McNally's Trial (9 page)

“I understand that, Al,” I said. “And thanks for your help.”

“It was the sliced tomatoes and onions that did it,” he said.

We waved goodbye to Priscilla, and I went to the bar to sign the tab while Rogoff departed in his pickup. Then I headed for the McNally Building, feeling I should at least stop briefly at my office to see if Binky had regained consciousness and had phoned to report on his previous night’s misadventures.

But there were no messages on my desk and so I had little choice but to light an English Oval (first of the day) and ponder my next move. I decided it would be wise to take a nap. I had slept well but felt the McNally batteries could benefit from a short recharge. I had just finished my cig and settled down for a brief slumber when the phone shrilled me awake. Binky’s call, I thought mournfully, and perfectly timed to disrupt my snooze.

But it was Sunny Fogarty, and she wasted no words.

“I’m at a pay phone outside the office,” she said, speaking rapidly, “so I can talk. This morning I started checking the funeral directors’ weekly reports covering the past six months. They’re supposed to include invoices for out-of-state shipments with the assignee’s name and address—the information missing from the computer printout I sent you. They’re gone.”

“Gone?”

“The shipping invoices—just vanished. Obviously someone went into the files and removed them. Damn! Now I’m sure something crooked is going on.”

“It would appear so,” I said carefully.

“Archy,” she said, and I thought I detected a note of desperation, “what are we going to do now?”

I reflected a moment, and the McNally brain began to function on all two cylinders. “Sunny, when Whitcomb airlifts a deceased out of Florida, surely the airline keeps a copy of the invoice: nature and weight of the cargo shipped, number and date of flight, names and addresses, of the shipper and the assignee.”

I heard her sharp intake of breath. “Double damn!” she cried. “I should have thought of that but I’m so upset by finding our invoices have been stolen that I’m just not thinking straight. Of course the airlines will have copies.”

“I’d volunteer to request that I be allowed to examine them,” I said, “but I doubt very much if they’d cooperate with an outsider. I’m afraid you’ll have to do it, Sunny—acting as Chief Financial Officer of Whitcomb Funeral Homes.”

“You’re right and I’ll get on it at once. It’s going to take time, Archy.”

“I realize that. Meanwhile there’s something you can do for me. I’d like the names and addresses of your four department heads and three chief funeral directors.”

A short pause on her part. Then: “You think one of them may be involved?”

“One or more.”

“I’ll get the list to you immediately,” she said. “Even before I start contacting the airlines. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re on my side. We’ll get to the bottom of this, won’t we?”

“Absolutely,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“And Archy,” she added, her voice suddenly soft, “thank you for last night.”

“The pleasure was—” I started, but she hung up before I could finish.

I knew what I had to do next. Since there would be heavy expenses incurred, I felt it prudent to get the pater’s permission before running up a humongous bill. I called his office. Mrs. Trelawney, his private secretary, was absent that day, sitting at the bedside of an extremely pregnant niece, and the honcho answered the phone himself.

“Father,” I said, “may I see you for ten or fifteen minutes?”

“Now?” he said testily. “Can’t it wait?”

“No, sir,” I said. “Time is of the essence.”

“What a brilliant expression, Archy,” he said dryly. “Original, no doubt.” He allowed himself a short chuff of laughter. “Very well, come on up.”

A few minutes later I was in the sanctum sanctorum, seated in one corner of a chesterfield covered in bottle-green leather. His Majesty sat upright in the oak swivel chair before his antique rolltop desk. “All right,” he said, “get to it.” I told him everything that had happened regarding the goings-on at Whitcomb Funeral Homes since we had first been alerted by Sunny Fogarty. His expression didn’t change as he listened without interrupting. I believe mein papa considers duplicity as natural a part of human nature as hope.

“You suspect there is criminal activity taking place at Whitcomb’s?” he asked when I had finished.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“And what is Sunny Fogarty’s role in all this?”

“Equivocal,” I admitted. “She is very intent on finding out what’s happening, but she is equally insistent that Mr. Horace Whitcomb not be informed of the investigation. Curious.”

“Exceedingly,” he concurred. “Do you think she has fears of his involvement in illegalities?”

“I simply don’t know, father.”

“And what do you propose doing next?”

