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  That’s the way I saw her. It takes one to know one.

  After a while I wandered into the house and went up to my den much bemused by what I had learned from Jamie about Helen Westmore’s concupiscence. Poor Walter, I would have wagered, suffered from uxoriousness. (Look it up, fevvin’s sake.)

  I entered all this in my journal along with an account of my luncheon at Natalie’s studio. Then I reread everything I had recorded since my current Discreet Inquiry began. I found no startling revelations but there were some tantalizing snippets meriting further investigation.

  It would be a help, I knew, if I dared ask Sgt. Al Rogoff to search for possible police dossiers on Frederick Clemens and his alleged secretary, Felix. But Rogoff would demand to know why I wanted the information and I was silenced by my father’s insistence on discretion. I could earn the sergeant’s cooperation only if it involved criminal activity, and I had no evidence of that. As yet.

  During the family cocktail hour I announced I had been invited to attend a cocktail party at the home of Mrs. Edythe Westmore on Friday. Mother said she and father had also been asked and would probably make a short pro forma appearance. She didn’t have to explain the reason for their brief attendance. The pater has a thing about socializing with clients, preferring to keep the relationship on a professional level. He feels familiarity breeds contempt—and a casual delay in the payment of retainers.

  Dinner that evening was a proletarian meal but not to be scorned. Ursi Olson had prepared a huge platter of spaghetti with marinara sauce. Accompanying this dish were two bowls of roasted Italian sausage, one of hot for father and me and the other of the sweet variety for mother, who because of her high blood pressure tries to avoid spicy foods.

  We also had a small salad of romaine and radicchio and a basket of garlic bread to sop up excess spaghetti sauce. And to help digest this savory feast we drank red wine from a jug with a handle and screw-top, vintage of last Tuesday. Nothing subtle about that vino, but its biting harshness was exactly what was needed to cut the richness of sauce and sausage. Dessert was amaretti with espresso and I staggered upstairs singing “O Sole Mio.”

  My appetite may have been satisfied but my curiosity remained unfulfilled. I began leafing through my up-to-the-minute journal again, hoping to find a startling factoid which might help unlock the mystery of Frederick Clemens. Instead I found myself dawdling over the entries concerning Natalie Westmore.

  That young lady fascinated and, I must admit, spooked me. She was so volatile, y’see, and I feared her capriciousness. It was highly unlikely to happen but I could imagine her blurting out a merry account of our fervid tussle on the collapsing cot to her brother, mother, or—heaven forfend!—to the astonished but delighted guests at the cocktail party. Impossible she might be so lacking in prudence? I didn’t think so; the woman was totally unpredictable.

  The more I read and mused on her actions and utterances, the more firmly convinced I became that I would be wise not to encourage our intimacy. I knew from the beginning it was a gamble. Now I regretfully admitted it was a no-win situation and I had better cool the relationship before I became a hapless victim of her caprices.

  I could make a start at withdrawing from our incipient liaison during the cocktail party Friday evening, and I thought I knew how to do it. Hadn’t Walter Westmore said I could bring anyone I chose? I phoned Connie Garcia.

  “Hi, hon,” I said. “How’s by you?”

  “Okay, I guess,” she said, sighing. “It’s been a heavy week and I’ll be glad when it’s over. I’m frazzled.”

  “Got just the thing to unfrazzle you,” I said breezily. “Remember we spoke about Mrs. Edythe Westmore? As I told you, she’s a client of ours and she’s throwing this great cocktail party on Friday evening. Lots of food, drinks, and maybe even funny hats and confetti. My parents are invited and so am I. The balloon goes up at five o’clock. Can you make it?”

  “Oh, Archy,” she wailed. “No can do. Friday is the night of Lady Cynthia’s sit-down dinner for the pols—the shindig I’ve been working on so hard for so long. I’ll have to be there to make sure everything goes like silk. There’s no way I can see you on Friday night.”

  “Drat!” I said. “Also hell and damnation. I was hoping you’d come along to provide aid and comfort and make certain I don’t put a lampshade on my head.”

