McNally's Secret (8 page)

The reason I visited headquarters that morning was to prepare my monthly expense account, which might be a contender for the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. I dug out all my bar and restaurant tabs, the bill for Jennifer’s tennis racquet, the signed receipt from Bela Rubik (the stamp and coin man), bills for dues paid to various clubs, and bits of this and that. I added them all up, and the total seemed to me woefully inadequate.

So I tacked on a few imaginary cash expenditures: cab rides I had never taken, bribes to informants I had never made, gas purchases for the Miata. I did not go hog-wild, of course; I am not a swindler. But as I added more fanciful items, my swindle sheet grew satisfyingly.

I was still hard at it when my phone rang. I was shocked. I mean, my phone almost
never
rings. And then it’s usually a wrong number.

“Archibald McNally,” I answered.

“The Machiavelli of Palm Beach?” Sgt. Al Rogoff said. “I just wanted to check that you’re in. What a pleasant surprise! I’ll be right over.”

“What for?” I asked.

“Hah!” was all he said before hanging up.

A half-hour later he was squirming uncomfortably on the one folding steel chair allotted to me for visitors, regarding me more in anger than in sorrow.

“Rat fink,” he said accusingly. “Oh, excuse me. I should have addressed someone who’s a pal of Lady Horowitz as
Mister
Rat Fink.”

I held up my palms in surrender. “Al, I swear I didn’t know until this morning that she was going to file a complaint. I really thought it was going to be my headache. I had no idea it would end up on your plate.”

“Yeah?” he said, staring at me. “Maybe. And maybe not. You been looking into it?”

“Only for two days.”

“What have you got?” he demanded, taking out his notebook.

I gave him the names of the staff and guests residing at the Horowitz home. I recited the gist of the conversations I had with Kenneth Bodin, Angus Wolfson, Gina Stanescu, Jean Cuvier, and Clara Bodkin. I described Lady Cynthia’s bedroom, and told him about the unrifled jewelry box close to the wall safe.

He scribbled rapid notes in his little book, and when I finished, he looked up at me suspiciously. “And that’s all you’ve got?”

“That’s all.”

“Come on, Archy, don’t try to kid a kidder. You’re holding out on me.”

I had already polished the bone I intended to toss him.

“Well, there is something,” I said hesitantly, “but I don’t think it’s important.”

“Let me play the judge. What is it?”

I told him that a few weeks before the stamps disappeared, a butler and a maid had left Lady Horowitz’s employ, claiming they couldn’t stand the heat of a Florida summer.

“But the Inverted Jennies were seen after they left,” I pointed out, “so they couldn’t be involved in the snatch. Unless they sneaked back in.”

“Uh-huh,” Al said. “Or told some light-fingered buddy about the stamps. Okay, I’ll look into it.” He closed his fat notebook and put a rubber band around it. “You figure to keep sherlocking on this thing?”

I nodded. “I planned to go out there this afternoon and check out some of the people I haven’t talked to yet.”

He considered that awhile, and I awaited his decision. If he ordered me off the case, I’d have to take a walk. He had the badge, not me.

“All right,” he said finally, “you keep nosing around and we’ll compare notes. Nothing held back. Is that understood?”

“Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He sighed and hauled himself to his feet. “I hate Beach cases,” he said. “Those richniks treat me like the hired help.”

“Don’t give it a second thought,” I advised him. “They’re just as innocent and just as guilty as anyone else. And don’t forget the gifts at Christmastime.”

“Yeah,” he said sourly. “A box of stale Girl Scout cookies.” He started for the door, then paused and looked about my infinitesimal office. “You really rate,” he said.

“The boss’s son,” I reminded him.

He was laughing when he left.

What I hadn’t told him, of course—and didn’t intend to—was the rumor that a few years ago Lady Horowitz had been enjoying fun and games with her chauffeur. It seemed to me the doyenne was the type of woman who’d terminate that relationship; it wouldn’t be Kenneth Bodin who split; he’d never want the gravy train to stop.

And, assuming he was unceremoniously dumped, it was possible he had entertained dim-witted thoughts of revenge against the wealthy woman who had suddenly taken him up and then just as suddenly dropped him, either from boredom or because she found another lover with Bodin’s physical excitement plus the brains he lacked. So the muscleman, enraged by this slight to his machismo, decided to swipe the Inverted Jennies to teach the rich bitch a lesson.

