Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

We were sprawled in oak captain's chairs at the sergeant's round dining table. He had put on a cassette of the original cast recording of "Annie Get Your Gun," and what a delight it was to hear Ethel Merman belt out those wonderful tunes, even if the volume was turned down low.

"Oh yeah," Rogoff said, "I saw it. Great painting. And a great model. She's a knockout."

"My sentiments exactly," I said.

He looked at me quizzically. "Taken with the lady, are you?"

"Somewhat."

"You're asking for trouble."

"Odd you should say that, Al. Priscilla Pettibone at the Pelican Club told me the same thing."

"Smart girl," he said. "But I don't expect you to take her advice or mine. You're a hopeless victim of your glands. But enough of this brilliant chitchat. I've got the skinny on Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler. The agreement was that you tell me why you want it before I deliver. So let's hear."

"It's a long story."

He shrugged. "And it's a long night. We've got your six-pack and another of Molson in the fridge. Get started."

I told him everything relevant: my first glimpse of Hagler while I was with Shirley Feebling; learning that Hagler was one of Hector Johnson's bank references; his hole-in-the-wall office as an investment adviser; my luncheon with the two men; and my accidental meeting with Hagler when I had traveled to Fort Lauderdale to question Pinky Schatz.

"My, my," Rogoff said when I finished, "you have been a busy little snoop, haven't you. You figure these two guys are close?"

"Peas in a pod."

"And you think Hagler shot Shirley Feebling?"

"That's my guess."

"Motive?"

"Haven't the slightest," I admitted. "Pinky Schatz might know, but she's not talking. At least not to me."

"How did you get chummy with her in the first place?"

"Told her I was Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth."

The sergeant laughed. "What a scammer you are! If you ever turn your talents to crime, Florida will be in deeeep shit. Well, it's not my case but I'll give Lauderdale Homicide a call and tell them about this Reuben Hagler. I don't think I've ever seen the guy. What's he like?"

"Dracula."

"That sweet, huh? And what was the name of the woman you talked to?"

"Pinky Schatz. She's a nude dancer at the Leopard Club."

"Your new hangout?" he said. "Well, I guess it's better than collecting stamps."

"Oh, shut up," I said. "Now tell me what you learned from Michigan."

"Hector Johnson used to be a stock broker. Racked up for securities fraud. He was fined, made restitution, and was banned from the securities business for life. He never did hard time but apparently while he was in jail for a few weeks he met Reuben Hagler. This Hagler has a nasty file: attempted robbery, felonious assault, stuff like that. He's done prison time: three years for rape. He was also suspected of being an enforcer for local loan sharks."

"Sounds like he'd be capable of killing Shirley Feebling."

"I'd say so," Rogoff agreed. "And now he's an investment adviser in Fort Lauderdale?"

"That's what the sign on his office claims. But in view of Johnson's history, Hagler might be a front and Hector is calling the shots."

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised. What do you suppose Johnson's angle is on all this?"

I shook my head. "Can't figure it," I confessed, "but there's obviously frigging in the rigging."

We sat in silence awhile, trying to imagine scenarios that made some loopy kind of sense. But neither of us had any suggestions to offer.

"Al," I said, "how did you make out this morning when you talked to Louise Hawkin?"

"You were right," he said. "The lady was totally befuddled. And you know what? I think Hector Johnson means to keep her that way."

I will not say his comment was the key to the whole meshugass. But it did start me thinking in a new direction. I began to get a vague notion of what might be going on.

"Do you believe that letter Marcia Hawkin gave me?" I asked the sergeant. "Do you think she really did kill her father?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe yes, maybe no. If he had given her motive, I'd be more certain one way or the other."

"Me, too," I said. "Any word yet on that stained sheet or whatever it was we saw in the back of her Cherokee?"

"Nothing yet. These tests take time; you know that."

I stared at him a moment, then decided to put my vague notion to the test. "Are you a betting man, Al?"

"I've been known to place a small wager now and then."

"Tell you what," I said. "I'll bet you ten bucks I can tell you what those stains on the sheet are even before the tests are completed."

"They're not blood," he said. "I told you she was strangled."

"I know they're not blood. But I know what they are. Is it a bet?"

"Okay," he said. "For ten bucks. What are they?"

"Acrylic paint."

He took a swig of his beer. "How the hell did you come up with that?"

"A swami told me."

"If you turn out to be right, tell the swami there's a job waiting for him in the PBPD."

"I think I'm right," I said, "but I don't want your ten dollars. I want a favor instead."

He groaned. "I'd rather pay the ten."

"A simple favor," I said. "Get back to your Michigan contact and ask if they've got anything on Theodosia Johnson, Hector's daughter. The last name may be different but 'Theodosia' is probably for real. What woman would use that as an alias? And you met her this morning, you can describe her accurately. Or send Michigan a photo of that Silas Hawkin portrait."

He looked at me a long time. "She's involved?" he asked.

"I would prefer to think not."

"Screw what you'd prefer," he said roughly. "Do you figure she is?"

"As you just said about Marcia Hawkin, maybe yes, maybe no. This is one way to find out."

"I guess," he said, sighing. "All right, I'll play your little game. I'll query Michigan just for the fun of it. But our sawbuck bet is still on."

I finished my beer, grabbed a fistful of peanuts, and stood up. "I'm going home," I declared. "It's been a long, tumultuous day, and bed beckons."

"Yeah," Rogoff said, "I could do with some shut-eye myself. Thanks for the beer."

"And thank you for the peanuts," I said politely. "Al, let me know if anything turns up."

"Sure," he said. "And Archy…"

"Yes."

"That Reuben Hagler sounds like a foursquare wrongo. Watch your back."

"I always do," I said blithely.

By the time I returned home my parents had retired. I ascended to my seventh heaven and prepared for bed. I had had quite enough mental stimulation for one day and decided to postpone adding recent revelations to my journal.

I awoke on Friday morning ready for a fight or a frolic-or perhaps both simultaneously. Again I had overslept and was forced to construct my own breakfast. It consisted of leftover mini-pizzas from dinner the previous evening.

Before leaving home I remembered to phone Consuela Garcia as I had promised. She was at work in her office and was already in a snit trying to answer the demands of Lady Horowitz. I was hoping for a lazy, affectionate chat, but Connie made it short and sweet. Well… not exactly. Just short. But she did agree to meet me for dinner that evening at the Pelican Club.

I then tooled over to the McNally Building to check my messages (none) and incoming correspondence (none). My business day was starting auspiciously. I finished my inventive expense account, signed it with a flourish, and dropped the completed document on the desk of Ray Gelding, the firm's treasurer. He glanced at the total.

"You've got to be kidding," he said.

I treated that remark with the silent contempt it so richly deserved, bounced downstairs, and vaulted into the Miata for a drive to West Palm Beach and my appointment with Mrs. Jane Folsby.