McNally's Caper (2 page)

“The thief has expensive tastes,” I observed.

“Yes,” father agreed, “and Forsythe is convinced he or she is a family member or one of the household staff, all live-in servants who have been with him for years.”

“But the thefts are a recent development?”

My liege nodded. “Naturally Forsythe doesn’t wish to take the matter to the authorities. He would much prefer a discreet investigation.”

This time I moaned. “That means I will have to spend a great deal of time prowling about the Forsythe castle, that ugly heap of granite north of Lady Horowitz’s estate. How does Mr. Forsythe propose to account for my presence? Does he intend to tell family and staff what I’m up to?”

“Oh no, definitely not. He will be the only one who knows your true purpose. As you may be aware, he has a rather extensive private library. He suggests that he tell the others you have been employed to prepare a catalog of his books.”

I considered that a moment. “It might work,” I admitted. “But is he absolutely certain the thief is not an outsider? A deliveryman perhaps. The guy who trims his shrubbery.”

“I asked him that, but he believes it would be impossible. When workers are allowed inside they are always accompanied by the housekeeper. And some of the missing items were hidden. The Benin bronze, for instance, was not on display but placed far back on a closet shelf in Forsythe’s study. And the unset emerald was in a suede pouch tucked into the bottom drawer of his wife’s dresser. Family members and staff may have been aware of their existence and site, but strangers could not know and had no opportunity to search. Mr. Forsythe is expecting you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

“Nine?” I said indignantly. “Father, I’m not fully awake by then.”

“Try,” His Majesty said and picked up his Dickens.

I climbed the creaking stairs to my mini-suite on the third floor. It was hardly lavish—small sitting room, bedroom, bathroom—but I had no complaints; it was my cave and I prized it. The rent was particularly attractive. Zip.

I poured myself a wee marc from my liquor supply stored within a battered sea chest at the foot of my bed. Then I lighted an English Oval (only my third of the day) and plopped down behind the ramshackle desk in my sitting room. I donned reading glasses, for although I will not be thirty-seven years old until March of next year, my peepers are about sixty-five and require specs for close-up work.

I keep a journal of my discreet inquiries, jotting down things I have learned, heard, assumed, or imagined. The scribblings, added to almost daily when I am working on a case, serve as a reminder of matters important and matters trivial.

That night I wrote finis to the story of the shoplifting widow and started a fresh page with my latest assignment: discovering who in the ménage of Griswold Forsythe II was swiping all that swell stuff. I thought the inquiry would be as much of a drag as the victim and his tiresome son. I reckoned the chances were good that the allegedly purloined items had simply been misplaced. For instance, I still haven’t found my Mickey Mouse beach towel although I am fairly certain it hasn’t been stolen.

I went to bed that night still musing on the looniness of the human condition. My investigation of the Forsythe thieveries was to prove how right I was. But the craziness I uncovered turned out to be no ha-ha matter. It was scary and before it was finished I began to believe the entire world was one enormous acorn academy—with no doctors in attendance.

“I
WAS A DIRTY
old man at the age of nine,” Griswold Forsythe II pronounced in his churchy voice and waited for my laugh.

I obliged, fighting valiantly against an urge to nod off.

“I see these young girls in their short skirts,” he droned on. “Tanned legs that start under their chin and go on forever. And I feel a great sadness. Not because I shall never have them but because I know their beauty will wither. Age insists on taking its inevitable toll.”

“Mr. Forsythe,” I said, “about your missing treasures...”

“But then,” he continued to preach, “age does have its compensations. I’ll tell you something about death, Archy: one grows into it. I don’t mean you begin to die the day you’re born; everyone knows that. But as the years dwindle down you gradually come to terms with your own mortality. And, in my case, begin to look forward to dissolution with curiosity and, I must admit, a certain degree of relish.”

“How long, O Lord, how long?” I prayed silently. And you know, the odd thing about this garrulous fogy was that he was not all that ancient. Not much older than my father, I reckoned; I knew his son was about my age. Yet the two Forsythes, II and III, had brought codgerism to new heights—or depths. I shall not attempt to reproduce their speech exactly on these pages; the plummy turgidities would give you a sudden attack of the Z’s.

