“I guess you heard about Rhoda Flembaugh getting murdered,” he said mournfully.
“Yes, I heard.”
“It rocked me. I mean, she was a wild one, Archy, but really quite nice. I was wondering if I should go to the gendarmes and tell them I knew Rhoda and we had shared a Big Mac or two. Do you think I should?”
“No,” I said firmly. “Keep out of it, Binky. The police have a good idea of who ordered her killing, and your personal relations with the victim will hold no interest for them whatsoever. And speaking of your many and varied intimacies, are you seeing much of Mitzi Whitcomb these days?”
“Not really. I suspect she may be giving me the old heave-ho. I mean, the Whitcombs are still running their open house and I drop by frequently, but I think Mitzi is too busy working for Ernie Gorton to pay much attention to her most devoted admirer. Namely, me.”
“Oh? What sort of work is she doing for Gorton?”
“I’m not sure but now there seems to be an amazing number of yummy young lasses lolling around the premises and just as many older guys wearing gold chains, silk suits, and face-lifts. I think Mitzi may be running a dating service. You know—introducing lonely singles to each other.”
A
dating
service? What a goober my aide-de-camp was!
“That’s possible,” I said. “Or Mitzi could be selling subscriptions to the
Kama Sutra Gazette.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“A new magazine. Profusely illustrated. Very
in.
Does Oliver attend these soirées?”
“Some,” Binky said. “Not always, but occasionally. He’s drinking an awful lot these days, Archy. I don’t think he enjoys the idea of his wife working for Gorton.”
“Uh-huh. And does dear old Ernie put in an appearance?”
“Well, he’s been there every night I’ve dropped by. He doesn’t stay long. Just pops in, says hello to everyone, has a private chat with Mitzi, and pops out. What do you suppose is going on, Archy?”
“Infamy,” I said.
He finished his wine spritzer and started on the chaser.
“Binky,” I said, “when we started our semi-professional association you more or less agreed to follow all my suggestions, instruction, and orders without question.”
“Well, I have, haven’t I?”
“You have indeed and I commend you for it. I now have another and probably final command. I want you to sever your relationship with Mitzi and Oliver Whitcomb, with Ernest Gorton, and all their snorting pals. You are not to visit the Whitcomb maison again or attempt in any way, shape, or form to contact the residents or guests thereof. In other words, Binky, cease and desist.”
He was astonished. “You mean I can’t even enjoy a jolly gibber with Mitzi on the phone?”
“I don’t want you to even
dream
about her,” I said sternly. “Momentous events have been set in motion, and I fear the Whitcombs, Gorton, and their coterie are quite likely to have their hilarity squelched and their lifestyle dampened by stalwarts of the law. Why, they may even be shackled and dragged off to durance vile. And this cataclysm may occur within a few days or a week at the most.”
“What’s going on?” he said indignantly. “You must tell me what’s happening.”
“I would if I could,” I assured him, “but I have been sworn to secrecy. It involves plans by agencies and officials at the highest levels of the U.S. government.”
“Gosh,” he said, suitably impressed.
“What I definitely do not want,” I continued, “is to have you caught in the wreckage and perhaps charged with misdeeds of which I know you are totally innocent. I’m sure the Duchess would be as horrified as I.”
He became even paler, if such a thing were possible. “Oh no,” he said hoarsely. “No, no, no. We can’t have it. She’s already threatening to cut my allowance. Insists I economize. I’m already buying underwear made in Hong Kong. What more does she expect?”
“Then you agree to end immediately all connection with Mitzi, Oliver, and their circle?”
“I agree,” he said sadly and looked longingly at his empty glasses.
I felt he had endured enough of a shock to earn a refill and so I fetched him another spritzer and vodka from the bar.
Binky sipped his fresh drink appreciatively and then said, “You know, Archy, what you do—these discreet inquiries and all—it’s for real, isn’t it? I mean it’s not all giggles.”
“Of course it’s real. Sometimes people get badly hurt. Sometimes people get killed.”
