I sat down in one corner of the bottle-green chesterfield and looked at my father. He was planted in his tall swivel chair, swung around so he faced us, his back to the rolltop desk.
“Now then,” he said almost genially, addressing the Westmores, “we are all assembled. How may McNally and Son be of service?”
Apparently it had been decided Walter was to make the pitch. He began to speak in unemotional tones: complete sentences in an orderly sequence as if he had composed the speech on paper, then memorized and possibly rehearsed it. Fluent, you understand, but neither rambling nor glib.
Hizzoner and I listened in polite silence, both trying to evince interest and not reveal we were already privy to everything he was telling us.
Their mother, Walter said, had surrendered the management of her financial affairs to a man named Frederick Clemens who claimed to be an investment counselor but about whose expertise and antecedents little was known. On the advice of Clemens, Edythe Westmore had made several investments her daughter and son considered imprudent, to say the least.
And now she planned to spend a half-million dollars to buy a Fabergé Imperial egg she had never seen from a man in France she had never met. She was being urged to make this purchase by Clemens, who vouched for the authenticity of the curio and had assured Edythe she could easily resell the egg or have it auctioned for triple the cost.
He paused briefly and Natalie could keep quiet no longer. “It’s just a trinket!” she cried.
Walter ignored his sister’s interruption. Was there any way, he asked, addressing my father, any legal way the Westmore siblings could prevent their mother from putting a half-million into a speculative investment they were certain would end in disaster, a total loss? They stared at my father expectantly, awaiting his response.
In the silence that followed, during which, I knew, McNally Sr. was mulling over a proper reply, I had time to reflect that Walter had not mentioned his own desperate need of funds to continue his African research. He had not alluded to it, I guessed, because he didn’t want father to know of his selfish interest in how Edythe spent her money. He wished to imply their motive was pure; they sought only to protect their mother from the larcenous machinations of an unscrupulous con man.
Finally my father spoke.
“I am aware,” he said in measured tones, “as I am certain you are, that your mother is sole trustee of the two funds your father established prior to his passing. Those funds are to be of benefit to each of you in the form of periodic disbursements while your mother is alive and capable of serving as trustee. You will inherit the funds
in toto
and assume full control of the funds’ assets upon the demise of your mother. But while she is animate, the powers conferred upon a trustee are hers, and they are quite extensive, I assure you. There is very little a trustee cannot do—excepting illegal behavior, of course—if in his or her judgment the action is warranted and will benefit the trust funds. Should the judgment of the trustee prove faulty and a loss is incurred, the beneficiaries have little recourse in law unless they can claim criminal intent on the part of the trustee—something extremely difficult to prove in court.”
“Wait a minute, sir,” Walter said hastily. “Mother isn’t using dollars from our trust funds to buy the Fabergé egg. It is her own capital she intends to invest.”
I was positive father already knew this or had assumed it, but he hoisted one brambly eyebrow aloft as if surprised by the news.
“Her own money?” he repeated. “Then there is nothing, nil, you can do to prevent it. Unless you wish to assert she is of unsound mind and incapable of managing her own affairs. I must warn you, however, that I, as her attorney, would dispute such a claim with all the resources at my command.”
It was such a ringing declaration I do believe it shocked and perhaps even frightened the Westmores. In any event it left Walter abashed.
“Oh no, no, no,” he said brokenly. “I didn’t mean to say—We wouldn’t—Of course not. No, no!”
Natalie remained quiet, head bowed.
Walter drew a deep breath. “In other words, sir,” he said, “you’re telling us it’s impossible to keep mother from throwing her money away on what we consider a swindle?”
The sire looked at me directly. “Archy,” he said, “what is your reaction to all this?”
Then Natalie raised her head to stare at me hopefully. I knew what my father wanted me to say and I said it.
