Authors: Lawrence Sanders
"No," I agreed, "not much. It was a sex scene, wasn't it, Al?"
He nodded. "That's the way I see it. The guy's in bed with someone, woman or man. There's an argument. She or he grabs up the nearest tool, the palette knife. I think it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Not planned. They started out making love and then things went sour."
"Where do you go from here?"
"Check his inventory of paintings. Check the alibis of wife, daughter, maid, agent, clients, friends, enemies, and everyone connected with him."
"When did it happen—do you know that?"
"Tom Bunion figures it was about an hour before we got the squeal. That would put the time of death around nine o'clock, give or take."
"I was home," I told him. "Upstairs in my rooms. I had just talked with my father in his study."
"We'll check it out," he said with ponderous good humor. Then, suddenly serious, he added, "You got any wild ideas?"
"Not at the moment," I said. "Except that it must have required a great deal of strength to drive a blunt blade into Hawkin's throat. That would suggest a male assailant."
"Yeah," the sergeant said. "Or a furious woman."
"One never knows, do one?"
"There you go again," he said.
I returned home that night to find the house darkened except for the bulb burning over the rear entrance. I went directly to my quarters and finished that marc I had started aeons ago. Also my fourth English Oval. Then I went to bed hoping I wouldn't have nightmares involving palette knives and oceans of blood. I didn't. Instead I had a dotty dream about Zasu Pitts. Don't ask me why.
4
I glanced at local newspapers the next morning and watched a few TV news programs. I learned nothing about the homicide I didn't already know.
But after reading the obits on Silas Hawkin, I was surprised to discover that Louise was his third wife, and Marcia his daughter by his first. She was his only child. Wife No. 1 had died of cancer. Divorce had ended Marriage No. 2.
I was even more startled to read of the professional career of the artist. He had studied at prestigious academies in New York and Paris. His work was owned and exhibited by several museums. He had been honored with awards from artists' guilds. In other words, the man had been far from a hack. I had underestimated his talents because I thought him a dunce. But then the creative juices have no relation to intelligence, personality, or character, do they?
Finally, a little before noon, I decided I needed a change of subject and a change of venue. So I determined to wheel down to Fort Lauderdale and have a chat with Shirley Feebling, the young woman who was causing Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth to suffer an acute attack of the fantods.
In my innocence it never occurred to me the two investigations might be connected. But as A. Pope remarked, "Fools rush in . . ." Right on, Alex!
Less than two hours later I was in a mini-mall north of Ft. Liquordale, staring with some bemusement at a large sign that advertised in block letters: topless car wash. And below, in a chaste script: "No touching allowed." The activities within were hidden from prurient passers-by by a canvas curtain slit down the middle. Customers' cars were driven through the curtain to the interior, where vehicles and drivers were presumably rejuvenated.
I decided my flag-red Miata convertible would be abashed by such intimate attention, so I parked nearby and returned on foot to push my way through the slit curtain. I was confronted by a woolly mammoth, who appeared to be either the manager or a hired sentinel assigned to halt sightseers who didn't arrive on wheels.
"I'd like to speak to Miss Shirley Feebling, please," I said.
"Yeah?" he said belligerently. "Who're you?"
"Andrew Jackson," I said, proffering a twenty-dollar bill. "Here is my business card."
"Oh yeah," he said, grabbing it. "I thought I recognized you. She's over there washing down the Tuchas."
I turned to look. "Taurus," I said.
"Whatever," he said, shrugging.
I was a bit taken aback by my first sight of Ms. Feebling.
I suppose I had expected a brazen hussy and instead I saw a small, demure brunet who looked rather sweet and vulnerable. There was a waifish innocence about her that made her costume even more outre. She was wearing the bottom section of a pink thong bikini, and she was indeed topless.
It would be indelicate to describe those gifts that qualified her for employment in a topless car wash. Suffice to say that she was well-qualified.
I waited until she finished wiping the Taurus dry and had been handed what appeared to be a generous tip by the pop-eyed driver. Then I approached and offered her my business card, a legitimate one this time.