  “I can provide aid and comfort on Saturday night,” she consoled me. “And I’ll be even more in need of unfrazzling. How about it?”

  “You betcha,” I said bravely. “Saturday night it is. I’ll give you a buzz to decide where and when. But I’m sorry you can’t make the cocktail bash. It reduces the gaiety potential by ninety percent.”

  “We’ll make up for it on Saturday,” she promised. “And behave yourself at the Westmores.”

  “I’ll have to,” I said sadly. “My parents will be present.”

  “Good. They’ll keep you on a short leash. See you Saturday, sweet. I hope the party is a hoot.”

  “And I hope you have a grand time at the Lady’s dinner.”

  “Fat chance,” she said, and rang off.

  I sat there practically grinding the McNally molars in frustration. I’m sure you ken my attempted ploy. I had wanted Connie to accompany me as protection against any untoward advances by Natalie. I wanted Ms. Westmore to see and recognize there was a woman in my life I had known longer than I had known her, an attractive woman whom, I intended to make evident, I cherished and possibly loved.

  But the stratagem had come to naught and I was faced with the problem of finding another way to lessen the intensity of Nettie’s emotional attachment to me while retaining her friendship. Students of ego giantism will note that never once did I consider she might be utterly indifferent to my charms and just as eager as I to be casual pals rather than impassioned lovers.

  In defense of my machismo I can only point to the evidence of the collapsed cot. And if you wish to remind me I was as much seductee as seducer, I suggest we terminate this conversation at once. It is a spiteful thing to rob a man of his illusions.

  Nothing of any great consequence occurred during the following forty-eight hours. The weather was, as the French put it, lousay, and I could think of nothing better to do than Christmas shopping. I bought everything on plastic and refused to brood about the bills arriving in January.

  I shall not distract you by detailing the items selected for everyone on my list. I only wish to mention I was stumped in finding a proper gift for Natalie Westmore. I think you’ll agree I had to give her some token of my esteem no matter how impersonal. But a card saying “Best wishes for a jolly holiday season” seemed insufficient for a woman with whom I had played adult patty-cake. I finally decided to postpone the purchase of her present until I could find a trinket she might appreciate but which wouldn’t signify undying passion on my part.

  At noontime on Friday I decided to take a break from my shopping orgy and escape the relentless rain for a few moments by ducking into the Pelican Club for a wee bit of the old nasty. And there, standing at the bar, was my number one (and only) aider and abettor, the bedlamite Binky Watrous himself. He greeted me effusively.

  “Hey, old sport!” he shouted. “Merry Xmas and all that sort of thing. Let me buy you a snifter to chase the winter chill.”

  I looked at him in amazement. “I appreciate your kind offer,” I told him. “A generous impulse on your part. But do you have the wherewithal?”

  “Floating,” he assured me. “Awash in cash. Mr. Pettibone, did I or did I not show you a plump bundle of spondulicks?”

  “You did indeed, Mr. Watrous,” the bartender said gravely.

  “In that case,” I said, “I’ll have a double vodka rocks with the merest tincture of aqua. Binky, tell me at once; what is the source of your unusual liquidity? Have you tunneled into Fort Knox?”

  “Frederick Clemens,” he said with a smirky grin. “I told you he promised me a hundred-buck finder’s fee for every person I suggest who become
s a client. Two of the people I touted signed up, and Fred forked over the moola with heartfelt thanks. Archy, he’s a true gentleman. A paragon one might even say and I do say it.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, and waited until Mr. Pettibone was out of earshot. “Binky, I don’t wish to push the panic button but I feel it my duty to remind you the purpose of our Discreet Inquiry is to determine if Frederick Clemens is or is not a swindler. Should it be proved he is and has been acting with criminal intent it may put you in an awkward or even indefensible position, since you are serving as his paid assistant, profiting when he profits, and so might be held equally culpable.”

  “Say what?” Binky said.

  “I’m beginning to talk like my father,” I admitted. “To put it bluntly, old boy, if Clemens is a crook you may find yourself in the clink as an accessory before the fact.”

  He considered that, staring into his tumbler of Irish whiskey. I really didn’t believe he was in any danger of suffering the fate I had described, but I would have preferred he wasn’t playing kneesies with the formidable Mr. Clemens.

