I announced my intention of spending the evening in my den getting caught up on personal correspondence. My father suggested I might like to take a break later and come downstairs for a nightcap in his study. Prescott McNally never commanded, he suggested.
I brought my journal up to date, paid a bill for a tapestry waistcoat (couldn’t put
that
on my expense account), and dashed off a few short notes.
I also phoned Jennifer Towley and got her answering machine. While waiting for the
beep
I wondered idly if it was a Victorian or Edwardian model. I left a message thanking her for an invigorating evening and asking that she call so that we might arrange an encore. I hung up, curious about where she might be at that hour. I am not afraid of competition, you understand, but I would much prefer the cool Towley gaze be leveled only at me. And my ego is such that I refused to believe she could have found a more ardent swain. Grumbling with frustration, I clumped downstairs to my father’s study for that nightcap.
He was still fighting his way through
Little Dorrit,
but put the volume aside when I entered and invited me to help myself from his port decanter. He waited until I was fueled and seated before he spoke:
“I suppose you know that the police have been notified about the disappearance of Lady Horowitz’s stamps.”
I nodded.
“As you had hoped, Sergeant Rogoff has been assigned to the investigation.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I had a talk with him this morning and gave him what I have, which isn’t much.”
He looked at me narrowly. “You gave him
everything?
”
“Not
quite
everything,” I said, and told my father the wild theory I had that Kenneth Bodin, the chauffeur, might have pinched the stamps to get back at the rich lady who had an affair with him and then gave him the boot.
My father rose from his club chair and strode over to the pipe rack on his marble-topped sideboard. He selected a handsome silver-banded Comoy and began to pack it from a walnut humidor. His back was turned to me.
“You really believe that, Archy?” he asked. “About the chauffeur?”
“I’ll have to check it out,” I said, “but at the moment it’s all I have.”
He lighted his pipe with a wooden kitchen match and returned, puffing, to his chair.
“Sounds farfetched to me,” he said.
“Yes, sir, it does,” I agreed. “And if I had anything better I’d zero in on that. But I still have three more people to talk to, and something might turn up. By the way, I spoke to Lady Horowitz this afternoon. She seemed remarkably chipper.”
“She doesn’t appear devastated by her loss,” he admitted. “But as I’m sure you’re aware, it represents a small fraction of her net worth. Couldn’t that rumor about Lady Cynthia and her chauffeur be merely idle gossip, with no truth to it?”
“It could be,” I acknowledged. “But I’m always amazed at how often local gossip turns out to have at least a kernel of truth. And she does have the reputation of being rather free with her favors, in addition to her six husbands.”
“Yes,” he said, “I suppose so.”
And then he said nothing more about the Inverted Jenny Case. I made some idle conversation about the dwarf palms Jamie had planted about the garage, and he responded mechanically. I finished my port, thanked him, and rose to leave. He didn’t urge me to stay.
He said merely, “Keep at it, Archy.”
I went back upstairs and prepared for bed. My father is a deep, deep man, and I couldn’t help wondering why he had quizzed me in such detail about the missing stamps. Usually he hands me an assignment and never asks questions until I bring him the results. I could only assume he wanted McNally & Son to provide exemplary service to a valued client. There are a lot of hungry attorneys in South Florida, where many wealthy people switch lawyers as often as they do proctologists.
T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
I overslept (a not infrequent occurrence) and dashed down to the kitchen where I found Ursi Olson doing something violent to a pot of yams. Our cook-housekeeper is a stalwart woman who looks as if she could plow a field, pause to drop a foal, and then continue plowing.
“Breakfast?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “But I’m on a diet.”
“No eggs Benedict?”
“I lied to you,” I said. “I’m not on a diet. Eggs Benedict, by all means.”
“You got a phone call from your father’s office,” she said. “Mrs. Trelawney. She wants you to call her.”
While Ursi rustled up my eggs, I used the kitchen phone to call my father’s secretary.
“I have your expense account check,” she told me.
“Bless you!” I said fervently.
“Can you pick it up?”
“You betcha,” I said. “Later today. Okay?”
“Whenever,” she said.
