McNally's Caper (29 page)

“Yes, I want to talk to you,” I said stiffly. “But not if you persist in acting like a wounded child. There’s already one in this house. If you feel you can converse like a thinking adult, then we’ll talk. If not, I want nothing more to do with you.”

He backed off at once. “Well, yeah, okay,” he said grudgingly. “Come on in.”

We went into the library. This time I took the swivel chair and kept the wide desk between us. It gave me the superior position, you see: the magistrate deciding the fate of the accused in the dock. He was not comfortable in the armchair and I was happy to see it.

“Let’s get to it,” I said briskly. “First of all, my relationship with Mrs. Sylvia Forsythe is none of your damned business.”

“It’s got nothing to do with me,” he said sullenly.

“It shouldn’t,” I said, “but apparently it does. Mrs. Sylvia is a free spirit, utterly independent. She selects her friends and will continue to do so as her whims dictate. I have been fortunate. You have not. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I know where you’re coming from.”

“Tony,” I said, softening my voice, “give up this impossible dream. Or endure endless misery.”

He was silent, head bowed.

“And besides,” I added, “you have a young lady madly in love with you.”

He raised his eyes to look at me. “Who?” he said.

“Fern Bancroft.”

“She’s a fruitcake,” he said scornfully.

“She may or may not be,” I said, “but don’t take her love lightly. She thinks you a man of value.”

His laugh was a snort. “Oh sure,” he said, “after she heard I’m going to get a bundle from Forsythe’s will.”

It angered me. “That’s a lie,” I said hotly, “and you know it. Fern had a yen for you long before Mr. Forsythe was killed. That’s why she tried to strangle Mrs. Sylvia. She wanted to remove her rival.”

His eyes widened. “How do you know all this?” he asked, and I found his awe gratifying.

“I see all and I know all,” I said—a slight exaggeration. “But please, try to forget your infatuation with Mrs. Sylvia—it can only lead to tragedy—and try to make a new life. With or without Fern Bancroft. The choice is yours, and I wouldn’t have the temerity to advise you.”

“Without,” he said. “I have plans and she’s not part of them.”

“I think that’s regrettable,” I told him, “but it’s your decision to make. Which leads me into the second topic I want to discuss. Your mother said you and Timothy Cussack are planning to open a restaurant-bar, a disco kind of place.”

He stared at me, startled. “She shouldn’t have told you that,” he said wrathfully.

“Why not, Tony? Your mother’s main concern—perhaps her only concern—is your welfare. She doesn’t want to see you risking your bequest with a man whose reputation is somewhat flimsy, to say the least. He does have a police record, you know. All I’m asking is that you consider very, very carefully before investing all your legacy in an enterprise with a man of doubtful probity who apparently doesn’t have a nickel to his name.”

That lit the fuse. He lurched to his feet and leaned far over the desk, face twisted with fury. For one awful moment I feared he might launch himself at me with designs on my jugular. I arose hastily to my feet and retreated a step.

“You don’t know a thing about it, you lousy snoop,” he said, voice crackling. “For your information, we’re going in as equal partners. I’m putting up half the money and Tim is putting up the other half. So don’t tell me he’s tapped out. And don’t try to scare me with that police record stuff. Sure, he’s been picked up for some piddling little things but he’s never done time. You make him sound like a master criminal.”

“No,” I said, “he’s not that.” But my irony was wasted.

He straightened up and drew a deep breath. His rage was fading but there was cold venom in his stare. “Just butt out of my life,” he said harshly. “I don’t need you giving me advice—or my mother or anyone else. Now I don’t have to answer to anyone.”

“I wish you the best of luck, Tony,” I said and I meant it, knowing he was doomed. It was presumptuous of me, I know, but I had him pegged as a loser.

“Yeah,” he said, whirled around, and stalked out.

It had been a ticklish confrontation but it had served its purpose: I had connected another pair of those unnumbered dots. The final picture was almost complete. Not obscene but nasty, definitely nasty.

I drove home wondering how many more times I’d be required to visit the Forsythe fun house. Once, I reckoned, or perhaps twice. Then I intended never again to set foot in that mausoleum. If I wanted to see Lucy—and I hoped our friendship would not languish—I could always find her in the Secret Place. I now appreciated what a refuge that was for the poor lass.

