Her housekeeper, Mrs. Agnes Marsden, answered and I identified myself.
“Mr. McNally!” she said. “How nice to hear from you again.”
We chatted a few moments about this and that, for we were old friends, and then I asked if I might speak to Lady Horowitz.
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “She’s out at the pool having a pedicure and hates to be disturbed when she’s having her tootsies treated.”
“It’s really not necessary that I speak to her,” I said hastily. “Would you be kind enough to act on my behalf and ask if I may visit? At her convenience of course. It’s a matter of some importance.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “You hang on now and don’t get impatient. This might take some time.”
“I’ll wait,” I promised.
It was almost six minutes by my Mickey Mouse watch (an original, not a reproduction) before Mrs. Marsden came back on the line.
“Mr. McNally?”
“I’m still here.”
“Lady Horowitz says that if you come over at one o’clock she’ll be glad to see you.”
“Splendid.”
“But she wants you to bring a bottle of gin. We’re running low and won’t get a delivery until tomorrow.”
I laughed. Lady Quid Pro Quo was at it again.
“I’ll be happy to,” I said. “Will Beefeater gin be okay?”
Mrs. Marsden humphed. “I think bathtub gin would be okay,” she said.
I had about twenty minutes to get to the Horowitz estate. But that was no problem; it was a short drive up the coast and I knew we had a case of Beefeater in our utility room, a sufficient supply for many family cocktail hours to come. So I freshened up, bopped downstairs, and filched a liter, slipping it into a blue Tiffany shopping bag.
The Horowitz spread is only slightly smaller than the State of Delaware and is surrounded by a high wall of coral blocks topped with razor wire. Within is a Tara-like mansion that lacks only Spanish moss dripping from cypress trees. The large patio area is at the rear and has been the scene of many a memorable bash, usually ending with guests leaping fully clothed into the enormous swimming pool.
Loyal readers need no introduction to Lady Cynthia Horowitz, but for the benefit of newcomers I should explain that Lady C. is one of the wealthiest matrons of Palm Beach, as well she should be since she’s had six moneyed ex-husbands. She is about seventy years old, give or take, and in her youth had been a famous nude model for painters and photographers. Happily, age has not withered her physical beauty from the neck down. It would be ungentlemanly to comment on the neck up.
I found her at poolside, lounging on a chaise in the shade of an umbrella table. As usual she was protected from the semitropical sun by a wide-brimmed panama hat, a long flannel robe, white socks, and long white gloves. And, as usual, she was sipping her customary gin-and-bitters.
“Hallo, lad,” she sang out. “You’ve been neglecting me.”
“Shamefully, m’lady,” I agreed and proffered the Tiffany shopping bag. “Perhaps this will make amends.”
She peered at the contents. “God bless,” she said. “Would you care for a belt?”
“Not at the moment, thank you, but could we chat for a few moments?”
“First you must tell me what mischief you’ve been up to.”
“Regrettably little,” I said, pulling a webbed patio chair close so I could share the umbrella’s shade. “I’ve been involved in investigating the death of Griswold Forsythe.”
“Have you?” she said indifferently. “What’s your interest?”
“Ma’am, he was a valued client of McNally and Son.”
“That’s nonsense,” she said. “Leave it to the cops, lad. It’s their migraine.”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “But we would like to provide as much cooperation as we can.”
She stared at me over the rim of her glass. “Who’s handling the case?” she asked.
“Sergeant Al Rogoff.”
“That animal!” she said wrathfully. “Why, he smokes cigars.”
“I know, but he’s a very capable detective.”
“Cowpats! If he’s in charge the murder will never be solved.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” I said. “He came across something he wants me to ask you about.”
My reason for lying, of course, was to protect Connie Garcia, my source.
“Why doesn’t Rogoff ask me himself?” she demanded.
“Perhaps he knows how you feel about him.”
She laughed. “And he’s right, lad; I wouldn’t give him the time of day. What does he want to know?”
“He heard a rumor that years ago the victim was the subject of some hot gossip, but Rogoff can’t pin it down. Because you’ve lived in Palm Beach such a long time he hoped you might remember what it was all about.”
She opened the bottle of Beefeater I had brought and poured a generous dollop into her crystal tumbler. She drank without a grimace. I am not a devotee of warm gin. Are you?
