McNally's luck (30 page)

"Thank you, professor," I said. "I've enjoyed your lecture enormously. Of course it's based on the belief that our scenario is accurate."

"You believe that, don't you?"

"I do," I said. "It seems to me the only plausible explanation of what happened."

But that wasn't the whole truth. Do you recall my mentioning a vague notion I had early on, something so tenuous that I couldn't put it into words?

Then, as more was learned about the homicides, I began to see an outline. Now, with the most recent revelations, the outline was filling in and taking on substance. If it proved valid, it would radically alter the script Sgt. Rogoff had adopted so enthusiastically. But I didn't tell him that.

"Al," I said, "the bank has the ransom money ready. Will you go with me to pick it up? You're the man with the gun."

"Sure," he agreed readily. "Then I want you to come back to headquarters with me. We've got to go over the program for tonight's payoff."

"I hope you've devised an effective plan."

"It should work," he said.

I sighed. "Can't you be more positive than that? After all, it's my neck that's at risk."

"Well. ." he said doubtfully, "maybe you better not buy any green bananas."

Then he laughed. I didn't.

I spent that entire afternoon with Sgt. Rogoff and an ad hoc squad of uniformed officers assigned to him. As the night's action was outlined to me, and my own role described, I realized Al had done a remarkable job of organizing a complex operation in a short time.

Of course, in accordance with Murphy's Law, some things were bound to go wrong, and we spent much of our time brainstorming possible contingencies and planning how they might best be handled. I was satisfied that the overall plan was workable and, with a little bit o'luck, would achieve its objectives.

I wanted to leave the ransom money with Rogoff, but he was loath to accept the responsibility. He did keep a copy of the list of serial numbers the bank had thoughtfully provided. But when I left the Palm

Beach police headquarters, which looks like a Mediterranean villa, I was lugging fifty thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills. The bank had supplied a K-Mart shopping bag as a carrier. Why do all the great dramas of my life contain the elements of farce?

Naturally my mother had not been informed that her dear little boy was engaged in a perilous enterprise that might involve violence. Father and I tried to make our family cocktail hour and dinner that night no different from the umpteen that had gone before. We talked, we laughed, we each devoured a half-dozen delightful quail, and I don't believe mother had an inkling that I was-well, I won't say I was scared out of my wits, but I admit my trepidation level was high.

After dinner, she left us to go upstairs to her television program, and I resisted the temptation to kiss her farewell. I mean I wasn't going off to the Battle of Blenheim, was I? It was really just a small piece of law enforcement business from which I was certain to emerge with all my limited faculties intact. I told myself that. Several times.

My self-induced euphoria was rather diminished when father invited me into his study for a cognac. I knew he meant well, but I considered offering me a brandy was somewhat akin to being supplied with a blindfold and final cigarette. But at least he didn't say, "Be careful." He did say, "Call me as soon as it's over."

Then I went upstairs to change. Al Rogoff had suggested I dress in black, and when I had asked why, he replied, "You'll make a harder target." The other cops on his special squad thought that uproariously funny, but I considered their levity in poor taste.

About nine o'clock I came downstairs, dressed completely in black and carrying my shopping bag of cash. I went out to the Miata and paused to look about. It was a warm night, the dark sky swirled with horsetail clouds. Stars were there, a pale moon and, as I stared heavenward, an airliner droned overhead, going north. I wished I was on it.

I drove directly to police headquarters. Sgt. Rogoff and his cohorts were donning bulletproof vests and inspecting their weapons which, I noted, included shotguns and tear gas and smoke grenades and launchers. There was also a variety of electronic gizmos being tested. I wasn't certain of their function and intended use.

I stripped to the waist and a technician "wired" me, an unpleasant experience involving what seemed to be yards of adhesive tape. When he finished, I was equipped with microphone, battery pack, and transmitter. I put on shirt and jacket again, and we moved outside to test my efficacy as a mobile radio station.

