Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"Glad to hear it," I said, suspecting she was handing me a lot of hooey.

"Oh yes," she said and smiled for the first time. "Things are going to change. I'm in the driver's seat now and certain people are going to do things my way if they know what's good for them. They think they're so smart but I'm smarter."

I hadn't the slightest idea of what she was talking about, of course, but her words sounded to me like a threat against a person or persons unknown, and that worried me.

"Marcia," I said, "I don't wish to pry. I know nothing about your personal affairs and have no desire to know. But if you're in a sticky situation and would like advice, assistance, or just encouragement, I'd be happy to help."

"I don't need help," she said disdainfully. "From you or anyone else. Daddy is dead and can't tell me what to do. No one can tell me what to do. I'm in control of my own life now. For the first time. And I know how to do it."

I was convinced she didn't. She wasn't a child, she was an infant, an impetuous, disturbed, and possibly violent infant. I saw no way to aid her without becoming immersed in the same madness that was obviously engulfing her. So I did nothing. Save yourself. It's a hard and sometimes cruel dictum. But it's the first law of survival.

"I wish you the best, Squirrel," I said. "I hope all your plans succeed." I opened the door of the Cherokee, holding that damned white envelope. "Please let me know how you make out."

"Sure," she said with an elfin grin that broke my heart.

I stood there and watched her gun up the ramp and out of the garage. I was in no mood to return to my claustrophobic office, so I remounted the Miata and headed for home. I needed a long, slow ocean swim, the family cocktail hour, and a merry dinner with my parents to reassure me that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

And it worked-for a while. I arose from the table feeling content and full of beans (actually they were haricots verts with slivered almonds), but then my father summoned me to his study. I followed him with the premonition that my serene mood was soon to evaporate.

"Glass of port, Archy?" he inquired.

That cinched it. When the patriarch invites me to have a postprandial libation it usually means he's going to give me a world-class migraine in the form of an unwelcome assignment. The proffered drink is his a priori apology.

He did the pouring, from one of his crystal decanters into Waterford goblets. He seated himself behind his massive desk and I took the nearest leather club chair. We sipped our wine. I thought it rather musty but I didn't tell him that.

"Anything new on Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth's young lady?" he asked.

"No, sir," I replied. "Nothing definite."

"His mother came in today. Apparently her son has proposed and the woman in question has accepted. Were you aware of that, Archy?"

"Yes, sir."

"I wish you had informed me."

"I learned of it only last night, father."

He accepted that. "Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth was quite upset. Perhaps indignant would be more accurate."

"I can imagine."

"However, I think she is reconciled to the fact that her son is determined to marry. Unless, of course, your investigation should prove the lady to be completely unsuitable."

"I've uncovered nothing to date that would disqualify her, sir." Naturally I said nothing of uncovering the lady herself.

"But you're continuing your investigation?"

"Yes, father, I am."

"Good. But our client has raised another objection. Before she gives her final blessing to the match she is determined to retrieve her son's letters to that unfortunate woman in Fort Lauderdale-what was her name?"

"Shirley Feebling."

"Yes. Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth fears that if she gives her approval, it's possible that before, during, or shortly after the marriage those embarrassing letters might surface as a cover story in one of our more lurid tabloids."

"She has a point."

"Indeed she does, Archy. I told her of the efforts I have made, with the assistance of Sergeant Rogoff, to seek the return of the letters from the Lauderdale police, to no avail. Their position is that they can release no evidence, particularly that found at the murder scene, until the case is cleared."

"That's understandable, father."

"Of course it is," he said crossly. "They're entirely in the right, even though Chauncey is not a suspect. So apparently his letters will remain in their possession until the homicide of Miss Feebling is solved."

He looked at me intently, knuckling his Brillo mustache. I knew what he wanted me to say and I said it.

"Let me look into it, father."

"Yes, Archy," he said gratefully, "you do that. Nothing illegal, of course. Do not, in any way, shape, or form, interfere with the official investigation. But though I admire your ingenuity, I must tell you I doubt you will succeed where, to date, the police have failed. However, I want to be able to assure our client that McNally and Son has done its best to accede to her wishes." He paused a moment and gave me a wry smile. "Also," he added, "your investigation should result in a large number of billable hours."

I laughed. "I expect it will, father," I said.

He finished his glass of wine and stood up. It was my dismissal. The moment I left he would pack and light one of his James Upshall pipes, pour another port, and get back to Dickens. I wondered if he had started The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

"Kindly keep me informed of the progress of your investigation," he said. Very patrician. I admired him. He had the intonation just right.

I nodded, left his study, and started upstairs. I paused at the second-floor sitting room, where mother was watching a rerun of "The Honeymooners." I kissed her good-night and she patted my cheek while laughing delightedly at Ralph Kramden. I continued up to my own cloister.

It had been a long, arduous day, and instead of a shower I opted for a bath. I frothed the water with a mildly scented oil and launched a squadron of rubber duckies Connie had given me as a gag. Then I slid in with a moan of contentment.

An hour later I was dried and had donned one of my favorite kimonos, the one printed with images of Elmer Fudd at play. I sat at my desk and worked hard at my journal, recording everything that had happened since the last entry. I do work hard, you know, though I suspect you may think I'm just another pretty face.

I remembered to jot notes on what Luther Grabow had told me of Silas Hawkin's intention to paint a nude on wood; the insane luncheon with Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler; and the even madder conversation with Marcia Hawkin in an underground garage.

That last item reminded me to take the white envelope from my jacket pocket and slip it into the top desk drawer. But before I did that, I held it up to the strong light of my student lamp. Unfortunately it appeared to be a security envelope-one of those with an overall pattern printed on the inside-and I could decipher nothing of what Squirrel might have written on the letter within. Frustrating, but I swear I was not tempted to steam it open. Subsequent events made me wish to hell I had.

Finished with my scribbling, I reviewed everything I had written since my initial interview with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth. Even more frustrating, for it seemed to me I had compiled a compendium of disparate facts and fancies. If there was a pattern, a design no matter how bizarre, I simply could not see it. Mishmash would be an apt description.

And now there was another spud in the stew: my father's request that I investigate the murder of Shirley Feebling. I could understand his doubts that I would succeed where, so far, the Lauderdale homicide detectives had failed. But neither the squire nor the police, as far as I knew, were aware of the existence of Reuben Hagler, the "old buddy" of Hector Johnson, father of the woman I had been assigned to dissect.