“Uh-huh,” I said, and waited until Mr. Pettibone was out of earshot. “Binky, I don’t wish to push the panic button but I feel it my duty to remind you the purpose of our Discreet Inquiry is to determine if Frederick Clemens is or is not a swindler. Should it be proved he is and has been acting with criminal intent it may put you in an awkward or even indefensible position, since you are serving as his paid assistant, profiting when he profits, and so might be held equally culpable.”
“Say what?” Binky said.
“I’m beginning to talk like my father,” I admitted. “To put it bluntly, old boy, if Clemens is a crook you may find yourself in the clink as an accessory before the fact.”
He considered that, staring into his tumbler of Irish whiskey. I really didn’t believe he was in any danger of suffering the fate I had described, but I would have preferred he wasn’t playing kneesies with the formidable Mr. Clemens.
“You really think I might be popped in the cooler?” he asked.
“Well,” I said judiciously, “you could always plead insanity.”
He ignored that. “I’d hate to give up the commish Clemens pays me,” he said wistfully. “It’s nice having walking-around money in my pocket. Especially since I’m losing hope of ever getting any monetary reward from you for the valuable services I render. And whatever happened to those fringe benefits you’re always dangling in your sly way?”
I didn’t shout “Shazam!” but his chiding resulted in an inspiration that pleased me mightily. “Why, Binky,” I said, “how odd you should mention it. I was going to phone to ask if you’d care to attend a lavish cocktail party tonight at the home of the Westmore family on Ocean Boulevard. Much to eat and drink. Laughs aplenty and possibly scantily clad dancing girls.”
“What time?” Binky said eagerly.
And so, denied the company of Connie Garcia, I had found a substitute chaperon in the person of my squirrelly henchman. Binky and I would be inseparable at the Westmore party, I decided, and there would be little opportunity for private conversation with Natalie during which she might seek to further an intimacy I had solemnly vowed to resist. I thought I had planned wisely.
How could I have been such a pompous ass?
H
OW DOES THIS RIG-OUT
grab you? Ivory cashmere blazer, butterscotch suede vest, band-collar shirt with burgundy awning stripes, fawny linen slacks, black crocodile slip-ons. No socks. And to avoid excess the only jewelry I wore was my Mickey Mouse wristwatch—an original, not a replica.
Nifty, eh? I thought so, and thus caparisoned, I set out for the Westmores’ shindy. The rain had ceased but the air was still dampish and winterly. Of course it’s a south Florida winter I speak of—which means a temperature of perhaps 60°F, give or take, but definitely chill.
I was fashionably late (twenty minutes) but the Westmore driveway was already crowded with cars. I espied my father’s black Lexus and the battered 1970 MB cabriolet belonging to Binky Watrous. Trust that dingbat to be on time for free belts and noshes. I also spotted Frederick Clemens’s maroon Bentley and thought I discerned someone within. I strolled over and found Felix sitting behind the wheel, not smoking or reading, just sitting placidly and not even bothering to yawn. I admired his composedness. The man was a cat.
“Good evening, Felix,” I said through his open window.
He turned his head slowly to look at me. “Good evening, Mr. McNally,” he said, and I ignored his mispronunciation of my name.
“You’re not coming inside?” I asked.
“Think not,” he said. “I try to avoid mob scenes.”
I thought it an odd thing to say. I mean, it was merely a cocktail party, not Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
“You may be missing a rollicking jamboree,” I told him.
“Later,” he said, and once again I couldn’t decide if the expression he put on was a smile or a grimace.
I nodded, left him alone, and went into the Westmore home through the open door. So began what turned out to be a kaleidoscopic evening, and I must warn you I am not certain I accurately recall the correct sequence of incidents, conversations, and events. No matter. They all did occur I assure you, discontinuous though they may seem.
It had been my fear after enduring the so-so luncheon with Mrs. Westmore that the viands offered at her party would be more of the same—a whimpering board rather than groaning, so to speak. But she or someone in her household had had the great good sense to hire a caterer, and I was happy to see the dining room table laden with a tempting selection of hot meats, cold seafood, pasta salads, and an iced salver of chocolate profiteroles. I saw nothing to object to.
A bar had been set up in the sitting room, and it was there I found Binky Watrous working on what I hoped was his first drink.