The sergeant instructed me to move a hundred feet away, turn on the power switch, and say something. I did as ordered, activated myself and recited the "Tomorrow, and tomorrow. ." speech from Macbeth. Rogoff waved me to return. "Loud and clear," he said. "Let's get this show on the road."

It was a veritable parade. This was a joint operation, and we had cars and personnel from the police departments of the Town of Palm Beach, the City of West Palm Beach, and the Sheriffs Office of Palm Beach County. All for Peaches! The three jurisdictions were cooperating under a long-standing system Sgt. Rogoff described as "Share the glory and spread the blame."

And in the middle of this procession was a flag-red open convertible sports car inhabited by yr. humble servant, Archibald McNally.

I soon cut out and let the armada proceed without me. The script called for my arrival at the parking area of the convenience store on Federal Highway at 11:45 p.m. I was right on schedule and pulled into a parking slot that provided a good view of the storefront. I switched on my transmitter.

"McNally on station," I reported in a normal voice.

I watched, and in a moment the policewoman in civvies, planted in the store by Rogoff, came to the front window and began to fuss with a display of junk foods: the signal that she was receiving my transmission and would relay it to the task force via her more powerful radio.

I settled down, lighted an English Oval, and wondered why I hadn't relieved myself before setting out on this adventure. All my anxiety and discomfort, I realized, resulted from my trying to assist that fatheaded Willigan, and I was trying to recall lines from Henry V: "Unto the breach, lads, for Harry and. ." when an old Chrysler Imperial pulled slowly into the lighted parking area and stopped in a space about twenty feet away from me.

"I think he's here," I said aloud. "Black Chrysler Imperial. Man getting out and walking toward me."

Rogoff and I had agreed that the messenger was not likely to be Frank Gloriana; he would have no desire to be identified by me as the catnapper. The logical choice for collector would be Otto Gloriana, Frank's daddy.

And as he came closer, I had no doubt whatsoever that this tall, reddish-haired, broad-shouldered man of about sixty-five was indeed Otto Gloriana, aka Charles Girard, former bordello owner and the ex-con described by Atlanta police as "a nasty piece of work." What surprised me was how handsome he was.

He was wearing a rumpled seersucker suit, and his hands were thrust deep into the jacket pockets. He came near, almost pressing against my door. That was fine with me; it brought him closer to my concealed microphone.

"You from Harry Willigan?" he asked in a resonant baritone.

"That's correct," I said.

"You have the fifty thousand?"

"Right here," I said and started to lift the shopping bag from the passenger seat to hand it to him. But he moved back one step.

"Get out of the car," he said. "Carry the money."

I was astonished. "Why should I do that?" I said.

"Because if you don't," he said pleasantly, "I'll kill you."

He withdrew his right hand from his jacket pocket far enough to reveal that he was gripping a short-barreled revolver that appeared to be a.38 Special. His back was to the window of the convenience store, and there was no one nearby. I was certain his action was unobserved.

"You have a gun?" I said in a tone of disbelief, praying this conversation was being received "loud and clear" by the officer inside the store. "That's not necessary. Just take the money and bring the cat back."

He sighed. "You're not very swift, are you? I'll say it just once more, and if you don't do what I say, you'll have three eyes. Now get out of this baby carriage slowly. Carry the money. Walk to my car. I'll be right behind you."

I did as ordered, thinking sadly that we had prepared for every possible contingency except my being taken hostage. At least that's what I hoped was happening. I had no wish to meet my Maker in the parking lot of a store that sold Twinkies and diet root beer.

We came up to the Chrysler and the rear door was opened from within by the man sitting behind the wheel.

"Get in," Otto commanded.

I did, swinging the bag of cash onto the floor. I sat back in one corner and got a look at the driver.

"Why, Frank Gloriana," I said in a loud voice. "What a surprise!"

"Shut your face," the older Gloriana said to me. And to his son, "Drive."

We pulled out and headed south on Federal Highway. I reckoned we were out of range of the receiver in the store, but just in case, I said, "Going to the Jo-Jean Motel, are we?"

Otto took the revolver from his pocket and rapped the side of my skull with the steel barrel. What can I tell you? It hurt.