Thin stuff, you say? Of course it was. I knew it was. But it was all I had so far, and I wanted to check it out before handing over the results to Sgt. Al Rogoff.

I finished composing my expense account, dropped it off at our treasurer’s office, and then stopped by the employees’ cafeteria. The luncheon specialty of the day was something called a “mushburger,” apparently made of minced mushrooms, carrots, black olives, and rhubarb. What, no turnips? Anyway I passed. But I did drink a glass of unsalted tomato juice and ate two rice cakes. Feeling healthy as all get-out, I leaped into the Miata and headed for the Horowitz domain.

I rang the front-door chimes and, as I had hoped, the oak portal was opened by the housekeeper, Mrs. Marsden. We exchanged pleasantries, and I asked if we could talk privately for a moment.

“I was wondering when you’d get around to me,” she said—a steely smile there—and led the way into the first-floor sitting room, which could have held the Boston Pops. We sat in chintz-covered armchairs in a secluded corner and leaned toward each other, speaking in hushed voices as if we were trading state secrets.

She was a majestic woman with the posture and manner of a sergeant major. She was a widow, and I happened to know she had put two kids through college by enduring all the craziness of the Horowitz ménage. She had been with Lady C. a long time, and I doubted if any outrage her mistress might commit would surprise her. She knew she was working for a loony and accepted it.

I took her through the usual questions, and she gave a firm negative to all. Then I sat back and regarded her gravely.

“Mrs. Marsden, you know I’m not a lawyer, but I do represent my father, Lady Cynthia’s attorney. So in a sense I am bound by the same rules of lawyer-client confidentiality. What I’m trying to say is that it’s the job of McNally and Son to protect the interests of Lady Horowitz. With that in mind, is there anything at all you can tell me about the disappearance of the stamps? I assure you it’ll be held in strictest confidence.”

She was silent for a long while, which was a tipoff in itself. If there was nothing, she would have said so immediately.

Finally she stirred restlessly. “It’s nothing I can spell out,” she said. “Nothing definite—you understand?”

I nodded.

“A feeling,” she said. “That’s all it is, a feeling. I see people talking, and they shut up when I come close. And people meeting people they shouldn’t be meeting.”

“Which people?” I asked.

But she ignored my question. “Just the mood,” she said, almost ruminating. “Like something’s happening, something’s going down, but I don’t know what it is. That’s not much help, is it?”

“More than you think,” I told her. “I trust your instincts. If things become a little clearer, will you contact me?”

“Yes, I could do that.”

“I know you have our phone numbers, at home and the office. I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me a call. This business is nasty.”

“That it is,” she said, nodding vigorously. “I-do-not-like-it-one-bit.”

“I won’t take up any more of your time, Mrs. Marsden. Anyone else around I can talk to?”

“Harry Smythe and his wife are out on the north terrace. Playing chess.”

“Nice people?” I asked her.

“I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said, the perfect servant.

I found my way to the north terrace—the one in the shade—and walked into a family squabble. Nothing vulgar, but as I arrived he swept the chessboard clear with a sweep of his arm and she gave him a high-intensity glare. If looks could kill, he would have been dead on the scene. And these were the people chef Jean Cuvier had described as “cold”?

I stooped to pick up a rook and a pawn, and set them upright on the board. “Checkmate,” I said with what I hoped was a soothing smile. It wasn’t.

“And just who the hell are you?” he demanded in a BBC accent.

I was tempted to give him a brash response like “Mickey Mouse” or “King Tut” but obviously neither of them was in the mood for levity.

“Archibald McNally,” I said. “And you must be Doris and Harry Smythe. Surely Lady Horowitz told you I’d be around asking questions about her missing stamps.”

“It’s got nothing to do with us,” the woman said in the surliest way imaginable. “So bug off.”

Unbidden, I pulled up a chair, sat down, crossed my legs, and gave them a taste of the McNally insolence. “Of course it concerns you,” I said stonily. “You were on the premises when the Inverted Jennies disappeared. So naturally you are suspect. The theft has now been reported to the local authorities. If you refuse to answer my questions, I shall be forced to report your uncooperative attitude to Sergeant Al Rogoff, who is heading the official investigation. He has been known to make recalcitrant witnesses talk by beating them about the kidneys with a rubber truncheon.”

