DURING MY UNDERGRADUATE DAYS at Yale I studied Latin for two years and did quite well—with the aid of some wonderful trots. As I recall (don’t quote me on this), “Hie in spiritum sed non incorpore” means “Here in spirit but not in body.” Turn that around and you’ve got a clue to my mood and behavior that weekend. I was there in body all right, but where the spirit was, the deponent knoweth not.
Confusion reigned supreme, and I waltzed through those two days with a glassy smile that probably convinced my golf-, tennis-, and poker-playing companions that McNally was finally over the edge. Well, I wasn’t—but I was teetering. There were just too many bits and pieces, and I couldn’t see any grand design to the Case of the Inverted Jennies—if there was one.
I returned home late Sunday night after a subdued dinner with a couple of cronies at the Pelican Club. I was in such an anomic mood that, to give myself the illusion I was capable of working purposefully, I scrawled notes in my journal for almost an hour, jotting down everything that had happened since the last entry. Then I spent another hour reading over the entire record of the Inverted Jenny Case. No light bulb flashed on above my head. I groaned and went to bed.
It must have been a shallow sleep because when my phone rang I awoke almost instantly. I glanced at the bedside clock; the luminous dial showed 4:40 A.M. At that dark hour it had to be Death calling. I answered warily.
“Hello?”
“Archy? Al Rogoff. I just got a wake-up call from the Beach Patrol. They pulled a floater out of the surf near the Horowitz place. Elderly male Caucasian. He was naked, but there were clothes stacked on the sand. They tentatively ID him as Angus Wolfson.”
I swallowed. “Dead?”
“Very,” Rogoff said. “Want to meet me there and positively ID the body?”
I really didn’t want to. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll get dressed.”
“Take your time,” the sergeant said. “It’ll take me at least twenty minutes. Listen, any chance of your bringing some hot coffee along?”
“Yes, I can do that. We’ve got a thermos.”
“Good,” Al said. “No sugar or cream. Black will be fine.”
I dressed as quietly as I could because my bedroom is directly above my parents’. I tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen, switched on the light, put a kettle of water on to boil. I went into the pantry for the thermos and a stack of plastic cups. When I returned to the kitchen my father was standing there.
Was he the last man in America to wear a full pajama suit: long-sleeved jacket and drawstring pants? Under a robe of maroon silk, of course. With matching leather mules on his long feet.
“Trouble, Archy?” he asked.
I repeated what Sergeant Rogoff had told me.
Father nodded once. “Keep me informed,” he said, turned, and went back to bed.
The unflappable Prescott McNally.
I was at the scene within a half-hour after Al’s call. It wasn’t hard to find; three police cars, a fire-rescue truck, and an ambulance were parked on Ocean Boulevard. I pulled up, and Rogoff came over before I could dismount from the Miata.
“You bring the coffee?” he asked eagerly.
I nodded.
“We better have a slug,” he said. “There’s a cold wind down on the beach.”
He did the pouring, for which I was grateful; I didn’t want him to see that I had the shakes.
“How did they happen to find him?” I asked.
“Some dentist from Lake Worth wanted to try out his new ATV, a three-wheeler. He figured he could get away with driving on the beach at four in the morning. He spotted the body bobbing around in the shallows and decided to be a good citizen. He had a cellular phone with him and called 911. Good coffee, Archy.”
“Thanks. Was it suicide?”
“Could be. But does a suicide stack his clothes neatly on the sand under a palm tree before he takes the long walk?”
“I don’t believe suicides are thinking rationally in their last few minutes.”
“You may be right. But there are some other things.”
“What things?”
“You’ll see. Finished your coffee? Let’s go.”
We walked down that same flight of wooden stairs I had taken to stroll the beach with Angus Wolfson. He had looked like a rakish boulevardier then. I tried not to imagine what he looked like now.
The body lay on the sand, covered with a blue blanket. There was a group of officers nearby, smoking cigarettes, conversing, occasionally laughing. Rogoff had been right; it was chilly down near the water. The wind was kicking up whitecaps, and clouds were moving swiftly across the night sky.
