McNally's Gamble (25 page)

“All right,” he said grudgingly. “For now. But eventually we may need his testimony.”

“You’ll get it; he’s not going anyplace.”

“All right,” Rogoff said again. “We’ll play it your way for the time being.”

We disconnected and I continued homeward. Was I thinking of the murder of Sydney Smythe and the apparent swindle of Mrs. Edythe Westmore? I was not. I was thinking about what I might have for lunch. First things first.

T
HE REMAINDER OF THE
day yielded zip as far as my Discreet Inquiry was concerned and I suspected the second half of the weekend would be more of the same. But then, shortly after Sunday dinner, something occurred which almost brought my entire investigation to a whinnying whoa.

I was at my upstairs desk, browsing through my journal in hopes of finding a clue hitherto ignored, when a phone call interrupted my search. It was Walter Westmore—with attitude.

“Archy,” he said—almost barked as a matter of fact, “it is very important Natalie and I see you as soon as possible. Can you come over now?”

The weather was still as dismal as it had been on Saturday and I wasn’t eager to leave the dry, warm snugness of my sanctuary. I said, “Can’t it wait until tomorrow, Walter? The sun may be shining and—”

“No,” he said sharply. “This matter must be settled immediately.”

I didn’t ask what he meant by “matter”; I assumed he was referring to the stalking of Fred Clemens. “Very well,” I said, making no effort to sound cordial. “Where do you wish to meet?”

“Nettie’s studio,” he said, and repeated, “As soon as possible.” I was getting awfully bored with that phrase. I had used it too many times myself.

So I pulled on my foul-weather gear again and went out into the late-afternoon gloom reflecting that dealing with the Westmore siblings really should qualify me for combat pay.

Walter and Natalie were waiting in her timbered hut. The big electric lantern had been switched on; the bright light it dispersed was so glaring I felt I was in a dystopian interrogation chamber. It was an impression heightened by the ensuing conversation.

“Archy,” Natalie started, “have you discovered anything to prove Frederick Clemens and his icky sidekick are crooks?”

“Nothing definite, no,” I said. “But I hope within a week to have—”

“We can’t wait a week!” she wailed. “Don’t you understand? We need action right now!”

Walter chimed in on a slightly calmer note. “At dinner this afternoon mother announced she was selling some of her Treasury bonds. She needs the cash to pay for a half-million-dollar bank check.”

“Which she’s going to sign over to Clemens,” Natalie said wrathfully. Probably by Wednesday or Thursday. Then it’s gone. Half a million dollars! That’s why we can’t wait for you to complete your investigation.”

“If we’re going to stop mother,” Walter said, “we must act at once. We appreciate all you’ve done but—”

“We’re going to hire someone else,” his sister broke in. “A professional investigator.”

Was I hurt? My pride wounded? You betcha. A “professional investigator” indeed! Who did they take me for—Inspector Clouseau?

“It is certainly your prerogative to replace me,” I said, squelching a maniacal desire to recommend Binky Watrous as my successor. “But what do you expect a new detective to accomplish in a day or two? It would take anyone a week or so to acquaint himself with the situation and begin preliminary inquiries.”

“We need someone nasty,” Natalie said savagely. “Someone rough enough to take Clemens by the throat and choke the truth out of him.”

I think even her brother was taken aback by her suggestion of a violent solution to their problem. I know I was.

“I’m not sure we want to go that far,” he said hesitantly. “But a confrontation with Clemens is certainly one option. There are other ways to resolve this crisis. But whatever we do must be done at once. We’ve tried logical arguments and moral suasion but mother just won’t listen. All she can think of is the enormous profit Clemens has promised. So direct action is the only way left to bring her to her senses.”

The two glanced at each other and I reckoned they had already discussed possible “direct actions.” I didn’t want to know what they were, for I feared they might be illegal. As a representative of McNally & Son I didn’t relish being an accessory before the fact, a charge I had suggested to Binky he’d be wise to avoid.

I was now more convinced kookiness was a Westmore family trait and their current brouhaha had pushed Natalie and Walter into the realm of utter irrationality. In a way I was happy at being relieved of my duties to them. I mean it’s no fun and somewhat scary working for a couple of befuddled fruitcakes.

