McNally's Puzzle (7 page)

“How was the party?” he asked.

“Very enjoyable.”

“Bloody bore,” he contradicted me. “I cut out fast. All those phonies.”

I was standing alongside the passenger door wondering if I would be forced to drag him out by the scruff. But his last denouncement intrigued me.

“Phonies?” I repeated. “You’re referring to the guests?”

His laugh was more of a snort. “I don’t even
know
all those stupid guests. I’m talking about the family and staff. Hypocrites, every one of them.”

“Surely not your father.”

“Him, too,” he said bitterly. “Maybe the worst. They think I don’t know what’s going on. I know damned well what’s going on.” He suddenly straightened and flicked away the butt of his cigarette. “Hey, let’s you and me make a night of it. We’ll go to the Pelican first for a couple of whacks and then take it from there.”

“Some other time,” I told him. “I’m getting audited by the IRS in the morning so I better get a good night’s sleep.”

I was afraid he might flare but he accepted the rejection equably. I suspected he was accustomed to rejection.

He climbed out of the car and stood on the slated driveway, swaying gently. He was a thin, almost gaunt chap with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes. His hair was a mess and it was obvious he hadn’t shaved for at least two days. But he was decently dressed in denim jeans and jacket. A cleaner T-shirt would have helped, but you did not expect to find him sleeping in a cardboard carton under a bridge. I mean he was reasonably presentable if you didn’t gaze too intently into those stricken eyes.

“Now I feel great,” he declared. “Just great.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

“Maybe I’ll cop the old man’s car and make a run to the Pelican Club myself.”

“Don’t you have your own wheels?” I asked.

“Nah. They grounded me. And took away my license,” he added.

I wanted to warn him, but what was the use? He’d never listen to me. I doubted if he’d listen to anyone.

“See you around,” he said lightly, and went dancing off into the darkness.

I drove home slowly in a weighty mood. The evening had left me with a jumble of impressions. It resembled one of those Picasso paintings in which all the figures seem to have six limbs and three eyes. And you view them frontally and in profile simultaneously. A puzzlement.

It was still relatively early when I arrived at my very own mini-abode. I could have spent an hour or so recording the evening’s events in my journal but I needed to sort out a plethora of reactions and try to find significance in what I had seen and heard. I disrobed and treated myself to a small marc and an English Oval to aid my ruminations.

After thirty minutes of heavy-duty brooding the only preliminary conclusion I arrived at was that when it came to dysfunctional families the Gottschalks were candidates for world-class ranking. It was a hypothesis given confirmation when my phone rang shortly before I retired.

“Archy?” the caller asked, and I recognized Hiram Gottschalk’s dry, twangy voice.

“Yes, Hi,” I said. “I tried to find you to offer thanks for a delightful evening but I couldn’t locate you.”

“You know that Caruso record I told you about. The one my dear wife gave me on our tenth anniversary.”

“Yes, sir, I remember. The old shellac of Enrico singing ‘
Vesti la guibba
.’”

“After I mentioned it to you I was bothered because I couldn’t remember where I had put it. So I went searching. I finally found it about ten minutes ago. Someone smashed it. Now it’s just junk.”

“I’m sorry,” I said softly.

“That record meant a lot to me. A gift from the woman I loved.”

“I understand, Hi,” I said. “Would you like me to come over now and we’ll talk about it?”

“No, no,” he said. “Thank you but that won’t be necessary. I just thought you should know.”

“Of course. Hi, I don’t wish to be an alarmist but you should be prepared to find yourself a victim of similar acts of terrorism or viciousness before I can discover who is responsible.”

“You think you can find out?”

“Absolutely,” I said stoutly. There are some situations demanding unbridled confidence with all dubiety ignored. This was one of them.

“Thank you, Archy,” he said gratefully. “You make me feel a lot better.”

I went to bed that night wondering if the future would prove me Sir Galahad or Sir Schlemiel.

By the time I clumped downstairs on Thursday morning my parents had long since breakfasted. I found Jamie Olson sitting alone in the kitchen. He was sucking on his old briar (the stem wound with a Band-Aid) and clutching a mug of black coffee I was certain he had enlivened with a jolt of aquavit. His chaps were definitely fallen.

“What’s wrong, Jamie?” I inquired.

“That damned raccoon again,” he said indignantly. “Got the lids off both trash cans. Made a mess. I’m going to catch up with that beast one of these days and give him what for. You want some breakfast, Mr. Archy?”

