She gave me a dim smile. “Men usually do.”
“Not yours truly,” I said stoutly. “I prefer to admire the lady from afar. A strong instinct for self-preservation, I suspect. And Mr. Horace invited me to view his collection of ship models.”
She came alive. “Oh, they’re incredible! You must see them, Archy.”
“I intend to. And I met a curious bloke claiming to be Ernest Gorton. Does the name mean anything to you?”
She shook her head.
“He was talking to Oliver Whitcomb at the bar when you pointed Oliver out to me. They seem to be pals. He referred to Oliver as Ollie.”
“Ernest Gorton?” she repeated. “No, I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s from Miami and he’s in the import-export business, whatever that may be. Seemed an odd sort to be a close friend of the CEO of funeral homes.”
“Mitzi and Oliver have several odd friends,” she said tartly. “Let me get you another beer.”
“Just one more,” I said, “and then I’ll be on my way.”
She made no reply—which I took for approval. And which only proves how fallible my judgment can be.
She brought my refill, then touched a cushion of the couch on which she was seated. “Sit over here, Archy,” she said, and I noted how often her requests sounded like commands. “I have something to tell you, and it will be easier to talk if we don’t have so much space between us.”
I did as she asked. She had taken off her jacket and kicked away her satin pumps. She looked more relaxed than she had seemed at the party. Her tensity had thawed and her rather schoolmarmish manner vanished. She had softened; that’s all I can say. Except that the two top buttons of her poet shirt were undone.
“The last time we spoke about the computer printout,” she said, “I told you I could not understand why it did not include the names and addresses of out-of-state funeral homes and cemeteries to which Whitcomb’s shipments were made. It was strange; that information is routinely entered on our computer.”
“But it wasn’t,” I said.
She turned sideways to look at me directly. “It
was,
Archy, but it had been erased.”
I took a gulp of beer. “You’re certain?”
“No doubt about it. I caught it and then called in our computer consultant to verify what I had discovered. He agreed: someone had simply deleted that information from our records.”
“Could anyone at Whitcomb’s have done it?”
“You need to know a code to access our system. The code is known only by the top three executives—Horace, Oliver, and myself—and by the four department heads and our three chief funeral directors.”
“Could a malicious hacker have invaded the system?”
“Of course. That’s always a possibility and very difficult if not impossible to prevent. But why would a hacker
want
to delete only those specific items of information?”
“Haven’t the slightest,” I admitted. “But you did say you’d be able to reconstruct the missing information from the weekly reports of your funeral directors.”
“That’s correct,” she said, “and I’m going to start on that tomorrow. But I wanted you to know that someone made a deliberate and seemingly successful effort to impede the investigation. Archy, I’m now even more certain that something very wrong is happening at Whitcomb’s. It may be just dishonest or unethical but it may be criminal, and it’s got to be stopped.”
“No doubt about it,” I agreed. “How soon will you be able to provide me with the missing information?”
She thought a moment. “It shouldn’t take longer than two or three days. I’ll phone you as soon as I have it.”
“Fine. Those names and addresses will provide a good start. Tell me, Sunny, have you informed Mr. Horace of this inquiry and that the computers have been tampered with?”
“I have
not,”
she said explosively, “and I don’t intend to. And I forbid you or your father mentioning it to him. Is that understood?”
Overreacting again. I began to wonder if father’s and my initial impression had been accurate: this was one squirrelly woman.
“Completely understood,” I told her. “You may depend on our discretion.”
I finished my second glass of beer (they were only eight ounces per) and started to rise.
Sunny gave me one of her rare sunny smiles. “Must you go?” she said.
Zing! Went the Strings of My Libido.
I set my empty pilsner on an end table and turned back. Then she was not in my arms, I was in hers. She smelled delightful.
“I should tell you,” I said, “I don’t kiss on the first date.”
She cracked up. It was the first time I had seen her laugh with abandon and it was a joy to witness.
“I haven’t heard that line since nursery school,” she said when she ceased spluttering.
“Nursery
school?” I said. “I am shocked,
shocked!
I hesitate to think of what went on by the time you got to junior high.”
