McNally's Trial (22 page)

“And Oliver?”

“I wouldn’t know about him,” she said curtly. “What’s your second question?”

“Financial. Does Whitcomb hold a large cash reserve?”

She looked at me. “What an odd thing to ask. Will it help your inquiry?”

“I can’t swear it will, but it might.”

“I shouldn’t reveal our balance sheet,” she said. “After all, we are not a public company. But I’ll take the chance. As I told you, Archy, I trust you. Up to about six months ago our cash balance was nothing extraordinary. About average for the past several years. Then those out-of-state shipments suddenly ballooned, and so did our cash reserve. I put most of it in three-and six-month Treasury bills. I can’t give you an exact figure, but it’s considerable. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“It is,” I said, “and I thank you.”

We replaced our books on the shelves and smiled quizzically at each other.

“Archy,” she said, “what you told me about people possibly being aware of our, uh, connection and my apartment being bugged, I guess that means you shouldn’t come over again.”

“I’m afraid that’s what it means,” I agreed. “Until we bring order out of chaos.”

She sighed. “I’ll miss you, Archy,” she said.

Was I imagining it or did I detect a note of relief in her voice? I decided I would never understand this enigmatic woman.

Sunny departed first and I watched her go, thinking what a stalwart figure she cut. I waited a few moments, then wandered out into the midday sunshine. I toured Mizner Park and found a German restaurant I hadn’t known existed.

After inspecting the menu posted in the window and being panged by hunger—my customary state—I popped inside for a platter of plump potato pancakes with hot sauerkraut. There are those who like a spicy ketchup on their latkes; I prefer apple sauce. I also had a stein of an excellent chilled lager.

I headed homeward reflecting that after my Teutonic snack I was in no condition for tennis, golf, or any other physical activity more vigorous than a game of jack-straws.

But the McNally aptitude for creative delusions had not been impaired and Sunny Fogarty’s answers to my two questions began to form the spine of a theory explicating Oliver Whitcomb’s role in what was happening at the funeral homes. I still didn’t know exactly
what
was happening but had no doubt that, to paraphrase Woollcott, it was immoral, illegal, and fattening—to Whitcomb’s bank account.

I spent the remainder of Saturday afternoon sharpening my solution to one part of the Whitcomb puzzle. A rereading of the jotted notes in my journal persuaded me that, as I had remarked hopefully to Sunny, order was beginning to emerge from chaos.

I must admit right now that my elegant scenario turned out to be wrong. Not totally wrong, mind you, but half-wrong. In my defense I can only plead guilty of making a case from insufficient evidence.

Well, what the hell, Columbus thought he had landed at Calcutta.

I
ACCOMPANIED MY PARENTS
to church on Sunday morning. This rare event, I confess, was not due to a sudden upsurge of religiosity. Actually I was hoping for another glimpse of that Amazonian contralto in the choir. Sad to say, she was not present.

Could she be ill? If so I would have been happy to hasten to her bedside with a jar of calf’s-foot jelly or a crystal decanter of chicken soup. But of course I didn’t know her name or address.

I mention this ridiculous incident merely to illustrate my addiction to fantasies that sometimes engross me. Fortunately, few of them are ever realized.

I returned home in a grumpy mood and immediately began making phone calls hoping to arrange some action on the courts, links, or even around a poker table. But all the pals I contacted had already made Sunday plans; I was odd man out, an unwonted and disturbing role.

Finally, in desperation, I phoned Binky Watrous. He sounded as if he had just undergone several hours of CPR.

“Binky,” I said, “why are you breathing like that?”

“I’m fortunate to be breathing at all,” he said hollowly. “Archy, when I signed on I had no idea the job would entail so much wear and tear on the old carcass.”

“Let me guess: You partied last night with Mitzi and Oliver Whitcomb.”

“With them and a gaggle of other fruitcakes. It was a traveling party: here, there, and everywhere. I think at one time we might have been in Fort Pierce, but I can’t be sure. Those people skitter around like characters from that Christmas ballet, ‘The Ballbreaker.’”

“Binky,” I said gently, “it’s called ‘The Nutcracker.’”

“Oh,” he said. “Well... whatever. Archy, you know what I need right now?”

“A new head?”

“It would help, but before I have a transplant I’d like a very big, very strong, very peppery Bloody Mary.”

