He slipped a narrow pigskin case from his inside jacket pocket and extracted a plump, dark cigar. No band. He used a small gold cutter to snip off the tip and lighted the cigar with a paper book match. He took a deep puff and half closed his eyes with pleasure.
“Havana,” he said. “But please don’t tell the authorities. What are you smoking?”
I had already lighted an English Oval and showed him the packet.
“Oval, eh?” he said. “That’s interesting. I once received a prospectus touting an investment in a machine which mass-produced square cigarettes.”
“Square?” I said, laughing.
“Oh, they were still tubes of paper holding tobacco but the tubes were four-sided.”
“What was the purpose?”
“The inventor claimed they eliminated wasted space, making the pack firmer.”
“Did you invest in it?”
“I did not. I thought it was unusual but would never become universally popular. People enjoy having a round tube between their lips. And most consumers are conventional and stick with traditional ways of doing things until it’s proved they can benefit from new methods. The square cigarette conferred no benefits to the smoker. It was just a novelty.”
“Do you have that problem in your business, Fred—trying to convince clients there are unconventional ways to invest which might benefit them?”
“Oh lord, yes! Most people think investing begins and ends with stocks and bonds, when they’re not putting their cash in CD’s and money market funds. The most difficult part of my job is advising clients about the enormous variety of financial opportunities available.”
He smoked his cigar slowly and rather grandly, as if handling a scepter. He seemed perfectly at ease, comfortable with himself and his surroundings. He was wearing a beautifully tailored suit of raw black silk with a blindingly white shirt. The gold Rolex studded with diamonds had been replaced by a severely elegant wristwatch I judged to be platinum. I wondered if Felix had persuaded him to wear something less dazzling. If so, it was wise counsel. Clemens was now a complete authoritative personage, immaculate and serious.
“Fred,” I said, trying to match his gravitas, “I’m glad you brought up the subject of alternative investments. I have a proposition to present to you but first I need your pledge of complete confidentiality.”
“You have it,” he said promptly. “Success in my business demands the nth degree of discretion.”
Mine too, I was tempted to add. But instead I said, “It concerns the purchase of a Fabergé Imperial egg by Mrs. Edythe Westmore. Has she given final approval?”
“It is not yet a done deal,” he admitted.
“I didn’t think so,” I said.
His expression was amused but I caught the agitation in his voice when he asked, “Why do you say that, Archy?”
“I’ve been made aware of the strong objections of her son Walter and daughter Natalie to their mother investing half a million in a curio.”
I had hoped to yank his chain and I succeeded. He tried to control himself, moving slowly to place the half-smoked cigar in the ashtray. But I saw the tight jaw and slight tremor of his hands. And when he leaned toward me his smile was a rictus and his mellifluous voice had coarsened with an undertone of venom.
“Kooks!” he almost spat. “Both of them are morons! They are totally ignorant of financial matters, spiteful, and greedy. They would never admit it but they resent their mother spending their inheritance.”
I didn’t think it a propitious time to tell him Natalie had already admitted it to me. “Their objections may be selfishly motivated,” I agreed. “But they have close daily contact with their mother. I think it quite possible she may eventually be swayed by their negative opinions.”
He sat back forcibly, clenched his fingers, stared down at his whitened knuckles. “Yes,” he said in a low voice, “it’s possible the gruesome twosome might convince their mother to reject the project. I don’t mind telling you I have seen recent indications she may be wavering. The owner of the egg, a former Parisian banker, is becoming more anxious to close the deal. If not, he intends to find another buyer—which would not be difficult. But Edythe keeps postponing the actual transfer of funds.”
“How would it be accomplished?” I asked, not really expecting he would reveal details. But he surprised me.
“The seller demands cash,” he said. “Obviously I don’t wish to carry that amount of money overseas. Edythe will execute a bank check made out to me. I will take it to Paris, where I have banking contacts enabling me to convert it to French francs and pay the seller.”
“Edythe won’t go to France herself?”
“No,” he said. “She’s afraid of flying.”
I looked at him with some amazement. If he had a con game going he had found the perfect pigeon—one who wouldn’t fly. And apparently Edythe was so ditzy she would approve of such a risky plan.
