Lawrence Sanders - McNally's chance

“Why, Archy, how lovely,” mother applauded.

“Thank you, Archy,” father said unbending as far as the Chairman of the Board would ever unbend. “I trust you’re not going out tonight as I’d like to confer with you after dinner.”

“I thought as much, sir, and made no plans.”

Being on the ship-to-shore with Mrs. Trelawney daily, it was not office matters father needed to be advised of. Jamie had apparently had a chance to tell him of my involvement with Sabrina Wright. They say thoughts have wings and ours must have touched down on mother’s shoulder.

“Did you hear about the writer Sabrina Wright?” she exclaimed. “It was all the talk at breakfast. The ship’s newspaper put out a special edition to make the announcement. I can’t tell you how many of the ladies had brought her latest book along for leisure reading. What have you heard, Archy?”

We tend to keep the more harrowing aspects of my business from mother as it only aggravates her hypertension. However, rather then lie to her, which would be undignified, we simply soften the rough edges or omit the more sordid details. In keeping with this edict I readily admitted, “I met Sabrina Wright shortly after she arrived here.”

“Really, Archy? How exciting. Was it at a book signing?”

“I would be more interested in hearing about Binky’s housewarming party,” father insisted. “Did he like my gift and how many more did he receive?”

Always amiable to forgo a celebrity for a friend, mother started in her chair, “Oh, yes. Mrs. Trelawney told us Binky now has his own apartment. Tell us all about it, Archy.”

I regaled them with life at the Palm Court until Ursi announced dinner.

It had been a long day for the travelers who were looking forward to retiring early in a bed not bolted to the floor. With this in mind the ever vigilant Ursi presented us with light but satisfying fare, consisting of a crabmeat cocktail with lemon and a tangy red pepper sauce, grilled chicken breasts, chilled sliced beets marinated in vinegar, and tossed with diced onions, steamed broccoli florets, and Ursi’s own home-baked bread which has become a staple of her kitchen.

In a celebratory mood, the Squire poured a bottle of Chateau Lafite, 1950. Mother, as always, stayed with her sauterne. The homecoming meal ended with ice cream and Ursi’s almond cookies.

I kissed mother’s velvety cheek before father escorted her to bed shortly after dinner. “I missed you so,” she whispered to her favorite son. I assured her the feeling was mutual and went into the den to await father’s return. When he joined me he took his customary seat behind his desk and asked if I would join him in a glass of port. “I would, sir, thank you.” I went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of the wine, serving the Gov’nor before perching in a comfortable wing chair.

To your good health, Archy,” he saluted. “It’s good to be home.”

Stroking his mustache he said, “Wasn’t there a book awhile back called Ship of Fools?”

As the Master is a latter-day Victorian who reads only Dickens, this caught me off guard. But like Jamie Olson, mon pere is a keen listener and what he hears he does not forget. “Yes, sir. A much praised novel by Katherine Anne Porter. It was also a very popular film. I take it your holiday is what brings it to mind.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “There were a few good chaps aboard but Porter’s title has much to say about the majority of our shipmates. However, your mother relaxed and enjoyed it and for that reason I have no regrets and would gladly do it again.” Amazing how devoted he was to his wife of almost half a century. Would I one day sit in that swivel leather chair behind that great oak desk and utter the same sentiment?

I think not. I gently swirled my port in the fine crystal glass, savored its aroma, and drank. “For the likes of such as me, mine’s a fine, fine life.” Father opened the side drawer of his desk and brought out his cigars. “Archy?” he said, proffering the box. “No, thank you, sir.” I took out my English Ovals. “I’ll have one of these.” Don’t be misled by this. Father was anxious to learn my news, but the rituals must be observed. The after-dinner port, the comments regarding his shipmates that were not meant for feminine ears, the cigar, its tip now being removed with a special scissors, and finally touching flame to stogy before puffing it to life. Did he pretend we sat in a gaslit room filled with furniture adorned with antimacassars?

Did he hear the clop, clop, clop of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestones echoing through the dense evening fog? Was I Boswell to his Johnson, or was he Watson to my Holmes? Exhaling a cloud of smoke he said, “Perhaps Sabrina Wright’s death brought to mind the Porter novel. Jamie tells me you were working for the lady?” “Briefly, sir.

If you would indulge me I think I should tell you all that transpired from the day I met Sabrina Wright to this very morning.”

“You have the floor, Archy.”

As the story unfolded father stroked, tugged, and blinked as his one eyebrow rose and fell with the speed of an express elevator in a busy office building at lunchtime. Each gesture depicted his thoughts more eloquently than the spoken word.

An Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler,” he intoned at the conclusion as if each were a deity and perhaps, to Prescott McNally, they were.

“All three? And the story is true?”

“I see no reason why those involved would lie, sir.”

He shook his head as he tugged on his bushy mustache. And you were at Casa Gran?”

“It was a fund-raiser for Troy Appleton,” I said, but it’s so seldom I get a chance to impress father I went into details with, “Harry Schuyler took me to the roof garden where we spoke in private.”

Father’s eyebrow disappeared into his hairline. “The roof garden is off-limits when the house is lent for charitable events,” he said. “You know, I did some work for Schuyler a few years ago. Nothing much, but I was hoping for more.”

As I related my meeting with Al Rogoff, I commented, “The police are convinced that Gillian’s search is the reason Sabrina was murdered.

They think the girl was gathering information on a prominent Palm Beach family for her mother. Zack Ward’s involvement with a tabloid only adds fuel to the rumors. Strange how close everyone is to the truth.”

Father continued to smoke thoughtfully as I put out my cigarette. The second for today, but it was an exceptional day.

“Would you please pour me another dram, Archy, and help yourself to more if you like.” When I had refilled both our glasses the Gov, still nonplussed, ruminated, “An Appleton, a Cranston, and a Schuyler.

Remarkable.”

Father was never a gossip, but he could not conceal his excitement over this intimate look into the lives of three of the richest men in the country. Tom Appleton keeps a mistress, Dick Cranston has a drinking problem, and Harry Schuyler is not long for this world,” he went on.

“Each of them thinks he is the father of Sabrina’s daughter and without even knowing which one is, she beat them all out of a fortune. What an extraordinary woman.”

“She was, sir, but not very timid, I’m afraid. She ruled her family like a czarina and harbored a great resentment against those three men in spite of beating them at their own game, and continued to goad them when they met again this past week. For all that she was special and, as you said, extraordinary.”

“You’ve seen the daughter. Do her looks give the father, away?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. She doesn’t resemble her mother either, but then I’m told my sister looks like mother and I look like an orphan,

“You look like my father,” he said with foreboding.