McNally's Risk (2 page)

"An intriguing prospect," I said, pouring the remainder of the second bottle into our glasses. "How do you suggest I might meet this lalapalooza?"

"Easiest thing in the world," he told me. "Tonight the Pristine Gallery is having an exhibit of Silas Hawkin's portraits. You know him?"

"I've met him," I said. "I think he's an idiot."

"More oaf than idiot," Lolly said. "And a
rich
oaf. You know what they say about him, don't you? As a portrait painter he's the best plastic surgeon in Palm Beach. He charges thirty grand and up—mostly up—for a genuine oil portrait of our wealthier beldames. And every matron he's painted has her bosom lifted, wattles excised, and her gin-dulled stare replaced with a youthful sparkle. The man is really a genius at pleasing his clients. Anyway, at the to-do tonight, the gallery is going to show his latest masterpiece: a portrait of Theodosia Johnson. How does that grab you? Madam X herself is sure to be there. Why don't you pop by?"

"Thank you, Lol," I said gratefully. "I think I'll do exactly that."

Eventually we tottered outside and stood in the afternoon heat grinning foolishly at each other.

"Another luncheon like that," I said, "and I'll have a liver as big as the Ritz."

"Nonsense, darling," Spindrift said, gently swaying back and forth. "It was a yummy spread, and I'm pickled tink you asked me."

He gave me a careless wave and wandered away, leaving me to wonder if his "pickled tink" was deliberate or a lurch of a champagne-loosened tongue. I stood rooted, knowing I should return to my miniature office in the McNally Building and begin an inquiry into the creditworthiness of Madam X, including bank balances, net worth, source of income, and all that. But I feared my Krugged brain might not be capable of the task.

During my brief sojourn at Yale Law I had learned an effective method of determining whether one was or was not plotched. You recited aloud the following:

"Amidst the mists and coldest frosts, with stoutest wrists and loudest boasts, he thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts."

If you can say that without slobbering all over your chin, you are definitely
not
hors de combat. So I declaimed it aloud on Worth Avenue, attracting wary glances from passing tourists. I was delighted to discover my lower mandible remained bone-dry; the McNally medulla oblongata had not lost its keen edge.

But it was then threeish or fourish, much too late to return to the salt mines. So I drove home, slowly and cautiously, and took a nap.

I roused an hour later, full of p&v, and went for my daily swim. The Atlantic is just across Ocean Boulevard from the McNally digs, and I try to do two miles each day, chugging along parallel to the shore and hoping no Portuguese man-of-war is lurking nearby, licking its chops. I returned home in time to dress and attend the cocktail hour, a family ceremony. That evening, as usual, my father did the honors, stirring up a pitcher of traditional dry martinis.

My mother, Madelaine, is one of the ditsiest of all mommies, but a lovely gentlewoman who talks to her begonias.

She also drinks sauterne with meat and fish courses and is very concerned about the ozone layer, without quite knowing what ozone
is.

My father, Prescott McNally, has been playing the part of landed gentry so long that he has become exactly that: a squire, rectitudinous attorney, and possibly the most hidebound man I know. He has a wide Guardsman's mustache, tangled as the Amazon rain forest, and I like to visualize him wearing a busby, planted outside Buckingham Palace, staring fixedly into space.

I don't wish to imply that my parents are "characters." They, and I, would be offended by that designation. They are just very decent, loving, and lovable human beings. They have their oddities—but who does not? I happen to believe I do a marvelous imitation of Humphrey Bogart, though friends assure me I sound more like Donald Duck.

What I'm trying to convey is that I love my parents. Of course. But just as important, I
enjoy
them. How many sons and daughters can say that?

That evening I was wearing the palest of pink linen suits with a deep lavender polo shirt of Sea Island cotton. Tasseled white loafers with no socks, of course. My father raised one eyebrow (a trick I've never been able to master), and I hastened to explain the glad rags.

"I'm attending an exhibit at the Pristine Gallery tonight," I said. "Silas Hawkin's paintings. I understand the showpiece will be his latest work, a portrait of Theodosia Johnson."

"Ah," the guv said.

Mother looked up. "I've met her father," she declared. "Hector Johnson. A very fine gentleman."

The pater and I exchanged glances.

"How did you happen to meet him, Maddie?" he asked.