“From what I have heard,” I began, “it is evident Mrs. Westmore has been persuaded to purchase the Fabergé egg by Frederick Clemens, her financial adviser, who promises her an enormous return on the investment. It seems to me that even before considering the authenticity and intrinsic value of the egg itself it would be wise to make a Discreet Inquiry into what Walter termed the antecedents and expertise of Clemens to firmly establish he is the person he purports to be—an experienced investment counselor whose word can be trusted. If the inquiry reveals he is who he claims, with a clean record of successful financial planning, then I doubt if Mrs. Westmore can be dissuaded from the purchase. But if, on the other hand, the inquiry uncovers a shadowy past including several instances of proven chicanery, then I think Mrs. Westmore can be convinced the Fabergé egg investment is much too risky to be attempted.”
I paused, waiting for my father to ask the logical question, to cue my reply as I was certain he would—Abbott and Costello McNally—but Walter did the prompting.
“Who do you suggest might make an investigation?” he asked. “I can’t. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“I would be happy to conduct such an inquiry,” I volunteered. “With the proviso my participation be known only to you and Natalie. I have handled similar tasks in the past and have learned the value and advantage of the utmost discretion. If my probing into the history and character of Frederick Clemens is bruited about and becomes generally known, a successful inquiry will become more difficult if not impossible. I cannot stress the importance of discretion too strongly. It means, Walter, your mother and your wife are not to be informed of my activities. I must insist on it.”
He made no objection but said, “How do you propose going about investigating Clemens?”
“There are many things to be done,” I answered. “For instance, at least a dozen government agencies and professional associations exist which are capable of supplying information on individuals claiming to be financial advisers, investment counselors, or estate planners. There are computerized records of the legitimate and of those suspected, accused, or convicted of unethical, immoral, or illegal behavior. These sources range from the Securities and Exchange Commission in Washington to the Division of Securities in Tallahassee.”
I thought the old man looked at me with some amazement, surprised no doubt by my apparent proficiency. But then he must have realized I was cribbing from someone (we know from whom, don’t we?), for he gave me a wintry smile and began to smooth his mustache with a knuckle.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea!” Nettie said excitedly. “How clever of you to think of an investigation, Archy. It’s exactly what should be done. How long do you think it will take?”
“I’ll start at once,” I promised. “I certainly hope to have an answer one way or another before your mother hands over the half-million.”
“I should hope so,” she said. “I’m sure you’re going to find out Clemens is just an oily crook.”
“Please,” I said, “let me urge you again to mention nothing of my inquiry to anyone else. If Clemens is, as you suspect, not to be trusted and he learns of my investigation, he will surely attempt to make my job more arduous.”
Both the Westmores vowed they would be most circumspect, farewells were exchanged, and they filed out. Father and I looked at each other.
“I believe it went as well as might be expected,” he commented. “Now, if Mrs. Edythe Westmore learns of your actions and is affronted thereby, we can honestly assert the inquiry was conducted with her children’s knowledge and approval.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “But there is another factor involved here of which you should be cognizant.”
I told him of Walter’s eagerness to return to Africa to continue his research on the origins of bipedalism and his inability to obtain university or foundation grants.
“Father, both he and his sister were hoping their mother would finance his work but apparently she refuses. They are rankled by her attitude and so their determination to forestall the Fabergé egg investment is based not solely on filial devotion, a desire to protect their mother from a possibly rapacious swindler. I believe they also harbor a hope that if they prevent a foolish and disastrous loss of half a million dollars she may be grateful enough to contribute to her son’s continued African explorations. It is, I admit, conjecture on my part.”
He sighed. “Archy, these intrafamily conflicts are one of the most disturbing and difficult problems the legal profession is sometimes called upon to solve. Rarely is there a resolution which satisfies everyone. It is, in effect, a zero-sum game.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Except in the McNally family.”
His smile was wry-crisp. “Precisely,” he said.
I returned to my office reflecting we now had a semiofficial go-ahead for a Discreet Inquiry from at least part of the Westmore clan. My main concern, after reviewing the conversation in father’s office, was whether Walter would keep his promise not to tell his wife of the investigation. If Helen learned I was prying into the rectitude of Frederick Clemens I reckoned the subject himself would hear of it within minutes.