And not only in their speech, but both father and son affected a grave and stately demeanor. No sudden bursts of laughter from those two melancholies, no public manifestations of delight, surprise, or almost any other human emotion. I often wondered what might happen if their rusty clockwork slipped a gear.

“Mr. Forsythe,” I tried again, desperately this time, “about the stolen items...”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Distressing. And we can’t let it continue, can we?”

“No, sir.”

“Distressing,” he repeated. “Most distressing.”

We were seated in his library, a gloomy chamber lined with floor-to-ceiling oak cases of books, most of them in matching sets. There was a handsome ladder on wheels that enabled one to reach the upper shelves, but I couldn’t believe he or anyone else in his ménage had read even a fraction of those thousands of volumes.

“I suggest you make this room your headquarters,” he instructed. “Your combat center, so to speak. Feel free to come and go as you please. Speak to anyone you wish: family members and staff.”

“They are not aware of my assignment?”

“They are not,” he said firmly. “Not even my wife. So I expect you to conduct your investigation with a high degree of circumspection.”

“Naturally,” I said, reflecting that I had been called many things in my lifetime but circumspect was not one of them. “Mr. Forsythe, could you give me a brief rundown on your household.”

He looked at me, puzzled. “The people, you mean?” he asked.

Did he think I meant the number of salad forks? “Yes, sir,” I said. “The persons in residence.”

“Myself and my wife Constance, of course. Our unmarried daughter Geraldine. Our son, whom I believe you know, and his wife Sylvia and their young daughter Lucy. The staff consists of Mrs. Nora Bledsoe, our housekeeper and majordomo, so to speak. Her son, Anthony, serves as butler and houseman. Two maids, Sheila and Fern. The chef’s name is Zeke Grenough. We also employ a full-time gardener, Rufino Diaz, but he doesn’t dwell on the premises.”

“Quite an establishment,” I commented.

“Is it?” he said, mildly surprised that everyone didn’t live so well-attended. “When my parents were alive we had a live-in staff of twelve. But of course they did a great deal of entertaining. I rarely entertain. Dislike it, in fact. Too much chatter.”

I was tempted to ask, “You mean you can’t get a word in edgewise?” But I didn’t, of course.

“I’m sure I’ll get them all sorted out,” I told him.

“And when may I expect results?”

“No way of telling, Mr. Forsythe. But I’m as eager as you to bring this matter to a speedy conclusion. And now, with your permission, I’d like to take a look around the grounds.”

“Of course,” he said. “Learn the lay of the land, so to speak, eh?”

I could have made a coarse rejoinder to that but restrained myself. Griswold Forsythe II led me to a back door that allowed exit to the rear acres of the estate.

“When you have completed your inspection,” he said, “I suggest you request Mrs. Bledsoe to give you a tour of the house. There are many hallways, many rooms, many nooks and crannies. We don’t want you getting lost, do we?”

“We surely don’t,” I said, repressing a terrible desire to kick his shins. Because, you see, I suspected he didn’t want me strolling unescorted through his home. Which made me wonder what it was he wished to keep hidden.

The Forsythe estate wasn’t quite Central Park but it was lavish even by Palm Beach standards. The landscaping was somewhat formal for my taste but I could not deny it was attractive and well-groomed. There was a mini-orchard of orange, grapefruit and lime trees. Birdhouses were everywhere, some seemingly designed to mimic the Forsythe mansion in miniature. I thought that a bit much but apparently the birds approved.

I was examining a curious lichen growing on the trunk of an oak so venerable it was decrepit when a young miss popped out from behind a nearby palm and shouted, “Boo!”

I was not at all startled. “Boo, yourself,” I replied. “What is the meaning of this unseemly behavior—leaping out at innocent visitors and yelping, ‘Boo!’?”

She giggled.

I am not expert at estimating the age of children. They are all kids to me until they become youngsters. This particular specimen appeared to be about eight years old, with a possible error of plus or minus three. She was an uncommonly fetching child with flaxen hair that tumbled to her shoulders. Heavy braces encircled her upper teeth but she had the self-assurance of a woman quintuple her age.