“All I can do,” I said carefully, “is to wish you good luck in whatever course of action you decide to take.”

But they were both too deeply engrossed in their problem to make any response to my remark. I then departed, wondering if the next time I saw them they might be behind bars charged with assault on Frederick Clemens and Felix Katz. It was possible. In their present mood I thought them quite capable of mayhem.

I drove home, garaged the Miata, and stopped at Hobo’s house to peer within. He stood up, flicked his tail, and nibbled my fingers when I reached in to pat him. Smart terrier; he wasn’t about to come out into the persistent mist.

Before going upstairs I knocked on the closed door of my father’s study and didn’t enter until I heard his, “Come in.” He was seated behind his desk smoking one of his silver-banded James Upshall pipes and doughtily reading his way through the Sunday
New York Times.

“Yes, Archy?” he said, a mite peckish at being interrupted.

“I’ve been fired,” I announced, and when one of his eyebrows took an interrogative lift I told him about my most recent conversation with Natalie and Walter Westmore, repeating our trialogue as accurately as I could. I finished and awaited his reaction.

“Damned idiots!” he growled, which surprised me since he rarely uses even the mildest of oaths. “Did they tell you the nature of the ‘direct actions’ they contemplate?”

“No, sir. And I thought it best not to ask.”

“Quite right. Let’s not get involved in their tricks. As Lincoln said, ‘Ignorance is preferable to error.’”

“I believe it was Thomas Jefferson, father.”

He glared at me.

“What are my marching orders, sir?” I asked hurriedly. “The children have downsized me. Does that mean my Discreet Inquiry should cease?”

“Not at all,” he said promptly. “Our foremost duty is to protect the interests of our client, Mrs. Edythe Westmore. The approval of your investigation by her children was welcome but not essential to your task. Continue your inquiry and try to conclude this vexing matter as—”

“I know,” I said, laughing. “As soon as possible. It seems to be everyone’s favorite expression these days—mine included.”

He looked at me sternly. “I was about to say as rapidly as prudence and discretion permit.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said humbly, and made a chastened withdrawal.

Connie Garcia phoned from Miami on Sunday evening and our hour-long chat was a pleasant buck-up after my travails with the Westmores. Connie said the sun had been shining gloriously on Miami and I asked her to send the benediction our way.

“Have you been behaving yourself?” she demanded.

“I have indeed,” I said with no prevarication. “I am hoarding all my pent-up passions to await your return.”

“See that you do. I want to receive a good report on your conduct from my spies.”

“I haven’t lollied a single gag,” I vowed. “I miss you, Connie.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

The next morning brought a new world. Miami was sharing its sunshine with us, birds were tweeting, the sea was plashing, and I should have felt like Hannibal heading for Rome astride a pachyderm. But I didn’t.

My ego had suffered such a grievous injury from my being canned by the Westmore kiddies I hadn’t fully recognized the import of what they had told me: their mother intended to consummate the Fabergé egg deal by Wednesday or Thursday. It meant I had only two or three days to prevent her from being bamboozled. At the moment I had absolutely no conception of how I might accomplish it. I began to feel a grudging sympathy for Natalie and Walter’s decision to take direct action to defeat Señor Clemens. But what action?

And so instead of enjoying a bloomy morn I suffered a junior anxiety attack and urged myself to
do
something, anything, no matter how outlandish or likely to prove resultless. My first act was to phone Sgt. Al Rogoff, not caring if he had a hissy because of my importunity. Surprisingly I found him in a chipper mood and the reason for it soon became apparent.

“Did you receive any skinny on Katz’s fingerprints?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said happily. “A preliminary fax with more detailed info to follow. His real name is Luther Bradbury and he’s got a rap sheet longer than a roll of toilet paper. He’s originally from Dallas and started out touring as a pool hall hustler. Then he graduated to running crooked crap games. It’s how he lost a finger; two Chicago bentnoses caught him using loaded dice and chopped it off.”

“Nice,” I said. “Has he done time?”

“Three stretches, none more than eighteen months. What’s interesting is how the crimes he’s been charged with have become more violent: felonious assault, attempted rape, robbery—strong-arm, stuff like that. He’s been lucky to get off with probation or short sentences.”

“Married?”

“Four times and dumped by the wife every time. He’s a sweetheart, huh?”

