach with little trouble and walked into a wild, noisy scene of rubber-aproned workers busily unloading newly caught fish from iced cartons and cutting, scaling, gutting, slicing, filleting, and repacking portions into plastic bags stuffed with ice. I was finally able to find the bearded foreman and identified myself.

“Oh sure,” he said. “Leroy’s pal. You want five pounds of stone crabs—right? You want them hammered?”

“Please,” I said humbly, having no idea whether or not Connie had the tools to break the heavy shells.

So he swatted the thick claws enthusiastically with a wooden mallet on a butcher-block table. Then he bundled the cracked stone crabs into a plastic bag, which I added to my insulated carrier. I paid what he asked for and added what I considered a generous tip. He must have thought so too, for he winked at me.

“Have a nice crab,” he said.

I wasn’t certain how to interpret that but I thanked him and sped directly to Connie’s condo.

She opened the door of her apartment wearing brief cutoff jeans and a T-shirt imprinted with a large crimson question mark. No smile. I thought she looked smashing. Her manner was a bit on the frosty side.

But she could not resist the stone crabs with mustard sauce and by the time we finished half the muscadet things were going smoothly, and we had almost fully regained our former mateyness. Connie is not vindictive; she is a jolly woman who’d much rather smile than frown. But she does require continual stroking.

I shall not repeat the details of our conversation that Sunday afternoon—some things are sacred. But when the wine was finished (with enough stone crabs left for a nibble later) she looked at me intently and asked, “Have you been faithful to me, Archy?”

I was tempted to quote Dowson—“I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion”—but thought better of it. Instead I said, “I have been true-blue, Connie, and will swear to it on the Boy Scout Handbook.”

She gave me a roguish smile and I reached for her.

She didn’t slap my face.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Archy McNally Series

H
ERE’S AN ANECDOTE YOU
may find difficult to believe. Even I can scarcely give it credence although I was witness to what occurred.

Early in December two Boston villains decided to jaunt to south Florida to escape the rigors of winter and enjoy the sunshine and thong bikinis of Miami Beach. It wasn’t long before they were tapped out, a rapid decline of their operating funds accelerated by a visit to the casinos in the Bahamas.

Determined to avoid an ignominious and cash-poor return to their hometown, they decided a criminal enterprise in Florida was the answer to their financial problems. The two wetbrains resolved to kidnap the young child of a wealthy Palm Beach resident, hold him or her just long enough to collect a sizable ransom, and then skedaddle northward.

With no more planning they immediately launched their caper. They slowly toured the boulevards and back roads of the Town of Palm Beach, marveling at the endless rows of mansions they passed. I’m sure visions of sugarplums danced through their tiny, tiny minds, each sweetmeat printed with a dollar sign.

On the second day of exploration they espied a young lad trudging along by himself on the verge of South County Road. No cars or witnesses being nearby, the two improper Bostonians brought their rental car to a screeching halt, grabbed the startled kid, and hustled him into the back seat, where he was threatened with instant annihilation if he uttered a single word or attempted to attract the attention of anyone to his plight.

I imagine the moronic thugs figured if the boy lived in Palm Beach his parents must have a gazillion bucks. Wrong! The boy’s father, Maurice Franklin, was moderately well-to-do but a Croesus he was not. He owned a medium-sized pest control business and earned a steady annual profit, but nothing to justify a front-page article in
The Wall Street Journal.
His wife had died of cancer the previous year. His son, the kidnapped Timmy, was his only child.

I knew these details because Maurice Franklin was a client of McNally & Son. When Timmy did not return from school, Franklin’s Haitian housekeeper called him at work. In turn he called Timmy’s school, his friends, and then, becoming increasingly worried, phoned the police and my father, Prescott McNally, sovereign of our law firm. The pater ordered me to liaise with the Palm Beach Police Department and keep him informed. I do not believe anyone was unduly concerned at that stage of the affair.

Things took a more somber turn the following morning. Timmy had not appeared. The case was assigned to Sgt. Al Rogoff of the PBPD, which heartened me since Al is an old confrere and I trust his professional expertise. I knew he would attempt to trace Timmy’s movements after the boy left school, check hospitals, accident reports, and shelters for runaway children. Finally, I learned later, the FBI was informed about noon that a possible kidnapping might be in progress.

I thought I better put in a personal appearance to show the McNally & Son flag, so to speak, and offer what help I could. I arrived at the Franklin home to find the Feds in command and I was allowed entry only after Sgt. Rogoff vouched for my bona fides.

FBI techs were busily installing a variety of electronic devices. One would amplify all telephone conversations so everyone could hear clearly both sides of a phoned dialogue. A voice-activated deck would make a taped record of all calls. A third dingus was designed to trace the source of incoming calls within minutes, obviating the need of searching phone company logs.

While this work was in progress I went over to a couch where our client, Maurice Franklin, was sitting upright, gripping his knees with white knuckles. I identified myself, expressed my sympathy and that of McNally & Son. I assured him we stood ready to offer whatever assistance we could.

He was a bulky man, massive through the neck and shoulders, with an indoor complexion made paler by stress. “If Timmy’s been kidnapped,” he said, his voice thick, “and I get to them, I’ll kill them. I swear it. Putting their hands on my son. I’ll destroy them. I don’t care what happens to me afterward.”

“Understandable, Mr. Franklin,” I said as soothingly as I could. “But we don’t yet know for certain he has been kidnapped.”

“They’ll probably want a lot of money,” he went on, not listening to me. “Maybe a million. Maybe more. How can I come up with that?”

“Don’t even think about it,” I urged. “If a ransom demand is made, believe me, sufficient funds will be available.”

I was still trying to comfort him and the technicians were still at work wiring their black boxes when the telephone rang. There must have been a dozen men in the room at that time and I think we all froze and stared at the shrilling phone. The FBI special agent in charge beckoned to Maurice Franklin.

“Answer it,” he commanded. “If it’s a ransom demand, keep them talking as long as possible. Follow the script we suggested.”

Our client nodded and staggered to his feet. I assisted him. The amplifier had been connected and we all heard the ensuing conversation.

Franklin: “Hello?”

Boston-accented masculine voice: “You Morry Franklin?”

“Maurice Franklin. Yes, I am Maurice Franklin.”

“You got a son named Timmy?”

“Yes.”

“We got him.”

“What!?”

“Let’s not play games, Morry. This is a snatch. You want to see your kid alive again? Home and happy?”

“How do I know what you’re saying is true?”

“Bosco, bring him over here. Timmy, say hello to your pop.”

“Hi, dad!”

“Timmy, are you all right? They haven’t hurt you?”