McNally's Caper (9 page)

“I hope you can,” I said. “Mrs. Bledsoe, I notice that in a few of Mr. Forsythe’s matched sets of leather-bound books a single volume is missing. It may have been borrowed by a member of the family or staff and I intend to ask everyone to provide a list of books temporarily removed from the library. My concern is that outsiders may have had access to the shelves. Is that possible? For instance, who handles the dusting chores?”

“My son and I and the two maids do the day-to-day straightening up,” she replied. “And once a week we have a commercial cleaning service that takes care of vacuuming, washing windows, waxing the paneling and things like that. But they are never left alone. Never! We accompany them wherever they go. In addition, I make certain no bags or packages are taken from the house. I’m not saying it’s utterly impossible for one of the cleaning crew to steal something small, slip it into his pocket, and walk out with it. We don’t search them, you know. But we’ve been using the same company for years and to my knowledge we’ve never lost a thing. As for removing one or more of Mr. Forsythe’s books, I’d say that was highly unlikely.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bledsoe,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful. By the way, is your son around?”

“Not today. Anthony is off on Mondays.”

“Well, I’ll catch him another time. Perhaps he’s borrowed a book or two.”

“I doubt that,” she said dourly. “Very much.”

I started out but she called, “Mr. McNally,” and I turned back.

“I have a book in my bedroom from Mr. Forsythe’s library,” she said with a weak laugh.

“Oh?” I said. “Could you tell me the title, please. I’ll make a note of it.”

“
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
,” she said, blushing slightly.

“Excellent choice,” I told her and left. I returned to the library, musing on the vagaries of us all. I mean, who could have guessed the formidable housekeeper read Eliot? But then who would guess I enjoy listening to barbershop quartets?

I went back to my drudgery for the nonce, having nothing better to do. You know, the surprising thing was that most of the books showed evidence of having been read. The pages were cut, some were dog-eared, and a few bore lightly penciled comments in the margins—such profound judgments as “Well putt” and “Rubbish!”

I simply could not believe the Griswold Forsythes II and III had read all that much. But most of the volumes had been published at least a century ago, and I could only conclude the dog-earing and notations had been made by Forsythe forebears, perhaps including the lady who had committed suicide and whose ghost was said to haunt the dungeon.

I was laboring at my cataloging chores when the library door was opened. Geraldine Forsythe entered, and I rose to receive her.

“Good afternoon, Archy,” she said.

“Good afternoon, Gerry. You’re looking perky today.”

“I feel perky,” she said. “It’s the sunshine I suppose. I brought you a list of books I’ve borrowed from the library.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering how much longer I’d have to continue this masquerade. “It will be a big help.”

She lowered herself into the leather armchair alongside the desk. She was wearing a poet’s shirt, tails dangling over rather scanty white twill shorts. She lolled back and hooked one long, tanned leg over the arm of the chair. I am not an expert on body language but even an amateur might rightfully term that pose provocative.

“How is your sister-in-law feeling?” I inquired.

“Sylvia? Oh, she’s up and about. Playing that stupid piano of hers, I expect.”

“Harpsichord,” I said gently.

“Is that what it is?” she said indifferently. “Well, she’s recovered. You haven’t seen her?”

“Today? No, I have not.”

“That’s a surprise,” she said. “Our Sylvia is not a shy one.”

I didn’t quite know how to interpret that and made no reply. The sandaled foot hanging over the chair arm began bobbing up and down which indicated, I reckoned, a certain amount of emotional perturbation.

“Archy,” she said, “do you know a man named Timothy Cussack?”

I frowned with concentration. “Cussack?” I repeated. “Sounds familiar but I don’t believe I’ve ever met him.”

“He once belonged to the Pelican Club.”

“Perhaps that’s where I heard the name. But he’s not currently a member?”

“No,” she said. “He was booted out for bouncing checks.”

“Ah,” I said, eager to hear what might be coming.

“Well,” she said, not looking at me, “he was a polo player until he got hurt. I had a thing going with him for a while but then it ended.”

I said nothing, waiting to hear how much more she would reveal.

“The reason I bring up his name,” she continued, “is that I think he may have something to do with the disappearance of my jewelry. I’m not accusing him, you understand, but Tim was always hurting for money. I just thought you might want to check up on him.”