“Can I get some light here?” Rogoff called.
A woman from the fire-rescue truck came over with a big lantern. She turned the beam onto the blanketed corpse. The sergeant leaned down and uncovered the naked body to the waist.
The face was remarkably peaceful. Almost serene. A few wet strands of thin, grayish hair were plastered to his cheeks. He was so pale, so pale. But I had the irreverent notion that he looked younger in death than he had in life.
“Yes,” I said steadily, “this is the body of a man I knew as Angus Wolfson. He was a house-guest at the home of Lady Cynthia Horowitz.”
The sergeant turned to the woman holding the lantern. “You hear that?” he demanded.
She nodded.
“Al,” I said, “what are those blotches on his neck and chest?”
“The things I mentioned to you—bruises. Could have been caused by the body banging around in the surf. But look at this.”
He beckoned, and we both squatted alongside the remains. “What do you make of that?” Rogoff asked, pointing.
Four faint parallel scratches ran down the torso from clavicle to navel.
I peered closely. “Looks like fingernails did that,” I said.
The sergeant grunted. “Could be,” he said. “Made by himself in the final moment when he was gasping for air. Or made by someone else. Or made by shells on the bottom of the sea. We’ll let the ME figure it out. Let’s go finish that coffee.”
I started back to the stairway.
“Take him away,” Al called to the waiting officers and followed me up to the corniche.
We sat in the Miata and sipped coffee. It was lukewarm now, but we drank it.
“What I’ve got to do now,” Rogoff said, “is go to the Horowitz place, wake up the dear Lady, and tell her what happened. Care to come with me?”
“No, thanks,” I said.
He laughed. “Didn’t think you would. What I want to do is see if he left a suicide note. Not that it means a helluva lot. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.”
“So you think it was a suicide.”
“I didn’t say that. But you told me he was ill.”
“That was my idea. He didn’t tell me, and I don’t have a medical degree.”
“How old did you say he was?” the sergeant asked.
“I didn’t say because I don’t know,” I said, a trifle peevishly I admit. “I’d guess about seventy-five. Around there.”
Al turned to stare at me. “That’s amazing.”
“Being seventy-five? What’s so amazing about that?”
“Because when we were going through that neat stack of his clothes on the beach, in the hip pocket of his slacks we found a condom.”
“Oh lord,” I said.
“Unused,” Rogoff added. “Still in a sealed packet.”
I drew a deep breath. “I better tell you something, Al,” I said. “On Friday night my parents and I went to a party at Lady Cynthia’s. After dinner...”
I described the scene I had witnessed between Angus Wolfson and Kenneth Bodin deep within “the jungle” of the Horowitz property. The sergeant listened intently without interrupting. When I finished, he drained his last few drops of coffee and tossed the plastic cup onto the roadside.
“You’re littering,” I pointed out.
“I know,” he said. “Listen, what I want you to do right now, even before you go home, is drive to the palace and dictate a statement. I’ll radio ahead and set it up. I want you to include what you just told me about Wolfson, and also everything you told me at the Pelican Club about Bodin, his girlfriend Sylvia, and that Fort Lauderdale stamp dealer—what’s her name?”
“Hilda Lantern.”
“Well, make sure you describe your dealings with her: what you said and what she said. Go into detail. Even the stuff you don’t think is important. I want everything.”
“Al, that’ll take hours!”
“Sure it will,” he said. “But you’re pulling down a nice buck, aren’t you? Now earn it.”
But despite his instructions, I did go home first—to shower, shave, change my clothes, and have an early morning breakfast with the Olsons at the kitchen table.
I was leaving for the palace to dictate my statement when I encountered my father coming downstairs for his breakfast. He saluted me by elevating one bushy eyebrow, and I gave him a precis of what had happened at the scene of Wolfson’s death.
“Dreadful business,” he said in magisterial tones. Then, dryly: “I expect I shall hear from Lady Horowitz this morning.”