I skipped an ocean swim and went directly to my aerie, thinking Sgt. Al Rogoff might phone. He didn’t and I had no wish to bug him; I was certain he was carrying out his part of our scheme. I could have worked on my journal but postponed that chore, praying my next entry would be the last in the Forsythe epic.

Instead I sat at my battered desk and neither smoked nor imbibed strong drink. Proud of me? I was. But I did ruminate heavily, reviewing all the tangles of greed and passion that were finally being unraveled and the role I had played in their unsnarling.

I make no claims to being a Great Brain, mind you. Ask me what a quark is, for instance, and I’ll probably reply it’s the quack of a ruptured duck. No, it was not sharp intelligence, reason, and logic that enabled me to discover what the dotty Forsythes were up to.

If the truth be told—and I
must
tell it—the only reason I have achieved a modicum of success in my discreet inquiries is that I am just as loopy as the miscreants I investigate. There’s an affinity, no doubt about it. I think, feel, and act as they do. And so I’m one step ahead of the gendarmes who have studied human behavior in such scholarly tomes as
Practical Homicide Scene Procedure.

What I’m trying to say is that I’m just as guilty of daffiness as the Forsythes or any other crackpots. Are not my emotional entanglements, outré dress, and my inordinate fondness for frog legs meunière proof of that? But who’s complaining? Not I, since my outlandish conduct may well be an essential aid in the profession to which I have been relegated.

The cream of the jest: I began this narrative with a few snide comments on how goofiness is engulfing the world. I end with the rueful realization that I suffer from the same disorder. Oh well, you told me it takes one to know one.

I was dressing for the family cocktail hour when finally my phone rang and I grabbed it up immediately.

Rogoff was exultant. “It worked!” he shouted. “He’s running!”

“Banzai!” I cried. “Running where?”

“South. Right now he’s on I-95. I’ve got an unmarked car on his tail. Two good men. They won’t lose him.”

“Where do you figure he’s heading?”

“Who the hell knows? Maybe the Keys eventually. It’s easy to hole up down there. Anyway we’ve alerted Broward and Dade. I don’t think he’ll keep going all night. He’s driving a pearly blue Taurus wagon, easy to spot.”

“What set him off, Al?”

“As soon as we got the warrant we tossed Suite 309 at the Michelangelo Motel. What a lush layout that place is! We found the book right where you said it’d be. What’s the name?”

“Poe’s
Tamerlane
,” I said.

“Yeah. Listen, Archy, can we prove it was stolen from Forsythe?”

“It was on the list of missing property he gave my father. If we can’t locate the original list I’m sure pops will testify Griswold Forsythe told him the book had been taken.”

“Good enough. We checked the partial prints on Forsythe’s wallet against the guy’s file. The match is a good possibility but not enough to convict.”

“Al, the man has so much at stake, why would he lift the wallet for a measly couple of hundred dollars and endanger himself?”

“Because he’s a cheap crook, that’s why. Probably figured that since he was croaking Forsythe he might as well glom on to a few easy bucks. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

“All right, you found the book in his bedroom and grabbed it. When did he start running?”

“We made certain we left the place looking like it had been searched. And besides, I’m sure the desk clerk told him we had been there. Naturally I put a stakeout on the motel. He showed up about three o’clock in a helluva hurry. Went inside and the stakeout alerted me. I scrambled over there in time to see him come out with luggage: a duffel bag, valise, and what looked like a rifle or shotgun case.”

“Oh-oh,” I said.

“Yeah,” Rogoff said. “My exact words. Anyway, he took off like the proverbial bat outta hell with my tail car right behind him. I’m back in the palace now, listening to radio reports, marking his progress on a map, and trying to figure when and where we can take him.”

“Do you have an arrest warrant?”

“Come on, Archy, talk sense. We’ve got probable cause coming out our ears.”

“Did you have a chance to check the pawnbroker?”

“Yep,” he said happily. “The pawner was just who you figured. Tomorrow we’ll start covering all the local hockshops. Maybe we can find the other loot. Something I need to know: will the three Forsythe women be available tomorrow?”

“As far as I know. Geraldine is leaving for Europe on Wednesday, but the other two haven’t mentioned anything about getting out of town. Al, I’m going to be in all night. Will you phone me when you catch up with the fugitive? I don’t care what hour it is. Wake me up if you have to.”

