McNally's Secret (21 page)

“What I’ve got to do now,” Rogoff said, “is go to the Horowitz place, wake up the dear Lady, and tell her what happened. Care to come with me?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

He laughed. “Didn’t think you would. What I want to do is see if he left a suicide note. Not that it means a helluva lot. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.”

“So you think it
was
a suicide.”

“I didn’t say that. But you told me he was ill.”

“That was my idea. He didn’t tell me, and I don’t have a medical degree.”

“How old did you say he was?” the sergeant asked.

“I didn’t say because I don’t know,” I said, a trifle peevishly I admit. “I’d guess about seventy-five. Around there.”

Al turned to stare at me. “That’s amazing.”

“Being seventy-five? What’s so amazing about that?”

“Because when we were going through that neat stack of his clothes on the beach, in the hip pocket of his slacks we found a condom.”

“Oh lord,” I said.

“Unused,” Rogoff added. “Still in a sealed packet.”

I drew a deep breath. “I better tell you something, Al,” I said. “On Friday night my parents and I went to a party at Lady Cynthia’s. After dinner...”

I described the scene I had witnessed between Angus Wolfson and Kenneth Bodin deep within “the jungle” of the Horowitz property. The sergeant listened intently without interrupting. When I finished, he drained his last few drops of coffee and tossed the plastic cup onto the roadside.

“You’re littering,” I pointed out.

“I know,” he said. “Listen, what I want you to do right now, even before you go home, is drive to the palace and dictate a statement. I’ll radio ahead and set it up. I want you to include what you just told me about Wolfson, and also everything you told me at the Pelican Club about Bodin, his girlfriend Sylvia, and that Fort Lauderdale stamp dealer—what’s her name?”

“Hilda Lantern.”

“Well, make sure you describe your dealings with her: what you said and what she said. Go into detail. Even the stuff you don’t think is important. I want everything.”

“Al, that’ll take hours!”

“Sure it will,” he said. “But you’re pulling down a nice buck, aren’t you? Now earn it.”

But despite his instructions, I did go home first—to shower, shave, change my clothes, and have an early morning breakfast with the Olsons at the kitchen table.

I was leaving for the palace to dictate my statement when I encountered my father coming downstairs for
his
breakfast. He saluted me by elevating one bushy eyebrow, and I gave him a precis of what had happened at the scene of Wolfson’s death.

“Dreadful business,” he said in magisterial tones. Then, dryly: “I expect I shall hear from Lady Horowitz this morning.”

“I think you probably will, sir,” I said. “If I learn anything more from Sergeant Rogoff, I’ll get word to you.”

“Yes, do that,” he said. “Thank you, Archy.”

As I drove into town through the June after-dawn, I rehearsed in my mind what I would reveal in my statement. It seemed to me that up to this point I had been reasonably straight with Al Rogoff. I had given him all the facts as I knew them, with the exception of any mention of Thomas Bingham. And his implication in the crimes was iffy.

What I hadn’t told the sergeant, of course, were my personal feelings about the people involved, my no doubt prejudicial reactions to their personalities, and certain wild ideas I entertained that had absolutely no hard evidence to sustain them. I was sure Al had as many private fancies. And there was little point in either of us going public with them until we had some solid facts to quote. You can’t convict on opinions, except those of judge or jury.

I was correct about spending hours providing that statement. After I finished dictating, I waited for the transcription. Then I read the eight-page manuscript carefully, making some minor changes, deletions, and additions. I was signing all eight pages when Rogoff came in and plopped down wearily in the wooden armchair behind his desk.

“Not even noon,” he said, “and already my ass is dragging.”

“You spoke to Lady Horowitz?”

He nodded. “You know what spooked her the most? Not the death of an old friend. But she was upset at how this ‘unpleasantness’—her word—might affect a reception she’s giving tomorrow afternoon for a visiting Italian tenor. Can you believe it?”

“Lady Cynthia,” I said carefully, “is a rather self-centered woman.”

“No kidding?” Rogoff said. “And all this time I thought she was a selfish bitch. Anyway, I didn’t find a suicide note. But like I told you, that means zilch.”

“Who is next of kin?”

