McNally's Caper (6 page)

I was saved from replying when the bedroom door opened and the paunchy doctor came out carrying his black satchel.

“You may go in now, Mr. Forsythe,” he said. “But stay only a few minutes and try not to disturb the patient.”

Griswold nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

“How is Mrs. Forsythe doing, sir?” I asked the physician.

He looked at me. “I am Dr. Cedric P. Pursglove,” he said haughtily, and I wondered if that middle P. stood for Popinjay. “And who might you be?” he demanded.

I was tempted to answer that I might be Peter the Great but, sadly, I was not. “Archibald McNally,” I told him. “My law firm represents the Forsythes.”

Of course he immediately assumed I was an attorney and I didn’t disabuse him. I mean there was no point in confessing I was merely a scullion in the McNally & Son kitchen.

“From a legal point of view,” he said in such a pompous manner that I had a terrible urge to goose him, just to see him leap, dignity shattered, “—from a legal point of view this distressing matter should be reported at once to the proper authorities.”

“I so advised the senior Mr. Forsythe,” I informed him.

“Wise counsel,” he said as if pronouncing a benediction. “I further recommend a police physician be called to examine the patient and perhaps take photographs.”

I was startled. “Why should that be necessary, sir?”

“The contusions caused by the attempted strangulation are obvious on the neck of the intended victim. But there are other wounds of a superficial nature that might prove significant.”

He spoke of his patient as if she were a laboratory specimen. This doctor, I decided, had all the bedside manner of Jack the Ripper.

“What kind of wounds?” I asked him.

“Deep scratches and a few small, open cuts on the neck.”

“Have you any idea what caused them?”

“I am not a forensic pathologist,” he said crossly, “but it is my firm opinion that they were made by long fingernails.”

I stared at him, shocked. “Dr. Pursglove, are you implying that Mrs. Forsythe’s assailant was a woman?”

“It is, I think, a reasonable assumption,” he said at his pontifical best—or worst. “And there is contributing evidence. It is no simple task to strangle a human being, particularly one as young and vigorous as the patient. It would require considerable physical strength.”

“And that is an added indication her attacker was a woman—she was rendered unconscious but not killed?”

He nodded with grim assurance. “It is my belief that if the strangler had been a man Mrs. Forsythe would now be deceased.”

I
RECLAIMED MY YELLOW
slicker and left the Forsythe home without speaking further to any of the inhabitants. Although my name is Archy, let me be frank: I departed in unseemly haste because I did not wish to be on the premises when Sgt. Al Rogoff arrived. His accusations, I well knew, would come later. And better later than sooner.

I arrived home to find my father and mother, Madelaine, in the living room moodily inspecting an inconsequential puddle on the parquet floor. It had been caused by the fierce rain leaking in under French doors to our small flagstoned terrace. My parents were tsk-tsking in unison.

I told them what had occurred at the Forsythes’, and they were both stunned.

“How dreadful,” mother said, putting a trembling knuckle to her lips. “Prescott, is there anything we can do?”

“Have the police been notified?” father asked me.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “After I persuaded the senior Mr. Forsythe. I do think you should be there during the police investigation and questioning.”

“You’re quite right, Archy,” he said. “I’ll go at once. Maddie, where did I leave my umbrella?”

I waited until he had been adequately outfitted in raincoat, rain hat, and rubbers, and equipped with a bumbershoot large enough to shelter four close friends. He departed in his Lexus and I moved into his study to use the phone. I called Connie Garcia.

“Thank you for phoning last night,” she said coldly, “as you so sincerely promised.”

“Sorry about that, dear,” I said. “We had a tremendous flood in the living room—the rain was gushing in under the French doors to the terrace—and I was busy with mop and bucket for hours. Listen, how about lunch at the Pelican?”

“Today?” she said. “Are you mad? It’s still pouring and I’ve just washed my hair and have no intention of taking a step outside.”

“Ah, what a disappointment,” I said. “Oh, by the way, Connie, you mentioned that Geraldine Forsythe had been blindsided by an unscrupulous polo player. You don’t happen to recall his name, do you?”

She was silent a moment. “Sorry,” she said finally, “I just can’t remember it—if I ever knew.”

