McNally's Risk Page 2

  "Charming," mother said, "just charming! He said my 'Iron Cross' was the healthiest begonia he had ever seen."

  Father gulped the remainder of his martini. "That was very kind of him," he said, absolutely deadpan. "Shall we go down to dinner?"

  I remember well the menu that night, the way I imagine the condemned might savor their last meal before the unknown. Ursi Olson, our cook-housekeeper, had sautéed red snapper with white wine and shallots. And husband Jamie, our houseman, served the dessert: chocolate torte with cappuccino ice cream. Any wonder why the waistbands of my slacks continue to shrink?

  Before departing for the Pristine Gallery I climbed to the third floor of the McNally faux Tudor manor. There, under a leaking copper roof, I had my own aerie, a rather dilapidated but snug suite: sitting room, bedroom, bath. Not luxurious, you understand, but you couldn't beat the rent. Zip.

  Since becoming chief of Discreet Inquiries at McNally & Son, I had kept a private journal in which I recorded the details of my investigations. It was an invaluable aid in keeping track of things, especially when I had two or more cases running concurrently. I jotted down facts, impressions, bits of actual dialogue, and whatever else I thought might be of value. Most of my scribblings turned out to be of no value whatsoever. But one never knows, do one?

  That night I hurriedly made brief notes on my interview with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth, the chat with Simon Pettibone, the information learned at that bibulous luncheon with Lolly Spindrift, and what mother had mentioned about Hector, Theodosia Johnson's father. Finished, I read over what I had written and found absolutely zilch in the way of inspiration. So I closed up shop, clattered downstairs, and went to meet my fate.

  It was a still, cloudless night but hot and humid as a sauna. As I drove back to Worth Avenue I hoped the owner of the Pristine Gallery, Ivan Duvalnik, would have the decency to serve something refreshing. He did: a Chilean chardonnay so cold it made my fillings ache.

  It turned out to be a hugger-mugger evening, the gallery overcrowded, chatter too loud, paintings almost hidden by the billows of chiffon gown (f.) and the sheen of silk sport jackets (m.). I knew most of the guests and mingled determinedly, working my way toward the pièce de résistance: the portrait of Theodosia Johnson.

  When I finally stood before it, I was simultaneously rapt and unwrapped. I mean I was totally engrossed and at the same time felt a sag of the knees and a horrible need to let my jaw droop and just gawk. Spindrift had not exaggerated; the lady was a corker. What beauty! But not of the plastic variety one sees so often in fashion ads and centerfolds. Again, Lolly had it right: she was half-Garbo, half-Dietrich, with all the mystery and promise in those two mesmerizing faces.

  I am not an expert on paintings, figuring one man's "September Morn" is another man's "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon." But I defy any hot-blodded yute to look at that portrait of Madam X without saying to himself, "I must meet her."

  I was filling my eyes when a voice at my elbow interrupted my fantasies by stating, "Awfully good, am I right, Archy? Si has caught her expression perfectly, and the colors are striking. Don't you agree?"

  I turned, and there was the Chinless Wonder himself, Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth, wearing a midnight blue dinner jacket and looking like the groom on a wedding cake. His pushbroom mustache was meticulously trimmed and he was exuding a fruity cologne. That was a surprise. CW was known as a nebbishy sort of chap. Palm Beach gossips (the total population) claimed he wore a helmet while pedaling his Exercycle.

  "You couldn't be righter, CW," I said. "Or more right— whichever comes first. Hawkin has done a marvelous job, and the lady is beautiful."

  "My fiancée," he said with a fatuous grin. "Or soon to be."

  "Congratulations!" I said, smiling, and recalling that "one may smile and smile, and be a villain."

  "Well, it's not exactly official yet," he said in that pontifical way he had of speaking. "But it soon will be, I assure you."

  "I'd like to meet the lucky lady," I said, perking his ego. "Is she here this evening?"

  "Somewhere," he said vaguely, looking about the mobbed gallery. "Just find the biggest crowd, and she's sure to be the center."

  Then he drifted away, obviously having no desire to introduce me personally. Quite understandable.

