McNally's Caper (13 page)

“Mother,” I said, “I refuse to have you dining alone. I’ll postpone my date with Connie, and you and I shall console each other.”

“No, no, Archy,” she protested. “Father promised to be home for dinner and you know he always keeps his word. No, you go ahead. Oh dear, I feel so sorry for the Forsythes. I must call tomorrow and ask if there is anything I can do to help.”

“Father said we’ll all go to the funeral unless it’s limited to the immediate family. In any case we must send flowers.”

“Of course,” she said determinedly. “I’ll take care of it.”

I moved to her, hugged her shoulder, kissed her velvety cheek. Isn’t it odd how death prompts an immediate display of love? I suppose it’s realization of human fragility and a desire to hang on to something lasting.

I admit that when I drove to Worth Avenue to meet Connie Garcia I was not in the sprightliest of moods. But I could not allow my megrims to affect our dinner. I decided I would play my usual bubbleheaded self, ready with a silly jape and the sort of surreal nonsense that made Connie laugh uncontrollably. I fancied myself a sufficiently skilled farceur to make the evening a success.

Actually it was Connie who turned the trick. She was at her frisky best, and during that splendid feast she kept our banter light and frivolous. It was not until we had espresso and shared an apple tart that our conversation became weightier and we spoke of the death of Griswold Forsythe the 2nd.

“You know,” Connie said, “after you phoned this afternoon I went into the sitting room where Lady Cynthia was playing solitaire. Cheating, of course; she always does. I told her of the murder and she just grunted. Didn’t even look up from her cards.”

“Typical reaction,” I commented.

“Yes, but then when I started to leave the room she said, ‘I had a brief fling with that man once. Very brief.’ That’s what she said, Archy.”

I smiled. “I imagine Lady Horowitz has had a brief fling with most of the male population of Palm Beach.”

“I suppose. But then she repeated his name, Griswold Forsythe, and said, ‘We used to call him Grisly Forsythe. What a lump he was. It was hard to believe the gossip about him.’ Well, you asked me to tell you if I heard anything about the Forsythes so naturally I said, ‘What gossip was that?’ And she said—still laying out the cards—‘Oh, it happened years and years ago. Before you were born, Connie.’ Then she said, ‘Don’t you have any work to do?’ And I knew it would do no good to question her again and I left.”

I was intrigued. “She said it was gossip years and years ago about Griswold Forsythe?”

“That’s right.”

“Gossip Lady Horowitz found it hard to believe?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Flimsy,” I said. “Definitely flimsy. But I’ll try to pin it down.”

“Oh golly,” Connie said. “Don’t ask Lady Cynthia about it. If she finds out I told you what she said she’ll break my face.”

“Of course I won’t ask her. She’d just tell me to get lost, as you well know.”

Connie finished her espresso. She said, “It’s funny, isn’t it, Archy?”

“What’s funny?”

“That years and years ago, before you and I were born, people were misbehaving.”

I laughed. “Did you think you and I invented sex?”

She looked at me wide-eyed with mock solemnity. “Didn’t we?” she asked.

We left the Cafe L’Europe and reclaimed our cars. I followed Connie home to her condo on the east shore of Lake Worth. I accompanied her upstairs to her trig little apartment. And we invented sex—again.

I departed shortly after midnight and drove home to the darkened McNally manse. I made certain the back door was relocked after I entered, and then I trod as quietly as I could up to my miniature penthouse on the third floor. I undressed and pulled on a robe of black silk—a fitting garment, I mournfully reflected.

I poured myself a very small marc but did not light a cigarette after recalling I had gone through half a pack during that tumultuous day. I sat at my desk, bare feet up, and thought about the curious allusion Lady Cynthia Horowitz had made to long-ago gossip about the murdered man.

I knew it would be hopeless to ask her to tell me more. I liked Lady C. and I think she liked me, but as an aged friend of hers (now deceased) once remarked, “Archy, if you can’t be mean, nasty, and cranky, what’s the point of growing old?” The lady was a living confirmation of that philosophy. She would refuse to reveal a secret the moment she discovered it might be of value to someone else. She had a net worth of zillions and she didn’t amass her wealth by being Lady Bountiful.