“I’ll make it. Anything left over?”

“A cold kipper.”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll toast a muffin and slide it in with a bit of mayo. Enough hot coffee?”

“Plenty.”

I had a glass of V8 Picante, prepared my kipper sandwich, and poured a cup of inky caffeine. I sat across the table from our houseman.

“Jamie,” I said, “ever hear of the Gottschalk family?”

The Olsons, our staff of two, are part of a loose confederacy of butlers, maids, chefs, housekeepers, valets, and servants of all species who minister to the needs of the wealthier residents of the Palm Beaches. Experience had taught me that this serving but by no means servile class knew a great many intimate details about the private lives of their employers. It was information they would never divulge except, occasionally, to others in their profession when a good laugh was wanted.

“Gottschalk?” Jamie repeated. “Nope. Never heard of them.”

“They have a live-in Oriental couple, Got and Mei Lee, chef and maid. Do you know anyone who might be acquainted?”

He relighted his charred pipe. My father also smokes a pipe. His tobacco is fragrant. Jamie’s is not.

“Mebbe,” he said finally. “I know Eddie Wong, a nice fellow. He buttles for old Mrs. Carrey in West Palm. You want I should ask Eddie if he knows—what’s their names?”

“Got and Mei Lee. Yes, please ask him. I’d like to know if the Gottschalks have a happy home. And if not, why not.”

Jamie nodded. “I’ll ask.”

Before I left for the office I slipped him a tenner. Pop would be outraged, I knew, since the Olsons were more than adequately recompensed for keeping the McNally ship on an even keel. But I didn’t feel their salaries included Jamie’s personal assistance to yrs. truly in my discreet inquiries. Hence my pourboire for his efforts above and beyond the call of duty.

I had two messages awaiting me when I arrived at my cul-de-sac in the McNally Building. I answered Sgt. Al Rogoff’s call first.

“Heavens to Betsy,” he said. “You’re at work so early? Why, it’s scarcely eleven o’clock.”

“I do work at home, you know,” I replied haughtily. “Sometimes with great concentration for long hours.”

“You also sleep at home. Sometimes with great concentration for long hours. But enough of this idle chitchat. You know a guy named Peter Gottschalk?”

I hesitated for a beat, then: “Yes, I know Peter. Distantly. He’s a member of the Pelican Club.”

“That figures. Is he off-the-wall?”

“I really couldn’t say. From what I’ve heard, he’s been known to act occasionally in an outré fashion.”

“Outré,” Rogoff repeated. “Love the way you talk.”

“Why are you asking about Peter Gottschalk?”

“Because early this morning, about two or three, he outréd his father’s car into an abutment on an overpass out west.”

“Holy moly. Anyone hurt?”

“Nah. He didn’t hit anyone. Just plowed into the concrete doing about fifty. All he got were a few bruises and scratches. God protects fools and drunks—which makes you doubly blessed.”

“What about the car?”

“Totaled. A new Cadillac Eldorado. His blood test showed alcohol a little above the legal limit. Nothing definite on drugs. Maybe he just fell asleep.”

“Maybe,” I said, not believing it for a minute.

“Uh-huh. Archy, the guy doesn’t have any suicidal tendencies, does he?”

I swallowed. Sgt. Rogoff is no dummy. Trust him to come up with an explanation for Peter’s accident that matched my own.

“Not to my knowledge, Al,” I said faintly.

“Well, his license has been pulled but he didn’t hurt anyone and his father isn’t preferring charges, so we’re squashing the whole thing. But I think the kid needs help.”

“Could be,” I said cautiously, and that was the end of our conversation.

I sat there a moment, shuddering to think of what might have happened but didn’t. I wondered just how long Peter Gottschalk could go his mindless way depending on God’s mercy. Not too long, I reckoned. Ask any gambler and he’ll tell you there’s one sure thing about luck: it always changes.

Since I’m firmly convinced life is half tragedy and half farce, I decided I needed a bit of the farcical and so I answered the second message. It was from Binky Watrous, my very own harlequin.

“Why aren’t you at work?” I demanded.

“Because I clean cages only four days a week,” he explained. “Hey, Archy, I like that job.”

“And the fringe benefits, no doubt. Super party last night, wasn’t it?”

“I guess. Bridget enjoyed it.”