"Why, he joined our garden club," she said. "He's only been in South Florida a short while—about a year I think he said—and he's into orchids. He seems very knowledgeable."

"How old is he, mother?" I inquired.

"Oh, I don't know, Archy," she answered. "Mid-sixties perhaps. Shall I ask him?"

McNally père smiled. "I don't think that will be necessary," he said. "A civilized man?"

"Charming," mother said, "just charming! He said my 'Iron Cross' was the healthiest begonia he had ever seen."

Father gulped the remainder of his martini. "That was very kind of him," he said, absolutely deadpan. "Shall we go down to dinner?"

I remember well the menu that night, the way I imagine the condemned might savor their last meal before the unknown. Ursi Olson, our cook-housekeeper, had sautéed red snapper with white wine and shallots. And husband Jamie, our houseman, served the dessert: chocolate torte with cappuccino ice cream. Any wonder why the waistbands of my slacks continue to shrink?

Before departing for the Pristine Gallery I climbed to the third floor of the McNally faux Tudor manor. There, under a leaking copper roof, I had my own aerie, a rather dilapidated but snug suite: sitting room, bedroom, bath. Not luxurious, you understand, but you couldn't beat the rent. Zip.

Since becoming chief of Discreet Inquiries at McNally & Son, I had kept a private journal in which I recorded the details of my investigations. It was an invaluable aid in keeping track of things, especially when I had two or more cases running concurrently. I jotted down facts, impressions, bits of actual dialogue, and whatever else I thought might be of value. Most of my scribblings turned out to be of no value whatsoever. But one never knows, do one?

That night I hurriedly made brief notes on my interview with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth, the chat with Simon Pettibone, the information learned at that bibulous luncheon with Lolly Spindrift, and what mother had mentioned about Hector, Theodosia Johnson's father. Finished, I read over what I had written and found absolutely zilch in the way of inspiration. So I closed up shop, clattered downstairs, and went to meet my fate.

It was a still, cloudless night but hot and humid as a sauna. As I drove back to Worth Avenue I hoped the owner of the Pristine Gallery, Ivan Duvalnik, would have the decency to serve something refreshing. He did: a Chilean chardonnay so cold it made my fillings ache.

It turned out to be a hugger-mugger evening, the gallery overcrowded, chatter too loud, paintings almost hidden by the billows of chiffon gown (f.) and the sheen of silk sport jackets (m.). I knew most of the guests and mingled determinedly, working my way toward the pièce de résistance: the portrait of Theodosia Johnson.

When I finally stood before it, I was simultaneously rapt and unwrapped. I mean I was totally engrossed and at the same time felt a sag of the knees and a horrible need to let my jaw droop and just gawk. Spindrift had not exaggerated; the lady was a corker. What beauty! But not of the plastic variety one sees so often in fashion ads and centerfolds. Again, Lolly had it right: she was half-Garbo, half-Dietrich, with all the mystery and promise in those two mesmerizing faces.

I am not an expert on paintings, figuring one man's "September Morn" is another man's "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon." But I defy any hot-blodded yute to look at that portrait of Madam X without saying to himself, "I
must
meet her."

I was filling my eyes when a voice at my elbow interrupted my fantasies by stating, "Awfully good, am I right, Archy? Si has caught her expression perfectly, and the colors are striking. Don't you agree?"

I turned, and there was the Chinless Wonder himself, Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth, wearing a midnight blue dinner jacket and looking like the groom on a wedding cake. His pushbroom mustache was meticulously trimmed and he was exuding a fruity cologne. That was a surprise. CW was known as a nebbishy sort of chap. Palm Beach gossips (the total population) claimed he wore a helmet while pedaling his Exercycle.

"You couldn't be righter, CW," I said. "Or more right— whichever comes first. Hawkin has done a marvelous job, and the lady is beautiful."

"My fiancée," he said with a fatuous grin. "Or soon to be."

"Congratulations!" I said, smiling, and recalling that "one may smile and smile, and be a villain."

"Well, it's not exactly official yet," he said in that pontifical way he had of speaking. "But it soon will be, I assure you."

"I'd like to meet the lucky lady," I said, perking his ego. "Is she here this evening?"

"Somewhere," he said vaguely, looking about the mobbed gallery. "Just find the biggest crowd, and she's sure to be the center."