“So mix one.”

“I can’t. The Duchess decided I’ve been imbibing too much, and she’s put our liquor supply under lock and key. Guess who’s got the key. Not me. And the saloons aren’t open yet. Archy, if you have a soupçon of charity in your heart, help me!”

I sighed. “All right, Binky. Drive over and I’ll give you an injection.”

“I can’t drive over.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“You didn’t total it?”

“No, but I left it somewhere.”

“Binky, where did you leave your car?”

“I can’t remember, but I’m sure it’ll come to me after I take my medicine.”

“If you don’t have a car, how did you get home last night—or this morning?”

“Someone must have delivered me.”

“Who delivered you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Binky,” I said, “everyone knows that before you are allowed to become a private eye you are required to take and pass a peculiarity test. You have just qualified. Hang on, old buddy. I’m on my way.”

I went into the kitchen and hurriedly prepared a quart thermos of iced Bloody Marys. I remembered to take two plastic cups and set out for the Duchess’s rather grungy residence on South County Road. Binky was waiting for me outside, slowly to-ing and fro-ing with hands thrust deep in trouser pockets, his head hanging low. The poor lad did appear to be one short step away from rigor mortis.

“You have my plasma?” he croaked.

I nodded.

“Not here, not here,” he said hastily. “The Duchess is probably watching from her window and cackling at my torment. Let’s vamoose.”

I had no desire to chauffeur this shattered hulk to the McNally home even for the purpose of resuscitation. Nor did I wish to park on the beach where a gendarme might become outraged at the sight of a desperate young man swilling from a quart thermos. So we ended up in the vacant parking area of the Pelican Club, which had not yet opened for business.

I poured Binky a cup of Bloody Mary and he gulped greedily.

“More!” he gasped.

“In a few moments,” I said sternly. “If you are willing to overindulge you must be ready to accept the consequences.”

“What was I to do?” he demanded, enlivened by the stimulant (it was the horseradish that did it). “I couldn’t sit there like a lunkhead, could I, when everyone else was swigging or smoking. By the way, her name is Starlight; I remember that.”

“Whose name is Starlight?”

“Ernie Gorton’s carrottop, Rhoda Starlight.”

“You’re jesting.”

“Well, her real name is Rhoda Flembaugh, she told me, but Rhoda Starlight is her stage name.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “And what stages has the lady graced lately?”

“Mostly tabletops in nudie clubs,” Binky said, staring longingly at the open thermos. “But she says she’s not doing that scene anymore. Claims she’s self-employed.”

I poured him another cup and one for myself. I felt I needed it and deserved it. Actually, I was pleased with Binky’s report. Despite his intemperate roistering he had managed to collect a few nuggets that might prove to be meaningful.

“But I don’t think so,” he said, sipping his second drink slowly with beamy satisfaction.

“Don’t think what, Binky?”

“That Rhoda is self-employed.”

“Oh? And what makes you think that?”

“She spent a lot of time chatting up some of the more exciting birds at the party. I got the feeling she might be recruiting.”

“Recruiting?”

“You know. Luring them into a life of ill repute.”

I didn’t laugh or even smile. I’m proud of that. I said, “Binky, do you suppose she works for Ernest Gorton? That she’s his CEO in a call girl ring operating in this area?”

He looked down into his empty plastic cup. “I guess it’s possible,” he said finally. “Archy, I really don’t like these people. They’re not top drawer.”

“No,” I agreed, “they’re not.”

We shared the watery remains of the Bloody Marys and then I drove him home.

“What I’m going to do,” he declared, “is get into bed and sleep nonstop for forty-eight hours.”

“A wise decision,” I told him.

We pulled into his driveway, and there was his battered MB Cabriolet. Binky whimpered with delight, hastened to his heap, and patted the dented hood.

“Hiya, baby,” he crooned. “Did you come home to daddy?”

Disgusting.

I accomplished nothing of importance during the remainder of that day. I futzed around my quarters, read the newspapers, leafed through a few mags, smoked two cigs, listened to a Hoagy Carmichael tape, dined with my parents (we had roasted salmon with a basil sauce), returned to my mini-suite and took an hour’s nap, rose to shower, watched the last half of a Dolphins game, attended the family cocktail hour, supped with my parents (we had spaghetti bolognese), returned upstairs and listened to a cassette of Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter, picked up my journal and put it aside, croaked out a chorus of “Just One of Those Things,” and decided I had done enough work for one day.