“Archy,” Clemens said, sounding distracted, “you started this talk about the Fabergé egg by saying you have a proposition to make. Let’s have it.”
“If Mrs. Westmore should renege on the deal,” I said determinedly, “I’d like you to consider me as an interested and potential buyer under the same terms offered to her.”
He stared at me a moment, then took his cold cigar from the ashtray and relighted it. He puffed with obvious satisfaction, his composure once more intact.
“You would be able to provide the funds?”
“No problem,” I assured him. “But I wish to make an additional proposal. Was your income from Mrs. Westmore’s deal to be in excess of the regular fee you charge for acting as her financial adviser?”
“Oh no,” he said quickly. “There was to be no extra billing on my part other than travel expenses. It was to be included in the services provided by Clemens Investments.”
He said this so earnestly it was difficult to doubt him. But I managed.
“Fred, I would be happy to pay you personally an additional fifty thousand dollars if you’d be willing to remove Mrs. Westmore from the deal and negotiate the purchase of the egg on my behalf.”
It was a test of his scrupulosity you understand. If he became indignant at my offer and immediately rejected it as being unethical or just too tricky to be accepted, I would have been forced to blot out all my conceptions of the man and start over. But he was not indignant. He wasn’t even startled by my suggestion.
“May I ask the reason for your interest in this particular investment, Archy?” His cold smile indicated he had already decided what my motive was.
“Greed,” I admitted at once. “Since first hearing about the Fabergé egg I’ve done some research on the subject. I’m convinced I could double or perhaps even triple my stake. An additional fifty thousand to you, in cash, would hardly dent the potential profit.”
“You’re quite right,” he said. He understood me very well; I was speaking his language. “I presume, Archy, you’d want to fly to Paris and examine the egg before purchase.”
“Naturally. And have it appraised by an expert of my choosing before handing over my half-million clams.”
He nodded. “I see no problems there. Getting the egg back to the U.S. without paying an enormous duty might prove difficult but I daresay it can be worked out. Those are details of course and have little bearing on whether or not I accept your generous offer.”
I could detect no irony in his final phrase. “Well?” I said. “Which is it to be: yes or no?”
He laughed gently. “Surely you don’t expect an immediate answer. This is an important matter, Archy, and deserves serious consideration. For instance, my acceptance of your proposal would undoubtedly mark the end of my business relationship with Mrs. Westmore—and probably with her friends who are presently clients but would leave me to prove their sympathy with Edythe. I must do some heavy thinking on what agreeing to your request would do to my reputation as a trustworthy adviser—a reputation I value highly, I might add, and one I’d hate to see besmirched.”
“Perfectly understandable,” I told him. “It’s your decision to make and I know you’ll do what you think best.”
We smiled at each other a long moment. I think we were both conscious of being foes in a contest which had no rules and hence no referee or umpire.
“Please let me know as soon as possible what you decide,” I said, suspecting he was delaying his answer to give himself time to discuss the matter with Felix. I rose to leave but he put out a hand to detain me.
“You can do me a favor, Archy,” he said. “I wish you’d tell me if Walter and Natalie Westmore make any defaming remarks about me in your presence. Others have told me those children from hell have referred to me in terms which may be the basis for a lawsuit against them for slander.”
I nodded. “I’ll tell you if I hear them say anything which might make them liable. Thank you for your time, Fred.”
“And thank
you,
Archy, for a very intriguing visit.”
He was using
my
word!
When I exited from his condo I looked about for the maroon Bentley as I had when I arrived at two o’clock. Again, it was nowhere to be seen. I drove back to the McNally Building, ruminating on my talk with Clemens and wondering if he’d accept my deal or refuse it. I thought I knew the answer to that.
I took the automatic elevator up from our underground garage. It stopped on the second floor and Mrs. Lenore Crittenden entered, carrying a stack of files.
“Hi, Archy,” she said. “Love your beret. Cinnabar?”
“Puce.”
“Oh no,” she said. “Perhaps plum.”
“Puce,” I insisted.
The third-floor door slid open and she got off but held the door back with her foot.
“I was going to give you a call later, Archy. You know that guy you asked me to trace?”
“Frederick Clemens? Find out anything about him?”