“Oh-oh,” I said. “Do I detect a slight note of discord?”

“Well, that’s why I called. Bridget wants to get married.”

“To whom?”

“To me,” Binky said gloomily.

“Congratulations.”

“Archy, I don’t know what to do and I need your advice. I am smitten but do you think a man can be satisfied with one woman?”

“At a time?” I said. “Surely.”

“No, no. I mean one woman, the same woman, forever and ever.”

“Ah, now you’re entering the realm of philosophy—if not cosmology.”

“I suppose,” he said. “I was never much good at that sort of thing.”

“Think about it, Binky,” I advised, “before you come to any decision.” I knew full well that urging this dweeb to think was similar to cheering on a three-toed sloth in a decathlon. “First of all you must consider if you are financially able to provide for a wife and perhaps eventually a family on the income from tidying up parrot cages.”

“Yes,” he said, “that is a problem, isn’t it? I don’t know how the Duchess would react to my getting hitched. She might even turn off the cash faucet. That would hurt. I’ve got to rack the old brain about this, Archy.”

“Do that,” I said. “But don’t forget the only reason you’re working at Parrots Unlimited is to assist me in a discreet inquiry.”

“What?” he said. “Oh. Sure. I remember.”

“For the nonce, I’d like you to concentrate your snooping on Ricardo Chrisling. That handsome lad interests me. See if you can find out where he lives and with whom, if anyone. Does he have a consenting adult companion, or does he play the field? Any unusual habits or predilections? I want you to provide a complete dossier on Ricardo. I suspect he may be more than just another pretty face. Find out.”

“Listen, Archy,” my henchman said distractedly, “do you think it’s really necessary I marry Bridget? I mean, couldn’t we, you know, uh, what’s that word?”

“Cohabit?” I suggested.

“Yes!” he said eagerly. “Couldn’t we cohabitize?”

I groaned and hung up. If I were a cat Binky would be a hair ball.

I
HAD DRESSED WITH SPECIAL
care that morning, preparing for my luncheon with the Gottschalk sisters. I hoped they might be impressed by careless elegance, so in addition to a silver-gray jacket of Ultrasuede, black silk slacks, and a faded blue denim shirt I sported an ascot in a Pucci print and used a four-in-hand as a belt, à la Fred Astaire. No socks of course.

I had suggested the twins dress informally and so they did: one in a rumpled suit of white sailcloth, the other in a magenta leotard under a gauzy blouse and open skirt. They looked smart enough but I had the impression they were dressing down and their garments had been adapted from street styles by frightfully pricey French designers. They were wearing trendy costumes as foreign to their taste and nature as the sari.

The arrival of these lovely look-alikes at the Pelican Club occasioned startled reactions from members in the bar area. Even Priscilla in the dining room was so surprised by the entry of doubles she tempered her sassy impudence and treated us with solicitous politesse. I imagined the sisters were accustomed to the stir their appearance caused and took it casually as their due.

I wish I could describe our luncheon in lip-smacking detail but I confess my remembrances are vague. My recollections are hazy since all my attention was concentrated on how they looked, what they said, and trying to follow Dr. Gussie Pearlberg’s injunction to pry and ask questions.

Mike #1 swung about to examine our surroundings. “Rather grotty, don’t you think?” she asked her sibling.

“Yes but comfortably so,” Mike #2 replied, and they both gave me pixieish grins.

They surely must have noted my discomfiture, for I truly believe the Pelican to be the ne plus ultra of all private clubs in the Palm Beach area. Grotty, yes. Raffish, undoubtedly. Unconventionally stylish, true. But where else could I leap upon a table late Saturday night and attempt to sing “Volare”?

“Archy,” one of the sisters said, “this game has gone on long enough and we’ve decided to come clean with you. I’m Julia.”

She was wearing the sailcloth suit.

“And I’m Judith,” the other said.

She was wearing the magenta leotard.

They both looked at me as if expecting gratitude.

I dimly recall we were drinking Kir Royales at the time. And I definitely remember their stares of wide-eyed innocence. I didn’t totally believe them or totally disbelieve them. I was willing to suspend judgment since I had an ace in the hole or rather—from what Hiram Gottschalk had revealed—a mole in the hole.

“Julia and Judith,” I repeated, nodding to each in turn. “Yes, that does simplify things, and I thank you for your confidence in me. I swear I won’t tell a soul.”