Lawrence Sanders - McNally's chance

Having seen pictures of Freddy McNally I was aware of this, but as father likes to think the stork brought him (directly to Yale, I presume), I am mum on the subject. That I am a constant reminder of the McNally days on the burlesque circuit is a tough rood to tote around Palm Beach, believe me. Being tossed out of mein papa’s alma mater does not help my cause.

“Who do you think did it, Archy?”

“Cranston. He’s the most desperate and the murdering kind. Maybe he had one too many before his meeting with Sabrina.”

“I cast my lot with Schulyer. As he said, he has nothing to lose.”

Experience told me that the least likely suspect was usually the guy who done it. Sorry, Tom.

“For all her faults,” I said, “I would like to see the one who did this pay for his transgression while upholding Sabrina’s end of the bargain.”

Shaking his head as if to clear it of all I had told him, father returned to his abstemious self when he said, “I don’t think that’s possible, Archy.”

“Sir?”

He flicked his cigar ash in the tray on his desk and answered, “If Sabrina Wright was killed to prevent her from revealing the name of Gillian’s father, you are in danger of meeting the same fate.”

“The thought had occurred to me and, apropos of this meeting, so are you.”

“No one is aware of this meeting, Archy, but you and I, and I promise not to tell if you don’t.” He smiled at his own wit, which was indeed a rarity. “But there’s more to this than your imminent danger.”

It’s rather startling to be prioritized and come in second.

“I speak of our duty to assist the police in apprehending a murderer,”

he lectured, ‘especially one who is poised to murder again. You know all the facts and it’s your duty to report them to the police and let them proceed from there. You are not capable of hunting down a murderer, especially one who is out to get you first. I don’t relish the idea of my son in the role of a moving target.”

I did not remind him that I had apprehended a few murderers in my time, with great success, because I thought he might be genuinely worried about me getting in the way of a bullet. “If I go to the police, sir, two innocent men will go down with the guilty one.”

“There are no innocent men in this scandal, Archy. There are only rotters and scoundrels who will get what they deserve.”

Remember, he was speaking about those he revered the super-rich landed gentry but in the age-old battle between justice and privilege Prescott McNally would always side with the former and lament the errant ways of the latter. Pomposity is father’s style, not his religion.

After a pause a bit theatrical I thought he continued, “This is not an order. When I put you in charge of Discreet Inquiries I did so without reservations. You’ve proved yourself worthy of that decision many times over and what I suggest now is not a matter of opinion but of law, the law we are all pledged to uphold.”

He was right. No question about it, but I could not turn my back on the obligation I believed I owed Sabrina Wright. To this end I pleaded my suit. “I discuss all my cases with you not because I must, but because I value your judgment,” was how I began. “This case is no exception. When I learned of Sabrina Wright’s death this morning your return was the only light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I sought your counsel and you’ve given it.”

“But there’s a caveat,” he anticipated.

“I want a chance to talk with Appleton, Cranston, and Schuyler.”

“That could be dangerous, Archy,” he put in.

“One of them may have killed her, sir, but none of them are hardened criminals who would murder indiscriminately. Sabrina didn’t know the meaning of tact and may have driven her adversary over the edge in a moment of rage.”

“He went to meet her with a loaded gun,” came the attorney’s rebuttal.

“Perhaps to frighten her, but she wasn’t the type to kowtow even when facing a loaded pistol. I’m asking for a chance to meet with them and I want to see Sabrina’s husband and daughter. I want to know what they’re thinking and what they intend to do now that Sabrina is gone.

Will her husband and daughter cooperate with the police? Will Gillian give up the search and go home? Did they really believe Sabrina went riding at night to think up romantic plots? They may possess crucial knowledge but don’t realize it because they know only half the facts.”

“More like one-third of the facts,” father corrected with a sardonic air. “What are you asking, Archy?”

“For time, sir. Give me twenty-four hours.” I looked at my watch.

Mickey’s arms were wide open. Fifteen minutes past nine. “I will go to the police tomorrow evening regardless of what I turn up between now and then.”

Father tugged at his hairy upper lip. Bad sign. Then he began to stroke it. A reprieve? “I will go along with it, Archy, not because I believe it’s right but because I don’t wish to live the rest of my life speculating on what might have been.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He began fingering a leather-bound copy of Great Expectations, and I knew I was being dismissed. “One moment,” he said as I prepared to get out of my chair. “That girl you were telling us about. Binky’s neighbor. Did you say her employer met with an accident in her pool? I think I recall reading about it before your mother and I left on our holiday.”

“That’s correct, sir. Her name is Bianca Courtney and the woman was Lilian Ashman Gilbert.” I repeated the story I had told earlier, only now I included the saga of Lilian’s marriage and Bianca’s suspicions, which I had left out in deference to mother.

“And he doesn’t inherit, you say?”

“No, sir, he does not.”

“Interesting. Very interesting.”

But I didn’t know if he was talking about Tony Gilbert or Pip.

“Your father has already left,” Ursi informed me when I came down to breakfast.

Good. It was why I had lingered over my ablutions. Ever diligent, I knew father would want to arrive at the office exceptionally early on his first day back at the helm. Mrs. Trelawney, as always, would be there to greet him when he walked in the door. I was more than a little apprehensive about the day ahead and I did not want to start out with father’s doubts, fears, and cautions ringing in my ears.

“Just scrambled eggs and toast, Ursi, please,” I ordered. “It’s all I can take this morning.”

“I have a lovely fruit cup,” Ursi tempted me, ‘with fresh pineapples and cherries.”

Not wanting to offend I accepted the offer. “But no cream. Just the fruit.” The colorful array was cool, refreshing, and delicious, but I missed the cream.

“Jamie has gone to gas up the Ford and your mother is in the greenhouse. She’s been there practically since dawn.”

I saw Ursi add a splash of milk to the bowl before she started scrambling the eggs. “I have those breakfast sausages you like. Should I put a couple in the skillet?” she asked.

“Why not?” I would start my diet, once more, tomorrow, if I wasn’t shot dead before then. If I was, it wouldn’t make any difference if I had my eggs with or without the sausages.

Busy at her stove, Ursi prattled, “The murder is the talk of the town, Archy. Everyone is guessing who the family is that poor Sabrina Wright was after. Neither her husband nor daughter has given the police a statement as yet, but when they do we’ll all know who it is.”

Curiosity made me ask, “Who are the leading suspects?”

“Harry Schuyler, hands down,” Ursi said. “He wasn’t called a terrible infant for nothing.”

“I believe the expression is enfant terrible when you’re talking about the very rich. But what could one write about Harry Schuyler that hasn’t already seen print?”