McNally's Caper (23 page)

I turned sideways to look at him. The man had a profile as grim as an Easter Island statue. I took a sip of my vodka gimlet. Gladdie had missed on that one: too puckery by far.

Since Tim was silent and seemed to be awaiting a reply to his inexplicable opener, I said, “What’s it all about?”

He may have been a lowlife as Mrs. Nora Bledsoe had claimed but he was a dynamite salesman: manner serious and intent, eyes steady, voice lowered to give the impression he was revealing a valuable confidence. “You know Tony Bledsoe?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Tony and I are close,” he said earnestly. “We party around together. He’s a lively one, Tony is, when he gets out of that Forsythe zoo. He’s an okay pal but he’s got one fault: he’s a bad drunk. Gets mean and wants to take on the whole world. Confidential?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Well, the reason I’m telling you this,” Cussack went on, “is that Tony’s got a grudge against you.”

“He does?” I said. “I can’t think why. I’ve never offended him.”

He signaled Gladdie for a refill—for himself, not for both of us. It was just as well; I wanted to keep the McNally brain (both halves) clear and undulled by strong drink. I had the distinct impression that I was being manipulated but for what purpose I could not guess.

Cussack took a gulp of his fresh jolt. “It’s Sylvia Forsythe,” he said, leaning toward me and lowering his voice even more. “Tony has eyes for her but she won’t give him a tumble. I told him why: Sylvia can’t stand men who try to put the make on her. She doesn’t want to be hustled. But treat her like you couldn’t care less and she’s a pushover.” He paused to laugh shortly. It was not a pleasant sound. “Ask me,” he added. “I know.”

I said nothing. I detest men who brag about their conquests. Definitely not pukka.

“That’s why Tony hates your guts,” Cussack continued. “He knows you’re making it with Sylvia and it’s driving him right up the wall. I’ve tried to calm him down, tell him she’s just a chippy.”

“I don’t think she’s a chippy,” I said.

“No?” he said. “Well, whatever. Here’s the problem: Tony is dead serious. I mean the poor guy is truly, madly in love with her and told her so. That turned her off. Some women are like that, you know.”

“I suppose,” I said. I thought he might possibly be correct in his analysis of Sylvia Forsythe. He was a man eager to exploit the weaknesses in women but utterly incapable of recognizing their strengths.

“Sure,” he said. “I mean what does Tony have to offer? He’s a fucking servant—right? Good for a roll in the sack if she feels like it. But now he’s driving her nuts and talking about them taking off together. And all the time she’s married to a rich cat so why should she even listen to this idiot? That’s the way things were when you appeared on the scene. You’ve been spending a lot of time at the Forsythes’ lately—am I correct?”

“Yes, I’ve been given the job of cataloging the books in their library.”

“Uh-huh,” Cussack said. “But all Bledsoe can see is that you and Sylvia are having fun and games. And like I said, he’s stewing. The reason I’m telling you all this is to warn you how he feels. As much as I like the guy I know he has a ferocious temper and I really think he might go off the deep end. I’ve seen him completely unwired after a night of boozing. What you do about it is your problem; I’m not going to make any suggestions. But you’ve always treated me fair and square, and I just thought you should know about the situation.”

“Thank you for your concern,” I said, trying hard to keep any trace of irony out of my voice. “I’ll certainly think about my best course of action.”

“You do that,” Cussack said. “The guy can be a killer if you push him too far. And I do mean
killer
.” He swung about and began casing the crowded nightclub, sizing up the possibilities (unescorted women) no doubt. “There’s someone I’ve got to see,” he said abruptly and drained his glass. “Thanks for the shots.”

I wasn’t aware I had offered to pay for his drinks; he had invited me. But there wasn’t much I could do about it, was there?

Gladdie took my money with a sympathetic smile. “He’s a card, isn’t he?” she said.

I agreed. But whether Timothy Cussack was a joker or a knave I did not yet know.

I drove home in a legal fashion utterly flummoxed by Cussack’s reasons for requesting that brief meeting. He may have been completely honest and sincere, of course, wanting only to warn me of Tony Bledsoe’s enmity toward me and his potential for violence. But I suspected Cussack had more cunning motives. I thought him a deep man—deep in the sense that while his actions might seem logical to him, they were obscure to others.

Mrs. Nora Bledsoe had also called him a conniver. I was beginning to respect the wisdom of that lady.