And that led me to wonder if every human being is a sanctuary of secrets. We all know things—about ourselves and about others—we will take to the grave—not so? I admit there are several things I know that are better left unwritten and unspoken. You, too.

After a few moments of this dreary pondering I put on earphones and listened to a tape of Ethel Merman singing Cole Porter’s “Down in the Depths.”

It suited my mood perfectly.

T
HURSDAY BROUGHT SO-SO
weather but I was not discouraged. I awoke molto vivace, ready to challenge fate with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart. And my solitary breakfast—bagel, cream cheese, lox and onion—reinforced my confidence. I was certain that before night crashed I would solve all the Forsythe puzzles that bedeviled me—and possibly discover what happened to Jimmy Hoffa.

I took my second cup of instant black into father’s study to search the Yellow Pages for addresses of local pawnbrokers. What a jolt that was! There were almost fifty in the West Palm Beach area, and that made me wonder how our stretch of shore had earned the sobriquet of Gold Coast since so many citizens were apparently in hock.

I am not totally allergic to routine labor, mind you, but it struck me that visiting fifty pawnbrokers scattered over many square miles of South Florida was not the most creative way of spending my time. I compromised by making a list of a dozen hockshops closest to the Town of Palm Beach. Then, carrying my catalog of items purportedly stolen from the late Griswold Forsythe II and his daughter, I sallied forth to play the dogged flic undaunted by the enormity of his task.

It was about three in the afternoon when I stopped at a pawnshop on Dixie Highway in West Palm. Surprisingly, it seemed to be an upscale joint with an attractive window display of estate jewelry. But what caught my attention was a small, sturdy sculpture, the bust of a young African woman, her neck encircled with yards of necklaces.

I entered the shop, a bell jangled, the proprietor came shuffling from a back room. I estimated his age at 342 but his eyes were clear, sparkling and knowing. He used a cane with the carved head of a fox as a handle. An apt touch.

“Yes, sir,” he said brightly, “what can I do for you today?” His voice was firm and vigorous. I hoped that when I was as venerable I would be as fortunate.

“That statue in your window, sir,” I said. “Is that a Benin bronze?”

His sly smile was charming. “You have a good eye, sir,” he said. “That’s exactly what it is—a Benin bronze. Lovely—no? You are a collector?”

“Amateur, sir,” I told him. “Is the piece for sale?”

“Not at the moment, sir,” he said. “It is still in pawn. But I suspect it may be offered to the public about a week from now.”

I knew it would be useless to ask the name of the pawner. He would never reveal that information (except to the police) and the question could destroy our rapport.

“Sir,” I said, “if I leave you my business card would you be so kind as to inform me if the bust becomes available?”

“My dear sir,” he said, “that would be my very great pleasure.”

I gave him my card, he gave me his, we parted with expressions of mutual esteem. A very pleasant encounter.

I sat in the Miata a moment before heading back to the beach. I had no precise description of the statue stolen from Griswold Forsythe II, but how many Benin bronzes could one expect to find in the West Palm Beach area? And a pawnshop seemed the likeliest place for the thief to derive some cash from the loot, even though it would be much less than the actual value.

Driving eastward I reflected it was not the smartest thing for the goniff to do. He or she should have known that pawnshops would be the first places police would check after the theft had been reported. From which I could only conclude I was dealing with an extremely stupid crook or that he or she was confident the disappearance of those pricey items would not be reported to the police. A perplexity, wouldn’t you say?

I returned home looking forward to an afternoon swim in a warm, gently rolling sea, but it never happened. As I entered through the back door, Ursi Olson, aproned, came from the pantry to inform me that Griswold Forsythe III had phoned and was quite insistent that I return his call as soon as possible. I used the kitchen phone and eventually got through to the Forsythe heir.

“Archy,” he said, “I must see you at once.” There was no entreaty in his voice but rather a tone of command—something new for Junior.

“Of course,” I said equably. “Where and when?”

“Now,” he said, “and not here. You’re at home?”

“I am.”

“I’ll come over. Twenty minutes.” And he hung up.

I used the interval to build and drink a vodka-rocks with a splash of aqua. It was my first alcoholic libation of the day and I had an uneasy feeling I would need more before that lucky old sun dipped beyond yon far horizon. So vodka makes me poetic. Sue me.