“No,” she said finally, “I think not.”
“Ma’am, don’t you want to help investigate a heinous murder?”
She shrugged. “It makes no nevermind to me.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I said boldly. “Forsythe was a man of your generation. Palm Beach is a small town; surely you must have known him.”
“Of course I knew him. What a stiff he was—even before he died. And when you speak of my generation you make me sound like an antique.”
“That was not my intention, I assure you.”
She looked at me thoughtfully. “Your father is also of my generation,” she said. “And he knew Griswold better than I did. Why don’t you ask him about the gossip?”
I sighed. “Because my father is a self-righteous fuddy-duddy, as you well know, and would never even consider repeating an unsubstantiated rumor.”
“You’ve got that right, lad,” she said, laughing. “But I hate to talk about the past. Nostalgia can be addictive, you know. Once you start down that path your life becomes a constant ‘Remember when...’ and your brain turns to mush. Retreat into the past and you’re lost. You’ve got to keep facing up to the present and the future.”
“Is that what keeps you so young?” I asked.
She laughed again. “What a clever, devious lad you are! Have you ever considered the understanding companionship of an older woman?”
“Frequently.”
“Put me first on your list,” she urged. “We could play fun games. Like the prince and the shepherdess.”
It was my turn to laugh. “More like Catherine the Great and a serf,” I said. “I thank you for your kind offer but I must respectfully decline. After all, you are a client of McNally and Son, and we do have ethical standards.”
“Since when?” she said.
It was apparent to me that this conversation had strayed from the main track and wandered into byways I had little wish to explore. I was wondering how I might get back to the purpose of my visit when the mercurial Lady Horowitz solved the problem.
“So what you want from me,” she said, “is a tidbit of foolish gossip that must be almost thirty years old.”
“Yes,” I said eagerly, “that’s exactly what I want.”
“It’s important to you?”
“It is,” I said. “Very.”
She stretched inside her voluminous robe and gave me a tantalizing glance. “You may be a clever, devious lad,” she said, “but you have a lot to learn about negotiation. To be specific, what’s in it for me?”
“The satisfaction of knowing you have assisted in solving a homicide.”
The tantalizing look turned to mockery. “Not a very solid reward. Try again.”
I thought a moment. “A case of Bols?” I suggested.
She came alive. “Genever!” she cried. “Oh lordy, I haven’t had a sip of that stuff since my third husband kicked the bucket. Flavored with caraway, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Not for cocktails,” I admonished. “Cold and neat.”
“You’ve got a deal,” she said. “But if you tell anyone I told you I’ll cut out your heart.”
“My job is discreet inquiries, m’lady,” I reminded her. “With emphasis on the discreet.”
“Well, it’s an impossible story and I really didn’t believe it when I heard it. We used to call him Grisly, you know. Anyway, there was talk that Griswold Forsythe the Second was having a mad, passionate love affair with a married woman who worked in a West Palm bakery. Grisly mad? Grisly passionate? It was not to be imagined! But the rumors persisted and after a while it became common knowledge, so to speak.”
“Forsythe was married at the time, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I’m disappointed,” I said. “I’m as surprised as you must have been to learn that such an unadventurous man could have an extramarital liaison. But it’s the territorial disease of Palm Beach. I can’t see how it might affect the investigation of his murder.”
“Wait a minute,” she said, and took another sip of her warm gin. “There’s more to the story. Apparently they were careless and the woman got preggy.”
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“About the same time the woman’s husband disappeared. Just vamoosed. I guess he knew what had been going on and figured it wasn’t his kid. He took off for parts unknown, deserting his pregnant wife. Grisly did the honorable thing and took care of her and their infant son.”
That was the moment I decided I had been a fool for rejecting my hostess’s invitation to share her gin.
“Are you going to tell me,” I said hoarsely, “that the woman in question is now the Forsythes’ housekeeper, Mrs. Nora Bledsoe, and her son Anthony is the illegitimate offspring of Griswold Forsythe the Two?”
“You’ve got it,” Lady Horowitz said cheerfully. “The boy is Grisly’s bastard. Or so the gossip has it. Satisfied?”
“Stunned,” I said, and I was.
“I told you I don’t believe a word of it,” she went on. “But where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “One never knows, do one?”