Sounds like a silly, innocuous phone call, doesn’t it? But later I was to reflect on how important it turned out to be. Because if Mrs. Trelawney hadn’t called me, and I hadn’t agreed to stop by the office and pick up my check, then I—but I’m getting ahead of myself. At the time it happened I felt nothing but joy at the news that funds awaited me. My checking account had become a bit emaciated. I don’t mean that poverty loomed, but one sleeps better with a few shekels under the mattress, doesn’t one?
After breakfast I hustled to the Horowitz mansion. I wanted to talk to the remaining residents before they were braced by Sgt. Rogoff and his henchmen. Al is a very capable investigator, but subtlety is not his long suit. First of all, he
looks
menacing, which makes a lot of people lockjawed—especially the guilty. I look like a twit, which fools many into telling me more than they intended.
I headed directly for the ground-floor office of Consuela Garcia, Lady Cynthia’s social secretary and my lost love. She was on the phone when I entered and motioned me to a chair.
“But I mailed the invitation myself, Mrs. Blair,” she was lying smoothly. “I really can’t understand why you didn’t receive it. Our dreadful postal service! Well, Lady Horowitz is planning a big Fourth of July bash, and I’ll make every effort to make certain you receive your invitation. And again, I’m so sorry you were disappointed last time.”
She hung up and grinned at me.
I rubbed one stiff forefinger against the other in the “shame on you” gesture. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I said.
“Listen, you,” she said, “I hear you were at the Pelican with a looker. Who is she?”
“My sister,” I said.
“Since when does a guy buy his sister champagne cocktails?”
“Oh-ho,” I said. “Priscilla’s been talking.”
Connie, who’s a member of the Pelican Club, said, “Priscilla never blabs and you know it. But my spies are everywhere. How are you, Archy?”
“If I felt any better I’d be unconscious. And you?”
“Surviving, barely. Half the calls I get are from yentas who want to know who snatched the madam’s stamps. I suppose that’s why you’re here.”
“You suppose correctly. Have the cops been around?”
“Not yet.”
“They will be.”
“That’s all I need,” she said mournfully. “The reporters are bad enough. Okay, let’s get it over with.”
I ran her through my shortened version of Twenty Questions and learned nothing important. Consuela had last seen the Inverted Jennies about six months ago when Lady Cynthia passed them around at a charity benefit. Everyone knew they were kept in an unlocked wall safe, and anyone could have snaffled them: staff, houseguests, or even brief visitors.
I stared at her as she spoke and saw what had attracted me originally: She was a shortish, perky young lady with cascading black hair. Once, in our brief escapade, I had the joy of seeing her in a string bikini. The memory lingered. But there was more to her than just a bod; she had a brain as well. She ditched me, didn’t she?
“Connie,” I said, “give me something, no matter how wild. Who do
you
think could have stolen those stupid stamps?”
She pondered a long while. “Not an outsider,” she said finally. “Not an over-the-wall crook. I don’t buy that. It was an inside job.”
I groaned. “Thanks a lot,” I said. “Five people on the staff, six house-guests. That’s eleven suspects.”
“Including me,” she said, grinning again.
“That’s right,” I agreed. “And the cops know it.”
“Oh, that’s beautiful.”
“What about Harry Smythe and his wife?”
“What about them?”
“I don’t like them,” I said.
“Who does?” she asked, reasonably enough.
“But if I had to make guesses, they wouldn’t head the list. They’re too mean.”
“Who would head the list?”
She hesitated just a moment. Then: “Alan DuPey and his wife.”
“Why them?”
“They’re too nice.”
I came close to slapping my thigh in merriment. “The FBI could use you, Connie. What a sleuth you are!”
“Well, you asked me for wild ideas.”
“So I did,” I said. “I haven’t talked to the DuPeys yet. Are they around?”
“No one’s around. The madam is at the hairdresser’s and the rest of the crowd has gone out for the day on Phil Meecham’s yacht.”
“That old roué?” I said. “He’ll make a play for all the women and most of the men. All right, I’ll catch the DuPeys another time. Thanks for your help, Connie.”
I was starting out when she called, “Archy,” and I turned back.
“Who is she?” she asked again.
“You never give up, do you?” I said. “Well, it’s no secret; her name is Jennifer Towley.”
Connie’s smile faded. “Oh-oh,” she said. “You’ve got trouble, son.”