I really thought I had gone too far, and they’d immediately dismiss me as a demented freak. But perhaps it was the influence of American movies and TV shows that caused them to stare at me in horrified astonishment, wondering if I might be telling the truth about the interrogative techniques of Florida cops.

“We know absolutely nothing about it,” Harry Smythe said, tugging at his ridiculously wispy Vandyke.

“Not a thing,” his wife chimed in.

I looked at them. What a pair they were! Both long and stretched, all pale skin and tendons. Both wore their hair parted in the middle, but his was sparse and straw yellow while hers was thick chestnut and quite long. And both had the dazed eyes and clenched jaws of the luckless. I hoped Mrs. Marsden would count the silver before they left.

I spent an unpleasant twenty minutes putting the Smythes through my inquisition. But as I seemingly accepted all their answers without objection, their aplomb returned, and Harry took to staring at my pastel silk sports jacket with chilly disdain. He was wearing a Harris tweed with suede patches on the elbows—in South Florida yet!

I didn’t find it bothersome if he thought me foppish. That was his opinion—and my father’s.
His
idea of sartorial splendor is wearing a Countess Mara tie.

“There is nothing you can add to what you’ve already told me?” I asked finally.

“I think someone on the staff took the stamps,” he offered.

“Thank you both very much,” I said, rising. “I’ll probably be back with more questions, and I imagine Sergeant Rogoff will want to hear your story as well. Now go back to your chess game. It’s such a lovely day for it.”

I marched back into the house and met Lady Cynthia Horowitz entering from the front door. She looked like a million dollars. But I speak metaphorically. Actually she looked like a hundred million dollars which, according to Palm Beach gossip, was her approximate net worth. Anyway, she was smashing in a Donna Karan sheath of beige linen. She also had a tennis bracelet of diamonds around one bare ankle.

“Hi, lad,” she said breezily. “How’s the snooping coming along?”

“Slowly,” I said. “I’ve just been talking to Doris and Harry Smythe.”

“Monsters, aren’t they?” she said. “I just can’t believe that stiff is my son. And that shrew he married! The two of them are so dull.”

“You invited them,” I pointed out.

“Come with me,” she ordered, crooking a forefinger.

I followed her down the long hallway to a shadowed game room complete with billiard table, card tables, and a small roulette wheel. There was also a zinc wet bar built into one wall, and that’s where Lady Cynthia headed.

“What’ll you have?” she asked.

“Nothing, thank you,” I said. “But you go ahead.”

“I intend to,” she said, and I watched with fascination as she swiftly and expertly constructed a gin-and-bitters.

“Let me tell you about my son Harry,” she said, “and my sweet daughter-in-law. They’re professional guests. That’s how they live: London to Paris to Antibes to Monte Carlo to Palm Beach to Newport—wherever they have acquaintances, friends, or relatives who’ll put up with them for a weekend, a week, a month—whatever. Neither Harry nor Doris has ever worked and probably never will. The only capital they have can be packed in four suitcases. I give Harry a yearly allowance, just enough so they can fly tourist-class to their next invitation. Sponges, both of them.”

“A sad way to live,” I observed. “What kind of a future can they have?”

She gave me a crooked grin. “They’re waiting for me to die,” she said, then hoisted her glass. “Cheers!” she said.

I wished then I had asked for a drink because what she said touched me. Sad bravery always does.

“Ma’am,” I said, “I’d like to ask you something I hope won’t offend you. If the Smythes are constantly on their uppers, as you say, do you think it possible they might have stolen the Inverted Jennies?”

She considered that a moment, head cocked to one side.

“Nope,” she said at last. “Out of character. Petty stuff maybe, but not a
big
crime. They just don’t have the balls for it. They’re really small people, lad. Which is why I have Mrs. Marsden count the silver before they leave.”

I laughed. “The idea had occurred to me. You and I think the same way.”

She looked at me strangely. I could not interpret that look.

“Do we?” she said.

I departed soon afterward, having had my fill of the Inverted Jenny Case for one day. I drove home, took my swim, attended the family cocktail hour, and dined with my parents.