But of course we kissed. And kissed. And kissed. If she had an ulterior motive for coming on to me, and I suspected she had—to insure my loyalty?—I have sufficient male ego to believe what began as a manipulative ploy quickly became a more genuinely passionate experience than she had anticipated.
She was carried away. I was carried away. And we both were carried away right into her bedroom where we disrobed in frantic haste, muttering when buttons were fumbled or zippers snagged.
She owned a body as solid as the figurehead of a Yankee clipper. I don’t mean to suggest she could have played noseguard for the Washington Redskins, but there was not an ounce of excess avoirdupois on her carcass. Believe me; I searched.
Our acrobatics became more frenzied, and my last conscious thought was of Binky Watrous attempting the tango with Mitzi Whitcomb. Sunny and I were doing the same thing horizontally rather than vertically. But with infinitely more expertise, I assure you. Then I stopped thinking.
I do recall that at one point during our exertions the bedroom seemed filled with light, really a soft glow. The only way I can account for it is the phenomenon of triboluminescence. Very rare and much to be desired.
I stayed in Sunny’s bed until almost 2:00
A.M.
, during which time we consumed another Budweiser—and each other. What a loverly night that was—a fitting end to an evening of jollity. Such perfect occasions occur all too infrequently and must be sought and treasured. Remember that gem of McNally wisdom the next time someone offers you a beer.
I drove home slowly, hoping my eyelids would not clamp firmly shut before I arrived in the safety of the McNally garage. I made it and stumbled upstairs, undressing as I went, and flopped into bed with a wheeze of content. “Thank you, God,” I murmured. A Category Five hurricane could have descended upon the coast of South Florida that night and I swear I would not have been aware of it. I slept the sleep of the undead.
I awoke the following day a sad Budweiser man. Listen, I know it’s an ancient pun, but I was not in a creative mode that morning. Physically I felt fine, having had the foresight to pop a couple of Tylenols before collapsing into the sack. But mentally I was totally flummoxed. The Whitcomb case seemed to be growing steadily like some horrid fungus that just keeps getting larger and larger until it devours acres. The Blob That Ate Cleveland.
In addition, I was suffering from an attack of the guilts. My unfaithfulness to Connie Garcia, of course. I had committed a disloyal act and could not deny it. Well, I could to Connie but not to myself. Sighing, I blamed those treacherous genes of mine. I tell you a faulty DNA can really be hell.
I had slept a good eight hours, and by the time I finished my morning routine, breakfast was out of the question; luncheon loomed. Determined to do something— anything!—purposeful that day, I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff at PBPD headquarters. I was told he was on a forty-eight. They wouldn’t give me his unlisted home phone number, of course, but that was okay; I already had it.
I called and he picked up after the third ring.
“Archy McNally,” I said.
“Good heavens!” he said. “I haven’t heard from you in a week or so. I hope I haven’t offended you.”
“Oh, shut up,” I said. “I hear you’re on a forty-eight. Have anything planned for today?”
“Why, yes,” he said. “I thought I might play a chukker of polo this afternoon or perhaps enjoy an exciting game of shuffleboard—if my heart can stand it.”
“Funny,” I said, “but not very. Al, why don’t you have lunch with me at the Pelican?”
“Oh-oh,” he said. “Every time you invite me to lunch I end up getting shot at.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“It’s half-true,” he insisted, “and half is enough for me. I refuse to lunch with you at the Pelican Club or anywhere else. And that’s definite.”
I told him, “We’ll have Leroy’s special hamburgers with a basket of matchstick potatoes and perhaps a few pale ales.”
“What time do you want to make it?” he asked.
Before leaving home I called Binky Watrous, hoping the Duchess wouldn’t pick up the phone. She didn’t but their houseman did, and he informed me Master Binky was still asleep and had hung a Do Not Disturb sign on his bedroom door. (I happened to know that sign had been filched from the Dorchester in London.) I requested that Master Binky be asked to phone Archy McNally as soon as he reentered the world of the living.
“I don’t know when that will be, Mr. McNally,” the houseman said dubiously. “He just arrived home about an hour ago.”
“Whenever,” I said and hung up, wondering where my vassal had spent the night. Deep in mischief, no doubt. The apprentice shamus was becoming even more of a trial than I had expected.