I stared at her. “What
is
this?” I demanded. “You’re the second person who’s warned me. Why have I got trouble? What’s wrong with my dating Jennifer?”
“Nothing,” she said, busying herself with papers on her desk. “Now get the hell out of here. I have work to do.”
I knew there was no use pushing it so I got the hell out of there as ordered. I drove to headquarters debating which mystery was more maddening: the missing stamps or Jennifer Towley. About equal, I reckoned.
In the cool lobby of the McNally
&
Son Building, the receptionist, a white male heterosexual (we were an equal opportunity employer), handed me a pink message note. It stated that Bela Rubik had phoned me about an hour previously and wanted me to call him as soon as possible.
But first things first: I went upstairs and collected my check from Mrs. Trelawney. She was a delightful old bird who obviously wore a wig and looked like everyone’s maiden aunt. But she loved raunchy jokes, so I spent ten minutes with her, relating the most recent I had heard. She had a couple of good ones herself. Then I went to my office and phoned Rubik.
“Archibald McNally,” I said, “returning your call. Do you have anything for me, Mr. Rubik?”
“Yes,” he said. “Something important.”
“What is it?”
“Not on the phone,” he said. “Come over as soon as you can.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be there shortly.”
I stopped at my bank, a block away, and deposited the expense account check. I could have ambled down to Rubik’s shop—it was a nice stroll—but the day was becoming brutally hot, and I decided to drive. I found a place to park near Worth Avenue and walked over to the stamp and coin store, wishing I had worn my panama.
There was a cardboard sign taped to the glass door:
BACK IN AN HOUR
. I am not ordinarily a profane man, but I admit I may have uttered a mild oath, pianissimo, when I read that. Not only had I told the idiot I was on my way, but the sign gave no indication of when Rubik had left. Back in an hour could mean I’d have to wait three minutes or fifty.
Not at all gruntled, I started to walk away, then stopped. Suddenly I realized that stupid sign had been taped to the
outside
of the glass door. How often have you seen a merchant do that? Never. They fasten their signs on the
inside
of the glass so they can be removed and used again. Tape it outside and some nut will come along, rip it off, and toss it in the gutter just for the fun of it.
I retraced my steps and inspected the sign more closely. It seemed to have been hastily scrawled and was attached to the glass with a ragged piece of masking tape. I shielded my eyes and tried to peer within. I saw no movement, but on the tile floor alongside the showcase I spotted the stamp dealer’s crazy spectacles with the twin loupes. They were twisted and one of the lenses had popped out.
“Oh Jesus,” I said aloud.
I tried the doorknob. It turned easily. I opened the door a few inches. “Mr. Rubik,” I called, “are you here?”
No answer.
I entered cautiously, moving very, very slowly. He was lying on the floor behind the showcase. His bald skull had been dented so many times it looked like a crushed paper bag. It was clear that his spirit had flown. And next to his smashed skull lay what seemed to be the weapon: a crystal paperweight. There was very little blood coming from the shattered skull.
I am not a stranger to violent death, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. I hope not. I looked around, then stepped carefully over the corpse to a back office that was large enough to hold a big double-doored safe. No one was in sight and no one was crouched behind the desk ready to leap out and shout, “Boo!” The tiny lavatory was also empty.
I used the phone on Rubik’s desk, handling it lightly with my silk foulard pocket square. I called the PBPD, praying Al would be in. He was.
“Sergeant Rogoff,” he said.
“Archy McNally,” I said. “I’m in Rubik’s Stamp and Coin Shop. He’s on the floor waiting for the meat wagon. Someone smashed in his skull.”
Al didn’t miss a beat. “All right,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
“Make it fast, Al,” I urged. “I’m lonely.”
“Don’t touch a thing,” he ordered. “Go outside and wait for me on the sidewalk.”
“I know the drill,” I said crossly, but he had already hung up.
I went back outside and stood guard at the door. I stuck my hands in my pockets to hide the tremble. There were pedestrians moving lazily along, and some of them gave me a friendly nod the way people do in Florida. One old codger said, with a perfectly straight face, “I don’t think it’s too cold, do you, partner?” I wanted to top him by casually mentioning, “Hey, partner, there’s a murdered man in this store.” But I didn’t.