  I glanced around and saw in one corner a jammed circle of men surrounding someone I presumed to be the star of the evening. Rather than join the adoring throng, I eased my way to the bar to replenish my supply of that excellent chardonnay. And there I bumped into Silas Hawkin, the famous portraitist and plastic surgeon himself.

  "Hi, Si," I said, thinking how silly that sounded.

  He stared. "Do I know you?" he demanded.

  We had met several times; he knew very well who I was. But feigning ignorance was his particular brand of one-upmanship.

  "Archy McNally," I said, as equably as I could.

  "Oh yeah," he said. "The lawyer feller. Didn't know you were interested in fine art."

  "Oh my yes," I said. "I have a lovely collection of Bugs Bunny cels. Good show tonight."

  "I think so," he said complacently. "People know quality when they see it. You caught my latest? The portrait of Theodosia Johnson?"

  "Extraordinary," I said.

  "It is that," he agreed. "Took me a week to do her lips."

  A ribald reply leaped to mind, but I squelched it. "By the way, Si," I said, "may I give you a call? It concerns a silly inquiry I'm making. Nothing of any great importance."

  "Sure," he said casually, his eyes roving. "Anytime."

  Then we were jostled away from the bar and separated. I finally decided I had to make my move—win or lose. So I joined the ring of admirers, and sure enough Theodosia Johnson was at the center, flushed but poised and accepting compliments with the graciousness of E. II. I slowly inched forward until I was standing directly in front of Madam X herself.

  "Archy McNally," I said, giving her the 150-watt smile I call my Jumbocharmer.

  "Theo Johnson," she said, and reached out a hand to shake. It was one of the hardest decisions of my life to let go.

  "A fantastic portrait, Miss Johnson," I told her. "But it doesn't do you justice."

  "Thank you," she murmured, and gave me the full blaze of azure eyes. "You're very kind."

  Naturally I wanted to say more, but I was elbowed away by other victims, and regretfully departed with the feeling that I had been privileged to be in the presence of great, almost supernal beauty. For the third time, Lolly Spindrift had been right: my timbers had been shivered and I was in love.

  Again.

  I left the gallery and drove home singing one of my favorite songs: "When It's Apple Blossom Time in Orange, New Jersey, We'll Make a Peach of a Pair."

  2

  I awoke the next morning with the conviction that if Johnny Keats was right—"Beauty is truth, truth beauty."—then Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth had no reason to worry about the motives of Ms. Theodosia Johnson. How could a paragon with that mass of shimmering chestnut hair, those burning eyes, that Limoges complexion ever be guilty of even the teeniest deceit? Ridiculous! As far as I was concerned, my investigation could be canceled forthwith.

  But I knew if I dared suggest such a thing to my father, he wouldn't say a word. He would merely glare at me from under those snarled eyebrows, and that would be my answer. So, sighing, I started the second day of what I later came to call The Affair of Madam X.

  I was late getting downstairs, as usual, and so I breakfasted in the kitchen, served by Jamie Olson. He was working on what was probably his third mug of black coffee to which, I was sure, he had added a splash of aquavit.

  Jamie is seventyish, semi-wizened, and a taciturn bloke. He is also privy to all the backstairs gossip in Palm Beach, stuff even Lolly Spindrift isn't aware of since it's shared only by the servants of the Island's nabobs. And the things these maids, chauffeurs, valets, housekeeps, and butlers know or suspect would make a platoon of tabloid editors moan with delight.

>   "Jamie," I said, after I had smeared my toasted onion bagel with salmon mousse, "have you ever heard of Theodosia Johnson?"

  "Yep," he said. "A looker."

  "She is that," I agreed. "I understand she's been here about a year. Lives with her father, Hector, in a rented condo. Do they have any staff?"

  "Don't know."

  "Could you find out?"

  "Mebbe."

  "What about the Smythe-Hersforths? Hear any talk?"

  "Tight."

  "Tight? You mean stingy?"

  "Uh-huh."

  I seemed to be making little progress with Jamie, but I had learned from past experience that patience frequently paid off. He really was a remarkable fount of inside info. Turning on the tap was the problem.

  "I can believe the gammer might have miserly tendencies," I said. "What about the son, Chauncey Wilson? I know he's got a good job with a local bank. All title and no work. Is he also a penny-pincher?"