  “You really think I might be popped in the cooler?” he asked.

  “Well,” I said judiciously, “you could always plead insanity.”

  He ignored that. “I’d hate to give up the commish Clemens pays me,” he said wistfully. “It’s nice having walking-around money in my pocket. Especially since I’m losing hope of ever getting any monetary reward from you for the valuable services I render. And whatever happened to those fringe benefits you’re always dangling in your sly way?”

  I didn’t shout “Shazam!” but his chiding resulted in an inspiration that pleased me mightily. “Why, Binky,” I said, “how odd you should mention it. I was going to phone to ask if you’d care to attend a lavish cocktail party tonight at the home of the Westmore family on Ocean Boulevard. Much to eat and drink. Laughs aplenty and possibly scantily clad dancing girls.”

  “What time?” Binky said eagerly.

  And so, denied the company of Connie Garcia, I had found a substitute chaperon in the person of my squirrelly henchman. Binky and I would be inseparable at the Westmore party, I decided, and there would be little opportunity for private conversation with Natalie during which she might seek to further an intimacy I had solemnly vowed to resist. I thought I had planned wisely.

  How could I have been such a pompous ass?

  CHAPTER 16

  HOW DOES THIS RIG-OUT grab you? Ivory cashmere blazer, butterscotch suede vest, band-collar shirt with burgundy awning stripes, fawny linen slacks, black crocodile slip-ons. No socks. And to avoid excess the only jewelry I wore was my Mickey Mouse wristwatch—an original, not a replica.

  Nifty, eh? I thought so, and thus caparisoned, I set out for the Westmores’ shindy. The rain had ceased but the air was still dampish and winterly. Of course it’s a south Florida winter I speak of—which means a temperature of perhaps 60°F, give or take, but definitely chill.

  I was fashionably late (twenty minutes) but the Westmore driveway was already crowded with cars. I espied my father’s black Lexus and the battered 1970 MB cabriolet belonging to Binky Watrous. Trust that dingbat to be on time for free belts and noshes. I also spotted Frederick Clemens’s maroon Bentley and thought I discerned someone within. I strolled over and found Felix sitting behind the wheel, not smoking or reading, just sitting placidly and not even bothering to yawn. I admired his composedness. The man was a cat.

  “Good evening, Felix,” I said through his open window.

  He turned his head slowly to look at me. “Good evening, Mr. McNally,” he said, and I ignored his mispronunciation of my name.

  “You’re not coming inside?” I asked.

  “Think not,” he said. “I try to avoid mob scenes.”

  I thought it an odd thing to say. I mean, it was merely a cocktail party, not Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

  “You may be missing a rollicking jamboree,” I told him.

  “Later,” he said, and once again I couldn’t decide if the expression he put on was a smile or a grimace.

  I nodded, left him alone, and went into the Westmore home through the open door. So began what turned out to be a kaleidoscopic evening, and I must warn you I am not certain I accurately recall the correct sequence of incidents, conversations, and events. No matter. They all did occur I assure you, discontinuous though they may seem.

  It had been my fear after enduring the so-so luncheon with Mrs. Westmore that the viands offered at her party would be more of the same—a whimpering board rather than groaning, so to speak. But she or someone in her household had had the great good sense to hire a caterer, and I was happy to see the dining room table laden with a tempting selection of hot meats, cold seafood, pasta salads, and an iced salver of chocolate profiteroles. I saw nothing to object to.

  A bar had been set up in the sitting room, and it was there I found Binky Watrous working on what I hoped was his first drink.

  “Satisfied?” I asked him.

  “Not bad,” he admitted. “After I finish this torpedo I’m going to stage a raid on the buffet before all the stone crabs are gone.”

  “Good thinking,” I said, and ordered a vodka gimlet from the bartender, who appeared to be 382 years old. “See anyone interesting of the female ilk?”

  “I did indeed,” he said. “But she was accompanied by a mastodon. Even his muscles had muscles and so I passed. But I did meet the hostess, told her I was your closest friend and role model. She said you should be sure to look her up; she has something to tell you. I also met Mrs. Helen Westmore. She patted my cheek and said I was cute. You think there’s anything doing there, Archy?”

