McNally's Trial Page 8

  For the remaining waking hours of that night I resolutely refrained from ruminating on the tidbits of information divulged by my Sancho Panza. The mound of lasagna I call my brain was flaccid with the complexities it had absorbed that day, and so I treated myself to a wee marc and listened to a tape of Jimmy Durante rasping some wonderful tunes, including “Inka Dinka Doo.”

  I recall that just before I fell asleep I murmured the Schnozzola’s famous sign-off: “Good night, Mrs. Calabash—wherever you are.”

  I awoke Thursday morning so chockablock with the Three Vs (vim, vigor, vitality) I was convinced the day would be a triumph for A. McNally, detective nonpareil and implacable lighter of wrongs. This loopy attitude lasted for almost a half hour when disaster struck in the form of a phone call from Consuela Garcia. Before breakfast!

  “You didn’t invite me,” she accused in the tone she uses that illy conceals her desire to transform me into a soprano. “To the Whitcombs’ party.”

  “Connie,” I pleaded piteously, “it was a business obligation. As I told you, the Whitcombs are clients. I attended with my parents and we departed early. A very dull affair.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  My leman has a network of spies, informers, and snitches that would be the envy of the CIA. I mean, she has the uncanny ability to learn about my peccadilloes before the sheets cool off. Rarely—very rarely—have I been able to misbehave without news of my conduct eventually coming to her alert ears. It is a cross I have learned to bear.

  “Connie,” I said sincerely (I can do sincere when it’s required), “I attended the party with my parents to fulfill a professional duty. We put in the requisite appearance and that’s all there was to it.”

  “We shall see,” she said darkly. “Reports are still coming in.”

  And she slammed down the phone. There went my ebullience. I breakfasted in a subdued mood that even buttermilk pancakes could not lighten. I drove to the office thinking of my totally unexpected and unplanned pas de deux with Sunny Fogarty on Tuesday night. I convinced myself that despite her espionage organization there was no possible way Connie could learn of my infidelity. I should have remembered Mr. Seneca’s observation: “What fools these mortals be!”

  I found on my desk a small sealed envelope that had been delivered by messenger. The single sheet of paper within, unsigned, listed the names, home addresses, and Social Security numbers of the four department heads and three chief funeral directors of Whitcomb’s. Sunny Fogarty was prompt, organized, efficient—and had freckled shoulders.

  Several words of explanation are now necessary. When I received permission from my father to commission credit dossiers on the individuals involved in the Whitcomb affair, you may have thought, in your innocence, we were, merely seeking reports on their net worth, income, liabilities, and general creditworthiness. That may have been the limits of information available to us a few years ago, but no longer.

  New agencies now exist—some legitimate, some a bit on the shady side—which are capable of supplying skinny of an incredibly personal nature: Your unlisted phone number. Your marital and medical history. Your shopping habits, including the brand of corn flakes you prefer. Your taste in collectibles. The types of investments you favor. The make, model, and cost of the car you drive. The size and value of your condominium or house. The name of your pet cat or dog, and how much you spend annually on said feline or canine. The duration and destinations of your vacations. Your annual expenditures on food, liquor, and clothing. Your preferences in entertainment: movies, video tapes, sporting events, theater, ballet. The extent of your gambling in casinos.

  All that and more is available to interested inquirers— at a hefty price, of course—through the magic of computerized bank accounts, credit cards, mail order purchases, bar codes, and the energetic exchange of mailing lists. Surely you know that privacy is an antiquated concept. Recently, for the fun of it, I had ordered a complete dossier of myself. I was staggered by the intimate nature of the report I received—including the name of the Danbury, Conn., hatter from whom I had ordered my puce beret, the price I had paid, and the date of the purchase.

  We may rail against this electronic intrusion into our private lives, but I do not believe it can be stopped. I foresee the day when anyone requesting a complete dossier on yrs. truly will be informed that on August 18, 1997, at 8:36 A.M., I trimmed my toenails.

  Hello there, Big Brother!