I was silent a moment, thinking how best to handle this. “Gerry,” I said, finally, “I’ll certainly look into it, but where can I find this Cussack fellow?”

Then she turned to stare at me. “He’s working at mother’s stables. That’s a laugh, isn’t it?”

Her stare was at once defiant and challenging, and I knew she expected a reply—or at least a remark.

“Gerry,” I said softly, “is your mother aware of your previous relationship with this man?”

“Of course,” she said crossly. “Mother likes to come on tough but she’s such a softy. She gave the skunk a job because she felt sorry for him. I guess he’s a good trainer, but I was furious when I heard about it.”

“And now you feel he may be involved in the theft of your jewelry? But would he have the opportunity? Has he ever been a guest in the house? Is he a frequent visitor?”

“No,” she said, “not since we broke up. But I’m not accusing him of stealing the stuff himself. I think someone else may be taking it and giving it to Tim.”

Was I dumbfounded? You betcha. “Giving it to him?” I said. “As a gift?”

Her short laugh was ugly. “More like a payoff,” she said.

It took me half a mo to understand what she was implying.

“Are you suggesting blackmail?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “Could be. I’m just guessing, you understand. I have no evidence.”

“Supposing, just supposing, your suspicions are correct, who is the victim of the blackmail and committing the actual theft?”

She leaned forward to scratch a bare ankle. Her head was lowered and I couldn’t see her face. “My sister-in-law,” she said in a tight voice. “Sylvia goes out to the farm to ride once or twice a week. I think she and Tim have something going and she’s paying him off with my jewelry to keep his mouth shut—or maybe just in return for favors granted.”

“Gerry,” I said, “that’s a very,
very
serious accusation.”

Then she raised her head and showed me a face twisted with hurt. “It’s not an accusation. I told you I have no evidence. But it’s what I think is happening. I know Tim Cussack and I know Sylvia, and believe me it’s possible. They’re not nice people.”

“It’s a bloomin’ soap opera!” I burst out.

“Of course it is,” she readily agreed. “That’s what life is, isn’t it—a soap opera?”

“Sometimes,” I said, and then with more prescience than I knew I possessed, I added, “Until it becomes a tragedy.”

“There’s nothing tragic about this,” she said decisively. “It’s just a tawdry sitcom and I want it ended. I couldn’t care less if Sylvia wants to cheat on my brother. It’s their problem, not mine. But I don’t want to finance my sister-in-law’s fling. You understand?”

I nodded.

“And you’ll help me, Archy?”

“I’ll do what I can.”

She smiled and it made her look ten years younger. She stood up suddenly and before I had time to rise she was at my swivel chair and had slipped a warm arm about my shoulders. She leaned down, lips close to my ear.

“Oh, you’re a sweetie,” she said. “A sweet, sweet sweetie. Help me, Archy, and I’ll make it worth your while. Really I will.”

She pressed close and kissed me. Then she straightened and winked—yes, she actually winked!—and strode from the library, tanned legs flashing.

I sat behind the desk a few moments longer, reflecting that two hours spent in the Forsythe home were equivalent to a frontal lobotomy. I felt I was being reduced to their level of craziness. These were people Connie Garcia had called “dull, dull, dull,” and they were all turning out to be actors in an amateur production of
Animal Crackers.

The hell with it. I packed up and went home. The sea was too choppy for my usual afternoon swim, so I trudged upstairs to my lair. I lighted what I hoped was my first cigarette of the day (but wasn’t sure) and poured myself a small marc. Then I donned reading glasses and set to work on my journal. I had much to record since the last entry.

After almost an hour of scribbling I read my disjointed notes, observations, and conjectures. Then I read them again. And you know, I realized I had learned something that day that might prove to be extremely significant.

Surely you can guess what it was.

I
AWOKE LATE ON
Tuesday morning after having enjoyed a good night’s sleep and a dream so lubricious I cannot recount it here lest I earn the censor’s wrath—and the envy of my No. 1 pal, Binky Watrous, who complains constantly and bitterly that he can dream only of forklift trucks. I think the poor lad needs professional help.

I bounced downstairs to a deserted kitchen and fixed my own breakfast: a glass of chilled Clamato, duck pâté on a toasted bagel, and two cups of black instant. That may sound rather unusual to you but I see nothing bizarre about it. I once ate a whole baked flounder for breakfast—but that’s another story.