“A sister in Boston. Horowitz phoned your father while I was there, and he agreed to notify the sister. Thank him for me. Informing the next of kin of victims is not my favorite pastime. You finished here?”

“All done,” I said, and slid the signed statement across the desk to him. “That’s everything.”

He stared at me. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. Except for my hat size, which is seven and three-eighths. Al, have you contacted all the local stamp dealers?”

“We’re working on it. But some are out to lunch, some are on vacation, some are retired. It’s a miserable job. But we should have it finished in a day or two.”

“Good,” I said. “I still think you’ll pick up Kenneth Bodin or Sylvia or both.”

Rogoff looked at me thoughtfully. “You think Wolfson might have been in on it?”

“The possibility had occurred to me,” I admitted. “Wolfson steals the stamps and gives them to Bodin to sell. Then they split the take. There’s only one thing wrong with that scenario.”

“What?”

“Wolfson wasn’t a thief. I didn’t particularly cotton to him, but he was trying hard to be a gentleman. He just wouldn’t steal.”

Al stared at me. “Would he kill?”

“Anyone can murder if the time and circumstances are right. You’ve told me that yourself, many times.”

“So I have,” the sergeant said, sighing. “Thank you for your keen perceptions, Hercule Poirot. I wish with all my heart that we may soon meet again.”

“I pray we shall, Inspector Maigret,” I said, and departed.

I drove to the McNally Building, intending to ask my father to fill me in on his conversation with Lady C. But the lobby receptionist handed me a message: Consuela Garcia had phoned and wanted me to call her immediately.

“She said it was important,” the receptionist told me. “She repeated three times: Urgent! Urgent! Urgent!”

“Probably heard a new Polish joke,” I said.

I called Connie from my office. She sounded harried.

“Archy,” she said breathlessly, “did you hear about Angus Wolfson?”

“Yes,” I said, “I heard.”

“And on top of that,” she went on, “the caterer called and said he can’t get any fresh pineapples for the reception tomorrow. What a morning!”

“And that’s why you called?” I asked. “To tell me about the pineapples?”

“Oh, don’t be such a schnook,” she said. “I called to tell you the madam is taking off about one o’clock. She said she’d be gone a few hours. She didn’t tell me where she was going, and I didn’t ask.”

“Thank you, Connie,” I said gratefully.

“If you follow her, will you tell me later where she went?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would,” she said. “You still seeing that Jennifer Towley?”

“Occasionally.”

“Well, my guy gave me the brush.”

“Why would the idiot do that?”

“He found some tootsie with mucho dinero. Her father owns a used-car lot.”

I laughed. “I’m looking for a nymphomaniac whose father owns a liquor store.”

Connie giggled. “Well, if you break up with the Towley woman, put me back in your little black book.”

“You’ve never been out,” I assured her.

I glanced at my watch, saw it was a bit past twelve-thirty, and decided to put my talk with father on hold. I went down to the garage, waved to Herb, and crawled into my rented Ford Escort. I headed for Ocean Boulevard, hoping Lady Cynthia hadn’t decided to leave early. If she had, I was snookered.

As I drove I wondered how I was going to handle this. I don’t claim to be an expert at shadowing, but I had read enough espionage novels to know how it’s done—or how the novelists
think
it’s done. You hang back, occasionally let a car or two get between you and your quarry, and you might even speed up and tail from in front of your target. It all seemed so simple I was certain I’d bollix it up.

I drove past the Horowitz mansion. The gate was open but I saw no activity within. I went northward a few hundred yards, made an illegal U-turn, and passed the house again, going southward. I repeated this maneuver twice more with no results.

Finally, on my fourth drive south, I observed the bronze Jaguar convertible pull out of the Horowitz driveway, turn, and also proceed southward. I distinctly saw Lady Cynthia driving, her hair bound with a periwinkle scarf.

“Thank you, God,” I said aloud.

She headed down the coast and surprised me by staying within the speed limit. I was several car lengths behind her, and there seemed no need for tricky tactics; she never once turned her head to look back and gave no indication whatsoever that she sensed a nose was on her trail.

The Jag went on and on and on, and I was beginning to wonder if our destination was Miami. But then we came to a stretch of the corniche south of Manalapan Beach. This area of the island, between the Atlantic Ocean and Lake Worth, is so narrow that a long-ball hitter (say Mickey Mantle) might stand on the beach and swat one into the lake.

Lady Horowitz slowed, and I slowed right along with her. Then she signaled a right and turned into a driveway, through opened gates. I drove past at a crawl and took a good peep.

It was a frumpy place, a mansion gone to seed. The wrought-iron gates were rusted, grass sprouted from the brick driveway, and several red tiles were missing from the roof. The house, designed in a vaguely Spanish style, had a sad, sheepish look about it, as if its dilapidation was its own fault and not that of the neglectful owner.

The Jaguar was nowhere in sight when I drove past. From this, Monsieur Poirot deduced that the driveway led down to the rear of the house, facing Lake Worth. Perhaps a garage was there. Certainly a turnaround. And probably a lawn, patio, or terrace giving a loverly view of the lake. I imagined a dock, rotting now, that was large enough to accommodate a thirty-five-foot cabin cruiser.

I made a U-turn again and headed northward. This time, on a slow pass, I noted the un-trimmed shrubbery, a broken window, paint peeling from the portico columns. Even more perplexing was no sign of habitation; the entire place was silent, deserted, and so melancholy it could have been a set for
The Exorcist XII.

I also made certain to memorize the house number, painted on a weathered shingle dangling by a single nail from one of the stained stucco entrance pillars.

I drove home sedately, ruminating on my next move. I wasn’t about to hang around Manalapan until Lady Cynthia emerged from the Castle of Otranto, and then follow her back to Palm Beach. What was the point of that? I even considered the possibility of renting a boat with the intention of approaching from the lake side, on her next visit, and observing any activities taking place in the rear of the house. But even with an advance alert from Connie, I could never arrive in time.

What on earth was the wealthy Lady Horowitz doing in such a ruin? Could my original wild scam turn out to be correct? Was she really meeting blackmailers to make a payment? The whole idea was absurd, but I could conjure no other explanation, except that possibly she had flipped her wig, joined a coven of witches, and drove to that shabby house to engage in Satanic rites.

The truth turned out to be even more unbelievable.

I
RETURNED TO THE
McNally Building, parked the Escort in the underground garage, and waved to the security guard. Then I rode the elevator to the second floor, occupied by our real estate department. We didn’t hawk homes and condos, of course, but represented our clients at closings, advised on leases and, when requested, suggested investments in raw land and commercial properties.

The woman I sought, Mrs. Evelyn Sharif, was chief of the department. She was married to a Lebanese who sold Oriental rugs from a very elegant shop on Worth Avenue. At the moment, Evelyn was obviously, almost embarrassingly, pregnant.

“Archy,” she said, “if you ask me if I’ve swallowed a watermelon, I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live.”

“I’d never be guilty of such gross humor,” I said. “A cantaloupe?”

She laughed and punched my arm. It hurt. Evelyn was a jovial lady but very physical. When she slapped you lightly on the back, your knees sagged.

“When is the Little One due?” I asked her.

“In about six weeks,” she said. “Did you drop by to hear details of my morning sickness?”

“Thank you, no,” I said. “A small favor is all I ask.”

I explained that I had the number of a property on Ocean Boulevard down near Manalapan and wanted to find out who owned the place. With Evelyn’s contacts in Palm Beach County real estate circles, that should be duck soup.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked.

“Discreet inquiries,” I said. “Cloak-and-dagger stuff. Absolutely, positively top secret.”

She smirked. I knew what she was thinking: that I had seen a centerfold entering the house and wanted her name. Ridiculous! I had done that only once before.

She was silent a moment, and I could see she was debating whether or not to grant my request. But after all, I was Prescott McNally’s son, and she didn’t want to endanger her paid maternity leave.

“All right, Archy,” she said, sighing, “give me the number and I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I’ll have something for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, dear,” I said. “And may your Blessed Event be twice blessed.”

“It is,” she said, grinning. “The doc says twins.”

“Mazel tov!” I cried.

I went up to my very own cul-de-sac and phoned my father’s office. But Mrs. Trelawney said he was at a protracted lunch with a client. So I headed down to the garage and waved at Herb for the third time that day. I drove the Miata toward the beach, brooding about Lady Cynthia’s motives for traveling miles to spend a sunny afternoon in the House of Usher.