“What’s your name?” she demanded.

“My name is Archibald McNally,” I replied. “But it would give me great pleasure if you called me Archy.”

Silence. “Don’t you want to know my name?” she finally asked.

“I can guess,” I said. “You are Lucy Forsythe and you live here.”

“How did you know that?”

“I know everything,” I told her.

“No, you don’t,” she said. “Do you want to hear a dirty word?”

I sighed. “All right.”

“Mud,” she said and laughed like a maniac. I did, too.

“You’re very pretty,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said. “Not as pretty as you.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Sort of,” I answered. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Sort of.”

“Why aren’t you in school today, Lucy?”

“I’m sick,” she said and giggled again.

“Nothing catching I hope.”

“Well, I’m not really sick but I said I was because I didn’t feel like going to school today. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Not me,” I said. “I know how to keep a secret.”

“Hey,” she said, “want to see my secret place?”

“I’d like that very much.”

She was wearing a pink two-piece playsuit and a matching hair ribbon. She was a gangly child with a lovely apricot suntan and a deliciously gawky way of moving, flinging arms and legs about as if she had not yet mastered the art of controlling those elongated appendages.

She took my hand and tugged me along. We stepped off the bricked walk and slipped into a treed area so thickly planted that sunlight cast a dappled pattern onto ground cover sprinkled with small white flowers I could not identify. Then we came into a small open area hardly larger than a bathmat but carpeted with bright green moss.

“This belongs to me,” Lucy said proudly. “It’s my secret place. Isn’t it nice?”

“It is indeed,” I agreed. “What do you do here?”

“Mostly I just sit and think. Sometimes I eat a sandwich.”

“Do you invite many guests?”

She looked at me shyly. “You’re the first.”

“I’m honored,” I said. “When you come here to think, what do you think about?”

I wasn’t trying to pump the child, you know; just making conversation I hoped would interest her. I know she interested me. I thought her alert and knowledgeable beyond her years.

She considered my question. “Well, sometimes I come here when things get noisy at home.”

“Noisy?”

She looked away. “They start shouting. That scares me. I’m afraid they’ll kill each other.”

“I don’t think so, Lucy. Grown-ups have different opinions and occasionally they begin arguing and their voices get louder.”

“Then they send me out of the room,” she said. “They always say, ‘Little pitchers have big ears.’ I don’t think my ears are so big, do you?”

“Of course not. You have beautiful ears. It’s just a saying, like ‘Children should be seen and not heard.’ I bet you’ve been told that one, too.”

She stared at me in astonishment. “How did you know?”

“I told you I know everything. Lucy, I’ve enjoyed your company and I thank you for showing me your secret place. But I’ve got to get back to the house and go to work.”

“What kind of work?”

“I’m preparing a catalog of your grandfather’s library.”

“What’s a catalog?”

“A list of all the books he owns.”

“There’s an awful lot of them.”

“There certainly are. That’s why I’ve got to begin. Would you like to come back with me?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll just sit here and think.”

I nodded and started away.

“Archy,” she called, and I turned back. “Will you be my friend?” she asked.

I said, “That would make me very happy.”

“What we could do sometime,” she said, suddenly excited, “is have a little picnic here. Zeke will make us some sandwiches.”

“That sounds like fun,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

I left her then. Curious child. Lonely child.

I emerged from the wooded area and stood a moment on the back lawn, examining the Forsythe mansion. I had been correct in describing it to my father as a castle. I have never seen such an excess of turrets, battlements, parapets, and embrasures. All that hideous pile of stone lacked was a moat and drawbridge. The whole thing looked as if the architect had expected the Visigoths to descend on the Town of Palm Beach at any moment.

The rear entrance to the Forsythes’ granite shack consisted of double doors. The inner was solidly planked and fitted with a stout lock. That portal was wide open. The exterior door, closed, was merely a screen in an aluminum frame.

Although Mr. Forsythe had granted me permission to come and go as I pleased, I thought it best to announce my arrival and so I rapped lightly on the jamb of the screen. No response. I thought that odd since I could hear a muted conversation within. I knocked more vigorously. Still no answer, but I became aware that the volume of the dialogue was rising.