  I added the names and addresses of Horace Whitcomb, Oliver Whitcomb, and Sunny Fogarty to the list I had received and took it upstairs to the office of Mrs. Trelawney, the boss’s private secretary. I requested it be faxed to the investigative agency we used with an URGENT label affixed thereto.

  (You may feel that after caterwauling about the loss of privacy and the indecency of electronic prying, I was something of a hypocrite to take advantage of what I claimed to despise. You are correct, of course; I was acting shamefully, and in the very near future I fully intend to commit several kind and generous acts in atonement.)

  “It’ll cost,” the beldame observed, examining my list. “Is your father aware of this, Archy?”

  “He is,” I assured her. “I made certain to obtain his permission.”

  “Smart boy,” she said approvingly. “He’s on his annual cut-the-costs campaign.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve been trying to reuse staples but it’s difficult.”

  “That’s no joke. He’s composing a memo to all employees suggesting ways to limit the use of paper towels in the lavatories.”

  “From now on,” I promised, “I’ll dry my hands on my pants, and I suggest you do the same.”

  “Dry my hands on your pants?” she inquired sweetly. She really is a delightfully raunchy old lady.

  I returned to my closet wondering how I might profitably spend the remainder of the day. The problem was solved when our lobby receptionist called to inform me that Mr. Horace Whitcomb had just phoned and requested I get back to him as soon as conveniently possible.

  I called at once and identified myself to a male staffer who quavered, “The Whitcomb residence.” Mr. Horace came on the line a moment later and we exchanged civilities.

  “Archy,” he said, “it’s such a pleasant afternoon I simply cannot bring myself to make an appearance at the office and pretend I’m working. Would you care to lunch with us at twelve-thirty, say, and later I’ll be happy to show you my collection of ship models.”

  “I accept,” I said at once. “It sounds like a delightful prospect, and I thank you. I shan’t be late.”

  I hung up, happy I had been asked but curious as to why the invitation had come so promptly. I mean, he had mentioned it casually at the party, but I had taken it as a generalized courtesy: “We must get together sometime.”

  But now, two days later, he had made it definite.

  Perhaps I too often look for ulterior motives, but if I didn’t I really should be in another line of work.

  12.

  THE TABLE HAD BEEN set on the flagstoned terrace and since it faced westward we were in blessed shade. There was a flotilla of sails taking advantage of a splendid day and the ripply lake. Hobie cats were everywhere, plus a few trim sloops and one majestic trimaran. Mercifully there was not a cigarette boat in sight—or sound.

  I was dressed informally, as usual, but my peony-patterned jacket didn’t even elicit a snicker; these were very polite people. Mr. Horace wore a navy, brass-buttoned blazer with gray flannel slacks. Mrs. Sarah, her wheelchair pushed up close to the table, was clad in something gossamer and flowing that looked like a morning robe. A jaunty turban decorated with a single lavender orchid covered her pate.

  We were waited upon by an aged servitor, he of the quavery voice, introduced to me as Jason. He moved slowly and carefully, apparently not wishing to disturb us with the creaking of his bones, but his hands were steady enough and his solicitude for Mrs. Whitcomb was admirable.

  We started with kir royales, an excellent choice fo
r lunching alfresco on such a brilliant day. I complimented my hostess on the success of her recent party. “A night to remember,” I told her, and she brightened. I suspect she might have brightened even more if she had known how my memorable night ended.

  “It was fun, wasn’t it?” she said. “Everyone seemed to have a good time. Did you meet our son?”

  “I did indeed. He suggested we might have lunch one day.”

  “Do it,” she urged. “But you’ll have to phone him. He’s so forgetful—isn’t he, Horace?”

  “Yes,” her husband said.

  “Such a scamp!” Mrs. Sarah said and laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s ever going to grow up. He still gets into mischief just as he did when he was a little boy. Remember, Horace?”

  “I remember,” he said. “I still wish we had sent him to a military academy, but you couldn’t see it.”

  “It would have crushed him,” she said firmly. “He’s such a free spirit.”