"My name is Archibald McNally," I said with a restrained 100-watt smile. "My law firm represents Mr. Smythe-Hersforth. I was hoping to have a friendly talk with you so that we might arrive at some mutually beneficial solution of your misunderstanding with our client."
"There's no misunderstanding," she said, inspecting my card. "Chauncey said he'd marry me, and I've got the letters to prove it."
"Of course," I said, "but I hope you'll be willing to discuss it. I drove down from Palm Beach specifically to meet you and learn your side of this disagreement. Could we go somewhere reasonably private where we can chat? I would be more than willing to recompense you or your employer for the time you are absent from work."
She looked up at me. "Will you buy me a pizza?" she asked.
"Delighted," I told her.
"Then I'll ask Jake," she said. She went over to the woolly mammoth, talked a moment, then came back. "He wants fifty for an hour. Okay?"
"Certainly," I said, imagining my father's reaction when he saw this item on my expense account.
"That's neat," she said, and her smile sparkled. "I'll go get dressed. Just take a minute."
She went through an unmarked door that I presumed led to a dressing room, or rather an undressing room. I thought she would don a voluminous coverup, but when she reappeared she had added only a T-shirt that had PEACE printed on the front, an affirmation to which I heartily subscribed. But unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on the state of one's hormones—the T-shirt appeared to be sodden, and it clung. Lucky T-shirt.
"The pizza joint is just two doors away," she said. "All us girls go there. The owner don't mind as long as our boobs are covered."
A few moments later we were seated in the pizza joint, a fancy palace with real Formica-topped tables and real paper lace doilies under the plates. We decided we would share a Ponderosa Delight, which, the menu claimed, came "with everything." Shirley ordered a Diet Cherry Coke. I asked for a Pepsi since a 1982 Mumm's Cordon Rouge was not available.
"Miss Feebling—" I started, but she interrupted.
"You can call me Shirl," she said. "Everyone in the world calls me Shirl."
"And so shall I," I said, "if you'll call me Archy. Shirl, I know that Chauncey said he loved you, but people do fall out of love, you know."
"I haven't," she promptly replied. "I still love him and want to marry him like he promised in his letters. He's such a wonderful guy."
I was about to ask if she didn't find CW somewhat dim. But I refrained, reflecting that Shirley herself might be somewhat dim and had found a soul mate in the Chinless Wonder.
"Shirl," I said, "you seem to me a very sensitive and intelligent young lady."
"Thank you, sir," she said coyly.
"And I am sure you want only the best for yourself—and for Chauncey, too, of course. He has informed you that he wishes to wed another?"
She nodded.
"I know you want him to be happy," I pleaded, "even though it might mean your own unhappiness. But a generous cash settlement would help you endure a temporary sorrow."
"Oh, I don't want any money," she said brightly. "I just want to marry Chauncey."
"Shirl, it's impossible for me to believe that a young lady of your outstanding attributes hasn't had and doesn't have the opportunity to marry any of a dozen eager young men."
"Oh sure, I've had the chance," she said, almost dreamily. "But no one like Chauncey."
That
I could believe. But then our Ponderosa Delight and drinks were served, and I postponed further attempts to convince her to reach an equitable compromise.
She was starting on her second wedge of pizza when I noted she was casting furtive glances over my shoulder.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
She leaned forward across the table to speak in a low voice. "There's a man over there who keeps staring at me."
"Quite understandable," I said cheerily. "You're worth staring at, Shirl, and I'm sure you're aware of it."
"But I don't like the way he keeps smiling with a smirky grin. Like he knows something secret about me."
"Have you ever seen him before?"
"No, I'm sure I haven't."
"Shall I go over and ask him to stop smirking at you?"
"Oh no," she said quickly, "don't do that. I don't want to cause no trouble."
We finished the pizza, and I tried again to persuade her to accept cash in return for CW's mash notes. But she was adamant; she wanted only to marry the man as he had promised, not once but many times, and if he reneged she would have no choice but to make his letters public.
She was explaining all this, determinedly and with some passion, when she suddenly broke off and said, "Here he comes."