I arose, somewhat shakily, and made a farewell oration: “I thank you, ma’am, for your kind cooperation. And I promise that what you have told me shall remain entre nous.”
“And don’t forget the Bols,” she called gaily as I departed.
I drove directly to the McNally Building. I was not looking forward to bearding daddy-o in his den but I consoled myself with the thought that it was the only way I could verify what Lady Horowitz had just told me—providing father would relax his cast-iron rectitude sufficiently to breach a client’s confidentiality.
I phoned Mrs. Trelawney the moment I arrived in my office. “Listen, dear,” I said, “I must see hizzoner at once for about ten minutes or so.”
“No can do,” she said firmly. “He’s reviewing briefs and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Try,” I urged. “Tell him it concerns the murder of Griswold Forsythe. That should persuade him to put aside his briefs—even if they’re his own.”
She giggled. “I’ll give it a go,” she promised.
She came back on the line a few moments later to say I had been granted a ten-minute audience. I galloped up the backstairs and found the don seated at his desk. He swung around in his walnut swivel chair when I entered.
“Yes, Archy,” he said irritably, “what is it now?”
“Sir,” I said, “in my investigation of the thefts at the Forsythe home I’ve come across a story that needs verification. I hope you may be able and willing to provide it.”
I repeated what Lady Horowitz had told me of Griswold Forsythe’s dalliance years ago with the married lady from the West Palm bakery and how she was now ensconced as the Forsythes’ housekeeper while Griswold’s illegitimate son served as butler-houseman.
Father was silent when I finished and I could see he had slipped into his mulling mode. I had expected it and waited patiently. You cannot hurry a man capable of pondering three minutes whether or not to put piccalilli on his cold roast beef. Finally the oracle spake.
“I don’t know from whom you heard that story,” he said in rather testy tones, “and I don’t wish to know. Essentially the story is correct.”
“Father, if you had told me from the start it might have aided my investigation.”
“I could not tell you,” he said sharply. “The client was alive when this thing began and I had to respect his confidence. But now that he is deceased I believe I may ethically reveal details of the matter. I said the story is true and it is, with one glaring inaccuracy. Mrs. Nora Bledsoe’s husband had deserted her
before
Mr. Forsythe and she began their affair. Her child was his responsibility—there was no doubt of that in his mind—and he was willing to provide for her future and for her son’s. I told you he was an honorable man.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Honor is an elastic word, is it not?”
“Just what are you getting at, Archy?”
“For instance,” I said, “do you think his relationship with Mrs. Bledsoe continued after she entered his employ and his home?”
He looked at me stonily. “I have no way of knowing that,” he said. “Forsythe never volunteered the information and naturally I never asked.”
“Would you care to hazard a guess, sir?”
“No, I would not.”
I went at him from another angle. “Father, when you spoke to me of the disposition of Mr. Forsythe’s estate you mentioned nothing of a specific legacy to Mrs. Nora Bledsoe or to Anthony Bledsoe. Had he made such provisions in his will?”
He drew a deep breath. “He had. Amply, I might add.”
“Do you think the Bledsoes were aware of his bequests?”
“I have no idea. In any event the matter is now moot.”
“No, sir,” I said. “I beg to disagree.”
He stared at me a long moment in silence. Then: “Are you implying Mrs. Nora Bledsoe and/or her son Anthony may be implicated in the murder of Griswold Forsythe?”
“It is certainly a possibility, is it not?”
He shook his head sadly. “Perhaps,” he said. “Archy, are you continuing your investigation of the thefts?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And working with Sergeant Rogoff on the homicide?”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “I want you to keep at it until this nasty business is cleared up. I hope to see both the thief and the killer brought to justice.”
“Father,” I said softly, “it may be the same person.”
“So it may,” he agreed. “Now I suggest you return to your job and allow me to return to mine.”
But I felt I had toiled in the vineyards sufficiently for one day. I stopped at a local liquor emporium and, paying with plastic, had a case of Bols sent to Lady Horowitz. I then returned home, donned my fuchsia Speedo trunks and Daffy Duck cover-up, and went down to the ocean for a two-mile swim. The family cocktail hour and dinner followed in due course and during all that time I resolutely restrained myself from brooding about the Forsythe tangle.