“Any mention of a connection with Frederick Clemens?”

“Nothing yet but I’ve got urgent queries out to Dallas, Detroit, L.A., Frisco, Denver, Boston, and New York. This guy is a traveling nogoodnik; he must have a lot of frequent-flier miles.”

“Al, do you mind if I check with you later today?”

“Be my guest. I’ve put a twenty-four-hour watch on Katz and maybe I’ll have more goodies to pass along.”

He hung up, leaving me at once pleased and puzzled. I was glad to hear my suspicions about Katz had been confirmed. But I couldn’t understand Rogoff’s motive in establishing round-the-clock surveillance. Katz had committed no crimes in our area of which I was aware but the sergeant seemed intent on keeping him under observation. Perhaps, I thought, Al knew something he hadn’t told me and wouldn’t until his caution proved productive.

The phone call to headquarters had been made from home while I was still in PJ’s. I shucked them and went through the usual morning drill of showering and shaving. Then I dressed, including a lilac sport jacket of wool crepe with sand-colored slacks. The headgear I selected was a tweed cap in a cheerful glen plaid. McNally’s Rule: When facing a desperate situation dress with dash.

I was too tardy to breakfast with my parents but Ursi poached a couple of eggs and slid them onto buttered w.w. toast. She also blessed me with two cups of her special coffee laced with chicory. That’ll get your corpuscles moshing.

I arrived at my office in time to field a phone call from Mrs. Lenore Crittenden.

“Archy,” she said, “I finally received a possibly significant response to inquiries on the man you asked me to check out. It came from an agency in Denver specializing in nabbing crooks who manipulate penny stocks. They have no Frederick Clemens in their files but about five years ago the law clamped down on a guy peddling shares in a blind corporation with zilch in assets. He was fined and made restitution, thus avoiding a forced vacation in the jug. His name was Frank Clement. Close enough?”

“I’d say so,” I told her. “You know when a white-collar rogue changes his name he usually selects an alias with the same initials so he doesn’t have to discard his monogrammed shirts, cuff links, and attaché case. I’m betting Frederick Clemens and Frank Clement are one and the same. Thanks for your help, Lennie.”

I hung up happy with the info and wondering how many other F.C. names the knave had used in his larcenous career.

Still driven by a compulsion to act, I looked up the number of the Hotel Dover in West Palm. It was, you’ll recall, the temporary residence of Penelope Blakely-Jones, the English cousin of Sydney Smythe. I begged fate to sanction the lady’s return from Disney World and fate gave me a pat on the head—sort of. She was not present but was expected to return from Orlando soon after noon.

I calmed down by spending the remainder of the morning addressing and signing a stack of Christmas cards I should have mailed a week ago. There were more than fifty and I wondered how barbarous it would be to run them through the company’s meter rather than purchase stamps. I finally decided a metered Xmas card was simply too gauche.

I went out for a quick lunch, bought self-adhesive stamps, mailed my cards, and treated myself to a vodka gimlet as a reward for donkeywork completed. I then returned to my office, phoned the Dover again, and this time fate definitely cuddled me. Smythe’s next of kin was present and came on the line.

“Ma’am,” I said, “my name is Archibald McNally and I was acquainted with your late cousin. I’d like to express my condolences.”

“Thank you,” she said. Strong voice. “It was nice of you to call.”

“I was hoping I might have the opportunity of meeting you personally before you return to England. Perhaps we could have a drink together.”

“Well, I’m quite busy, Mr. McNally—so much to do. I really shouldn’t have gone up to Disney World but my youngest daughter—she’s only seven—insisted I bring her a snap of me with Mickey Mouse.”

“And did you get it?”

“I did indeed. A lovely color Polaroid. Tell me, how did you know I’m at the Dover?”

“A friend of mine, a local bobby, told me.”

“Bobby? Are you a Brit, Mr. McNally?”

“No, ma’am, I am not. But I am an Anglophile and occasionally use Briticisms. It’s an affectation and I hope you forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” she said stoutly. “And who is your favorite English actor?”

I think she expected me to name Olivier, Richardson, or Gielgud. I said, “Benny Hill,” and she laughed.

“I think I would enjoy having a drink with you,” she said. “Could we meet at the Dover bar at, say, three o’clock—or is that too soon?”