Then he drifted away, obviously having no desire to introduce me personally. Quite understandable.

I glanced around and saw in one corner a jammed circle of men surrounding someone I presumed to be the star of the evening. Rather than join the adoring throng, I eased my way to the bar to replenish my supply of that excellent chardonnay. And there I bumped into Silas Hawkin, the famous portraitist and plastic surgeon himself.

"Hi, Si," I said, thinking how silly that sounded.

He stared. "Do I know you?" he demanded.

We had met several times; he knew very well who I was. But feigning ignorance was his particular brand of one-upmanship.

"Archy McNally," I said, as equably as I could.

"Oh yeah," he said. "The lawyer feller. Didn't know you were interested in fine art."

"Oh my yes," I said. "I have a lovely collection of Bugs Bunny cels. Good show tonight."

"I think so," he said complacently. "People know quality when they see it. You caught my latest? The portrait of Theodosia Johnson?"

"Extraordinary," I said.

"It is that," he agreed. "Took me a week to do her lips."

A ribald reply leaped to mind, but I squelched it. "By the way, Si," I said, "may I give you a call? It concerns a silly inquiry I'm making. Nothing of any great importance."

"Sure," he said casually, his eyes roving. "Anytime."

Then we were jostled away from the bar and separated. I finally decided I had to make my move—win or lose. So I joined the ring of admirers, and sure enough Theodosia Johnson was at the center, flushed but poised and accepting compliments with the graciousness of E. II. I slowly inched forward until I was standing directly in front of Madam X herself.

"Archy McNally," I said, giving her the 150-watt smile I call my Jumbocharmer.

"Theo Johnson," she said, and reached out a hand to shake. It was one of the hardest decisions of my life to let go.

"A fantastic portrait, Miss Johnson," I told her. "But it doesn't do you justice."

"Thank you," she murmured, and gave me the full blaze of azure eyes. "You're very kind."

Naturally I wanted to say more, but I was elbowed away by other victims, and regretfully departed with the feeling that I had been privileged to be in the presence of great, almost supernal beauty. For the third time, Lolly Spindrift had been right: my timbers had been shivered and I was in love.

Again.

I left the gallery and drove home singing one of my favorite songs: "When It's Apple Blossom Time in Orange, New Jersey, We'll Make a Peach of a Pair."

2

I awoke the next morning with the conviction that if Johnny Keats was right—"Beauty is truth, truth beauty."—then Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth had no reason to worry about the motives of Ms. Theodosia Johnson. How could a paragon with that mass of shimmering chestnut hair, those burning eyes, that Limoges complexion ever be guilty of even the teeniest deceit? Ridiculous! As far as I was concerned, my investigation could be canceled forthwith.

But I knew if I dared suggest such a thing to my father, he wouldn't say a word. He would merely glare at me from under those snarled eyebrows, and that would be my answer. So, sighing, I started the second day of what I later came to call The Affair of Madam X.

I was late getting downstairs, as usual, and so I breakfasted in the kitchen, served by Jamie Olson. He was working on what was probably his third mug of black coffee to which, I was sure, he had added a splash of aquavit.

Jamie is seventyish, semi-wizened, and a taciturn bloke. He is also privy to all the backstairs gossip in Palm Beach, stuff even Lolly Spindrift isn't aware of since it's shared only by the servants of the Island's nabobs. And the things these maids, chauffeurs, valets, housekeeps, and butlers know or suspect would make a platoon of tabloid editors moan with delight.

"Jamie," I said, after I had smeared my toasted onion bagel with salmon mousse, "have you ever heard of Theodosia Johnson?"

"Yep," he said. "A looker."

"She is that," I agreed. "I understand she's been here about a year. Lives with her father, Hector, in a rented condo. Do they have any staff?"

"Don't know."

"Could you find out?"

"Mebbe."

"What about the Smythe-Hersforths? Hear any talk?"

"Tight."

"Tight? You mean stingy?"

"Uh-huh."

I seemed to be making little progress with Jamie, but I had learned from past experience that patience frequently paid off. He really was a remarkable fount of inside info. Turning on the tap was the problem.

"I can believe the gammer might have miserly tendencies," I said. "What about the son, Chauncey Wilson? I know he's got a good job with a local bank. All title and no work. Is he also a penny-pincher?"