“Sunny is going to provide me with the names and addresses of Whitcomb’s executive personnel: four department heads and three chief funeral directors. I’d like to purchase their credit dossiers.”

“Of all seven?”

“Actually, sir, often. I’d like to commission reports on Horace Whitcomb, Oliver Whitcomb, and Miss Fogarty as well. It will be costly, and because I have promised we shall not inform our client of the inquiry, it would be awkward if we billed him for an investigation of which he apparently is not aware and has not approved.”

One hairy eyebrow went up as I anticipated, and the master began mulling. As I have described in previous tomes, this is a process of silent and deep reflection during which he slowly—oh, so slowly!—arrives at important decisions, such as whether or not to spread cheese on a fresh celery stalk.

“Very well, Archy,” he said finally, “go ahead with the credit dossiers. If nothing comes of them, we’ll eat the expense.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said gratefully, and escaped.

There was nothing more I could accomplish at the office and so I drove home in a surprisingly felicitous mood, warbling aloud another of my favorite songs: “Ac-cent-tchu-ate the Positive”—not only a frisky tune but an appealing philosophy as well. Much more meaningful than “Sam, You Made the Pants Too Long.”

I took an early ocean swim, returned to my cell, and donned my latest acquisition: a luscious kimono of vermilion pongee. Then I set to work on my journal, for there was much to record about the affair I was now calling The Case of the Flying Dead.

I had to interrupt my labors to dress for the family cocktail hour, but after dinner I returned to work and finally, close to nine o’clock, had brought my professional diary up to date. I read everything I had scribbled, but it yielded no hint of what was transpiring at the Whitcomb Funeral Homes.

That was one mystery. Another and (to my way of thinking) more fascinating conundrum was the behavior of Sunny Fogarty. I was convinced the lady was sincere in wanting to uncover whatever skulduggery might be under way. But a sneaking suspicion also lurked that she was not telling me the whole truth, especially about her motives for sparking the inquiry.

I love puzzles like that. The conduct of
Homo saps
is a source of infinite wonder, glee, and gloom—don’t you agree? I mean, there’s no end to the complexities of human passions. A study of the way people act, particularly when tugged by wants and needs they cannot control, is immeasurably more captivating than, say, a game of spin the bottle.

I was brooding on the enigma of Sunny Fogarty when my mental gymnastics were brought to an unwelcome halt by a phone call. I picked up, expecting the worst. It was.

“Hi there, Archy!” Binky Watrous said in tones so excessively cheerful I wanted to throttle him.

I
SNIDELY REMARKED TO
Binky that I was gratified he had found time to report to his mentor, since it showed he was rapidly adopting the work ethic. Of course the chuckle-head took it as a compliment.

“Well, I didn’t spend the whole night carousing, you know,” he said righteously. “A gang of us left the party and went down to Mitzi and Oliver Whitcomb’s place in Boca. We had a real riot, Archy, but I never forgot I was on duty, and I observed.”

“Did you now?” I said. “And what did you observe?”

“Scads of swell stuff. Listen, suppose I pop over to your digs and fill you in. I’ve got some primo scoop.”

That hooked me. “Sure, Binky,” I said, “come ahead. Meet you outside.”

I pulled on a nylon golf jacket and went downstairs to our graveled turnaround. I lighted an English Oval and paced slowly back and forth, watching the stars whirl overhead. It really was a super evening. The moon wasn’t full but it was fat enough, and there was a cool ocean breeze as pleasurable as a lasting kiss.

About twenty minutes later my disciple pulled up in his dinged MB and promptly bummed a cigarette. Then we crossed Ocean Boulevard and went down the rickety wooden staircase to the beach. We walked close to the water to be on firm sand and headed south.

“What a crazy night that was,” Binky started. “Mitzi invited me, so I couldn’t refuse, could I, Archy?”

“Of course not.”

“There must have been twenty of us, and no one feeling any pain. Mitzi and Oliver have this lush layout with a lot of lawn. I figure two mil at least. Marble floors, mirrors everywhere, and all the furniture is stainless steel, white leather, and tinted glass. Not exactly my cup of pekoe, you understand, but it shouted bucks.”

“Do they have a staff?” I asked.

“I spotted two: a butler type and a Haitian maid, but they had to have more. I mean, that mansion is gigantic.”