“The trouble is,” he said with abashment, “it’s fascinating, isn’t it? All the raw emotion and that sort of thing. I don’t mind telling you it’s a new world for me. I never realized people lived like that. Oh, I know there’s plenty of mean things going on, but I supposed all the evil was committed by thugs in leather jackets and baseball caps. Now I find upper-drawer citizens with big bucks and mansions can be just as slimy as your average mugger. It comes as a bit of a shock.”
I knew what he was trying to say. “You’re such a tyke, Binky,” I told him. “Frequently the people I investigate are moneyed, well educated, charming, and utter rotters. Class really has nothing to do with it. Net worth and beluga for breakfast do not prevent ignobility. Have you had your fill of discreet inquiries?”
“Oh no!” he said determinedly. “It may be an acquired taste, but as I said, it’s fascinating. You’re not going to fire me, are you, Archy?”
“How can I fire you when I didn’t hire you?”
“No, but you let me help. And I did assist, didn’t I? I admit I have a great deal to learn, but I’m certain my performance will improve as I gain experience. Can’t I continue my on-the-job training for a while?”
As usual I temporized. I wasn’t certain I wanted a geeky Dr. Watson walking up my heels but Binky was correct: he
had
contributed to the Whitcomb case.
“Let me think about it,” I said. “When our current investigation is closed we can talk about it further. What will be the reaction of the Duchess if you keep working without pay?”
“She’ll be delighted to get me out of the house,” he said, “but not half as happy as I to be absent from that mausoleum. You’ve never been inside, have you, Archy?”
I thought a moment. “I don’t believe I ever have.”
“Then you’re obviously not aware that every upholstered chair is equipped with an antimacassar crocheted by the Duchess.”
“You jest.”
“Not so,” he said darkly. “About once a month, when she’s not home, I swipe one of those disgusting rags and toss it into a distant trash can. It’s driving her right up the wall. The Case of the Disappearing Antimacassars.”
He cackled insanely and I feared he might be paddling a leaky canoe. The lad was a trial, I could not deny it, but neither could I ignore my very real affection for him, as one might have for a mentally disadvantaged brother whose main (and possibly sole) talent was birdcalls.
“Binky,” I said, “about this beard you’re thinking of growing.”
“Oh yes!” he said, bright with anticipation. “What do you think?”
“I don’t wish to be brutally frank,” I said, “but let me be brutally frank. The growth presently on your upper lip which you claim to be a mustache is so fair, so almost colorless that it can hardly be seen in full sunshine. I fear a beard may exhibit the same gossamer quality.”
“I could dye it,” he suggested.
“And risk having it drip down your shirtfront when it rains? No, m’boy, I don’t think a beard would suit you.”
“Actually,” he said, “I was hoping it might make me look more, you know, mature. I mean, you and I are about the same age but you look so much older man I do.”
“Thank you very much,” I said.
The remainder of our conversation was so absurd I’m ashamed to detail it here. Suffice to say I left Binky that afternoon with the horrifying realization I had just been cluttering with a cartoon character from Boob McNutt.
T
HE MOOD OF THAT
day had as many zigs and zags as the tail of an affrightened Halloween cat. And there was more to come.
I returned home and saw a swampy ocean in such turmoil I immediately decided to eschew my daily swim. Instead I ascended to my eighth heaven and recorded the day’s events in my journal. I also had time for a sweet nap before preparing for the family cocktail hour.
But when I descended to the second-floor sitting room I found only mother present. She was seated in a wicker armchair and dabbing at her brimming eyes with a square of cambric.
“What is it, dear?” I said fearfully.
She looked up at me, her face wracked. “Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb passed away this afternoon.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling I had been punched in the heart. “Ah, the poor woman.”
“Father called and said he’s going to the hospital to see if he can assist the family. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone and suggested we start dinner rather than wait for him.”
“Does he want me to join him?”
“He said nothing about it.”
“Then I certainly shan’t intrude. Her death was expected, mother, but it still comes as a blow. She was a brave lady.”
“Yes. Very brave. Might we have a drink now, Archy?”
“Or two,” I said. “Much needed.”
I did the honors and stirred the martinis as I knew my father would—to the traditional recipe: a 3-to-l mixture of 80-proof dry gin and dry vermouth. Not astringent enough for my taste but it was what my parents enjoyed and I had no desire to challenge their preference.