"I told you to keep your yap shut," my captor said. "I'll do all the talking."

So I remained silent and tried to calculate the odds against my ever playing the harpsichord again. Rather heavy, I concluded. The fact that I had been allowed to witness Frank's involvement in this caper boded ill for my future. It seemed highly unlikely that I would be allowed to live, even if I vowed to keep my yap permanently sealed.

We turned into the driveway of the Jo-Jean Motel. I knew there were two police officers in Cabin Five and two more in the back room of the motel office. They had been stationed there with the enthusiastic cooperation of the owner who probably hoped the Jo-Jean would rival the O.K. Corral, and she'd be featured on the front page of her favorite tabloid.

But I saw no police cars and no signs that snipers had been deployed to hold Cabin Four in their sights. I could only have faith that Sgt. Rogoff was aware of my plight and was feverishly revising his plans to give my safety precedence over that of Peaches'.

We pulled up alongside Cabin Four and Otto nudged my ribs with his weapon. "Out," he said. "Take the money. Walk around to the front door. Frank, you go first and unlock."

Within moments we were all inside, the door closed, a floor lamp lighted. I looked about. It was a simple room, exactly like the one Hertha had claimed to see in her vision. There was also a pan of cat litter, a bowl of water, and a plate of cat food.

"Where is Peaches?" I inquired.

"At the movies," Frank sniggered, the first words he had spoken. He needn't have bothered.

"Count the money," his father ordered.

Frank dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed, stacked the bundles of banded bills. Otto and I remained standing. Nothing was said until Frank finished.

"All here," he said. "The bills look legit."

"They got the numbers," Otto growled, "but so what? Where we'll pass them no one looks at numbers."

"May I take the cat now?" I asked, figuring I had nothing to lose.

Otto looked at me somberly. "I finally figured how you found Charles Girard," he said. "It was the vet, wasn't it? At the animal hospital. That was cute."

For a minute or two I couldn't comprehend how he knew I had identified him. Then I remembered I had mentioned the name Charles Girard to Laverne. She had undoubtedly told Frank and he, in turn, had reported to his father that Archy McNally, a blabbermouthed gumshoe, was on his trail.

"So now you know about me," Otto said. "And you know about Frank. We don't have much choice, do we?"

His meaning was clear and more chilling than a brutal threat.

"It's no big deal," I pointed out. "Catnapping is hardly a capital crime. How heavy a sentence can you possibly get?"

"When you've been inside," he said darkly, "one more day is too much."

He stared at me, and I knew it wasn't only a charge of catnapping that concerned him. He wouldn't kill for that. But he was calculating how much I might know or guess about his other activities, including the vicious murders of the Gills-worths. Finally I could see that he had made up his mind, and his fatal decision seemed to relax him.

"Put the money back in the bag," he told his son. "Shove the bag under the bed. Then get the cat. We'll do them both at the same time. I spotted a good place. A deserted canal."

It was all I could do to keep from crying, "But I can't swim!" and laughing hysterically. Somehow I restrained myself.

Frank hid the money, went into the bathroom, and came out carrying a large cardboard carton that had once held bottles of Jim Beam. It was tied shut with heavy twine, and air holes had been cut in the sides. I heard a few faint meows and the box rocked a bit as Peaches moved.

"Let's go," Otto said.

Up to that point the motel cabin had been illuminated by a single floor lamp with a low-wattage bulb. But now, suddenly, the interior was flooded with a hard white glare. Beams of bright spotlights came stabbing through the front and side windows of the cabin.

"What the hell!" Frank yelped.

Otto moved swiftly. He stood behind the wooden door and leaned to peer cautiously out the corner of the front window.

"Police cars," he reported tonelessly. "Four or five at least. And an army of cops."

"Oh God," Frank said despairingly.

Then I heard Sgt. Rogoff. The bullhorn made him sound harsh and metallic, but there was no mistaking his voice.

"Cabin Four," he boomed. "Everyone come out the front door with your hands raised. Now!"