  "Yep," Jamie said.

  "Blood will tell," I said, and poured myself another cup of coffee that had been laced with chicory. "One more: How about the painter, Silas Hawkin? Know him?"

  He nodded.

  "How many in his menage?"

  "Menage?"

  "Household."

  "Him, wife, daughter. One live-in."

  "Everything harmonious there? All peace and goodwill?"

  "Nope," Jamie said.

  I woke up. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked.

  "Him."

  "I can understand that," I said. "The man's a dolt. Know any details?"

  He shook his head.

  "Ask around, will you, Jamie? About Theodosia and her father, and the reason for discord in Si Hawkin's not-so-happy home."

  He nodded.

  I slipped him a tenner before I left. The lord of the manor would be outraged to learn that I customarily gave Jamie a pourboire for information. The Olsons drew a handsome stipend to keep the McNally family comfortable and well-nourished, but I felt revealing inside skinny to yrs. truly was not included in domestic chores and deserved an extra quid now and then.

  I went into my father's study and sat in the big armchair behind his desk, feeling like a fraudulent dauphin. I used his local telephone directory that had been bound in a leather slipcover. I swear, he would put a calfskin cozy on a teapot. I looked up the number and pecked it out.

  "The Hawkins' residence," a chirpy female voice answered. I presumed this was the live-in.

  "May I speak to Mr. Hawkin, please," I said. "Archy McNally calling."

  "Just a moment, please, sir," she said.

  It was more than a moment, more like three or four, before he came on the line.

  "Yeah?" he said. It was practically a grunt.

  "Good morning, Si," I said, giving him a heavy dose of the McNally cheer. "That was a wonderful show last night."

  "It went okay," he said. "Ivan Duvalnik called earlier and claims we got two new clients out of it and four possibles."

  "Congratulations!" I cried. "Due to that marvelous portrait of Theo Johnson, no doubt. Listen, may I pop over this morning and ask a few questions? That silly inquiry I mentioned to you last night. It won't take long."

  "Well ... all right," he said, "if you keep it short. I've got a lot of work to do."

  "Just take a few minutes," I promised. "I'm on my way."

  They lived in an imitation Mizner on the Intracoastal down toward South Palm Beach, and when I saw the house, really a villa, I guessed a million five. Then I saw the guest house and changed my estimate to two million five. That detached, two-story edifice looked like an enormous Nebraska barn painted white, but the upper floor seemed entirely enclosed in glass, and I mean big, openable picture windows. It had to be the artist's studio—or a solarium devoted to sunbathing in the buff.

  I was greeted at the front door of the main house by the chirpy-voiced domestic who had answered the phone. I had envisioned her as young, small, lissome. She was old, large, creaky.

  "Archy McNally," I said. "To see Mr. Hawkin."

  "Of course," she said, and her smile won me over. "Do come in."

  I followed this pleasant woman into a home decorated in what is called the Mediterranean Style, but whether that means Marseille or Beirut I've never been able to figure out. Anyway, I thought it a strident interior with a lot of rattan, jangling patterns, acidic hues, and the skins of endangered species. On the walls, to my surprise, were seascapes and paintings of Lake Worth by Silas Hawkin. I had no idea he did that kind of thing, but there was no mistaking his style; the man was a superb colorist.

  There were two women seated in the Florida room, leafing through slick magazines, and it was the older who rose to greet me.

  "You must be Archy McNally," she said, holding out a hand. "I do believe I've met your parents. I am Louise Hawkin."

  "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am," I said, pressing dry, bony fingers.

  "And this is my daughter, Marcia," she added.

  "Stepdaughter," the younger woman said in a Freon voice, not looking up from her copy of Vogue.

  Mrs. Hawkin made a small moue as if she had suffered that correction before.

  "Glad to meet you, Miss Hawkin," I said, and was rewarded with a nod. One.

  "Would you care for something to drink?" Mrs. Hawkin asked. "Coffee perhaps? Or anything else?"

  "Thank you, no," I replied. "I promised your husband I'd only stay a few minutes. I know how busy he must be."

  "Oh yes," she said airily, "he's always busy."

  I heard a sound from the stepdaughter. It might have been a short, scornful laugh. Or maybe she was only clearing her throat.