  I had the impression this contention was nothing new but had existed since Oliver was a mischievous little boy and would continue until he became a mischievous old geezer—if his parents lived to witness it.

  Jason brought an ice bucket chilling a bottle of excellent South African Pinot blanc, a wine to die for—which, I reflected, the Whitcombs’ customers were doing. Then came individual wooden bowls of lobster salad (endive and watercress) and a communal basket of focaccia with saucers of garlic-infused olive oil for dipping. That lunch, I may say without fear of serious contradiction, was superior to a Big Mac.

  Mr. Horace and I ate heartily. Mrs. Sarah made a valiant effort but really just toyed with her food, forking out a few chunks of lobster meat but ignoring the greens and focaccia. One glass of wine.

  “Horace,” she said almost timidly, “I don’t want to spoil your lunch, but I do think it best if I leave you men alone now. I better rest awhile.”

  He rose immediately to his feet, as I did.

  “Of course, darling,” he said. “Archy, continue your lunch. I’ll be right back.”

  He wheeled her away. I slid back into my chair and poured myself another glass of that fragrant wine, wishing it was something stronger to dull a sudden onslaught of grief. The host returned in a few minutes, walking briskly, his Ronald Colman features revealing nothing of what he felt.

  “She’ll be fine,” he told me, pulling up his chair and attacking his salad again. “We have a nurse’s aide who’ll take care of her. Sorry for the interruption.”

  “Sir,” I said, then stopped, not knowing what to say.

  “She insisted on joining us for lunch,” he went on. “I feared it might be too much for her. But she keeps trying—which is important, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “A very brave woman, Mr. Whitcomb.”

  He nodded. “She is that.”

  “How long has your wife been ill?”

  “Too long. It’s been a dreadful ordeal. For everyone.”

  He shook off his despair and called, “Jason!” The ancient one appeared immediately and Mr. Horace gestured toward the ice bucket. “Supplies running low,” he said, and a few moments later we were supplied with a second bottle along with goblets of lime sorbet and a plate of crisp anise cookies.

  We finished all the edibles in sight. Even the sadness of the Whitcomb household could not blunt my enjoyment of that lunch; I gave it my 2-R rating (Ripping Repast).

  “Shall we take a look at my ships now?” Mr. Horace suggested. “Bring your glass along and we’ll finish the bottle upstairs.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  “My study used to be on the ground floor,” he remarked as we entered the house. “But when my wife became ill and needed a wheelchair, we converted the den into her bedroom and I moved my junk upstairs. It’s worked out very well.”

  He said it blithely, but I didn’t believe him. (My father would be outraged at having his den moved.) I guessed Mr. Whitcomb’s dispossession had been wrenching, but he struck me as a man who stoically endured setbacks and disappointments without grousing. I wish I could.

  He carried the wine bottle, wrapped in a napkin to prevent dripping, and preceded me as we traipsed up that grand staircase to the second floor. The room we entered was androgynous. Even if he hadn’t told me, I’d have known it had originally been designed as a lady’s bedchamber; the walls were papered in a flowered pattern, the balloon drapes were chintz, and the plastered ceiling was painted with vignettes of rosy cherubim gamboling in golden meadows. I thought it all a trifle much.

  But the furnishings were starkly masculine: desk, tables, and bookcases in burnished oak, all the chairs upholstered in maroon leather with brass studs. And an enormous pine étagère obviously custom-built to fill one wall. The long, heavy shelves held Mr. Horace’s collection of ship models.

  Lordy, they were handsome. Not a bit of plastic to be seen, but all carefully crafted of oak, teak, mahogany, ebony. The sails looked to be fine linen, and I was certain the rigging was accurate down to the tiniest belaying pin and the exquisite miniature anchor chains.

  We sipped our wine while Mr. Whitcomb gave me a short history of each ship, enlivened with a few details about the craftsmen who had built the models, working from original plans. Some of the reduced-scale copies were quite old, some of recent vintage, and I was delighted to learn there were still artisans capable of such devoted and painstaking work. The model of the clipper Flying Cloud was my favorite. What a beauty!