I
ARRIVED AT THE
Pelican Club in time to enjoy a Bloody Mary (with fresh horseradish) at the bar before Sgt. Rogoff showed up. The dining area was filling rapidly and I peeked in to see if Connie Garcia was present. Thankfully she was not. The horseradish had invigorated my spirits but not to the point where I was ready to face Connie’s wrath if she had learned—as I was certain she would—that I had attended the season’s first big social affair and did not invite her to accompany me.
Sgt. Rogoff finally came trundling in, wearing casual, off-duty duds. Al is a truculent piece of meat, built along the general lines of a steamroller. For career reasons he projects the persona of a good ol’ boy, and he drives a pickup to aid his public image. But he is brainy, a very keen investigator, and also happens to be a closet balletomane. One never knows, do one?
We snagged a table for two in the dining room and, after some repartee with the sassy Priscilla, ordered the lunch that had lured the sergeant. Knowing our predilection, Pris served the Bass ales first, and we both took palate-tingling swigs.
“I’d like to be floating in a tank of this stuff,” Al said. “Trying to drink the level down. Wasn’t there an English lord or someone who did something like that?”
“Drowned in a vat of malmsey,” I said, but then my mind went blank. “I can’t remember who it was,” I admitted.
Al looked at me reproachfully. “That’s not like you, Archy,” he chided. “You usually have instant recall of useless information.”
“True,” I said, “but that bowl of Cheerios I call my brain is not up to cruising speed this morning. I’ve got problems.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Well, for starters I’ve taken on an unpaid assistant who wants to learn the discreet inquiry business, and he’s driving me right up the wall. Binky Watrous. Do you know him?”
Rogoff took a gulp of his ale. “That twit? Sure, I know him. Last year he was charged with committing a public nuisance for riding a mule up Worth Avenue. He got off with a fine. Screwballs like him make me question the purpose of evolution. How come you tied up with an airhead like Watrous?”
“Well, he
is
a friend of mine,” I explained lamely. “And he has to get a job or his aunt is liable to end his freeloading career.”
“The Duchess!” Al said, laughing. He’s not totally ignorant of the intricacies of Palm Beach society. “That lady is a fruitcake, too. Every year she sends the Palm Beach Police Department a subscription to
National Geographic.
How does that grab you?”
But then Priscilla brought our burgers and spuds along with a complimentary platter of sliced tomatoes and onions. The sergeant and I wasted little time in talking while we absorbed all those tasty calories. It was only when the plates were completely denuded and we were quaffing our second ales that Rogoff leaned back and said, “All right, let’s have it.”
“Have what?” I inquired innocently.
“Come on, Archy,” he said, “don’t jerk me around. Daddy taught me a long time ago that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. What do you want?”
“Well, there is one little thing you can do for me.”
“A little thing? Like immolation? Ixnay.”
“Al, it’s just a routine inquiry. One of our clients thinks someone is dipping into the till. He has his suspicions but doesn’t want to risk a lawsuit for defamation if he goes to the police and it turns out he’s wrong. So he asked McNally and Son to look into it first. It’s really a very low-key investigation.”
I wasn’t exactly lying, you understand—just dissembling.
“Oh sure,” he said. “That’s how all your discreet inquiries begin. Then they end up on my desk. I always think of you as Archy the Jonah.”
“That’s not fair,” I protested. “Some of your greatest successes were initiated by my preliminary labors.”
“Granted,” he said. “But do they all have to finish with some coked-up zombie coming at me with a machete? All right, what do you want?”
“Our client believes one of the villains ripping him off is a gent named Ernest Gorton. He runs an import-export business in Miami. I hoped you’d be willing to run a trace on him.”
The sergeant finished his ale. “I can’t do it officially. It’s got nothing to do with the Department. But I could make some phone calls to a few compadres in Miami, who might be willing to take a look at this guy.”
I fished Ernie Gorton’s business card from my wallet, and Rogoff took out his little notebook closed with a rubber band. He copied Gorton’s full name, address, and telephone number.
“Don’t expect an answer tomorrow,” he warned, “You’ll be lucky if I hear back in a week or two.”