“Take it easy, gents,” he said softly. “We don’t want no trouble here.”
“Stuff it,” Cussack advised him.
“You need a lesson,” the interloper said to Tim. “Let’s go outside.”
“Suits me,” Cussack said. “Come on, schmuck.”
By this time their altercation had attracted fascinated attention from bar patrons and a few couples at nearby tables. When the two moved outside, a small crowd of perhaps a dozen would-be spectators followed, including me. I had no desire to get involved in this fracas but I wanted to witness how Timothy Cussack handled it.
We all marched out to the small parking area, the accuser leading the way. His back was toward Cussack, which proved to be a mistake. Before he had a chance to turn around and face his foe, Cussack swooped, grabbed one of the man’s ankles, and pulled sharply backward and upward. Naturally the hapless fellow went thudding facedown on the blacktop.
Cussack straddled his fallen opponent, clutched his hair to raise his head and then smashed it down. There was a sickening crunch that brought a gasp from all of us, and I had no doubt that a nose had just been splintered.
The former polo player released his grip on his adversary’s hair and turned to the spectators with an ugly grin.
“The show’s over, folks,” he said. “Keep those cards and letters coming. Now let’s go have a drink.”
He reentered the Sea Turtle. I followed him, leaving a few kind souls to minister to the injured man. He was still lying prone and groaning. There was blood. I was shaken by the speed and viciousness of Cussack’s attack. He had struck swiftly, callously, with no mercy whatsoever.
I saw him move casually to a table of two middle-aged ladies and begin to chat them up. I went to the bar and asked Gladdie for my bill.
“What did Tim do to him?” she asked anxiously.
“Not nice,” I said. “Did anyone call the police?”
She nodded.
“Then I must be on my way,” I said, leaving her a generous tip. “The only enjoyable thing about this evening was meeting you.”
“Likewise,” she said and handed me a slip of paper. “My phone number. If a man answers it’ll be my father. You may have to shout because he’s hard-of-hearing.”
“I’ll shout,” I promised and got out of there before the guardians of the law arrived. The victim was sitting up on the parking lot, holding his face. One woman, a matron, was bending over him, rubbing his neck and speaking to him solicitously. I boarded my Miata and departed, hearing the sound of an approaching siren.
That night I made sure every door to the McNally sanctuary was securely locked and bolted. That is my father’s task and I was certain he had not neglected his duty. But I needed to check. Witnessing senseless violence was the reason for my irrational behavior of course.
I climbed the stairs to my personal refuge and then ran up the last flight when I realized my phone was ringing. I grabbed it thinking it might be Timothy Cussack asking if I could provide bail.
“Hello?” I said breathlessly.
“What were you doing at the Sea Turtle?” Connie Garcia demanded.
“How do you know?” I cried despairingly. “How
do
you know?”
“My spies are everywhere, laddie,” she said. “And don’t you ever forget it. Well? I’m waiting. What were you doing there?”
“Having one drink with an old pal—a classmate at Yale. He’s passing through Palm Beach on his way to Key West and wanted to renew acquaintance.”
“And you didn’t make a play for any of the available tootsies?”
“Connie, I swear the only woman I spoke to was the barmaid, and she’s eighty-three and has a glass eye.”
“And you’re going to have a black one if I find out you’ve been doing what I think you’ve been doing. When are you going to buy me a feast?”
“As soon as humanly possible,” I vowed.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” she said and hung up.
What a bodacious woman!
I emptied my pockets before putting my duds away. I found Gladdie’s phone number and tucked it into my wallet hoping she might be able to provide eyewitness accounts of Cussack’s previous shenanigans. Then I poured myself a marc to put lead in the McNally Faber #2.
I am not a stranger to violence, you understand, but it always troubles me. I keep hoping for a mannerly world and instead of civility I find only throttled clients and former polo players gallivanting about mashing noses on parking lots. It’s very discouraging. Perhaps my sensibility is too fragile for a career as an investigator. I might be happier teaching the tango at nursing homes.
I mean people like Tim Cussack (and Sylvia Forsythe) scare me. They never seem to consider the consequences of their actions but simply plunge ahead, whistling, as they follow their fancies. I imagine Alexander the Great was like that—and so was Charles Manson.