  Then, the tour completed, we sat in facing club chairs to finish our wine. A civilized afternoon.

  “A remarkable collection, sir,” I said. “Any museum would love to have it.”

  His laugh was short and, I thought, rather bitter. “I expect one of them shall,” he said. “Eventually. I’d hate to see it broken up and sold off piecemeal after I die. I’ve spent a great deal of time and money, but it’s been a labor of love. I can’t tell you how much pleasure these models have given me over the years. They’ve provided the perfect antidote to the somewhat depressing routine of my particular business.”

  “Your son doesn’t share your enthusiasm?” I ventured.

  “No,” he said shortly, “he does not. Oliver has hobbies of his own.”

  I didn’t dare ask what those might be, but I could imagine. I could also guess that despite his urbanity, Horace Whitcomb was a troubled man.

  But his conversation remained light and pleasing. He related several anecdotes of sea battles between men-of-war, all of them interesting and some amusing. He was a skilled raconteur, but I had the impression he was merely repeating thrice-told tales and his thoughts were elsewhere. I presumed his wife’s condition was distracting him.

  But suddenly he broke off his account of the bloody engagement between the Bonhomme Richard and the British frigate Serapis off Flamborough Head. He fell silent and stared at me in what I can only describe as a contemplative, almost broody, manner.

  “Archy,” he said, “I understand you conduct private investigations for your father’s firm.”

  I was startled and tried not to show it. I was certain poppa hadn’t said a word about my duties to Mr. Whitcomb, and I couldn’t recall mentioning them to him, his wife, son, or anyone else at the party. The fact that my profession is discreet inquiries is hardly a secret in Palm Beach, but it was a mite unsettling to learn my host was aware of it.

  “That’s true, sir,” I said. “Occasionally I do quiet investigations when discretion is required, rather man take inquiries to the authorities and risk unwanted publicity.”

  “Quite understandable,” he said. “You must have had many unusual experiences.”

  It was obviously an invitation to gab, and I was offended. Did he think me a babbler—or was he testing me?

  “Most of what I do is exceedingly dull,” I told him. “I wouldn’t want to bore you—and naturally I must respect client confidentiality.”

  It was a mild reprimand and he accepted it.

  “Natura
lly,” he said, and we smiled at each other.

  Wine finished, we walked down the long stairway to the ground level.

  “I’ll leave you here,” he said. “I want to look in at Sarah. Jason will see you out.”

  “Thank you for a lovely luncheon,” I said, shaking his proffered hand. “And for letting me view those incredible models. Please give my best wishes to your wife and my hopes for her speedy and complete recovery.”

  “We all hope for that,” he said, but there was little hope in his voice. “Archy, you’re good company. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  He left me and the archaic majordomo appeared out of nowhere bearing my snazzy pink panama with a snake-skin band.

  “Thank you, Jason,” I said. “It was a super luncheon.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he quavered. “I am happy you enjoyed it.”

  I looked around that magnificent entrance hall, a shining vault that seemed to go on forever.

  “What a wonderful home,” I marveled.

  “It was,” he said in such a low voice I could hardly hear him. But that’s what he said: “It was.” Of course I thought he was referring to Mrs. Whitcomb’s illness.

  I drove slowly back to the McNally Building, pausing en route at a florist’s shop to have a cheerful arrangement of mums delivered to Mrs. Sarah with a note of thanks. The Whitcombs were, I knew, people who honored traditional etiquette, mailed birthday and Christmas cards, and never failed to visit sick friends. My parents are similar types. I, regrettably, am not.

  I hadn’t been at my desk more than five minutes when Binky Watrous phoned.

  “You’ll never guess what happened to me,” he burbled.

  “You’re enceinte?” I inquired.

  “Better! Mitzi Whitcomb called and wants to see me tonight. Her lesser half is going down to Miami on business and she’s all by her lonesome. Wants me to buy her a pizza and then we’ll go dancing. How about that!”