“I think you probably will, sir,” I said. “If I learn anything more from Sergeant Rogoff, I’ll get word to you.”
“Yes, do that,” he said. “Thank you, Archy.”
As I drove into town through the June after-dawn, I rehearsed in my mind what I would reveal in my statement. It seemed to me that up to this point I had been reasonably straight with Al Rogoff. I had given him all the facts as I knew them, with the exception of any mention of Thomas Bingham. And his implication in the crimes was iffy.
What I hadn’t told the sergeant, of course, were my personal feelings about the people involved, my no doubt prejudicial reactions to their personalities, and certain wild ideas I entertained that had absolutely no hard evidence to sustain them. I was sure Al had as many private fancies. And there was little point in either of us going public with them until we had some solid facts to quote. You can’t convict on opinions, except those of judge or jury.
I was correct about spending hours providing that statement. After I finished dictating, I waited for the transcription. Then I read the eight-page manuscript carefully, making some minor changes, deletions, and additions. I was signing all eight pages when Rogoff came in and plopped down wearily in the wooden armchair behind his desk.
“Not even noon,” he said, “and already my ass is dragging.”
“You spoke to Lady Horowitz?”
He nodded. “You know what spooked her the most? Not the death of an old friend. But she was upset at how this ‘unpleasantness’—her word—might affect a reception she’s giving tomorrow afternoon for a visiting Italian tenor. Can you believe it?”
“Lady Cynthia,” I said carefully, “is a rather self-centered woman.”
“No kidding?” Rogoff said. “And all this time I thought she was a selfish bitch. Anyway, I didn’t find a suicide note. But like I told you, that means zilch.”
“Who is next of kin?”
“A sister in Boston. Horowitz phoned your father while I was there, and he agreed to notify the sister. Thank him for me. Informing the next of kin of victims is not my favorite pastime. You finished here?”
“All done,” I said, and slid the signed statement across the desk to him. “That’s everything.”
He stared at me. “You sure?”
“Absolutely. Except for my hat size, which is seven and three-eighths. Al, have you contacted all the local stamp dealers?”
“We’re working on it. But some are out to lunch, some are on vacation, some are retired. It’s a miserable job. But we should have it finished in a day or two.”
“Good,” I said. “I still think you’ll pick up Kenneth Bodin or Sylvia or both.”
Rogoff looked at me thoughtfully. “You think Wolfson might have been in on it?”
“The possibility had occurred to me,” I admitted. “Wolfson steals the stamps and gives them to Bodin to sell. Then they split the take. There’s only one thing wrong with that scenario.”
“What?”
“Wolfson wasn’t a thief. I didn’t particularly cotton to him, but he was trying hard to be a gentleman. He just wouldn’t steal.”
Al stared at me. “Would he kill?”
“Anyone can murder if the time and circumstances are right. You’ve told me that yourself, many times.”
“So I have,” the sergeant said, sighing. “Thank you for your keen perceptions, Hercule Poirot. I wish with all my heart that we may soon meet again.”
“I pray we shall, Inspector Maigret,” I said, and departed.
I drove to the McNally Building, intending to ask my father to fill me in on his conversation with Lady C. But the lobby receptionist handed me a message: Consuela Garcia had phoned and wanted me to call her immediately.
“She said it was important,” the receptionist told me. “She repeated three times: Urgent! Urgent! Urgent!”
“Probably heard a new Polish joke,” I said.
I called Connie from my office. She sounded harried.
“Archy,” she said breathlessly, “did you hear about Angus Wolfson?”
“Yes,” I said, “I heard.”
“And on top of that,” she went on, “the caterer called and said he can’t get any fresh pineapples for the reception tomorrow. What a morning!”
“And that’s why you called?” I asked. “To tell me about the pineapples?”
“Oh, don’t be such a schnook,” she said. “I called to tell you the madam is taking off about one o’clock. She said she’d be gone a few hours. She didn’t tell me where she was going, and I didn’t ask.”
“Thank you, Connie,” I said gratefully.