Nothing more was said until we both had consumed almost all of our first libation. I don’t believe it enlivened us but it helped dull the pain.
“Archy,” mother said, “do you remember the Whitcombs’ party we all went to, the first big affair of the season?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Well, I was talking to Sarah for a few moments. Just the two of us. And suddenly she asked me if you and father get along together. Wasn’t that an odd thing to say?”
“Very odd.”
“Naturally I told her that you and father get along very well, that you’re quite close. And she gave me the saddest look and said, ‘You’re very fortunate.’ I’ve remembered it because it was such a puzzling thing. Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I said and rose to top off our glasses. We finished the dividend and started downstairs to dinner.
“I didn’t know her very well,” mother said. “She wasn’t an intimate friend, you know, but I did admire her. I had the feeling she was an unhappy woman—and not only because of her illness. But she always had a smile. That’s important, isn’t it, Archy?”
“It surely is.”
“Now you’re going to tell me there’s a song lyric that says it better.”
“Of course,” I affirmed and sang, “Smile, though your heart is breaking...”
“Yes,” mother said, gripping my arm tightly. “That was Mrs. Sarah Whitcomb.”
I think we both felt lost at the dining table without the presence of my father. He really was captain of our ship, and for all his foibles and cantankerousness we depended on him to chart our course. Moms and I were halfway through the crabmeat appetizer when we heard the sounds of the Lexus arriving and being garaged neatly and swiftly. A moment later the lord of the manor came striding in. His expression revealed nothing. He leaned down to kiss mother’s cheek.
“Glad you started,” he said to us. “I’ll wash up and be down in a moment.”
Well, it was more than a moment and I suspected he might have detoured to the sideboard in the sitting room for a quick wallop. Eventually he appeared, took his place at the head of the table, gobbled the crabmeat, and caught up with us while we were working on slices of beef tenderloin with purple Belgian bell peppers in a red wine sauce.
“How did it go, father?” the mater asked timidly.
He gave her a brief glare. He detests her addressing him as “father” although he frequently addresses her as “mother.” Do you understand that? I don’t.
“As well as could be expected,” he replied to her question. “Arrangements were made. We’ll all attend the funeral service. Burial will be private.”
“Was Oliver present?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said, not looking at me but concentrating on his beef. “This sauce is excellent. Oliver was there but his wife was not. I thought that exceedingly strange. Archy, I’d like to see you in my study after dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
After dessert (apple tart with cinnamon ice cream) mother went upstairs to write the McNallys’ letter of condolence to Mr. Horace Whitcomb. I followed father into his study. He closed the door firmly and went directly to the marble-topped sideboard. He poured each of us a snifter of cognac—not his best but good enough. He motioned me to a club chair and took his throne behind the massive desk. I thought his visage was now uncommonly grim.
“I didn’t wish to mention this at dinner,” he said, “because I feared it would upset your mother. But the scene at the hospital this afternoon was dreadful, simply dreadful. Horace and his son got into a shouting match that became so rancorous I feared it might result in physical combat. I was able to separate them and keep them apart, but the atmosphere remained one of vicious spite. Meanwhile the deceased was being prepared for transfer to a Whitcomb funeral home. The whole thing was unseemly, Archy, most unseemly.”
“I concur,” I said. “What was their argument about?”
“Horace accused his son of being unfeeling, inattentive, and cruel during Mrs. Sarah’s illness. Oliver blamed his father for his infrequent visits, claiming Horace was guilty of deliberate malice in thwarting his plans for expansion. Both were almost incoherent in their fury. Extremely unpleasant.” He said this wrathfully as if the bad manners of others were a personal affront.
“Deplorable,” I murmured and sipped my brandy.
“Their conflict leads me to believe your investigation may be more decisive than you and I anticipated. Have there been any recent developments?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “The whole thing is unraveling.”
I brought him up to speed on what had happened and was about to occur. He interrupted only once, when I described Ernest Gorton’s stratagem of airlifting contraband up north in caskets within cartons labeled “Human Remains.”
“Clever,” father remarked, and I thought I detected a small smile of wry amusement.