“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” he said, eyeing my duds. “You bring the note?”
I took it from my jacket pocket and handed it over. Al studied it a moment.
“No apostrophe,” he commented. “How do you figure that?”
“I figure the writer was not a Rhodes Scholar,” I said.
“Brilliant, Mr. Holmes,” Al said. “Let’s go get this over with. I’ve got a heavy pinochle game planned for this afternoon.”
That elevator was scarcely larger than a coffin and it made alarming thumps and groans as it carried us slowly to the third floor.
“We’d have made better time walking up the stairs,” Rogoff groused.
The door to the office had an upper half of frosted glass and bore the inscription GRISWOLD FORSYTHE II and below that GRISWOLD FORSYTHE III, both names in a painted script that had flaked away in spots.
I pushed the door open and we entered the empty reception room.
“Mr. Forsythe,” I called. “Archy McNally. We’re here.”
No answer.
The sergeant and I looked at each other.
“Are you sure he said twelve-thirty?” Al asked.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I said peevishly and called again, “Mr. Forsythe!”
No answer.
Rogoff tried the knob on the door to the inner office. It turned easily, the portal swung open, we stepped in.
Griswold Forsythe II was lying supine on the worn Persian rug behind the partners’ desk. His arms were spread wide and his open eyes stared sightlessly upward.
Al went down quickly on one knee alongside him, leaned close, peered, touched his neck.
“A mackerel,” he said.
I took a deep breath. “There goes your pinochle game,” I said.
A
L COMMANDED ME TO
wait outside in the tiled corridor and I obeyed. I paced up and down, smoked two English Ovals, and watched as the investigation got under way. I heard sirens, uniformed and plainclothes officers appeared. Then Tom Bunion, the ME’s man, showed up, gave me a cool nod, and disappeared inside. He was followed by a crew of ambulance attendants wearing whites and carrying a body bag and folding stretcher.
Finally, more than a half-hour later, Sgt. Rogoff came out of the Forsythes’ office, juicing up one of his fat cigars.
“Heart attack?” I asked him.
“Don’t I wish,” he said. “Strangled.”
“Oh lordy,” I said. “Did he have scratches and cuts on his neck similar to the wounds Mrs. Sylvia received?”
“Nope,” Al said. “Where’s the son?”
“The late Mr. Forsythe told me he had a twelve o’clock appointment with his periodontist.”
“And the clerk?”
“Apparently he went out to lunch every day at twelve fifteen.”
The sergeant nodded. “Then eventually they’ll both show up—I hope. Forsythe told you about the note yesterday?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why didn’t you call me immediately?”
“I tried to persuade him, Al, but he wouldn’t have it. He said he wanted to make some inquiries himself last night.”
“Maybe he did. And maybe it got him aced.”
“You think it was someone from his house or someone he knew?”
Rogoff flipped a palm back and forth. “Could be. But he’s got no wallet on him.”
“You mean it could have been a stranger, a villain casing the building for a soft touch and stumbling on Forsythe alone in an unlocked office?”
“I doubt it,” Al said. “He had a gold pocket watch in his vest with a gold chain heavy enough to moor the QE-Two. It wasn’t touched. A grab-and-run scumbag would have lifted that. No, I think all the killer wanted was the wallet—if Forsythe carried one and he probably did. The son or wife will know. Go home, Archy. There’s nothing more you can do here.”
I nodded. “Keep me up to speed, will you?”
“Sure,” he said. “That flock of loonies aren’t a laugh anymore, are they?”
“No,” I said. “Not funny at all. Just one more thing, Al: when was he killed?”
“Maybe a half-hour ago, give or take.”
We stared at each other.
“You mean,” I said, almost choking, “the strangler might have been bouncing down the stairs while we were coming up in the elevator?”
“It’s possible,” the sergeant said grimly. “How does that grab you, sonny boy?”
I started back to the McNally Building, then detoured to the nearest pub for a shot of single-malt Scotch. I was spooked, no doubt about it. As Al had said, the crazy doings at the Forsythe castle were no longer amusing. The wall between comedy and tragedy had come tumbling down.