“Satisfied?” I asked him.
“Not bad,” he admitted. “After I finish this torpedo I’m going to stage a raid on the buffet before all the stone crabs are gone.”
“Good thinking,” I said, and ordered a vodka gimlet from the bartender, who appeared to be 382 years old. “See anyone interesting of the female ilk?”
“I did indeed,” he said. “But she was accompanied by a mastodon. Even his muscles had muscles and so I passed. But I did meet the hostess, told her I was your closest friend and role model. She said you should be sure to look her up; she has something to tell you. I also met Mrs. Helen Westmore. She patted my cheek and said I was cute. You think there’s anything doing there, Archy?”
“Not for you. Meet the son or daughter?”
“Nope. What’s the daughter like?”
“Different,” I said.
The room was filling up and we were being elbowed away from the bar. Binky finished his drink and headed for the dining room. I followed closely, carrying my gimlet. There was already a crush at the buffet. I stood back while my hungry helot went to fill a plate. Suddenly Frederick Clemens was planted before me, hand outstretched.
“Good to see you again, Archy,” he said, smiling. “I didn’t realize you knew Edythe Westmore.”
“She’s really my mother’s friend,” I explained. “But I can’t resist a party.”
“Don’t blame you,” he said, still smiling. “And it’s a good one.” He paused and looked around. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about but there’s such a crowd in here. Could we step out in the hall a minute? It’s a bit quieter there.”
I saw no way to refuse even though it meant I’d have to leave Binky—temporarily I hoped. I followed Clemens out to the hallway, which held only a few guests to-ing and fro-ing.
“You say Mrs. Westmore is a friend of your mother,” he said. “Then you probably know Edythe is a client of mine. I’ve been working on a special deal for her. It was supposed to be confidential but apparently the dear woman has informed several of her friends about it. It concerns the purchase of a Fabergé egg. Do you happen to know if Mrs. Westmore told your mother?”
He wasn’t smiling now. I thought his tone was almost grim.
“A Fabergé egg?” I repeated. “Why, yes, I believe mother did mention something about it. I wasn’t really listening but I remember thinking what an unusual investment it was.”
He nodded. “A few people have asked me about it, so it’s obvious Mrs. Westmore has been talking. I thought she had agreed to keep the matter private but I guess I was expecting too much. You know what women are like.”
I thought it was a rhetorical observation, but he seemed to await a response. I said, “Mmm.”
“In any event,” he continued, “it is potentially a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with a possible three or four hundred percent return. But of course the purchase is contingent on what the appraiser says of the object’s authenticity, condition, and probable market value.”
“Understandable,” I said. “I hope you have an expert appraiser.”
“The best,” he said with emphasis.
He said nothing more, I said nothing, and our silence was becoming awkward when Helen Westmore came prancing up to take Clemens’s arm in a firm grasp. Her gown was phenomenal and she was flaunting a small black
mouche
on her left cheek.
“You deserted me, Fred,” she said reprovingly to Clemens. “Mama no like. Now get me some nibbles; I’m famished.”
“Of course,” he said. “What would you like?”
“Everything,” she said, and gave me a dismissive “Hi, Archy” before tugging him into the dining room. I waited a mo and then followed, looking about for Binky. But he wasn’t at the buffet and I went back to the bar, figuring I’d surely find him there. No Binky, so I asked for a gimlet refill before continuing my search.
I didn’t find him in the throng but I found
her
—Natalie Westmore. She was standing near the front entrance, deep in an animated conversation with her brother. I stared at her from afar and what a revelation it was!
She was wearing a creamy sleeveless sheath of some glittery stuff. It wasn’t skintight but it clung to her pliant body here and there and here and there. The dress was quite short and I was reminded of the elegance of her tanned legs. She wasn’t wearing makeup and her hair was as raggedy as before, but she seemed to me absolutely luscious.
Well, you get the picture. I had spent hours brooding on how I might temper our relationship and in one brief moment the hyperkinetic McNally glands took command and my knees turned to lime Jell-O. I staggered away before I lost control and rushed to her babbling, “Take me, take me, take me!” Yes, I fled, although my corpuscles continued to dance a Highland fling.
