Lawrence Sanders - McNally's risk

"Very well," he said. "In my study."

Dinner that night was another of Ursi Olson's specialties: medallions of veal, breast of chicken, and mild Italian sausage sauteed with mushrooms and onions and served with a wine sauce over a bed of fettuccine. Father contributed a decent merlot from his locked wine cabinet, and he and I shared that bottle while mother sipped her usual sauterne.

After a lime sorbet and coffee I followed father into his study and closed the door. He seated himself behind his magisterial desk, and I selected a straight-back chair facing him. I did not want to become too comfortable.

Ordinarily my liege does not request, nor do I provide, progress reports during the course of my investigations. He tells me he is only interested in results. That may be true but I suspect it is also self-protective. He is well aware that my detective methods, while not actually illegal, might be considered unethical or immoral. And he doesn't wish to hear the gruesome details. In other words, he wants no guilty knowledge. I don't blame him a bit; he has more to lose than I.

But my current inquiry, involving the Smythe-Hersforths, the Johnsons, Reuben Hagler, the Hawkins, Shirley Feebling, and Pinky Schatz, was a special case. I needed someone to share my information and my suspicions so that if I met my quietus (sob!) the investigation could continue and my labors would not be wasted.

I told him everything: what had happened, what I had learned, what I surmised, and what I planned to do. I spoke for almost twenty minutes and saw his face tighten. But he controlled himself; not once did he interrupt.

But when I finished, his wrath was evident. His courtroom stare was cold enough to chill all that merlot I had imbibed at dinner.

"If I thought it would do any good," he said in a stony voice, "I would absolutely forbid you to do what you contemplate. The potential hazards are too great. But I don't imagine you would obey my command."

"No, sir," I said, "I would not. There is no real evidence that what I suspect did, in fact, occur. The only way I can prove my hypothesis is to offer myself as a greedy dupe. If there was a less dangerous way of unraveling this tangle, I would happily adopt it."

"Archy," he said, genuinely perplexed, "what is your obviously intense personal interest in all this? It doesn't directly concern McNally and Son. It's a police matter."

"Not totally," I said. "There are connections to our clients. And two young, innocent women have been brutally murdered during an investigation we instigated."

He looked at me a long time. "Lochinvar," he accused.

"No, father," I said. "Nemesis."

His anger was slowly transformed to a concern that affected me. "Is Sergeant Rogoff aware of all this?" he asked.

"Some of it, but not all. I intend to tell him more tomorrow after my meeting this evening with Hector Johnson. I'm going to ask Al to provide some measure of backup protection."

"Yes," he said, "that would be wise. Do you think you should be armed?"

"No, sir. If a concealed weapon is found or suspected, it might prove an irritant. A fatal irritant."

His smile was wan. "Perhaps you're right. You're playing a very risky game. I know you're aware of it and I won't attempt to dissuade you. All I ask is that if things become too hairy, you shut down your operation at once and extricate yourself. You understand? If there is no hope of success, give it up and withdraw immediately. Agreed?"

"Yes, father," I said. "Agreed."

I think we both knew that if I failed, a safe withdrawal would be most unlikely.

I went upstairs and spent the remaining hour rehearsing my role once again. I tried to imagine what objections might be made and what my responses should be. I reviewed the entire scenario and could see no holes that needed plugging. I felt I had devised as tight a scheme as possible. The only thing I could not be sure of was luck, and it was discouraging to recall Hector's remark that when you really need it, it disappears.

But then I comforted myself with the thought that his dictum applied to him as well as to me, and perhaps his disappearing luck would be my good fortune. It was a zero-sum game.

A few minutes before ten o'clock I went downstairs and stood outside the back doorway. The portico light was on and I placed myself directly below it so he'd be sure to see I was alone. I lighted a cig and waited. He was almost fifteen minutes late but that didn't bother me. I was certain his tardiness was deliberate; it's a common ploy to unsettle one's adversary. I've used it myself on several occasions.

Finally the white Lincoln Town Car came purring into our driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. It stopped, the headlights went off, flicked on, went off again, and I stepped down to join Hector Johnson.

The first thing I noted after I had slipped into the front passenger seat and closed the door was the melange of odors: 86-proof Scotch, cigar smoke and, overpowering, his cologne, a musky scent I could not identify.

"Hiya, Arch," he said with heavy good humor. "Been waiting long?"

"Just came down," I lied cheerfully. "How are you, Heck?"

"If I felt any better I'd be unconscious," he said and laughed at his own wit. "Hey, the reason I'm late is that I stopped at Louise Hawkin's place to check on how she's doing. She tells me you dropped by today and brought her a plant. That was real nice."

"From the McNally family," I said. "To express our condolences on the tragic death of her stepdaughter."

"Yeah," he said, "that was a helluva thing, wasn't it. First her husband, then Marcia. The poor woman is really taking a hit. Listen, would you object if I lighted up a stogie? If it would bother you, just tell me."

"Not at all," I assured him. "Go right ahead."

We were silent while he extracted a cigar from a handsome pigskin case. He bit off the tip and spat it onto the floor at his feet. He used an old, battered Zippo lighter, which made me wonder how much he knew about cigars. No connoisseur of good tobacco would use anything but a wooden match.

"I guess you and Louise had a long talk," he said, puffing away and blowing the smoke out his partly opened window.

"We did," I admitted. "She seemed in the need of a sympathetic listener."

"Uh-huh," he said. "That's what I've been trying to be. She tells me you talked to Marcia the afternoon before she was killed."

"That's correct."

"And that lunatic kid said she was going to ask me for money so she could get her own apartment."

"Heck," I said, "if Mrs. Hawkin told you that, she's confused. I said only that Marcia spoke of a business deal she was planning. It was Mrs. Hawkin who suggested she was going to ask you for money."

"That figures," he said, showing me a warped grin. "Louise is a little nutsy these days. But that's neither here nor there. What I really want to talk about is Theo's pre-nuptial agreement. Let's see if I've got this clear. Chauncey comes to you and tells you about it. But he's afraid to tell his mother because then she might put the kibosh on the marriage. Have I got that right?"

"You've got it."

"And what did you tell him to do, Arch?"

"Not to sign anything until I had a chance to think about it."

"That was smart," Johnson said. "So you thought about it and figured Chauncey could sign the agreement without telling mommy. That's what you told Theo-correct?"

"Correct."

"Now I get the picture," he said. "He'll sign if you tell him to?"

"I think he will."

"Sure he will. We get a shyster to draw up the papers, Chauncey signs, and his mother and your father know nothing about it. It's our secret."

"That's right, Heck."

He turned slowly to look at me. "So why do we need you?" he demanded. "You've already told us how to handle it."