Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"Still am," he said. "And still working my tail to the bone. Who's inside besides Mrs. Hawkin?"

"Theodosia and Hector Johnson."

"I'll wait till they leave. I'd like to talk to the widow alone."

"You may have to wait until Hades has a cold snap," I informed him. "The Johnsons have taken over."

"Oh-ho," he said. "It's like that, is it?"

"Apparently."

He gestured toward the white Lincoln. "Is that his?"

"Yep."

"Nice," Rogoff said. "Do you know what he did before he moved down here?"

"You name it, Al, and he's done it. I've heard a dozen different versions of his former occupation."

"Yeah?" the sergeant said, grinning. "I know what it was."

I stared at him for a few beats before I caught it. "You swine!" I cried. "You heard from Michigan."

"That's right," he said. "I was going to give you a call. Want to come to my place tonight? We can talk about it then."

"Can't you tell me now?"

"No. I want to go inside and brace Mrs. Hawkin."

"Forget it," I advised. "The lady is half in the bag. Hector has been invigorating her morning coffee with California brandy."

"All to the good. In vino Veritas. Come over to my wagon around nine o'clock. Okay?"

"I'll be there," I promised. "Is the scoop on Johnson and Hagler interesting?"

"Very," he said. He tossed away the stub of his cigar, straightened his jacket, began striding up to the door.

"Al," I called, and he turned back. "About Marcia Hawkin," I said. "Was it suicide?"

He smiled grimly. "Not unless she managed to wring her own neck."

What a curtain line that was! I drove back to the McNally Building with my thoughts awhirl. The Miata had just had a tune-up and I wished my brain could get the same. I mean I simply could not make sense of what was happening: three homicides and the seemingly irrational behavior of the people involved.

Oh, I could concoct several scenarios but all were too bizarre to convince even a fantasist like me. I kept trying to rein in my supercharged imagination and remind myself that usually the most complex evils are the result of the most prosaic of motives: greed and revenge, for instance. But even concentrating on the basics of crime detection yielded no hint as to the connection between the murders of Silas Hawkin, Shirley Feebling, and Marcia Hawkin. If there was a solution to that conundrum, it eluded me.

Only temporarily, of course. I assure you I shall not end this account by confessing failure. You'd never speak to me again.

I had hoped to spend the remainder of that morning sitting quietly in my office composing my expense account. Quiet was necessary since my monthly swindle sheet demands intense creativity. I will not claim it is totally factual but it is based on fact. The theme is exaggeration rather than prevarication. To quote an historic American epigram, "I am not a crook."

But peace was not to be mine. I found on my desk a message from our receptionist stating that Mrs. Jane Folsby had phoned and requested I return her call. I immediately did so and let the phone ring seven times but received no reply. I put the message aside and began assembling the bills, memos, vouchers, and receipts that were to provide evidence, however flimsy, for my claimed reimbursement.

I had hardly started when my phone rang and I hoped it might be Mrs. Folsby. No such luck. I recognized that whiny voice at once.

"Archy?" he said.

"Chauncey," I said, "how are you?"

"All right," he said. "I guess."

"I understand congratulations are in order."

"What? Oh, you mean me and Theodosia. Well, sure, thanks."

"You must be a very happy man."

"Uh, not completely. Archy, I have a problem. I'd like to talk to you about it. Get your input."

"CW," I said, "if it's legal input you require, I suggest you consult my father. I'm just a rank amateur."

"Well, uh, it's not really legal input," he whined. "At least not at this stage. It's more friendly input I need."

By this time the input madness was sending me right up the wall. But I was determined not to be the first to surrender. "Well, I can provide that," I told the Chinless Wonder. "I presume you're speaking of personal input."

"That's right," he said eagerly. "Intimate input."

"Confidential input?"

"Correct! Top secret input."

Then I knew I was never going to win the Great Input War. "Chauncey," I said, sighing, "what exactly is it you want?"

"Can you come over to my office?"

"At the bank? Now?"

He had the decency to say, "Please."

"You wouldn't care to chat over lunch? At Bice perhaps?"

"Oh no," he said hastily. "No, no, no. Someone might overhear. My office would be best."

"Better than my garage," I said, alluding to our previous meeting. "Very well, CW, I'll come at once."

"Thank you," he said, and the whine had an overtone of piteousness.

I walked to his bank, only a short distance on Royal Palm Way. The building was definitely not Florida. It looked like a Vermont relic of the 1920s: heavy granite exterior, towering pillars, a marbled, high-ceilinged interior, brass-barred cages for the tellers. And a funereal silence. Even the antiquated clients spoke in whispers.

And the private office of Vice-president Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth was more of the same. It was huge, oak desk unlittered, furnishings in grave good taste. No file cabinets, no computer terminals, no indication that any business at all was conducted in that somber chamber. And it probably wasn't. CW's sinecure was due to mommy's wealth being invested with the private banking division. If she ever pulled her bucks, the Chinless Wonder might find himself flipping burgers at McDonalds.

"What's this all about?" I asked after he got me planted in a leather wing chair alongside his desk.

Before he replied he made certain his door was firmly closed and locked. Then he returned to the calfskin throne behind his desk.

"It's confidential, Archy," he said portentously. "I trust that's understood."

I looked at him. I was about to make an impudent remark, but then I saw the poor dolt was truly disturbed. As he had cause to be, having been cuckolded before he was married. And I was the lad who had put the horns on him. Levity on my part would have been rather pitiless, wouldn't you say?

"Of course," I said solemnly. "What seems to be the problem?"

He drew a deep breath. "Well, uh, Theo Johnson has agreed to marry me. I first asked her father for permission, of course."

"Of course," I said, wondering if he had fallen to one knee while making his proposal to Madam X.

"And mother has given her conditional approval to our union," he added.

Yes, he actually said "our union."

"Then things seem to be going swimmingly," I commented.

"Uh, not quite," he said, not looking at me. "Theo wants me to sign a paper."

I must admit the lower mandible dropped a bit. "Oh?" I said. "What kind of a paper, CW?"

"A sort of a contract," he confessed, fiddling with a letter opener on his desk.

"Are you talking about a prenuptial agreement?" I asked. "A contract that spells out the property rights of both spouses-and their children, if any-in the event of separation, divorce, or death?"

"I guess that's what it is," he said miserably.

"Uh-huh," I said. "And how much is the lady asking?"

He looked up at the ceiling-anywhere but at me. "Five million," he said.

I am proud to say I did not whistle or emit any other rude noise. "Rather hefty," I observed.

"Oh, it's not the sum that bothers me," he said. "Because, of course, Theo and I would never separate or divorce, and we're both in good health. In any event, I'd leave her well-provided for in case I should die. No, the money isn't an issue. The problem is that if I inform mother of this-what did you call it?"