“So far I’ve only heard from about half the agencies I queried but all the replies are the same: nothing.”
“Nothing?” I repeated, stunned.
“You’ve got it,” she said. “Or rather you don’t have it. No one has heard of him. No one has his name or address in their files.”
“The man does exist, Lennie,” I said angrily. “And claims to be an investment adviser.”
“Probably a fake name,” she said blithely. “Happens all the time. A no-good gets caught, fined, and barred from the securities business. So he just takes on a new identity—it’s ridiculously easy to do these days—moves to another state, and continues his dirty work. Caveat emptor, kiddo.”
“You can say that again,” I gloomed.
“Caveat emptor, kiddo,” she said again, winked at me behind her monocle, and let the door close.
The moment I was back in my office I phoned Binky Watrous and was told by the houseman Master Binky was not presently at home. I shuffled through a heap of scraps in my desk drawer and finally found the number of Bridget Houlihan. I called, hoping she had returned from Ireland. She had.
“Faith and begorra and all that sort of thing, Bridget,” I said. “Welcome back. Have a good time?”
“Loverly,” she said. “It rained every day. Archy, did you ever drink a Shillelagh?”
“No, and I’ve never drunk a knobkerrie either. What’s in a Shillelagh?”
“Irish whiskey, sloe gin, rum, sugar, lemon juice, and three fresh raspberries. It’s very powerful.”
“Probably the raspberries that give it a kick. Listen, ducky, is Binky there by any chance? I’m trying to locate him.”
“He’s here. While I was gone he learned the call of a whooping crane and we’ve been rehearsing.”
“Well, Binky’s very good at whooping. I remember he once ate—But you don’t want to hear that story.”
“No, I don’t,” she said firmly. “Wait a minute; I’ll put him on.”
My scatty amigo came on the line by giving me a mercifully brief imitation of a whooping crane.
“Incredible,” I said. “Take two aspirin and don’t call me in the morning. Binky, are you still providing Frederick Clemens with the names of potential clients?”
“Oh sure. He’s good for a yard or two a week.”
“Stick with me, kid, and you’ll be wearing zircons. Now I’ve got another job for you. I want you to find out the last name of Felix, the secretary.”
“I already know it.”,
“You do?” I said, hearing Bridget’s tambourine in the background. “How did you discover it?”
“I asked him.”
I laughed. “Good thinking on your part. What is it?”
“Katz. K-a-t-z.”
“He’s Felix Katz? And I am The Man in the Iron Mask. Binky, Felix the Cat was a movie cartoon, even older than Mickey Mouse.”
Silence. Then: “You think he’s using a phony name?”
“A distinct possibility,” I said. “Thanks for the info. Now go back to your whooping.”
I hung up knowing what I must do next.
I
LOVE MY FATHER
but it doesn’t blind me to the home truth he can be intimidating and occasionally dictatorial. Until recently I had generally deferred to his judgments and obeyed his diktats, recognizing his superior learning and experience. Of course there were times I simply didn’t request his advice, foreseeing it would not be in accord with what I considered a clever and sometimes sneaky method of conducting a Discreet Inquiry. Oh, he could be stodgy! Like his private library he was hidebound.
But during a previous case I had made an important decision without consulting him. It had aroused his ire especially since it concerned the outlay of a considerable sum of money by McNally & Son. He had become so outraged I offered to resign. He ignored my declaration of independence and allowed my decision to stand. It had proved efficacious and nothing more was said of the matter.
The incident had subtly changed our relationship. It had given me an increased desire for freedom to do my job the way I wanted to do it, without first obtaining his approval. It was not bald defiance, you understand, merely a more deliberate and more frequent refrainment from informing him of my
modus operandi.
In many cases I was certain he would have withheld permission, not because I proposed a particularly outlandish course of action but because he had a lawyerly tendency to defer any action at all, which might have unexpected consequences.
All this is a preamble to explaining why I did not inform him I intended to seek the assistance of the Palm Beach Police Department in my investigation of Frederick Clemens. The pater had stated vehemently my inquiry was to be conducted with the utmost discretion, an injunction which surely excluded bringing in the cops. But I felt events now required their aid and cooperation. And so, without telling the senior McNally what I planned, I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff.