McNally's Secret (7 page)

He squinted up at me through a swirl of blue smoke. “Bonjour, Ar-chay,” he said.

The following conversation was entirely in French. My years at Yale weren’t a total loss.

I asked him when was the last time he had seen the Inverted Jenny stamps. He shrugged and said years and years ago. I asked if he had seen a small red book being passed around the dinner table on the night Alan DuPey and his wife arrived. He shrugged and said no.

I asked if he thought anyone on the staff might have taken the stamps. He shrugged. I asked if he had seen any nogoodnik-types skulking about. He shrugged and said no. Then I asked if he thought any of the houseguests might be capable of such a nefarious deed. This time he didn’t shrug, but slowly stubbed out the minuscule butt of the Gitane in a white china saucer.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Who?”

“The English son,” he said. “Harry Smythe and his wife.”

“Why them?”

Then
he shrugged. “They are very cold people. And the last time they were here, they left me no tip. A month of meals, and no tip. I thought they were tight people. Cold and tight. But perhaps they are in need of money. They see the stamps and think the madam is rich and will not miss them. So they collar the stamps. Simple, no?”

I was about to shrug when a young woman in a maid’s uniform entered the kitchen. I recognized her from those dinners my family had enjoyed at the Chez Horowitz. I knew she was addressed as Clara but didn’t know her last name. I introduced myself and learned she was Clara Bodkin—and you didn’t have to be a Shakespearean scholar for the phrase “bare bodkin” to leap to mind, for she was a toothsome creature, a bit plumpish but excellently proportioned. Her flawless, sun-blushed complexion was especially attractive.

I ran through my list of questions, in English, with meager results. Yes, she had seen the stamps being passed around the table at the DuPey dinner. That was the last time she had seen them. No, she did not believe anyone on the staff or any of the houseguests was capable of the theft. And while she had seen no strangers hanging about, it was her theory that some fiend had sneaked into the house while everyone slept, and took the Inverted Jennies from madam’s wall safe. It gave her, Clara, chills to think about it.

I listened to all this somewhat absently. My attention was elsewhere. For as Clara spoke so volubly, she stood alongside Jean Cuvier’s chair, and he was steadily stroking her rump in a thoughtful fashion. She did not move away.

He must have seen astonishment in my face, for after Clara finished talking, he lighted another Gitane and said to me, in French, “It is all right, Ar-chay. Clara and I are to be married.”

“Congratulations,” I said heartily.

“For one night,” he added, and gave a great shout of laughter.

“What did he say?” Clara demanded of me. “Is the blimp talking dirty again?”

“Not at all,” I said hastily. “He told me that I can accept every word you say as gospel since you know everything that’s going on in this house.”

“That I do,” she said, nodding. “But I see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”

“Very wise,” I assured her.

When I left, she was tickling the back of his fat neck. I do believe she might have seated herself on his lap—if he had one.

I decided I had earned my salary for the day, and besides, asking the same questions continually had the same effect as the Chinese water torture. I drove home, changed, and went down to the beach for a swim. I resolutely did my two miles and returned home in time to dress for the family cocktail hour and my date with Jennifer Towley.

Mother remarked how handsome I looked, father stared disgustedly at my acid green polo shirt, and I ingested my share of the martini pitcher’s contents. Then I bid them good night and departed for what I hoped would be an evening of a thousand delights. I didn’t forget Jennifer’s tennis racquet. Talk about Greeks bearing gifts!

She lived across Lake Worth, south of the Royal Park Bridge. It was an old neighborhood of short streets west of Flagler Drive. The homes were small but pleasant, the grounds limited but neatly groomed. Jennifer rented the ground floor of a two-story stucco building painted a sky blue. Her apartment was her antique shop; everything in the place was for sale—except the lady herself, of course.

She greeted me at the door, and I entered into a foyer (Edwardian) and then was ushered into the living room (Victorian). I had suggested she dress informally, but she was impeccably upholstered in a black dress so simple and
nothing
that it must have cost a fortune. The only jewelry she wore was a pale amethyst choker. Elegant? On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d rate her a 12.

The tennis racquet was an instant success; after hefting it and trying a few swings, she declared the weight and balance were perfect. I received a kiss in gratitude. It was a very small kiss but much appreciated.

I held the Miata door for her, and she slid in with a flash of bare tanned legs that made me want to turn cartwheels on her lawn. But I controlled my rapture and we sped off to the Pelican Club. I called her attention to the full moon I had ordered for the occasion.

“I may turn into a werewolf,” I cautioned.

“I’ll get some garlic at the restaurant,” she said.

“Garlic is for vampires,” I told her. “And frogs’ legs. There is no known defense against a werewolf.”

“I have a black belt in karate,” she claimed.

“I have a white belt in Indian wrestling,” I said. “Perhaps later this evening you will permit me to demonstrate.”

She laughed. “What am I going to do with you?” she asked.

“Love me,” I replied, but I did not say it aloud.

We were early enough to beat the usual dinner crowd, and Priscilla showed us to my favorite corner table. Jennifer looked about with interest.

“It resembles a fraternity house,” she said.

“It was intended to,” I said. “Strictly stag. But shortly after the club was organized, the ladyfriends and wives of several founding members threatened a lawsuit if they were not allowed to join. They said they would claim sex discrimination because we were carrying on business networking at the club. Actually, the only networking going on was an active exchange of hangover remedies, but we surrendered graciously to their demands. Now the Pelican Club is a coed establishment. The roster is full, but I chair the Membership Committee and might be able to finagle a quid pro quo and get you a card if you’re interested in joining.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving me the cool, level gaze, “but I think not. If I want to visit I’ll ask you to invite me.”

“Splendid idea,” I said, and looked around for Priscilla. She was standing at the kitchen door, and when she caught my eye she pointed at Jennifer and made a loop with thumb and forefinger in the A-OK sign. It was gratifying to have her approval.

She came over to the table and posed, hip-sprung. “Something to wet the whistle, folks?” she said.

“Let’s have a champagne cocktail,” I suggested to Jennifer.

“Oh my,” she said, “you’ll spoil me.”

“That’s my intent,” I said. “We’ll have champagne cocktails, Priscilla. And what is Leroy pushing tonight?”

“Roast pork or broiled yellowtail.”

“How’s the yellowtail?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I eat at McDonald’s.”

Jennifer smiled.

“Priscilla,” I said, “behave yourself.”

She grinned and sashayed away to fetch our cocktails.

It turned out to be a very pleasant dinner indeed. We both had the yellowtail, shared a big Caesar salad, and had lemon ice for dessert.

Jennifer ate like a trencherwoman—which always pleases the guy who’s picking up the tab. She spoke very little but that was okay; I like to talk, as you may have guessed, and I kept her laughing throughout the meal.

I do not consider myself a womanizer. Most of my relationships with women have been lasting, some as long as three or four months, and one for an entire year, almost. I have always favored jolly ladies who are not too intent on trotting up the aisle while an adenoidal soprano belts out “Oh Promise Me.”

We moved out to the bar where we had a brandy stinger because it seemed the glam thing to do. I had a vague romantic notion of suggesting a long drive down the coast during which the full moon shining off a calm sea would work its libidinous magic. But Jennifer, now suddenly serious, if not solemn, said she’d like to return home since she had an important appointment early the next morning. The moon promptly went behind a cloud.

So I drove her back to her pad, disappointed but not devastated. In addition to playing the clown, one must have an endless reserve of patience. We pulled in front of her trig little house, and I killed the engine, hoping against odds that she might invite me in for a nightcap.

She turned on the seat to face me and took up my hand. Good start.

“Archy,” she said, “there is something I must tell you.”

“Oh?”

“I’m divorced.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Jennifer, you say that as if it was an awful perversion, like collecting thimbles. A lot of people are divorced. Some of my best friends are divorced. It’s really not a mortal sin.”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you. Now I know.”

She hesitated, and I thought she was about to reveal more. But apparently she changed her mind. Instead, she said, “Then it won’t change things between us?”

I stared at her, and my mouth might have fallen open just a wee bit. “Of course not,” I said, thinking that this
couldn’t
be what Lady Horowitz warned me about. Divorce is as widespread in Palm Beach as jock itch in the Major Leagues. “I don’t see why it should change anything.”

“Would you like to come in for a nightcap?” she asked.

Strange, enigmatic woman!

O
N THE FOLLOWING MORNING
I went to the office with my father. He drove his Lexus the way he did everything else: slowly, carefully, and with a deep respect for thou-shalt-nots. I mean we’d come to a red light, no traffic to be seen in either direction, and he’d stop and wait for the green. What an upright man he was! But never a prig; he was simply worshipful of the law. His tombstone might justifiably bear the inscription: “Prescott McNally: He never stole a hotel towel.”

“About Lady Horowitz’s missing stamps,” he said, eyes determinedly on the road. “Are you making any progress?”

“Not really, sir,” I said. “So far I’ve spoken to three of the staff and two houseguests and learned very little.”

He was silent a moment, and I knew the gears were turning. Not meshing yet, but turning.

“What is your feeling about this, Archy? Have the stamps merely been misplaced or were they stolen?”

“All I can do right now is guess,” I told him. “I’d guess they were pinched.”

Then
the gears meshed, and he nodded. “I think it would be prudent to act on that assumption. I’ll call Lady Cynthia and suggest she report the disappearance of the Inverted Jennies to the police immediately. Or, if she prefers, I’ll do it for her.”

“Father!” I said, offended. “I’ve just started my investigation.”

He gave me a brief glance, then hastily turned his attention back to the road. “Archy, I don’t mean to bruise your ego, but if the stamps are not recovered—a possibility, you’ll admit—and Lady Horowitz puts in a claim for the insurance, it is vitally important that there is a police record attesting to the fact that she reported the theft. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I said resignedly. “Does this mean I’m off the case?”

“Not at all. I want you to continue your discreet inquiries.”

“That means the cops and I will be walking up each other’s heels,” I said. “Interviewing the same people twice.”

“You’ve worked with the police before,” he pointed out. “And very successfully, I might add. Besides, as you well know, it is frequently wise to ask a witness to repeat his or her story twice or more. It’s an effective method of uncovering discrepancies.”

“All right then,” I said, “I’ll keep at it. You might suggest to Lady Cynthia that she report the theft to Sergeant Al Rogoff. If he catches the squeal, he may be assigned the investigation. Al and I get along well together.”

I didn’t think it necessary to tell him that Rogoff already knew of the theft. We drove along in silence a few minutes while I debated whether the injection of officialdom into what I considered
my
case would prove a help or a hindrance.

“Pleasant evening last night?” my father asked idly.

“What?” I said, startled. “Oh yes, sir, very pleasant.”

“Anyone your mother and I know?”

“I don’t think so. Jennifer Towley, the lady who returned the Frobisher letters. I gave her the tennis racquet.”

“And was she appreciative?”

“Extremely.”

“You are attracted to her?”

“Exceedingly.”

He sighed. “It seems to me I have heard that several times in the past.”

I laughed. “Father, I know very well that you and mother would like to see me happily married, settled down, and producing grandchildren at regular intervals. That time may come—but not yet.”

“We’ll try to be patient,” he said dryly.

McNally & Son was not a rinky-dink operation. We occupied (and owned) a five-story edifice of glass and stainless steel on Royal Palm Way. The architecture was not to my father’s taste, but he admitted the gleaming modernism seemed to impress clients, potential clients, and IRS auditors.

Most of the firm’s work was in estate planning, taxes, revocable and charitable trusts, and dull stuff like that. But we also had associates skilled in litigation; real estate; copyrights, trademarks and patents; divorce; malpractice; personal and product liability; and even one old codger who knew more maritime law than anyone south of Chesapeake Bay. McNally & Son was, in fact, a legal supermarket.

My office was possibly the smallest in the building, and I often thought I was condemned to that cell so that Prescott McNally could easily refute any charges of nepotism. But I really didn’t mind since I rarely occupied the office. Naturally I wasn’t assigned a secretary, but on those rare occasions (about once a year) when I had to compose a letter, my father’s personal secretary, Mrs. Trelawney, helped me out and corrected my spelling. I never could remember if there were one or two c’s and m’s in “accomodate.”