Exciting, huh? Have your eyes glazed over?

I have detailed that litany of ho-hum activities to prove my life is not all harum-scarum adventures, brief moments of violent action, and the pursuit of loves, both requited and un-. I mean, I do have periods of soporific ennui. The only reason I mention it is that I hope it may give us something in common. Surely you’ve had times with nothing better to do than count the walls.

Sleep came swiftly, which was a blessing because my dreams were rather racy—improbable but racy.

A phone call awakened me on Monday morning.

“H’lo,” I mumbled.

“Aw,” Al Rogoff said, “I bet I woke you up. And it’s only eight-thirty. I’m frightfully chagrined. Can you ever forgive me?”

“No,” I said. “What’s it doing outside?”

“The sun is shining, birds are twittering, God’s in His heaven and all’s right with the world. Satisfied?”

“Sounds good. I may eventually arise. And what is the reason for this reveille?”

“I got a call from that FBI guy Griffin Kling. He’s keeping his part of the bargain. He says his offices in New York, Boston, and Chicago traced the registration of trucks owned by the Cleo Hauling Service. It didn’t take them long—but why should it? They probably made one phone call. Anyway they got a name. Didn’t you tell me there was a fake nurse working out of the office of that flaky doctor?”

“That’s right.”

“The name you gave me was Rhoda. Got a last name?”

“I do now. Her stage name is Rhoda Starlight. Apparently her real name is Rhoda Flembaugh.”

Sgt. Rogoff whooped with delight. “Kling says the Cleo trucks are registered in the name of Rhoda Flembaugh. How do you like that?”

“Love it,” I said. “Just love it.”

“What’s the connection between this Rhoda and Ernest Gorton?”

“Very close,” I told him. “I think she’s his madam running a call girl ring in this area. She’s been observed recruiting.”

“Yeah? Observed by whom?”

“Binky Watrous.”

“That’s like saying she was observed by Daffy Duck. But she and Gorton are definitely connected?”

“Definitely.”

“I’ll call Kling and give him the good news. That guy is sweating to cut off Gorton’s family jewels. He’s still working on who eventually gets those coffins Whitcomb is shipping out. Keep in touch.”

He hung up and I swung out of bed yawning, pleased with the way the day had started. It seemed to me we were webbing Ernest Gorton. I had little doubt we could snare that villain and he would plea-bargain by betraying Oliver Whitcomb and his cohorts. Gorton knew all the tricks of survival in his corrupt milieu.

I drove to the McNally Building musing on the role of Griffin Kling in this affair. The FBI agent struck me as a very odd chap indeed. I admire Sgt. Al Rogoff as an estimable law enforcement officer, and one of the reasons is that he never lets his emotions and prejudices influence his professional judgment.

But I sensed Kling was a man haunted by furies. Somehow he had settled on Ernest Gorton as a symbol of everything wrong in the world. If he could bring Gorton down, it would mean not only the end of a single criminal career but would be a blow against the forces of evil and a victory for decency, cherry pie, and white socks.

I arrived at my office to find a message requesting I phone Horace Whitcomb at home. I hesitated a moment, wondering if I should first inform my father. But then I decided to call and discover why Mr. Whitcomb was phoning the drudge of McNally & Son.

“Archy,” he said, “I apologize for bothering you.”

“No bother at all, sir.”

“Oliver is with his mother at the moment and I’m at home. I’ll go to the hospital at noon after Oliver leaves.”

Of course it was possible Sarah was allowed only one visitor at a time. It was also possible that husband and son, or both, had no desire to meet at the bedside of the stricken woman.

“Could you come over for a short time?” Horace asked, and I detected a note close to desperation in his voice. “I hate to burden you with my problems, but I really need to talk to someone personally involved.”

Moi?
Personally involved? That was enough to send a frisson jittering along the McNally spinal cord.

“Of course, sir,” I said. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“Thank you,” he said, and I thought he sounded weepy.

It took a bit more than twenty minutes, for traffic was horrendous that morning. But eventually Mr. Horace and I were seated on his terrace, gazing out at the sun-sequined lake and brunching on coffee and mini-croissants with lemon butter.