I had the small marc I had promised myself, listened to “Goodnight, Irene” through earphones, and lapsed into a Scarlett O’Hara mode: “I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

I was true to my resolve, for when I awoke on Thursday morning I sat on the edge of my bed a few moments, still dopey with sleep, and thought again about that weird conversation with Timothy Cussack. He had casually mentioned he had enjoyed the favors of Sylvia Forsythe. If that was mere braggadocio, and I suspected it was, it helped solve part of the puzzle that had been bedeviling me. Now, if I did not see a blinding light at the end of the tunnel, I did glimpse a flickering candle flame.

Cussack had spoken of the “Forsythe zoo.” A more apt metaphor, I decided, was that all the denizens of that cobwebby manse were playing the kids’ game of Snap the Whip. Griswold Forsythe II had been on the tag end—and he had been spun off.

I went through my usual morning routine and, remembering my noontime lunch with Connie Garcia, I dug out my puce beret, which always puts her in a felicitous mood—after her hysterical laughter has calmed. Then I clattered downstairs to a late breakfast with Jamie Olson, who was kind enough to scramble me a brace of eggs with sliced shallots sautéed in butter. O cholesterol, where is thy sting?

It was over our coffee refills that I asked if he was aware Sheila Hayworth was leaving the Forsythes’ employ.

“Yep,” he said. “I heard.”

That didn’t surprise me. In the Palm Beach milieu the servants know what is going to happen before it does.

“Taking a condo in West Palm,” I said. “Thinking of opening a lingerie shop.” Frequently, while conversing with Jamie, I found myself mimicking his elliptical speech pattern.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Costs money to open a shop,” I observed.

He looked at me. “The boy,” he said. “They took up again after the old man passed.”

It was gratifying but a mite depressing to have my suspicion confirmed. “What about the other maid?” I asked. “She seems happy enough to stay.”

“Loopy, that one,” he remarked. “Ursi says her brassiere size is larger than her IQ.”

I laughed. “That’s cruel,” I said.

“Yep,” he agreed. “Since she’s flat-chested.”

“Why do you suppose she’s staying on with the Forsythes? Needs the job?”

“Thought you knew,” he said, chewing on his pipe stem. “Talk is she’s in heat over that young butler.”

“Tony Bledsoe?”

He nodded.

“Thank you,” I said and slipped him a sawbuck.

I returned to my barrack and began scribbling furiously in my journal. There was much to be recorded for I had been neglecting my journalistic chores. As I jotted down all the tidbits I had recently collected, the pattern of what had happened and was happening in the Forsythe menagerie began to take shape. When I clapped on the puce beret and set out for my luncheon date I had a theory that put numbers on most of those dots. And what a nasty picture they formed.

I was seated at the bar of the Pelican Club, enjoying a vodka gimlet and chatting idly with Mr. Simon Pettibone when Connie came sailing in. Her glossy black hair swung free and she was wearing a slip dress of some shimmery stuff in a soft butterscotch color. Be still, my heart!

She waltzed over, gave me a peck, and looked accusingly at my empty glass.

“You started without me,” she protested.

“My dear,” I said loftily, “I assumed you were aware that the universe is composed of five elements: earth, air, fire, water, and vodka.”

“I thought vodka
was
firewater,” she said.

“Not a bad joke as jokes go,” I told her. “And as jokes go, it went. What’ll you have?”

“Food,” she said. “And lots of it. I’m famished.”

“Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “I regret I must leave you now. I am faced with the problem of a famished lady.”

“Such is the way of the world,” he said philosophically.

Priscilla seated us at our favorite corner table in the dining area. She seemed in a churlish mood.

“Pris,” Connie said, “is anything wrong?”

“My guy-of-the-month,” Ms. Pettibone said grumpily. “He’s turning out to be a first-class louse.”

“Welcome to the club,” Connie said, looking at me. “I know exactly how you feel.”

“Food!” I cried heartily. “Pris, we’re in dire need of nourishment. Starving, in fact. What’s Leroy pushing today?”

“Humongous club sandwiches on whole wheat buns. With grilled chicken breast, Swiss, bacon, lettuce, tomato, and mayo.”

“That’s for me,” Connie said happily. “With a glass of chardonnay.”

“I’ll go along,” I said to her, “but only if you promise not to look at me while I’m eating. It’s going to be messy.”

“Try not to dribble,” she urged.