I found I had no appetite at all (surprised?), returned to my office, and phoned Mrs. Trelawney. She said my father was lunching at his desk and couldn’t be disturbed. I knew what that meant: he was having his customary roast beef on whole wheat bread (hold the mayo) and a glass of iced tea. Woe betide anyone who interrupted that sumptuous feast. Mrs. T. promised to call me when he had finished his dessert—a Tums.
I spent the next twenty minutes at my desk, smoking up a storm and recalling those meandering comments Mr. Forsythe had made about death during our first interview. He had claimed he looked forward to dissolution with curiosity and a certain degree of relish.
I didn’t believe a word of it. Knowing the man, I was positive he had died outraged that anyone would
dare
usher him so unceremoniously into the hereafter.
My summons finally arrived and I climbed the back stairway to father’s office. I found him seated at his rolltop desk, reviewing a stack of blue-bound legal documents.
“Yes, Archy,” he said pleasantly enough, “what is it now?”
“Bad news, sir,” I said.
I told him of the death of Griswold Forsythe II and how Sgt. Rogoff and I happened on the scene so soon after the murder had been committed. I related the few details Al had revealed and assured father I had done my best to persuade Mr. Forsythe to call the police immediately after I had learned of the threatening note.
The guv listened to my recital in silence. I thought I saw sadness in his eyes but perhaps I was imagining. Then he swung halfway around in his swivel chair so I could not see his face. I wondered if there might be tears aborning.
“I knew that man for forty years,” he said, his voice steady. “One of my first clients. I cannot say that I particularly liked him but I respected him. He was an honorable man. Testy occasionally and something of a bore, but honorable. Archy, do you feel his murder has any connection at all with the thefts of his property?”
“It’s only a guess, father, but I’d say yes, the two are somehow connected.”
“I concur,” he said stonily. “I want you to continue your investigation. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has the family been notified?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. It happened only a few hours ago.”
He stood up and when he turned to me he was in character again: the conscientious, reliable family solicitor. “I’ll call Sergeant Rogoff at once. There is much to be done. I suggest you not visit the Forsythe home for a day or two. Leave them alone with their grief. Unless your presence is requested, of course.”
“I’d like to attend the funeral, sir.”
“All the McNallys will attend,” he said firmly, “if it is not limited to the immediate family.”
And on that somber note we parted. I returned to my office, and what I did next may strike you as rather crass and unfeeling. But I considered my actions as deposits (of information) that might possibly earn a profit (of information) in the future. And so I phoned Lolly Spindrift.
“Hi, hon,” he said breezily. “What luscious tidbit of gossip are you in need of today?”
“None,” I said. “But I have something for you. About two hours ago Griswold Forsythe the Second was murdered, strangled, in his office on Royal Palm Way.”
I heard him gasp. “For real?” he asked.
“Absolutely, Lol. I saw the body—but for God’s sake keep me out of it.”
“So I shall, sweetie,” he said. “I’m going to hang up now and dash over to the news desk. Thanks, luv. I owe you one.”
My second call was to Connie Garcia. I told her what had happened. Her reaction was unexpected.
“Shit!” she said furiously. “Is there no end to this madness? Archy, what’s happening to our world? When does the killing stop?”
“Never,” I said.
“Don’t say that!” she cried. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’ll call if I learn more,” I said. “And if you hear anything about the Forsythe family please let me know. I’ll meet you tonight at seven thirty at Cafe L’Europe.”
I hung up before she could reply. I didn’t feel my two phone calls had been unethical. The murder, I was certain, would be featured on the evening newscasts of local radio and TV stations, so I was revealing no secrets. And by briefing my informants in advance I was convincing them that providing me with inside info was not a one-way street.
People occasionally accuse me of being devious. They may be right.
But now I had an immediate problem. Father had instructed me to continue my investigation but had warned me to stay away from the Forsythe home for a day or two until their mourning had lessened. Unless my presence was requested, he had added. But I thought that an unlikely possibility. How then was I to spend my working hours for two days? The fiddling of my expense account would take only a fraction of that time; I am a rapid fictioneer.
