Lawrence Sanders - McNally's luck

"You're probably right, sergeant," father said, nodding. "It's a likely scenario. But how much of it can you prove?"

"That Otto bashed in Lydia's skull with a walking stick? Not sufficient evidence to make a case. But things are different with the murder of Roderick, framed to look like a suicide. The most important piece of hard evidence is that we found a package of single-edge razor blades in Cabin Four of the Jo-Jean Motel. Otto Gloriana shaved with them. The same brand was left on the bath mat beside Roderick Gillsworth's corpse."

Father was obviously disappointed. "Hardly conclusive evidence," he said.

"I agree, sir. But we have something much better. Irma Gloriana states she was with her husband when he entered Gillsworth's house to kill him. She claims she didn't witness the actual murder but that

Otto announced his intention to kill the poet beforehand and bragged about it afterward."

Both my father and I were astounded. "Why on earth would she admit that?" I said. "It makes her an accessory."

"Why?" Rogoff said disgustedly. "Because she thinks it'll get her off the hook. Otto is dead. He can't refute what she says or defend himself in any way, shape, or form. So his widow now says he was the sole killer. His motive, according to Irma, was to kill the man having an affair with his wife. He was aware of it, Irma says, and vowed revenge. He knew she had a dinner date at Gillsworth's home, put a gun to her head, and forced her to ring the doorbell so he could gain entrance to slit Roderick's wrists. She says she was in deathly fear of Otto, a man known to have a violent temper and who had already served time in prison. But she was totally innocent of complicity in Gillsworth's death, she claims. She was coerced, in fear of her life. But since she played no voluntary role in the homicide, she is free to walk and inherit Roderick's estate. A load of kaka-right? The only problem is that she may get away with it. It's the kind of story a jury just might buy if she ever comes to trial. And she's got an awfully smart lawyer who's probably charging her a nice hunk of Gillsworth's estate."

Father and I were silent. Rogoff was correct. Irma Gloriana had concocted a defense that just might work. If she told her story to judge and jury with all the sincere forcefulness of which I knew she was capable, she had a better than fifty-fifty chance of strolling out of the courtroom a free woman with no worries other than how long it might take to probate Roderick's will and collect his millions.

"It stinks," I said wrathfully and stood to refill our glasses.

"Counselor," Rogoff said, "isn't it true that under Florida law a murderer can't inherit anything from the victim?"

Father nodded. "Anyone who unlawfully and intentionally kills or participates in procuring the death of a decedent is not entitled to any benefits from the decedent's estate whatsoever."

"Then somehow," Al said determinedly, "I don't know how, but somehow I'm going to nail that lady. She's guilty as hell, and I don't want to see her getting one thin dime."

As I had listened to all the foregoing, my originally dim vision that had gained an outline and then taken on substance now suddenly snapped into sharp focus, and I knew it was time to display the McNally genius. If, in what follows, you feel I acted like a hambone, you must realize it was my Big Dramatic Moment. I could not let it pass without exhibiting my histrionic gifts, inherited, no doubt, from my grandfather, the famed burlesque comic.

I was still standing and addressed both men. "There is something you should know," I said portentously, "and I believe it may help the cause of justice. Otto didn't kill Lydia Gillsworth. And Irma didn't. Roderick murdered his wife."

Their jaws didn't sag, but Rogoff spluttered brandy and father looked at me sadly as if he finally realized his Number One (and only) son had gone completely bonkers.

"Impossible, Archy," he said hoarsely. "You and I sat in this room and heard Roderick talk to his wife. She was alive when he left here."

I made a great pretense of looking at my watch. "Damn!" I said. "It's getting late, and I promised

Binky Watrous I'd call. May I use your phone, father?"

He glared at me. "You wish to make a personal call at this moment? Can't it wait?"

"No, sir," I said. "It's important."

"Very well," he said huffily. "Make it short."

I used the phone on his desk, punched out a number, waited half a mo.

"Binky?" I said. "Archy McNally here. How are you feeling? Glad to hear it. Listen, how about dinner tomorrow night at the Pelican Club. Great! About eightish? Good-o. See you then, Binky."

I hung up and turned to the others. "Who did I just speak to?" I asked them.

They looked at each other, silent a moment, then Rogoff said, "All right, I'll play your little game. You talked to a guy named Binky."

"Binky Watrous is in Portofino," I said gently. "He's been there for the past two weeks and expects to stay another two. I was talking to a dead phone."

They caught it immediately, of course. The sergeant smote his forehead with a palm, then rose and began to walk in agitated circles. "Snookered," he said, his voice a gargle. My father groaned once, then shook his head in wonderment-at his own credulity, I suspect.

"Father," I said, "you and I didn't hear Roderick speak to his wife; we heard him talking, and that's all we heard. We just assumed his wife was alive and conversing with him."

He sighed heavily. "All my professional life I've sought never to assume anything, and yet I allowed myself to be deceived by Gillsworth. The man was a consummate actor."

"He had to be," I pointed out. "His fate depended on it. I reckon he killed his wife about an hour before he showed up here. He deliberately murdered her so he could inherit her wealth and marry Irma, just as the sergeant suggested. He set the grandfather clock an hour ahead and pushed it over to stop it. Then he put on fresh clothes and came to our house."

"Wait a minute," Rogoff said, sitting down again. "If you've got it right, then Lydia arrived home an hour before Roderick told you she did. But Irma Gloriana told me that Lydia had stayed late at the seance."

"That's easy," I said. "Irma lied to you. She was setting up an alibi for Roderick. And her price for lying was the holographic will. She made him pay in advance."

"Yes," my father said, "that's credible."

Rogoff swore a horrible oath. "I suspected that guy from the start," he said wrathfully. "The spouse is always the first choice in a homicide case. But I couldn't get around that phone call he made from here. How did you get on to the dead phone trick, Archy?"

"I really don't know," I confessed. "Maybe it's because I'm such a scamster myself-only when the occasion demands it, you understand."

"We were used," my father said angrily. "Roderick Gillsworth used us."

"That's right, sir," I agreed. "His attorney and his attorney's son-perfect witnesses to confirm his alibi. We were an important part of his plot."

Rogoff had been reflecting on my reconstruction of the murder. "Hold on," he said suddenly. "You say Roderick killed his wife and then changed his clothes. I'll buy that because his clean duds helped convince me he was innocent. But what did he do with the bloodstained clothes? We searched his entire house the moment we got there. No bloody clothes. He didn't have time to burn them or dump them somewhere. So what did he do with them?"

I didn't know then and if I live a millennium I don't think I'll ever know why I said what I did.

"Caprice!" I almost shouted. "Did you search Lydia's car, Al?"

He stared at me. "I told you I felt the engine block to test the heat, and I stuck my head inside the car to see how long the air conditioning had been off. But I didn't search the trunk." He stood up abruptly. "I think I'll do it right now. I've still got the keys to the house and garage. It's just possible. ."