“None,” I reported cheerfully, and his only reaction was the arching of one eyebrow, a shtick I’ve never been able to master.
I trotted upstairs to the second-floor sitting room, where mother was watching a rerun of
Singin’ in the Rain
on television. I was terribly tempted to forget about my date and stay so that once more I could see Gene Kelly perform that exhilarating dance in a downpour. But duty commanded and so I kissed the mater goodnight and bounded downstairs to the garage.
Ursi and Jamie Olson were still in the kitchen cleaning up, and I popped in long enough to filch a single cherry from the leftovers of the venison roast. Then I was on my way, thinking life is indeed just a bowl of cherries—if enough good brandy is added.
G
ERALDINE FORSYTHE HAD ASKED
if she might dress informally, and certainly my own raiment would not be unsuitable for Bozo the Clown, but when I saw her awaiting me outside the Forsythe front door I thought I should have donned dinner jacket and cummerbund. She was wearing a black satin slip dress, obviously sans bra, held aloft by spaghetti straps. Draped loosely about her neck was a white silk scarf so gossamer it seemed ready to waft away on the next vagrant breeze.
“You call this casual dress?” I asked her.
She shrugged. “I felt like gussying up,” she said.
“Well, you look splendid,” I assured her, and that was the truth. Her broad, tanned shoulders were revealed and although she was no sylph, apparently having inherited her mother’s stockiness, she definitely had a waist, and her long, bare, rather muscular legs were of centerfold caliber.
She was much amused by my little red runabout and it took her a moment to solve the problem of how to swing into the bucket seat without popping a seam. But she was soon safely ensconced, belt buckled, and we set off for the Pelican Club.
This private eating and drinking establishment is located on the mainland in a freestanding building not far from the airport. It is easy to describe what it is
not
: the Pelican Club is not elegant, austere, hushed nor dignified. It is, in fact, rather raffish and the favorite watering hole of young male and female roisterers in the Palm Beach area. I am proud to be one of the founding members and it was my idea to place over the door, in lieu of a neon sign, a bronze plaque inscribed with Merritt’s famous limerick anent the capacity of the pelican.
It was Friday night and the joint was noisy, smoky, and beginning to crank up to the riotous behavior for which it was justly infamous. I secured two adjoining stools at the crowded bar, and Geraldine Forsythe looked about with an interested glance that belied her condemnation of the Club as dreadful and vulgar.
“You said you’ve been here before, Miss Forsythe?” I inquired.
“Yes, Mr. McNally,” she answered. “Twice. And it hasn’t changed.”
I didn’t pursue the topic but asked if she would be offended if we became Gerry and Archy in place of Miss Forsythe and Mr. McNally. She readily agreed and I used the diminutive to introduce her to Mr. Simon Pettibone, an elderly gentleman of color who is the Club’s manager and bartender. We ordered vodka gimlets that were served on cocktail napkins bearing the Club’s crest, a pelican rampant on a field of dead mullet, and our motto:
Non illegitimi carborundum.
Because of the high decibel rating we found it necessary to lean close to converse. I found that a pleasurable experience. She was wearing “Passion.” She was certainly not a great beauty—I thought her jaw too aggressive and, as I have stated, her eyes were flinty—but she was no gorgon, and that evening her frostiness had thawed. She seemed to be making a determined effort to be agreeable and succeeded admirably.
We chatted awhile about her travels (extensive) and mine (limited). We concurred that London was more enjoyable than Paris and the best food in Europe was to be found in the Provence. We also decided that Edith Piaf and Aznavour were marvelous balladeers but couldn’t compare with Billie Holiday and Sinatra. In fact, there was so little disagreement between us that our conversation began to flag and I ordered another round of gimlets.
But before they arrived Gerry leaned even closer and put a warm hand on my arm. “Archy,” she said, “you’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said, “regrettably I am not. My father is an attorney; I am a sort of para-paralegal.”
She stared into my eyes, all seriousness now. “I’ve asked around about you,” she said, “and I understand you do private investigations.”
“Occasionally,” I admitted. “Discreet inquiries when requested by our clients.”
“Well, the Forsythes are clients, are we not?”