  "He's in the studio now," Louise Hawkin said. "Through that door and along the walkway. He's on the second floor."

  "Thank you," I said. "I hope to meet you ladies again."

  Neither replied and I left in silence. Happy to leave, as a matter of fact. Bad vibes in that room. Something bilious about the relationship between the two women. But perhaps they had merely had an early morning squabble ("Aren't you finished with the Vogue yet?" "No, I am not finished with it!"), and I thought no more about it.

  The walkway to the guest house was roofed with slates. A nice touch, I acknowledged, but not very practical if you got a blowy squall coming in from the sea. The door to the Nebraska barn was oak and etched frosted glass. It was horribly scarred, and I judged it had been purchased from one of those antique shops that specialize in old saloon furnishings.

  I pushed in and found myself in an enormous space that had indeed been designed for sleep-over guests: bedroom area, conversation pit, kitchenette. But it did have all the comforts of home: fridge, TV set, VCR, and what appeared to be a well-stocked bar. Everything was precisely arranged, new and unused, awaiting guests who never arrived.

  I climbed a cast-iron staircase to the second story and entered the studio, as large and open as the floor below. But this area was cluttered with all the paraphernalia and detritus a working artist might accumulate: easels, taborets, palettes, tubes of oil, stretched blank canvases, stacks of finished paintings leaning against the outside walls, innumerable cans of turps and who knows what.

  There was a dais decorated like a stage set, the floor carpeted, maroon drapes, an ornate armchair alongside a delicate tea table. I remembered seeing those drapes and that tea table in the painting of Theodosia Johnson, and had little doubt that the artist used the same props in all his portraits of Palm Beach matrons.

  Oh yes, one more thing: In a far corner was a battered sleigh bed that might have been a charming antique at one time but was now in such a dreadful state of disrepair that it had all the compelling grace of an army cot. It was covered with rumpled sheets, and the wadded pillow looked as if it had been used to smother palmetto bugs.

  The artist himself was seated at a shockingly dilapidated desk, smoking a morning cigar and apparently making entries in a ledger. He slapped it shut when I entered. He rose and came forward to meet
me, viewing with some distaste the madras blazer and electric blue slacks I was wearing. He made no offer to shake hands.

  "Found me, did you?" he said. "Pull up a chair. That one over there. It looks ready to collapse, but it won't. You met my wife and daughter?"

  "I did," I said, seating myself rather gingerly on the spindly kitchen chair he had indicated. "Lovely ladies."

  "Yeah," he said, going back behind his desk. "Now what's all this bullshit about an inquiry and questions?"

  It was bs, but it was a scam I had used before with some success, and I saw no reason why it wouldn't work on this crude man. He might have been a talented artist, but he was also, in my opinion, a vulgar pig. There. I said it and I'm glad.

  "It's a project dreamed up by the Real Estate Department of McNally and Son," I said earnestly. (Hey, I can do earnest.) "We are agents for perhaps a dozen mansions in the Palm Beach area, ranging from two million to twelve. Asking price, of course. What we're planning to do is put together a list of potential buyers, people with sufficient resources to afford one of these magnificent estates. Before we send them a very expensive four-color brochure, we'd like to do a little research and make certain they're completely trustworthy and capable of making such a hefty investment. One of the names on the list is Hector Johnson, and I hoped you'd be willing to tell me a little about him. Strictly entre nous, of course."

  He looked at me. I could see he didn't believe and he didn't disbelieve. He finally decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. People are continually doing that—until they learn better.

  Let me tell you something about Silas Hawkin. He suffered from what I called the Hemingway Syndrome—very prevalent in South Florida and particularly in the Keys. Bulky, middle-aged men cultivate a grizzled beard, wear a long-billed fishing cap, and drink nothing but Myers's Dark rum. Some go so far as to sport a small gold ring in one ear or even a ponytail. None wear bifocals or a hearing aid in public.

  Hawkin was a charter member of this macho cult. I didn't know whether or not he was an obsessed fisherman, but I would have bet a farthing that he had the cap and drank rum. I could see he had the requisite pepper-and-salt beard, for at the moment he was combing it with his fingers and regarding me with a mixture of hostility and suspicion.