I wandered through the house, ignoring me chattering merrymakers, giving no thought to the whereabouts of Binky Watrous. I was conscious of wearing a sappy grin and I tried, I really
tried
to censure my weak character. How quickly I had surrendered lofty resolves to baser instincts. But all my attempted
mea culpas
were to no avail. I could think of nothing but Natalie, a quicksilver woman. And a new steel cot. I thought of that as well.
I found myself with a drained glass and headed for the bar again, needing Dutch courage for what I knew I would inevitably endeavor. There was a row of guests clamoring for their drinks to be mixed and I stood aside until the press of the thirsty slackened.
I saw a tall woman also standing at a distance, gripping an empty glass and apparently waiting a chance to be served. I guessed her age at about eighty but she was erect and seemed untroubled by the noise and confusion about her. It was noteworthy because she was wearing opaque black eyeglasses and there was a white cane hooked over one arm.
I went up to her and her face turned in my direction. It was a strong, handsome face. There were many wrinkles, many, but the cheekbones were high, the jaw firm. She had a pleasantly amused expression and I reckoned she had laughed a great deal in her lifetime. She wore a tweed suit with a mannish shirt and tie. Her shoes were clunky brogues.
“Ma’am,” I said, “may I have the pleasure of fetching you a drink?” Her head turned a little more at the sound of my voice so those black specs were facing me directly.
“You’re very kind,” she said in a deep, rumbling voice, and held out her glass. I took it from her fingers. “Bourbon, please,” she said. “Straight. And quite small; I’ll be leaving soon.”
It took almost five minutes to get our drinks but when I returned with her half-shot of Jim Beam she was still standing exactly where I had left her.
“Here you are,” I said. “A small bourbon straight.” She held out her hand and I placed the glass within her encircling fingers.
“Thank you so much,” she said, and took a sip. “I’m usually able to cope but mobs are daunting. What is your name?”
“Archy McNally. And yours?”
“Barney Newfield,” she said.
“Any relation to Barney Oldfield?” I asked.
She laughed. “How old are you, Archy?”
“Thirty-seven, ma’am.”
“Then how do you know about Barney Oldfield?”
“I’m a nostalgia buff. And a trivia maven. Barney Oldfield set the one-mile speed record in 1910.”
“And won many other races as well,” she said. “My father was a car-racing nut and insisted I be named Barney.”
“Unusual for a woman. It’s a variation of Barnaby, which means ‘son of consolation.’”
“Does it? I needed consolation when I was a kid and the song ‘Barney Google’ was popular. Have you heard it?”
“Of course,” I said, happy I could display my knowledge of antique tunes. I sang, “Barney Google, with the goo-goo googly eyes.”
“That’s the one,” she said, smiling. “My school chums made my life miserable by singing it when I appeared. And now my eyes really are googly. God has a divine sense of humor.”
“Are you totally blind?” I asked boldly, but she wasn’t offended.
“Almost,” she said quite cheerfully. “A degenerative condition due to diabetes. Fortunately I had a full career before the curtain came down.”
“Please forgive my insatiable curiosity,” I said, “but what
was
your career?”
“Why, I was a paleontologist. I’m sure a clever young man like you knows what that is.”
“Similar to a paleoanthropologist?”
“Very similar. If there’s any difference it’s in the degree of specialization. The ontologist may be interested in the total life-forms of ancient periods while the anthropologist concentrates on fossil hominids. But the fields certainly overlap. All of which explains what I’m doing here drinking bourbon. I was Walter Westmore’s teacher and mentor for many years and the dear man has never forgotten me.”
“How could he?” I said. “Tell me, is Walter good at what he does?”
“Good?” she said. “I don’t use the term genius lightly but I consider Walter a genius. Not only does he now far surpass me in technical knowledge but he has a natural talent for demodulation. I do believe he can extrapolate a complete skeleton from a chip of shinbone. The only thing he lacks is field experience.”
“I know he’s eager to get back to Africa.”
“And he deserves to go. It’s a bloody shame he can’t get the funds to continue his work. He has a new theory of bipedalism that will cause a sensation if he can prove it out. But it will require more physical evidence than he has now. And the only place to find the evidence is in Africa.” She suddenly turned her head and said, “Walter? We were just talking about you.”