“My pleasure,” Sgt. Rogoff said and hung up.

I was late getting to the cocktail hour and father raised an eyebrow but made no comment. Mother was in a bubbly mood because one of her begonias had just won second prize at a garden show, and she had the framed certificate to prove it. We congratulated her and the family went down to a fine dinner of broiled red snapper.

After coffee and dessert (pecan pie with coconut ice cream) I started upstairs but was stopped in the hallway by my father.

“Developments?” he asked tersely.

“Yes, sir,” I said and gave him an abbreviated account of what I had just learned from Al Rogoff. The news seemed to depress him.

“It appears your presumptions were correct, Archy,” he said sadly.

I didn’t reply.

“Keep me informed,” was all he added, went into his study and closed the door. He would, I guessed, have a glass of port, smoke a pipe, and resume doughtily working his way through the six zillion words of Charles Dickens. I wished him well. I often thought he read those plump volumes not so much for enjoyment as from a sense of duty. One of these days I’m going to introduce him to Thorne Smith.

I continued upstairs, and since I did not expect an uninterrupted night’s slumber I decided a short nap would be in order. I kicked off my loafers and lay down atop the coverlet. It had scarcely been a half-hour since dinner, and I know doctors advise against sleeping on a full stomach. So I slept on my back.

I had intended it to be a brief doze but when the phone shrilled, I roused, glanced at the bedside clock, and was shocked to see it was almost one
A.M.

“I hope I woke you up,” Rogoff said.

“You did,” I admitted.

“Good,” he said. “Our pigeon’s gone to roost. Went east at Deerfield. Got onto A1A and turned south along the beach. Checked into a sleazebag motel across the Hillsboro Inlet. I’m on my way, phoning from Boca. When I get there I’m going to call in the locals for backup. I figure we’ll take him around four or five in the morning. He should be smoggy with sleep by then.”

“What’s the address of the motel?” I asked.

“Archy!” he said sharply. “Stay home. This is cops’ work.”

I uttered a rude expletive. “Al, he’s
my
pigeon. I did most of the work; I want to be in on the kill.”

“Well, yeah,” he said gruffly, “I guess you rate. Just keep out of the way. Agreed?”

“Positively,” I said, and he gave me the address.

I looked out the window and it seemed to me a fine mist was falling. I pulled on a black nylon jacket and stepped downstairs as softly as I could. But not quietly enough. The door of my parents’ bedroom opened and my father accosted me. He was wearing Irish linen pajamas but no matter what that man wore it looked like a three-piece suit.

“Where are you going?” he asked in a low voice.

“Father, they’ve got him cornered. In a motel south of Hillsboro.”

He stared at me a long moment. I knew he wanted to say, “Be careful,” but he didn’t—which is why I love him. He just nodded and went back into the bedroom.

I was right about that mist; it wasn’t heavy but it was persistent—and warm. I had a plaid golf cap stuffed in the pocket of my jacket. I donned that but it wasn’t long before it was soaked through and flopped down on my ears.

The road south was slick and the infrequent street lamps were dimmed and haloed by the mist. I drove cautiously, having no desire to skid off the corniche onto the beach. Traffic at that hour was mercifully light, but it still took almost two hours to drive through the Hillsboro Mile and across the inlet.

I slowed, trying to glimpse numbers on motels and stores in the strip malls. I finally found the address Rogoff had given me: just your average single-level motel of perhaps twenty units. It looked like a hot-pillow joint to me, and I reckoned the neon sign outside showed
VACANCY
since the place opened.

I saw no evidence of police presence, but about a half mile down A1A toward Pompano Beach I came upon a parked collection of official vehicles that looked like a cops’ convention. There were squads from Pompano, Broward County, an ambulance, a red fire rescue truck, and two cars from Palm Beach. I pulled up near this jumble and got out of the Miata slowly and warily. My approach had been noted and immediately three uniformed heavies moved toward me, hands on their holsters.

I was happy when Sgt. Al hustled up and waved them away. He was as soaked as I but grinned when he saw the sodden cap plastered to my skull.

“You look like you’re wearing an unbaked pizza,” he said.

“Al, I passed the motel but I didn’t see any police cars. I’d have thought you’d have the place boxed in.”