In my opinion their temerity springs from a dark, abiding hopelessness. They feel they have nothing to lose and so they are doubly dangerous.
This analysis comes to you through the generosity of Dr. Sigmund McNally at no additional cost.
W
EDNESDAY BEGAN AUSPICIOUSLY. A
client of McNally & Son, vacationing in Oregon, had sent us a package of smoked steelhead trout. I had a goodly portion with a few rings of red onion for breakfast and almost howled with bliss. That’s what I want to be when I grow up: a smoked steelhead trout.
I had the day’s activities planned but, as usual, fate dealt me a cruel blow as it always does when I attempt to organize my untidy life. But “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends...” I think Gypsy Rose Lee said that but I may be wrong.
I stopped at the McNally Building on the off chance I might have received an answer from the credit agency I had asked to investigate the financial condition of Timothy Cussack. Mirabile dictu, their reply was on my desk and revealed the poor chap was suffering from a bad case of plastic dehydration. In other words, loss of liquidity; his credit card debts were enormous and the interest charges positively enfeebling. If I had been in his position I might ponder escape via Chapter 7. Not of this tome but Chapter 7 of the Bankruptcy Code.
Even more intriguing than the report on Cussack’s lack of lucre was a message asking me to return a phone call from a person named Simeon Gravlax. I had a short-term memory loss and then recalled he was the superannuated pawnbroker who had taken in hock the Benin bronze stolen from Griswold Forsythe. I dug out his business card, called instanter, and identified myself.
“Good morning, my dear sir,” he said cheerily. “I trust you are in good health.”
“Tip-top,” I said. “And you, sir?”
“I am in working order,” he said. “Which, for a man of my age, may be the ninth wonder of the world.”
“Oh?” I said. “And what is the eighth?”
“That I am still alive,” he said with a throaty chuckle. “Mr. McNally, you asked me to inform you when the Benin bronze you admired had not been reclaimed and was available for sale. That has happened. Are you still interested?”
I didn’t give him a direct answer—another of my nasty habits. “May I visit you this morning, Mr. Gravlax?” I inquired.
“I shall be overjoyed to see you, sir,” he said and disconnected.
I had intended my first order of business that day would be a drive to the Trojan Stables to determine if Tim Cussack had been arrested by the cops for his nose-bashing spree. But a stop at the pawnshop would not require much of a detour and so I set out in the Miata on a blindingly brilliant morning with a dazzling sun and pure sky.
I found Simeon Gravlax in a chipper mood, leaning heavily on his cane and regarding the world with some bemusement. The Benin bronze was still on display in his window and after an exchange of pleasantries I asked the price.
“Twenty-five thousand,” he said softly. Then, apparently noting my shock, he added, “It is a museum piece, my dear sir.”
“I have no doubt of that whatsoever, sir,” I said. “But it’s a little rich for my blood. Actually, I am more interested in the person who pawned this work of art. I realize you cannot legally or ethically reveal that information.”
“That is true,” he said, nodding.
“And I would never attempt to bribe you, sir,” I told him.
It was his turn to be startled. “You are not familiar with the ancient wisdom?” he asked. “Never trust a man you cannot bribe.”
I thought a moment. “In that case, sir,” I said, “I am prepared to make you an offer. I shall describe the person I believe pawned the bronze. I ask only that you tell me if I am correct or wrong. I shall not ask you to name the pawner.”
“In that case,” he said somewhat ironically, “I am prepared to accept your offer.”
I handed over fifty dollars and then, smugly, I described Timothy Cussack to a T: a tall, well-built young man, willowy, probably in his early or mid-thirties, deep suntan, very white teeth, with a sardonic smile.
Mr. Gravlax slowly folded my fifty-dollar bill and tucked it into a waistcoat pocket. “My dear sir,” he said sorrowfully, “I must inform you that you are totally and completely incorrect. The pawner had absolutely no resemblance to the person you describe.”
I gulped. “Thank you for your kind cooperation, sir,” I said, giving him a glassy smile, and departed with as much aplomb as I could muster, which wasn’t much.
I drove away, heading for the Trojan Stables, so piqued I could have kneed myself in the groin if that were humanly possible. I believe Mr. Gravlax had told me the truth; he had no reason to lie. It meant my theory that Tim Cussack was the thief was seriously if not fatally flawed. But if not him, then whom?