A man halted alongside our table. I looked up to see a tall, saturnine bloke in raw black silk with a white Izod. He stared down at my companion, and I could agree with what she had said: It
was
a smirky grin. He didn't even glance at me.
"Hiya, Shirl," he said in a raspy baritone. "Having a good time?"
Then he sauntered away, paid his bill at the front counter, and went outside. I noted that he had a profile like a cleaver. I watched him get into a gunmetal Cadillac de Ville and pull away. I turned back to Shirley.
"You don't know him?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"He knew your name."
"I don't know how," she said, obviously troubled.
"Perhaps he was a customer," I suggested.
"No," she insisted. "I'd have remembered. I don't like his looks. He scares me."
"Nothing to be scared about," I assured her. "I doubt if you'll ever see him again."
But I couldn't comfort her. Her bouncy mood had vanished; she seemed subdued. "Listen," she said finally, "I've got to get to work."
I paid our tab and walked her back. I gave her fifty dollars, wondering how much would go to Jake and how much she'd be allowed to keep.
"Shirl," I said, "it's been a pleasure meeting you. I'll relay what you've told me to our client. But I still hope a mutually satisfactory solution to this impasse can be arranged."
"Sure it can," she said, "if he marries me."
"Uh-huh," I said. "May I come back and talk to you again if it proves necessary?"
"Of course," she said. Then: "You're nice," she added, and stretched up to kiss my cheek. "Thanks for the pizza."
She marched through the slit canvas curtain, providing me with a final glimpse of her thong bikini, also called a shoestring bikini in South Florida, and sometimes a flosser.
I drove back to Palm Beach in a reflective mood. It had not been a totally profitless trip, although CW might think so. But I had, at least to my own satisfaction, learned something about Shirley Feebling and could guess at what might be motivating her demands. There were three possibilities, none of which would bring a gleeful smile to the puss of our distraught client.
1. My discussion with Shirl had been the opening round of what would prove to be lengthy and difficult negotiations. In other words, the lady was hanging tough in order to up the ante.
2. She was shrewd enough to forgo an immediate cash settlement, no matter how generous, in hopes of marrying the Chinless Wonder and becoming the wife of a man who would inherit millions when his mommy passed to that bourn from which no traveler returns.
3. And this was the most disquieting: Shirley Feebling was totally sincere and honest. She really did love the simp, wanted to marry him, and was determined to become a loving helpmate. His present or potential wealth had no influence on her decision.
Very disturbing. I don't pretend to understand True Love. I don't know what it is or how it works. Oh, I know all about affection, attachment, admiration—stuff like that. But True Love stumps me. I am not only ignorant of its nature but suspicious of its effects because whenever I have observed it in others, it has always seemed to me infernally
serious.
And since my life has been sedulously devoted to triviality, I find the seriousness of True Love to be a fatal flaw.
Still, although I know no more about TL than I do about Babylonian cuneiform, I cannot ignore the testimony of poets and Tin Pan Alley tunesmiths. It is obvious that True Love
does
exist, and I reckoned Ms. Feebling might very well be infected with a particularly virulent strain. If so, it did not bode well for the Chinless Wonder.
Which led me to musing about his intended fiancée, Theodosia Johnson, and wondering if my own reactions to that stellar lady might be True Love or merely gonadal twinges. I just didn't know and decided that only another personal meeting with the radiant Theo might provide the answer.
I was then approaching South Palm Beach and on a sudden whim
(the
guiding principle in my life) resolved to stop at the Hawkin residence. You may ask, and justly so, what on earth I thought I was doing since I was not part of the official homicide investigation and my assistance had not been requested.
The answer to your question is simple: I am nosy. I admit it and don't give a tinker's damn—or dam, depending on your erudition—who knows it. Also, there were several puzzling aspects about the murder that piqued my curiosity. I could have asked Sgt. Al Rogoff, of course, but would he have told me? Fat chance.
Al is a closemouthed gent, even when he doesn't have to be. He and I worked several cases together in the past, to our mutual benefit, but he never tells me
everything
he knows any more than I Reveal All to him. I think that in addition to our friendship we keep the scimitar of competitiveness keenly honed, sensing that it contributes to our success.