“Oh, well, it’s not important,” I lied. “I’ll buzz you tomorrow and if the weather has cleared by then perhaps we can have a nosh.”

“Sounds good to me, Archy. I could do with a bowl of chili to chase my chilly.”

We chatted a few more minutes about this and that, and she was in a sparky mood when we rang off. Connie does have her snits but usually they are not of long duration. Unfortunately while they last they sometimes result in physical assaults on the McNally carcass. But infidelity, like all delights, has its price.

I then tried my favorite chronicler of Palm Beach turpitude. I knew Lolly Spindrift worked on Saturdays preparing his gossip column for the Sunday edition of his paper. Naturally he would demand a newsworthy disclosure in return for the information I wanted but I thought I could finesse that.

“Hi, darling,” he said chirpily. “Don’t tell me you called to remark that it’s great weather for ducks. If I hear that once more today I’ll scream.”

“Actually, Lol,” I said, “I phoned to invite you to lunch. How about Bice? We’ll have a nice salad with a side order of quid pro quo.”

“Oh-ho,” he said, “it’s tattle time, is it? I’d love to, doll, but I just can’t. I’m chained to this sadistic word processor and it won’t turn me loose until my copy is complete. What have you got for me? I hope it’s something juicy. I need a final item that’ll cause a splash or my devoted readers will think old Lolly is losing his edge.”

“This will cause a splash,” I promised, “but you’ll have to write it as a question because I don’t know the answer.”

“All right, all right,” he said impatiently. “Half my scoops are phrased as questions. It’s a great way to avoid libel suits. Let’s have it.”

“Quote: ‘What were the police doing at the Griswold Forsythe mansion early Saturday morning? Rumor hath it that there have been dark doings in that haunted castle.’ Unquote. How does that sound, Lol?”

“A doozy,” he said immediately. “A smash finish for the column. But is it for real?”

“Have I ever stiffed you?”

“No, you’ve been true-blue, sweetie. But why do I have the feeling you’re not telling me everything you know?”

“It’s everything, Lol,” I assured him. “If I learn more you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

“I better,” he warned, “or you’ll go on my S-list. You do know what that is, don’t you?”

“I can guess,” I said. “Now here’s what I need: A few years ago Geraldine Forsythe, the unmarried daughter, reportedly had a thing going with a polo player. Apparently he treated her in a most ungentlemanly manner including nicking her for a sizable sum. Question: Do you know the name of the knave?”

Lolly laughed. “I don’t even have to consult my private file. It so happens I hoped to start a thing with that hulk myself but it came to naught. It wasn’t that he was unwilling to swing, but he was suffering from a severe case of the shorts and was looking for a fatter bankroll than mine. I heard later that he had latched onto Geraldine. His name is Timothy Cussack.”

“Cussack?” I said and smote my brow with an open palm. “I should have guessed. He was cashiered from the Pelican Club a year ago for nonpayment of his bar tabs. Is he still playing polo?”

“Heavens, no! He fell off a horse and broke a bone. His fetlock or pastern or something silly like that.”

“And what’s he doing now, Lol—do you know?”

“The last I heard he was working as a trainer at a horse farm out near Wellington.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Interesting—but not very. Thanks for the poop, Lol, and keep defending the public’s inalienable right to know.”

“Up yours as well, Priapus,” he said, and I hung up laughing. Outrageous man!

My next move might have been to learn the name of Mrs. Constance Forsythe’s horse farm out near Wellington and determine if she was employing the man who had betrayed her daughter. But I thought additional research was required first.

I donned my oilskin again and set out for the Pelican Club in mother’s station wagon. The rain had not lessened but at least the wind had lost its intensity and I was able to navigate the flooded roads successfully. The vehicle I was driving, I suddenly realized, was older than I, and I hoped when I was its age I might be as stalwart and dependable.

As I suspected it would be, the Pelican Club was deserted on such an indecent day. Only the staff was present, with Mr. Simon Pettibone behind the bar watching a rerun of “Dynasty” on his little TV set. He looked up with amazement when I entered.

“Mr. McNally,” he said, “you braved the elements to honor us with your presence?”

“Thirst will drive a man to desperate measures,” I replied, swinging aboard a barstool. “What do you recommend to banish the blues, Mr. Pettibone? I plan to have only one so I suggest it be muscular.”