I decided I might profitably use the time to investigate the past and present activities of Timothy Cussack. That dashing lad seemed to be intimately involved with the three Forsythe women—Constance, Geraldine and Sylvia—and I needed to know more about him. If the truth be known (and I would prefer it not be) I was a trifle envious. He was everything I was not—maddeningly slender, catnip to the female gender, and with an aloof self-confidence I could never hope to equal. He seemed a good target for my discreet inquiries—the swine!
I planned the usual credit check with the agencies McNally & Son uses. And there was a new national service to which we had recently subscribed. It had computerized all cases of fraud in insurance and medical claims, including names and addresses of claimants, Social Security numbers, aliases, and disposition of their cases. It really is becoming more difficult to be a successful swindler. Just thought I’d let you know.
But computers, as any street cop will tell you, are no substitute for pounding the pavement and knocking on doors. But before I started traipsing about I looked up the address of T. Cussack in the West Palm telephone directory. I found it. Was I bowled over? A perfect strike! Apparently he lived in the same luxe motel as Rufino Diaz, the Forsythes’ gardener.
Remember my telling you the Forsythe ragout resembled one of those kids’ puzzles in which numbered dots are connected to form a completed picture? Only in this case, I remarked, all the dots were unnumbered. After discovering where Timothy Cussack lived I realized I had just added another dot.
A less adroit chap might be tempted to phone Timothy Cussack at the Trojan Stables and ask straight out, “I say, old boy, do you and Rufino Diaz occupy the same apartment at that jolly motel?”
To which his reply was likely to be one of the following:
1. “Why do you want to know that?”
2. “Are you investigating me?”
3. “Go dance around the maypole, chum.”
Motels are organized more like hotels than condominiums. I mean they usually have a central switchboard through which all phone calls are routed. I tried Cussack’s number and was rewarded by a chilly female voice declaring, “The Michelangelo Motel.”
I was awfully tempted to say, “The Sistine Chapel, please.” But instead I said, “May I speak to Mr. Timothy Cussack, please. I’m afraid I don’t know what room he’s in.”
“We do not have rooms,” she stated severely. “All our accommodations are suites. Mr. Cussack occupies Suite 309, but he won’t be in until this evening.”
“I’ll try him then,” I said. “Thank you so much for your kind assistance.”
That softened her. She replied cheerily, “You’re quite welcome, sir.”
My next call was to Mrs. Trelawney, pop’s ancient private secretary. “How would you like to play detective, Mrs. T.?” I asked.
“Do I get to frisk a suspect?” she asked eagerly.
“Not quite,” I said, laughing, “but you’ll earn my undying affection. Here’s what I’d like you to do...”
I gave her the phone number of the Michelangelo Motel and told her to ask for Rufino Diaz. It was almost certain he would not be home but that was fine; all I wanted was the number of the suite he occupied.
Mrs. Trelawney called me back in less than five minutes.
“Rufino Diaz has Suite 309,” she reported.
“Loverly,” I said. “Thanks so much, sweet.”
“Archy, what’s this all about?”
“I’m setting up a bordello staffed by studs for the convenience of bored and/or lonely ladies.”
“You will send me a menu, won’t you?”
“For you,” I promised, “everything’s on the house.” She made a coarse rejoinder to that and I hung up laughing again. Mrs. T. is a glorious antique, wears a wig of wiry gray hair, and may be the raunchiest lady I know. She has served my father for aeons and he still believes her to be the soul of propriety. The governor is tremendously wise, you understand, but in some things he is not too swift. When it comes to street smarts, for instance, he may even be a bit retarded.
You may feel all the foregoing was a roundabout way of determining whether or not Cussack and Diaz shared the same digs. But I did it that way because I did not want either lad to become aware that the famous bloodhound, A. McNally, was sniffing along his spoor. And if I had made a personal visit to the Michelangelo Motel, I might have been remembered and described by the desk clerk. You see how indefatigably sneaky we sherlocks must be?
It was then getting on toward my ocean swim time, and despite the wrenching events of that day I was resolved to maintain my routine. I returned home and, still lunchless, did my two-mile wallow. I then showered and dressed for the family cocktail hour and my dinner with Connie Garcia.
But routine was shattered when mon père did not appear to mix the traditional pitcher of martinis. I did the honors while my saddened mother explained that he was at the Forsythe home, offering what solace he could.