“If you follow her, will you tell me later where she went?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think you would,” she said. “You still seeing that Jennifer Towley?”
“Occasionally.”
“Well, my guy gave me the brush.”
“Why would the idiot do that?”
“He found some tootsie with mucho dinero. Her father owns a used-car lot.”
I laughed. “I’m looking for a nymphomaniac whose father owns a liquor store.”
Connie giggled. “Well, if you break up with the Towley woman, put me back in your little black book.”
“You’ve never been out,” I assured her.
I glanced at my watch, saw it was a bit past twelve-thirty, and decided to put my talk with father on hold. I went down to the garage, waved to Herb, and crawled into my rented Ford Escort. I headed for Ocean Boulevard, hoping Lady Cynthia hadn’t decided to leave early. If she had, I was snookered.
As I drove I wondered how I was going to handle this. I don’t claim to be an expert at shadowing, but I had read enough espionage novels to know how it’s done—or how the novelists think it’s done. You hang back, occasionally let a car or two get between you and your quarry, and you might even speed up and tail from in front of your target. It all seemed so simple I was certain I’d bollix it up.
I drove past the Horowitz mansion. The gate was open but I saw no activity within. I went northward a few hundred yards, made an illegal U-turn, and passed the house again, going southward. I repeated this maneuver twice more with no results.
Finally, on my fourth drive south, I observed the bronze Jaguar convertible pull out of the Horowitz driveway, turn, and also proceed southward. I distinctly saw Lady Cynthia driving, her hair bound with a periwinkle scarf.
“Thank you, God,” I said aloud.
She headed down the coast and surprised me by staying within the speed limit. I was several car lengths behind her, and there seemed no need for tricky tactics; she never once turned her head to look back and gave no indication whatsoever that she sensed a nose was on her trail.
The Jag went on and on and on, and I was beginning to wonder if our destination was Miami. But then we came to a stretch of the corniche south of Manalapan Beach. This area of the island, between the Atlantic Ocean and Lake Worth, is so narrow that a long-ball hitter (say Mickey Mantle) might stand on the beach and swat one into the lake.
Lady Horowitz slowed, and I slowed right along with her. Then she signaled a right and turned into a driveway, through opened gates. I drove past at a crawl and took a good peep.
It was a frumpy place, a mansion gone to seed. The wrought-iron gates were rusted, grass sprouted from the brick driveway, and several red tiles were missing from the roof. The house, designed in a vaguely Spanish style, had a sad, sheepish look about it, as if its dilapidation was its own fault and not that of the neglectful owner.
The Jaguar was nowhere in sight when I drove past. From this, Monsieur Poirot deduced that the driveway led down to the rear of the house, facing Lake Worth. Perhaps a garage was there. Certainly a turnaround. And probably a lawn, patio, or terrace giving a loverly view of the lake. I imagined a dock, rotting now, that was large enough to accommodate a thirty-five-foot cabin cruiser.
I made a U-turn again and headed northward. This time, on a slow pass, I noted the un-trimmed shrubbery, a broken window, paint peeling from the portico columns. Even more perplexing was no sign of habitation; the entire place was silent, deserted, and so melancholy it could have been a set for The Exorcist XII.
I also made certain to memorize the house number, painted on a weathered shingle dangling by a single nail from one of the stained stucco entrance pillars.
I drove home sedately, ruminating on my next move. I wasn’t about to hang around Manalapan until Lady Cynthia emerged from the Castle of Otranto, and then follow her back to Palm Beach. What was the point of that? I even considered the possibility of renting a boat with the intention of approaching from the lake side, on her next visit, and observing any activities taking place in the rear of the house. But even with an advance alert from Connie, I could never arrive in time.
What on earth was the wealthy Lady Horowitz doing in such a ruin? Could my original wild scam turn out to be correct? Was she really meeting blackmailers to make a payment? The whole idea was absurd, but I could conjure no other explanation, except that possibly she had flipped her wig, joined a coven of witches, and drove to that shabby house to engage in Satanic rites.
The truth turned out to be even more unbelievable.