The sandwiches were as good as described and I didn’t dribble too much. It’s a bit twee to eat a club sandwich with fork and knife—don’t you think? We were halfway through our lunch, gossiping of this and that, when I said, “Listen, dear, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”

She stopped nibbling on a curl of bacon to stare at me. “Oh?” she said. “And what is that?”

“Well, you know I’m involved in the investigation of the murder of Griswold Forsythe. Not officially of course; just trying to lend what assistance I can to Sergeant Al Rogoff, who’s a good cop but a little lost when it comes to Palm Beach anthropology. I mean he’s just not plugged in. Anyway, when this whole foofaraw started you mentioned that the daughter, Geraldine Forsythe, had been taken over the jumps by a former polo player.”

Connie said nothing.

“You were right,” I went on. “His name is Timothy Cussack and your tip may prove to be significant. Now what I need to know is exactly why they split up. Do you think you could find out?”

“Why are you so interested in Geraldine Forsythe?” she asked suspiciously. “Is there hanky-panky going on between you two?”

I laughed merrily. “Perhaps a soupçon of hanky,” I said, “but definitely no panky. How about it? Will you try to find out?”

“Maybe,” my dearest one said. “What’s in it for me?”

I sighed. “Connie, I do believe you’ve contracted the quid pro quo syndrome from Lady Horowitz. Very well, what do you want in return—assuming you can obtain the information I seek?”

“A weekend in Freeport,” she said.

“Done,” I said promptly. “Get me what I need and we’ll be off for two days of unbridled delight. Plus bowls of that marvelous conch chowder.”

“Okay,” she said happily. “I’ll try.”

We finished our lunch, I signed the tab, and we moved outside to the sunbaked parking lot. I donned my puce beret and, as expected, Connie collapsed with guffaws.

“It’s
you
!” she screamed. “Oh lordy, is that hat ever
you
!”

We exchanged a smeary kiss and, still giggling, she drove away in her new green Camry. That woman changes cars more frequently than I change my unmentionables. I stood there a moment after she departed, pondering my next move. I had a grand theory about the Forsythe affair and sooner or later I’d have to put it to the test. But that scared me; if I flunked I’d be up sc without a p.

But buoyed by my vodka gimlet, chardonnay, and calorie-stuffed lunch I decided to go for broke. So I headed for the pawnshop of the urbane Mr. Simeon Gravlax. I found him in good health, his sly smile intact—the soul of amused curiosity as if the world had been created for his enjoyment.

“Sir,” I said, “several days ago we had a small transaction during which I paid to ask you to approve or reject my description of the person who pawned the Benin bronze. I lost.”

“I remember, sir,” he said, nodding vigorously. “A most interesting negotiation. And profitable, I might add.”

I withdrew a fifty-dollar bill from my wallet. “May I try again?” I asked.

A claw reached out and snatched the half-yard from my grasp. “Delighted,” he said.

I then delineated in great detail the person I now believed had pawned the work of art stolen from Griswold Forsythe II. Mr. Gravlax listened to my recital closely.

When I had finished he smiled and reached up to pat my shoulder. “My dear sir,” he said, “you are absolutely correct.”

What a rush that was! I wanted to do a small entrechat but controlled myself. “Thank you, sir,” I said huskily. “You have made me a very happy man.”

“As you have me,” he said. “It was a dull day until you arrived. Dealing with poverty as I do is not the most exhilarating of professions. Even if your business with me is concluded I hope you may stop by occasionally if only to schmooze for a few moments.”

“An honor, sir,” I said.

“A pleasure, sir,” he said.

I drove back to the beach singing another of my favorite songs—“It’s Only a Paper Moon.” They don’t write songs like that anymore. I wonder why?

It was almost four o’clock when I arrived at the Forsythe mansion which, in my own mind, I now labeled the Hôtel des Kooks. I drove around to the back and parked close to their mammoth garage. Then I headed into the greenery, hoping to find Lucy Forsythe in her Secret Place.

The young miss was there, seated on the lawn with a notebook open on her lap and pencil stub in hand. Her head was lowered, wings of silky hair hiding her face.

She looked up as I approached. “Hi, Archy,” she said. “Gee, I’m glad to see you. I thought you had forgotten all about me.”

“Nah,” I said, plumping down beside her, “not a chance. How are you, darling?”

“Okay,” she said. “Sort of. I’m writing that poem about my granddad but I’m not going to show it to you until it’s finished.”