The palaver with the Westmore siblings had given me a thirst and an appetite I judged could only be slaked by a lunch at the Pelican Club chock-full of calories both liquid and solid. I was about to set out when the phone’s ring stopped me and I wondered if it might be Natalie offering a physical bonanza in gratitude for my efforts on her behalf. But the caller was Sydney Smythe.
“I’m glad I caught you in, dear boy,” he said.
“Is something amiss, Mr. Smythe?” I said. “You sound subdued.”
“I do have a slight problem,” he admitted. “But I’m sure a clever lad like you will be able to suggest an answer. Might I see you as soon as possible?”
“Surely,” I said. “Suppose I drop in this afternoon around three o’clock.”
Short pause. “Ah,” he said faintly. “No chance of your popping over now?”
“It’s important?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” he said. “Quite, dear boy. I think you and I—”
Suddenly he stopped speaking and there was silence.
“Mr. Smythe?” I said. “Are you on the line?”
No response. Then I heard a series of bumps. It sounded to me as if his phone had fallen to the floor.
“Mr. Smythe!” I shouted. “Are you all right?”
Again no reply. But I heard a heavier thump, not a crash but the thud of a body falling and a brief scrabbling noise.
“Hello? Hello?!” I yelled. “What is it? What’s going on?”
No one spoke. But there were muffled sounds I could not identify. Then nothing more.
I replaced my own phone, thought a moment of calling 911, and realized I could not accurately describe the emergency although I feared the old codger had suffered cardiac arrest. I hurried out thinking I’d make better time walking quickly rather than driving and bucking midday traffic.
T
HE FRONT DOOR OF
Windsor Antiques was slightly ajar, and I paused a moment, not really wanting to enter. I glanced up and down the avenue for no particular reason. I saw cars, pedestrians, the usual bustling activities of noontime. Nothing strange. Nothing suspicious.
I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, stepped inside. No one in the front room. No sounds.
“Hello!” I called. “Anyone home?” I added stupidly.
I threaded my way slowly through the jumble of dusty antiques and rusted curios. I halted at the doorway to the back room, peered in cautiously. The phone was on the floor all right. So was Sydney Smythe.
I stepped around him carefully to open another door leading to a small loo. No one lurking in there. I returned to the body crumpled on a piece of threadbare carpeting and did a deep knee bend for a closer look.
I didn’t know how to locate the carotid artery and I had no mirror to hold up to his lips, but I had no doubt the poor man was dead, dead, dead. The pince-nez had fallen off and had been stepped on; the glass was slivered. Blank, unseeing eyes stared at the stained ceiling. I saw no signs of respiration. I did see a steel blade driven into his chest just below the breastbone. The wooden grip of the weapon had a steel pommel and a guard fitted with a ring. I knew what it was.
There was very little blood: a small puddle and a thin trickle from one corner of his mouth. I stood shakily, glad I had not yet eaten lunch or I might have lost it. He looked so shrunken, you see, so old and sad in his foppish shroud.
“Good-bye, sir,” I said aloud. I don’t know why.
I didn’t touch a thing. I left Windsor Antiques, closed the door, walked down the avenue to a bookstore I sometimes patronize.
“Hi, Mr. McNally,” the clerk said cheerfully. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Happy Holiday!”
“Same to you, John,” I said. “Have a good one. May I use your phone for a short local call?”
“Sure thing,” he said. “Help yourself.”
He wandered away from the counter to give me privacy. I phoned the PBPD, praying Sgt. Al Rogoff would be in. He was.
“Archy McNally,” I said.
“Goodness gracious,” he said. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. Why, I was afraid you were mad at me. Listen, sonny boy, call me back in an hour or so. My lunch was just brought in.”
“An hour?” I said. “Sure. The homicide victim isn’t going anywhere.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Sydney Smythe, proprietor of Windsor Antiques on Worth Avenue. He’s lying kaput in his back room. Someone shoved a blade in his gizzard.”
Rogoff groaned. “For real?”
“For real,” I assured him. “He’s gone to the great antique shop in the sky.”
“What’s
with
you?” Al demanded indignantly. “This has got to be the third or fourth body you’ve found.”