“True enough,” I said, wondering what was coming.
We didn’t speak while our drinks were being served. Gerry sipped her fresh gimlet and leaned close once again.
“Could you make an investigation for me, Archy? A very confidential investigation?”
Then I understood the reason for her softened attitude; she wanted something from me. And I had fancied her affability was the result of the McNally charm. Are there no limits to the male ego?
I took a gulp of my drink. “Tell me about it,” I suggested.
She had removed the silk scarf and held it folded on her lap. Now, as she pressed closer, one of those spaghetti straps slipped off a smooth shoulder and dangled. I replaced it as delicately as I could, fearing that if I did not the lady might lose something she could ill afford.
“Well,” she said, almost breathlessly, “lately I’ve been missing things. Personal things.”
“Missing?”
“They’ve just disappeared. Jewelry mostly. A pearl choker from Tiffany. A cameo brooch I bought in Florence. A silver and turquoise bracelet. And most recently a miniature portrait painted on ivory I inherited from my grandmother. Archy, they are all beautiful things and I loved them. Now they are gone and I’m convinced someone in our house has taken them.”
“No possibility of their being misplaced?”
“None whatsoever,” she said decisively. “They’ve been stolen.”
“Did all the items disappear at once?”
“No. One at a time, I think. Over a period of several weeks.”
“Gerry, have you told your parents about this?”
She shook her head. “They’d immediately think it was someone on the staff, and father would want to call in the police and there’d be a big brouhaha. I want to avoid that if I possibly can. I was hoping that while you’re cataloging daddy’s books you might poke around, or do whatever investigators do, and see if you can discover who’s stealing all my things.”
“No sign of a forced entry? I mean it couldn’t be an outsider, could it?”
“Not a chance,” she said. “We have a very expensive security system. It has to be someone who lives in the house.”
“Do you suspect one of the staff?”
“I just hate to. They’ve all been with us for years and we trust them. Nothing like this has ever happened before. It’s so depressing.”
“Gerry, I really think you should tell your father.”
“No,” she said gloomily. “He’d fire everyone. I think the best way is to handle it quietly without anyone knowing you’re making—what did you call it?—a discreet inquiry. Will you help me, Archy?”
I sighed. “All right, I’ll look into it. With the proviso that if I don’t come up with something in, say, a few weeks or a month at most, you’ll tell your father about the thefts and let him handle it as he sees fit. Is that satisfactory?”
She nodded. “You’ll do your best, won’t you?”
“It’s a promise.”
“You’re a sweetheart,” she said. “I think we better leave now. The place is getting awfully wild.”
I didn’t think so; just the normal Friday night insanity. But I signed the tab and we departed, leaving the revelry behind us, which saddened me exceedingly.
We drove directly back to Ocean Boulevard and I pulled into the Forsythe driveway.
“Don’t bother getting out,” Gerry said. “I’ll just pop inside. Archy, thank you so much for the drinks and for listening to my problem. You will help, won’t you?”
“I’ll do what I can, Gerry. No guarantees.”
“Of course. I understand that. But I can’t tell you how much better I feel knowing you’re going to try.”
She twisted awkwardly to kiss me. I held her a brief moment. Her strong body felt slithery under the black satin.
I waited until the front door closed behind her, then I headed homeward. I was in a thoughtful mood, asking a number of questions to which I had no answers, to wit:
Why did she select the Pelican Club as a setting in which to tell me of her missing jewelry? We could have had the same conversation in the privacy of the Forsythe Library.
With whom had she previously visited the Club—her ex-beau, the polo player who allegedly dumped her—but not before clipping her for “heavy bucks”?
Why had she thought it necessary to dress as she had—to help persuade yrs. truly to come to the aid of a damsel in distress?
Why did she believe her father would immediately call in the police if she told him of her stolen gems when he refused to inform the authorities when his own property was snatched?
I fell asleep that night still wrestling with those conundrums. (Naturally I neglected to phone Connie Garcia.) And when I awoke on a rainy Saturday morning I had not solved a blessed one. I began to wonder if Geraldine Forsythe might be a Baroness von Munchhausen with a penchant for spinning wild and improbable tales.