The Forsythes’ Rolls-Royce came purring into our driveway in less than twenty minutes and Griswold III alighted. I wondered how long it would be before he traded in the family’s armored personnel carrier for something a little racier.

We shook hands and I expressed the condolences of the McNallys on the death of his father. He nodded, thanked me in a distracted way, and then asked where we could talk without fear of interruption or being overheard.

“We might take a stroll on the beach,” I said giddily. I confess it was a somewhat derisive suggestion, for he was dressed in a three-piece suit of heavy wool and wearing black wingtip brogues.

He missed the irony completely. “Good idea,” he said. “Let’s go.”

So we crossed Ocean Boulevard and descended the rickety wooden stairway. It was a cloudy afternoon and sultry. I figured the temperature hovered around 80° and I had a wild vision of him swooning of heat exhaustion in his cumbrous costume. Then I’d be forced to hoist him aloft in a fireman’s carry and lug him back to air conditioning.

But he seemed oblivious to the heat. We went down close to the water where the sand was firmer and began to plod northward.

“Have funeral arrangements been completed, Griswold?” I asked.

“What?” he said, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. “Oh. No, the police haven’t yet released the body. In any event it will be a private interment. Just the family and staff.”

“I can understand that,” I told him. “But it seems a shame that friends and neighbors won’t have an opportunity to pay their respects.”

“You think so?” he said, and I think he was genuinely surprised by my comment. “Well, I suppose we can always have a memorial service later, can’t we?”

I didn’t reply but glanced sideways at him. I could see he was beginning to perspire as we trudged along and it did my heart good.

“So much to do,” he said fretfully. “I’m having lunch with your father tomorrow. The will and all that. Settling the estate. I’m not certain I understand it.”

“I’m sure my father will explain.”

“I guess we’ll be coming into a bundle. Mother, Geraldine, and me, I mean. With a trust fund for Lucy and something for the servants. Dad handled all those things.” He turned his head to give me a toothy grin. “Making money is the most fun you can have without taking your clothes off.”

Ordinarily I might have considered that a mildly amusing remark. But under the circumstances I thought it crude. This twit seemed positively gleeful a day after his father had expired and I found it offensive. But possibly the death of his papa had lifted his spirits by freeing him from the domination of an imperious paterfamilias. Meanwhile I was happy to note the Forsythe scion was sweating bullets.

“But that’s not what I wanted to discuss with you,” he went on. “I mean talking about money is vulgar, don’t you think?”

“Only if you have plenty,” I said, and he had the grace to laugh. One short, feeble laugh.

“What happened was this...” he continued. “On Tuesday night, after dinner, father went prowling around asking questions of the family and staff.”

“Did he? What sort of questions?”

“All I know is what he asked me. Very personal questions. Was I happy with my wife? Was she happy with me? How much money did we have in our bank accounts? Very odd. And apparently he was asking everyone in the house similar things about their private lives. Got the staff quite upset, I can tell you that.”

“I can imagine.”

“Well, after he finished making all those inquiries I went into the library, where he was sitting behind his desk, just staring into space. To tell you the truth, Archy, he looked like someone had sandbagged him. I asked him what was going on. Then he told me.”

“Griswold,” I said, “I think we’ve walked far enough. Shall we go back now?”

He was beginning to look a bit puffy about the gills and I feared my wild vision of him collapsing might well become a reality. I was happy when he acquiesced and we turned around to retrace our steps.

“Your father told you what?” I asked him.

“That several valuable things had disappeared from the house and he was sure someone in the family or on the staff was stealing them. What a shock it was to hear that! But that was why father had been asking all those questions—to try to discover if anyone was desperately in need of money.”

“I see.”

“Also,” Griswold said, almost panting as he spoke, “he told me he had employed you to investigate and try to identify the thief. Is that right?”

I thought half a mo and decided the truth wouldn’t hurt—a dreadful mistake. “Yes,” I said, “that’s correct.”

“Well, father said he had determined to his satisfaction who was doing the stealing and he had made certain it would not continue. He was very firm about that. In fact, he said he intended to tell you to end your investigation. That’s what I wanted to relay to you, Archy: you can stop snooping around because there won’t be any more stuff disappearing. Dad said so.”