The weather was splendid, an instant replay of the previous day, and as I headed up the coast in my sparky chariot I felt such a surge of joie de vivre that I broke into song. I wished for an audience so many could enjoy my rendition of “Bill Bailey, Won’t You Please Come Home?”

When I pulled up to the front entrance of the Forsythe manse I saw an elegant trio lounging beneath the portico. The Griswold Forsythes, senior and junior, were wearing brass-buttoned navy blazers over white flannel slacks. And between father-in-law and husband stood Mrs. Sylvia Forsythe, obviously dressed for riding: jodhpurs and boots, an open calfskin vest over a white turtleneck sweater.

Those three moneyed people looked so well scrubbed, so insouciant and faintly bored, that I had a sudden onslaught of nostalgia for a time I never knew. I could see them posed negligently for a Pierce-Arrow ad or perhaps debating whether or not to drop in at one of Gatsby’s parties. Sleek was the word for them, the men with their hair slicked back and the woman with a cool glow. They made me feel like a lumpen.

I alighted from the Miata and Griswold III came ambling over to offer me an anodyne smile and a languid hand to shake.

“Hullo, Archy,” he said. “Ready for another go at father’s books? Making progress, are you?”

“Coming along,” I answered. “And where are you off to? Not the office surely.”

“Not today,” he said. “Father and I are going out on some fellow’s yacht.”

“Sounds like fun,” I observed.

The word seemed to offend him. “It’s business,” he said with such an air of self-importance that I wanted to feed him a knuckle sandwich. “This fellow hopes to sell us his boat. We’re considering it. Ah, here’s our wagon.”

The big Rolls-Royce, driven by Anthony Bledsoe, came purring from the back of the mansion where the five-car garage was located. The houseman parked, hopped out, and held the door open.

“See you around, Archy,” Griswold the Lesser said with a casual wave. “You and I must have a proper lunch one of these days.”

“Yes,” I said, “we must.” I was horribly tempted to add, “So we can discuss the proper lighting of nude photos.”

He climbed behind the wheel of the Rolls, his father joined him up front, and the tank pulled slowly away. Tony Bledsoe trotted back to the garage again and I joined Sylvia Forsythe.

“Hi, Archy,” she said, putting a light hand on my shoulder. “Listen, you don’t really want to spend such a scrumptious morning in that depressing library, do you?”

“Not really,” I confessed.

“Why don’t you follow me out to the stables and I’ll show you around.”

“Splendid idea,” I said.

Bledsoe brought Sylvia’s car around. It was a silver-gray Saturn, a very jazzy vehicle. He got out and held the door for her.

“Tailgate,” she called to me. “I don’t want you getting lost.”

I nodded and headed for my roadster.

“Have a good time,” Tony said, and I heard the longing in his voice.

Sylvia headed south to take the Flagler Bridge across Lake Worth to the mainland. I must tell you that woman drove as if pursued by Old Nick. I mean we
flew
and I nervously anticipated being stopped by the polizia and dragged off to durance vile.

But we arrived at the Trojan Stables without incident. By the time I dismounted from the Miata, Sylvia was standing near the office building chatting with Mrs. Constance Forsythe, who looked a mite blowsy with stained riding pants and a bush jacket that had spent too much time in the bush. I joined the ladies.

“Mrs. Forsythe,” I said, addressing the elder, “I must tell you that your daughter-in-law drives like a maniac.”

“I know she does,” she agreed. “She’ll break her lovely neck one of these days. If she rode my horses like she drives her car I’d have her gizzard.”

Sylvia laughed and touched the other woman’s cheek. “Horses are different, darling,” she said. “Is Tim busy?”

“Out with a student right now.”

“I want to show Archy around. Okay?”

“Of course. See if you can persuade him to muck out a few of the stalls.”

“Not me,” I protested. “When it comes to pitchforks I’m a complete klutz.”

“You might learn to enjoy it,” Constance said with a throaty laugh. “All that
Parfum d’Manure
.”

I wanted to say, “That’s offal,” but it’s a written not a spoken pun.

Sylvia and I strolled about the horse farm and there is little I can add to what I have already described. The only surprise was the main barn, which had only half the stalls I had estimated. But the building included a tack room and living quarters for the stable boys—something like a dormitory.