Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

I entered my home through the kitchen, making certain to relock the back door. I paused a moment in the kitchen to pick up a cold bottle of St. Pauli Girl from the fridge. I toted it upstairs, moving as quietly as I could on our creaky staircase. Then I was alone in my own chambers-no French dolls on the pillows-but in no mood for sleep. I believe I mentioned previously that I was bewitched by Theo Johnson's conduct. Connie's revelations completed the triumvirate; I was now also bothered and bewildered.

Binky and Ferdy? Good pals, of course, but birdbrains!

I found Ms. Garcia's declaration of her intentions totally incomprehensible. I mean we had enjoyed so many jolly times together that I saw no reason for her to seek male companionship elsewhere. How could she possibly find another chap who can match my repertoire of ribald limericks?

I opened my bottle of beer and sat behind my desk. I was still fully clothed and still broody. It just seemed so unfair of Connie, so unjust, so un-everything. Oh, I may have a few minor faults; I admit I am not a perfect swain-but then what man is?

But after a few swigs of brew I began to regain that cool detachment I have always proudly considered an integral part of my character. I frankly acknowledged I was suffering a twinge, a wee twinge, of jealousy, which I had heretofore believed myself incapable of feeling.

Even worse, I realized, I was guilty of an unconscionable possessiveness. I expected fidelity from Connie, with no desire to provide faithfulness in return. A rank injustice, obviously, and moreover a distressing breach of civilized behavior. I should be ashamed.

But I wasn't. Because I recognized too clearly my limitations. I mean I could not soar like a condor, could I? Nor play "Turkey in the Straw" on a zither. Nor remain loyal to one woman. In other words, without the vilest form of hypocrisy, I could not be what I was not. It was a quandary.

Amidst all this muzzy meditation I slid a cassette of Cole Porter tunes into my player, clamping earphones to my noggin so as not to disturb my parents whose bedroom was directly below. And as I listened to all that evocative music I tried to distinguish between True Love, romantic love, and affection. Precise definitions escaped me.

And so the night dwindled down as I sat alone, sipping beer, and brooding about love and women and my own incapacity to make a permanent commitment. After a time I realized the poignant songs I was hearing impinged on my perplexities.

How about "Just One of Those Things"?

Or "From This Moment On"?

But the one that summed up my private philosophy most accurately, I mournfully concluded, was "Anything Goes."

I awoke late on Friday morning, as you may have surmised, and after a comforting breakfast of kippers and scrambled eggs I arrived at the office a little before noon. I resolutely shelved my personal problems for the nonce. When duty calls, McNally is not one to cup his ear and mutter, "Eh?"

I called the phone number of Mrs. Jane Folsby, provided by Jamie Olson, and waited for seven rings. I was about to hang up when a woman said, somewhat breathlessly, "Hello, hello, hello?"

It was a rich voice, totally unlike Mrs. Folsby's chirp, and I guessed it might be her sister.

"Could I speak to Mrs. Jane Folsby, please?" I said.

"May I ask who's calling?"

When I hear that I'm always tempted to say, "Yes, you may," and then wait. But it didn't seem a ripe time for fraternity house humor, so I merely said, "Archy McNally," and hoped for the best.

"Just a minute," she said.

It was more than a minute but I used the time profitably to light my first English Oval of the day, and what a treat it was. Finally the chirper came on the line.

"Mr. McNally!" she said. "How nice to hear from you. How on earth did you find me?"

"My spies are everywhere," I said. "How are you, Mrs. Folsby?"

"Couldn't be better."

"Glad to hear it. I was sorry to learn you had left the Hawkins."

"Sorry?" she said. "No need for that because I'm not. After Mr. Hawkin passed I knew it was time for me to go."

I waited for more but she didn't seem inclined to offer any additional information.

"Mrs. Folsby," I said, "I have a question I hope you may be able to answer. Do you happen to know where Silas Hawkin purchased his art supplies?"

"Why, certainly," she answered. "He bought all his canvas and paints and things from Grabow's right here in West Palm Beach."

"Grabow's," I repeated. "That's a big help. Thank you so much." I hesitated a moment, wondering if I dared push her. I decided to take the chance. "Tell me, Mrs. Folsby," I said as sympathetically as I could, "what was your reason for leaving the Hawkins? I hope there was no unpleasantness."

"Mr. McNally," she said sharply, "there are certain things a lady doesn't talk about."

I could not, for the life of me, imagine what those things might possibly be. But then I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps I had been associating with an abnormal breed of ladies.

"I understand completely," I said, although I didn't. "Thank you again for your assistance and I wish you the best of good fortune in the future."

"Thank you," she said faintly.

I hung up and finished my cigarette, still mired in the stygian as to what happened at the Hawkin menage that a lady couldn't or wouldn't talk about. Mrs. Folsby was no mossback, and if she refused to utter a word or even drop a teeny hint it had to be something truly horrendous. To say my curiosity was piqued is putting it mildly.

I looked up Grabow's Art Supplies in the Yellow Pages and made a note of the address, telephone number, and proprietor's name, Luther Grabow. I grabbed up the white linen golf cap I was sporting that day and went downstairs to the Miata, with absolutely no idea why I was jaunting to West Palm to talk to Mr. Grabow. I could claim it was "gut instinct"-that favorite cliche of authors of detective novels. Actually, I had nothing better to do.

I found Grabow's Art Supplies in a freestanding building off Dixie Highway. It looked as big as a warehouse and the interior gave the same impression: row after row of steel racks holding an incredible assortment of everything from Crayolas to jointed six-ft. mannequins of polished wood that could be adjusted to any possible position including, I presumed, obscene.

The man behind the sales counter was seated on a high stool. He was reading a paperback, and I was bemused to note it was a Western. It seemed an odd choice for a clerk in an art supply emporium. He looked up when I approached.

"Could I speak to Mr. Luther Grabow, please," I said.

He inspected me. "I'm Luther Grabow," he said, "but I'm not buying."

"And I'm not selling," I said. "Mr. Grabow, I understand the late Silas Hawkin was a customer of yours."

He continued to stare. "Who told you that?" he demanded.

"His widow," I said, lying without hesitation.

He softened. "Yeah," he said, "he was a customer. That was a helluva thing, him getting knocked off like that. I don't say it just because he was a regular customer but because I admired the guy. He was a real professional and knew exactly what he wanted. Never settled for anything but the best. And a good painter. Not great, mind you, but one of the best around."

"Mrs. Hawkin told me he stretched his own canvases."

"That's right. The most expensive linen I carry."

"Did you sell him the wooden frames?"

"Assembled? Nah. He bought what we call sticks, the wood sides, top and bottom. Dovetail joints. You put together the size and shape you want. Hey, what's your interest in all this?"

He was a wizened little fellow, almost emaciated, with a Vandyke so jetty it looked dyed, and no larger than a merkin. The eyes behind wire-rimmed specs were alert and suspicious.