I could understand that. I like to spin them myself.
Usually my father spent Saturdays at his golf club, playing eighteen holes with the same foursome for the past century or two. But that morning was so wet and blowy there was no hope of getting in a game and so he had retired to his study with a copy of
Barron’s
—to check the current value of his Treasury bonds no doubt.
Griswold Forsythe II belonged to father’s club, an organization with a male membership so long in the tooth it was said you could not hope to be admitted unless you could prove prostate problems. A canard, of course.
I reckoned the same wretched weather keeping Sir McNally indoors was also forcing Mr. Forsythe to remain at home. I felt I needed more information from him regarding his missing geegaws: insured value, location of the items before they disappeared, who amongst family and staff knew where they were kept, and so forth. I phoned the Forsythe home and, after identifying myself, asked to speak to the lord of the manor.
When he came on the line it was obvious he was extremely agitated. “Archy,” he said, “can you come over at once?”
“Is anything wrong?” I asked.
“Something dreadful has happened.”
“Be right there,” I promised.
I pulled on a yellow oilskin and, not wanting to waste time putting the lid on my barouche, I asked mother if I might borrow her ancient Ford station wagon. Within moments I was driving northward along the shore through a squall so violent it threatened to blow me off the road. If I had been in the Miata I suspect I would have ended up in Tampa.
And when I arrived at the Forsythe castle I found the atmosphere as chaotic inside as out. It took me awhile to learn the cause of the disturbance, for everyone insisted on speaking at once and there was a great wringing of hands, tears from the women and curses from the men. Disorder reigned supreme.
I was finally able to extract a semicoherent account of what had occurred. Apparently, during the wee hours of the morning, someone had entered the bedroom of Mrs. Sylvia Forsythe III and attempted to strangle her. She and her husband occupied separate bedchambers, she never locked her door, and the assault was not discovered until she failed to appear at breakfast.
The giggling maid, Fern, was sent to ask if Mrs. Sylvia wanted something brought up, and it was she who found the victim lying unconscious on the floor, nightclothes in disarray. Fern’s screams brought the others running and when the young woman could not be roused the family physician was called.
He arrived within a half-hour and was able to revive Mrs. Sylvia. She was presently in bed and, according to the doctor, had not suffered any life-threatening injury. She was able to speak in a croaky voice but could not identify her assailant. She had been sedated and was in no condition to be questioned further.
Mr. Griswold Forsythe II pulled me into the library and closed the door.
“GD it,” he said angrily, and it was, I imagined, the strongest oath he was capable of uttering. “I don’t understand what’s happening around here. First thievery and now attempted murder. What on earth is going on?”
“Mr. Forsythe,” I said as gently as I could, “this matter must be reported to the police.”
“No, no!” he shouted. “Absolutely not! The newspapers, television, the tabloids—all that. Can’t have it.
Won’t
have it.”
“Sir,” I said with the solemnity the moment required, “you
must
report it. Attempted homicide is a serious crime, and not making a police report might possibly result in your becoming the subject of an official investigation. I strongly urge you to phone the authorities at once. I suggest you speak to Sergeant Al Rogoff. He and I have worked together several times in the past, and I can vouch for his intelligence, competence and, most of all, his discretion.”
He gnawed on that a moment, then drew a deep breath. “Yes,” he said finally, “you’re probably right. I’ll call.”
He picked up the phone and I left the library. I met a tearful Fern in the corridor and she directed me to Mrs. Sylvia’s bedroom on the second floor. I found Griswold Forsythe III standing guard outside his wife’s door. He was wearing a three-piece suit of mud-colored cheviot, almost identical to his father’s. I wondered if the male Forsythes patronized the same tailor and ordered two of everything.
“How is she, Griswold?” I asked.
“Dozing,” he said distractedly. “The doctor is with her now. He says her respiration and heartbeat are normal and she should make a complete recovery. But I’m worried.”
“Of course you are,” I said. “Have you any idea who might have committed such a horrible act?”
He stared at me and his eyes seemed slightly out of focus as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “What?” he said. “Oh. No, I have no idea. It has to be someone in the house. That’s what makes it so awful. I simply cannot believe this happened.”