“A negroni will provide needed warmth and nourishment. But only one,” he warned. “For it is a potion to be respected.”

“As well I know,” I said, “from sad experience. Very well, one negroni, Mr. Pettibone. And if I insist on a second I advise you to summon the gendarmes.”

I took one sip of the ambrosial concoction he set before me and suddenly the rain ceased, the sun shone, and Joan Blondell and I planned a weekend at Biarritz. Not literally, of course, but that’s the effect a negroni can have on an impressionable youth.

“Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “do you recall an ex-member named Timothy Cussack?”

“I do indeed,” he said promptly. “A welsher.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I don’t believe I ever met him. What kind of a chap was he?”

“Oozy.”

“And what precisely did he ooze?”

“Personality,” Mr. Pettibone said. “Charm. Too much, and so it oozed.”

“Ah,” I said, “a trenchant observation. I’ve heard him described as a hulk. Large, is he?”

“Oh yes. And handsome in a meanish kind of way, as if he might enjoy kicking a dog.”

“Doesn’t sound like a sterling character.”

“No, that he is not.”

“A scoundrel?”

Mr. Pettibone considered a moment. “I do believe he’s working up to it,” he said. “Or down.”

“What do you suppose drives him?” I asked.

“Mr. McNally, some people just have a natural talent for meanness. I think that may be true of Timothy Cussack. And also, of course, he was perpetually short of funds.”

I nodded. “As Shaw once remarked, ‘The lack of money is the root of all evil.’ ”

“I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Shaw,” Pettibone said solemnly, “but obviously he was a man of wisdom.”

I thanked him for his assistance and finished my drink. (Take note: only one.) I then drove home in a negroni-bemused mood. I was accumulating additional bits and pieces of information but to what purpose I could not have said. The Forsythe saga was beginning to resemble one of those children’s puzzles in which numbered dots are connected in sequence to form a picture. But in this case most of the dots were unnumbered—or missing.

At dinner that evening my father commented that the police questioning of the Forsythe family and staff had been brief and inconclusive. Everyone had eagerly cooperated but nothing new had been learned. Sgt. Rogoff had stated that his investigation would continue. I could believe that; tenacity is his middle name. (Not really, of course; it’s Irving.)

Later that night I was upstairs making desultory scribblings in my journal when the sergeant phoned, as I knew he inevitably would.

“You know,” he started, “I’m beginning to see us as Laurel and Hardy. I’m the fat one who always says, ‘Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into.’ ”

“Al,” I said, “I swear I had nothing to do with it except recommend that the police be notified.”

“But you told Griswold Forsythe to hand me the squeal, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “But only because I knew he demanded discretion.”

“Discretion?” He honked a bitter laugh. “It’s hard to be discreet, sonny boy, when someone’s tried to choke a woman to death.”

“I know you’ll try to keep a lid on it,” I said soothingly. “How did you make out at the Kingdom of Oz?”

“The Forsythe place? Hey, that’s a creepy joint, isn’t it? As damp inside as it is out. It’s a wonder they all don’t have webs between their toes. Archy, it’s another NKN case—nobody knows nothing. And don’t tell me that’s a double negative; I still like it.”

“Did you talk to the family physician, Dr. Pursglove?”

“Oh yeah,” Al said. “He’s Mr. Congeniality, isn’t he? I called in Tom Bunion from the ME’s office. He was delighted to come out in this monsoon, as you can well imagine. Anyway, he more or less confirms what Pursglove says: the attacker was probably a woman. So where does that leave us?”

“Well, it certainly narrows the list of suspects to the women who were in the house at the time, doesn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” Rogoff argued. “It could have been an outsider.”

“Al, they’re supposed to have a state-of-the-art security system.”

“Doesn’t mean a thing,” he said. “It can be switched off, can’t it? As it is every morning. The control box is in a pantry off the kitchen. Anyone in the place could have thrown the switch and allowed someone to come in without making the balloon go up. By the way, what were you doing there before I was called in?”

“The Forsythes are clients of McNally and Son. The senior Griswold was in a panic this morning after they found Mrs. Sylvia. My father was busy so I went over.”

“Uh-huh,” Rogoff said. “And what were your notes doing on the library desk? I recognized your scrawl handwriting.”