We strolled slowly in the moonlight, jumping back occasionally when an unexpectedly heavy wave came washing in. We saw the lights of a few fishing boats, but otherwise the sea was glimmering ink broken by a few vagrant whitecaps.

“Mucho drinking?” I inquired.

“Mucho mucho!” Binky replied enthusiastically. “I mean, they’ve got a wet bar that just doesn’t end. But booze was only half of it.”

“Oh?” I said, guessing what was coming. “What’s the other half?”

“Joints and nose candy. Maybe there was heavier merchandise available, but grass and coke were what I saw. Archy, you know alcohol is my poison of choice. I smoked pot once and fell asleep, but I’ve never snorted. Anyway, supplies were plentiful and only a few of us were sticking to liquid refreshment.”

“What about Mitzi and Oliver?”

“Higher than kites,” he said. “But not as bad as some of the others. What a wild scene that was.”

“Sounds like real whoopee.”

“It was,” he affirmed. “And it went on and on. When I finally staggered out of there a half dozen people were still partying and organizing a game of strip poker. Not my favorite sport, Archy.”

“I should hope not. Binky, do you happen to recall if a man named Ernest Gorton was there?”

“Ernie? Sure he was. Hey, he’s a lot of laughs.”

“Was he doing drugs?”

Binky thought a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Always had a glass in his fist, but maybe it was only one drink because I don’t remember him getting smashed.”

“Did he have a date?”

“Did he ever! A carrottop. Couldn’t have been much more than twenty years old. Pretty enough, but to tell you the truth, Archy, she looked like a hooker to me. Naturally I didn’t ask her.”

“Naturally,” I said gravely.

We paused, lighted fresh smokes, turned around, and began to walk back.

“Binky,” I said, “I congratulate you on your keen eye. Are you going to see Mitzi and Oliver again?”

“You betcha!” he cried. “Especially Mitzi. She promised to call me and said we’ll have a few giggles together.”

“That’s encouraging,” I said. “No objections from her dear hubby?”

“Nope. He was standing right there when she said it and all he did was shake a finger at us and say, ‘Naughty, naughty!’ I think they have an understanding. You know? I saw him coming on to Ernie Gorton’s redhead, and the two of them disappeared upstairs. Live and let live— right?”

“Right,” I said, dismayed by his description of the younger Whitcombs’ marital concordat. “Binky, who were the other guests? I mean, what kind of people were they?”

“Young swingers,” he said.
“Rich
young swingers. Lots of Jags and Lexi parked outside. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Just one big private club.”

“Did you tell them who you were?”

“Oh sure,” he said. “I told Ernie I was your assistant. He said that was interesting and invited me to visit him in Miami. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

What a naif! “It certainly was nice,” I said. “And did Oliver Whitcomb ask who you were and what you did?”

“Yep,” he said brightly. “He wants to have lunch with me.”

I said nothing. What was the use? We returned to the McNally driveway and I praised him again for the skillful job of detecting he had done, refraining from mentioning that he had let his tongue waggle too much to strangers.

He positively glowed when he heard my commendation and said that discreet inquiries were proving so enjoyable he was now firmly convinced he would make them his lifetime career. I concealed my shudder, gave him what few cigarettes were left in the packet, and sent him on his way. A cuckoo, I agree, but a lovable cuckoo, and I acknowledged his fumbling efforts might prove useful.

For the remaining waking hours of that night I resolutely refrained from ruminating on the tidbits of information divulged by my Sancho Panza. The mound of lasagna I call my brain was flaccid with the complexities it had absorbed that day, and so I treated myself to a wee marc and listened to a tape of Jimmy Durante rasping some wonderful tunes, including “Inka Dinka Doo.”

I recall that just before I fell asleep I murmured the Schnozzola’s famous sign-off: “Good night, Mrs. Calabash—wherever you are.”

I awoke Thursday morning so chockablock with the Three Vs (vim, vigor, vitality) I was convinced the day would be a triumph for A. McNally, detective nonpareil and implacable lighter of wrongs. This loopy attitude lasted for almost a half hour when disaster struck in the form of a phone call from Consuela Garcia. Before breakfast!

“You didn’t invite me,” she accused in the tone she uses that illy conceals her desire to transform me into a soprano. “To the Whitcombs’ party.”