I was in a splenetic temper when I drove into the grounds of the Forsythes’ horse farm. I enjoy a challenging riddle as much as any tot but when it turns out to be as difficult as the
London Times
crossword one can only feel frustration and fury at being such a lamebrain.
No one greeted me but I spotted Mrs. Constance Forsythe, foot up on the lowest rung of a rail fence, watching a helmeted young lady—12? 14?—taking a bay mare over low hurdles. I strolled toward her and was almost at her side before she became aware of my presence and turned.
“Hullo, Archy,” she said with a broad grin. “Slumming, are you?”
“Hardly,” I said. “It’s such a splendid day I wanted a taste of the Great Outdoors. What better place than here?”
That plucked a chord. “Yes,” she said, gazing out over the green acres, “it
is
nice, isn’t it? I think of it as my home rather than that pile of stones on the beach.”
“The Forsythe mansion is impressive,” I offered.
“It’s a dungeon,” she said flatly. “From cellar to roof. A prison. Out here I can breathe. I love this place. It was part of Griswold’s estate, you know, and now it’s mine. My son and daughter can have the castle. I’ll build a home out here, a small ranch house.” She laughed. “No one around but me and the horses. Who needs people?”
She was trying to keep it light but I could guess the intensity of her dream. I am not an outdoorsy person myself but I could understand how she felt about this open spread. It was sweet freedom: sleek horses, eager riders, a rolling turf, and the glory of hot sun and limitless sky. I happen to prefer the smoky bar at the Pelican Club on a rainy night. But different strokes for different folks.
“I really stopped by to see Timothy Cussack,” I told her. “Is he about?”
“Not today,” she said shortly, turning back to the practicing horse and rider. “One of our customers is thinking of buying a jumper at auction and asked our advice. Tim went over to take a look.”
“I’ll catch him another time,” I said. “Have a great day.”
“How can I miss?” she said.
I paused at my chariot and looked back. She was still at the fence, one foot up, and looked planted there. I wondered a lot of things: Did she know Tony Bledsoe had been fathered by her husband, now deceased? Was she aware of all the thefts from the Forsythe household? And why on earth was she employing a harum-scarum chap who had treated her daughter so shabbily?
I seemed to be drowning in questions and, hoping to find water wings, I headed for what Mrs. Constance had called that pile of stones on the beach. I was convinced that if answers were to be found they lurked in the murky corridors of the Forsythe home, which could well be pictured on the cover of a Gothic paperback novel (with one window alight high in a turret). And within, bodices were probably being ripped.
I was admitted by Fern Bancroft. To refresh your muzzy memory she was the twitchy maid who had discovered the half-strangled Sylvia Forsythe and was convinced she was being blamed for the assault. She had also posed for Griswold the Third’s eager Polaroid. Do try to pay attention; I hope no more reminders will be necessary.
But Fern was hardly in an agitated state that day. Instead she was all beams and softness, said she was delighted to see me again, and inquired as to the condition of my health. A transformation had taken place and I could only hope it would not prove temporary.
“You’re looking very well, Fern,” I told her and it was the truth; she had a glow.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, coming dangerously close to simpering. “I’m as happy as a pig in the mud.”
I laughed. “Where did you learn that expression?”
She thought a moment. “From Tony, I guess,” she said finally. “Why? Is it gross?”
“Not at all,” I assured her. “Very picturesque.”
I went along to the library thinking that if, for the want of a nail, a kingdom was lost, then it followed that with the addition of a nail a kingdom might be won. And I had the curious feeling that my brief and casual exchange with Fern had provided such a nail. But at the moment I was incapable of hammering it home. I will readily admit to cool competence but prescient I am not.
I wandered about that gloomy chamber looking dolefully at the stuffed shelves and questioning if Griswold III actually thought I would ever complete my assigned task. I mean how eager can you get by contemplating a leather-bound set of Trollope that seemed to stretch for miles.
I was just beginning to take up my cataloging chores once again when the clown prince himself came barging in. I was not so much surprised by his entrance as by his appearance. The pupa had emerged from the cocoon and the imago was now complete. And what a butterfly it was!