  “Not for you. Meet the son or daughter?”

  “Nope. What’s the daughter like?”

  “Different,” I said.

  The room was filling up and we were being elbowed away from the bar. Binky finished his drink and headed for the dining room. I followed closely, carrying my gimlet. There was already a crush at the buffet. I stood back while my hungry helot went to fill a plate. Suddenly Frederick Clemens was planted before me, hand outstretched.

  “Good to see you again, Archy,” he said, smiling. “I didn’t realize you knew Edythe Westmore.”

  “She’s really my mother’s friend,” I explained. “But I can’t resist a party.”

  “Don’t blame you,” he said, still smiling. “And it’s a good one.” He paused and looked around. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about but there’s such a crowd in here. Could we step out in the hall a minute? It’s a bit quieter there.”

  I saw no way to refuse even though it meant I’d have to leave Binky—temporarily I hoped. I followed Clemens out to the hallway, which held only a few guests to-ing and fro-ing.

  “You say Mrs. Westmore is a friend of your mother,” he said. “Then you probably know Edythe is a client of mine. I’ve been working on a special deal for her. It was supposed to be confidential but apparently the dear woman has informed several of her friends about it. It concerns the purchase of a Fabergé egg. Do you happen to know if Mrs. Westmore told your mother?”

  He wasn’t smiling now. I thought his tone was almost grim.

  “A Fabergé egg?” I repeated. “Why, yes, I believe mother did mention something about it. I wasn’t really listening but I remember thinking what an unusual investment it was.”

  He nodded. “A few people have asked me about it, so it’s obvious Mrs. Westmore has been talking. I thought she had agreed to keep the matter private but I guess I was expecting too much. You know what women are like.”

  I thought it was a rhetorical observation, but he seemed to await a response. I said, “Mmm.”

  “In any event,” he continued, “it is potentially a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with a possible three or four hundred percent return. But of course the purchase is contingent on what the appraiser says of the object’s authenticity, condition, and probable market value.”

  “Understandable,” I said. �
��I hope you have an expert appraiser.”

  “The best,” he said with emphasis.

  He said nothing more, I said nothing, and our silence was becoming awkward when Helen Westmore came prancing up to take Clemens’s arm in a firm grasp. Her gown was phenomenal and she was flaunting a small black mouche on her left cheek.

  “You deserted me, Fred,” she said reprovingly to Clemens. “Mama no like. Now get me some nibbles; I’m famished.”

  “Of course,” he said. “What would you like?”

  “Everything,” she said, and gave me a dismissive “Hi, Archy” before tugging him into the dining room. I waited a mo and then followed, looking about for Binky. But he wasn’t at the buffet and I went back to the bar, figuring I’d surely find him there. No Binky, so I asked for a gimlet refill before continuing my search.

  I didn’t find him in the throng but I found her—Natalie Westmore. She was standing near the front entrance, deep in an animated conversation with her brother. I stared at her from afar and what a revelation it was!

  She was wearing a creamy sleeveless sheath of some glittery stuff. It wasn’t skintight but it clung to her pliant body here and there and here and there. The dress was quite short and I was reminded of the elegance of her tanned legs. She wasn’t wearing makeup and her hair was as raggedy as before, but she seemed to me absolutely luscious.

  Well, you get the picture. I had spent hours brooding on how I might temper our relationship and in one brief moment the hyperkinetic McNally glands took command and my knees turned to lime Jell-O. I staggered away before I lost control and rushed to her babbling, “Take me, take me, take me!” Yes, I fled, although my corpuscles continued to dance a Highland fling.

  I wandered through the house, ignoring me chattering merrymakers, giving no thought to the whereabouts of Binky Watrous. I was conscious of wearing a sappy grin and I tried, I really tried to censure my weak character. How quickly I had surrendered lofty resolves to baser instincts. But all my attempted mea culpas were to no avail. I could think of nothing but Natalie, a quicksilver woman. And a new steel cot. I thought of that as well.