I RECALL THOSE LAST few days of the Inverted Jenny Case as taking on a momentum of their own, whirling toward a resolution no one could have predicted, least of all me. Events governed, and neither I nor the police nor anyone else could control them. We all had to sit back, as it were, and watch with fascination as everything unraveled.
It began with a telephone call from Sgt. Al Rogoff on Wednesday morning while I was having a late breakfast in the kitchen with Jamie Olson. It was then about ten o’clock.
“Hiya, sherlock,” Al said, sounding jubilant. “I think we fell in the crapper and came up with a box lunch. I just got a call from a stamp dealer up in Stuart. Early this morning, right after he opened, a bimbo breezes in and tries to sell him a block of four Inverted Jenny stamps. He described her as young, blond, pretty, with all her doodads in place. Sounds like our pigeon—right?”
“Right,” I said. “It’s got to be Sylvia.”
“She’s asking a half-million for the stamps. The dealer told her he’d have to see if he could raise the cash and to come back around noon. She said she would. I’ve got a car on the way with three heavies. I just changed to civvies, and I’m taking off. I’ll play a clerk in the store, and the others will be backup. How’s it sound?”
“Sounds great. Good hunting, Al, and give me a call as soon as it goes down. Or I’ll call you.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “I’ve got something else to tell you, but it can wait. Keep your fingers crossed, old buddy.”
He hung up, and I finished my breakfast. Rogoff was a brainy cop, and I was confident he’d grab Sylvia in the act of trying to sell stolen property. But then what? Would she talk or wouldn’t she? I reckoned she had enough street smarts to cut a deal with the SA. I hoped she’d rat on Kenneth Bodin in return for a slap on the wrist.
I had time to kill before heading for The Breakers to pick up Roberta Wolfson, so I wandered out to the greenhouse, where my mother was wielding a watering can and humming contentedly.
“Good morning, Mrs. McNally,” I said. “Sorry I overslept. Did you rest well?”
“Splendidly,” she said, “just splendidly. Now give me a kiss.”
She held up her tilted face, and I kissed a velvety cheek.
“There!” she said, beaming. “Now wasn’t that nice? I always say one should start the day with a kiss. It brings good luck.”
I laughed. “Who told you that?”
“No one,” she said, giggling. “I made it up. Archy, are you still seeing that nice lady you told us about, the interior decorator?”
“She’s really an antique dealer, and yes, I’m still seeing her.”
“Oh my,” mother said, going on with her sprinkling chores. “Is it serious?”
“It is with me,” I said without thinking, and then suddenly realized it was the truth: I was serious about Jennifer. “But I’m not sure how she feels about me. She’s also seeing someone else.”
“Have you told her how you feel?”
“No, not really.”
Mother stopped her work and turned to face me. “Oh Archy,” she said sorrowfully, “if you are serious about her, you should tell her. Isn’t there some saying about unspoken love?”
“Love unspoken is love denied,” I said.
“Exactly,” mother said, nodding. “Who said that?”
“I did,” I said, “just now. You’re not the only one who can make things up.”
“Well, it’s completely true. You simply must tell her how you feel.”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely,” she said firmly. “If you don’t, you’ll lose her.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “I’ll think about it. Thank you for the advice.”
“That’s what mothers are for,” she called gaily after me.
I did think about it—thought of what a dunce I had been not to have realized it myself. A sincere, passionate avowal of love, followed by a marriage proposal, might very well solve Jennifer’s problem and my dilemma.
There was only one thing wrong with that scenario: I wasn’t sure I was up to it. I did love the woman, I really did, but I could not decide if I wanted to give up the life of a happy rake for a till-death-do-us-part intimacy with one woman. After all, I was the man whose pals had considered nominating for a Nobel Prize in philandering.
In other words, I dithered.
When I arrived at the hotel, Miss Wolfson was waiting outside, still clutching that gigantic catchall. I slung the bag into the back of the Miata, and she made a little yip of protest.
“Do be careful,” she said. “Angus is in there.”
“What?” I said.
“Well, I thought the urns at the funeral parlor were in dreadful taste. Angus would be horrified. I’ll find something more suitable in Boston.”
“I see,” I said. “And what are the ashes in now?”
“A mason jar,” she said. “May we go?”
She was unusually voluble on the ride to the airport. She said it was her first trip to semi-tropical climes, and the weather, flora, the dress of inhabitants, and the colors of homes were all new to her. I found her comments quite discerning. She even noted the pace at which pedestrians moved along the streets, so much slower than in the northeast.
We arrived at the airport in plenty of time, of course. We checked the gate number of her departing flight, then found a nearby cocktail lounge for a farewell drink. I had a vodka gimlet, and she ordered a glass of her usual.
“Thank you,” she said, “and please thank your father for me. You both have been enormously supportive. I also intend to write a letter to the mayor of Palm Beach commending the diligence and sympathetic assistance of Officer Tweeny Alvarez.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I said. “I’m sure the letter will go into her file and may help her career.”
“I believe in giving credit where credit is due,” she said sternly. “I also have no hesitation in voicing criticism when it is deserved.”
I could believe that. I would not care to be a waiter who served lukewarm coffee to Miss Roberta Wolfson.
“I am only sorry,” I said, “that we have met under such unhappy circumstances. What a shame that your brother’s holiday ended as it did.”
I swear that’s all I said. I wasn’t prying. I didn’t intend to ask any questions. I was merely trying to express a conventional sentiment to an elderly lady who, despite her courage, had obviously been under a strain. But what my comment elicited was a shocker.
“Oh, Angus wasn’t on a holiday,” she said casually. “It was a business trip.”
That was my first alert, and no way was I going to let it pass without learning more.
“A business trip?” I said, trying to be as casual as she.
“Yes,” she said, sipping her wine primly. “Lady Horowitz had sent him some old stamps she owned. She wanted Angus to have an appraisal made in Boston. I believe she intended to find a private buyer or put them up for auction.”
“Oh?” I said. “And did Angus have an appraisal made?”
“He didn’t have to. My brother was an antiquarian and very talented in his field. He saw at once that the stamps Lady Horowitz had sent him were counterfeit.”
“Goodness gracious,” I said.
“Oh yes,” she said, nodding. “They were forgeries and completely worthless except as a curiosity. Whatever profit that unpleasant woman expected simply went out the window.”
She uttered those words with some satisfaction, and I saw that even to a proper Bostonian revenge is sweet.
“So Angus came down here to return the stamps to Lady Horowitz and give her the bad news?”
“May I have another glass of sherry?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said, “and I shall keep you company.”
We didn’t speak until our fresh drinks were served, and then she took up her tale again. Please don’t blame her for speaking so openly to a comparative stranger. She did so innocently; she had no knowledge of the theft of the Inverted Jennies and knew nothing of the roles her brother had played and I was playing.
“Yes, he came to Palm Beach to return the stamps and tell Lady Horowitz they were fakes. Poor Angus was in a funk. He knew that woman’s terrible temper and feared she would blame the messenger for the news.”
“Yes,” I said, “I can imagine.”
“However,” she went on, “everything turned out well. Angus phoned me a few days after he arrived down here. He said he had already told Lady Horowitz her stamps were forgeries, and she had accepted it with little fuss. In fact, Angus said, she had invited him to stay a week or two and try to recover his strength.”
“Thoughtful of her,” I said. “Miss Wolfson, I believe I just heard the first call for your flight. Perhaps we should move to the boarding gate.”
“Let’s,” she said, and polished off her second sherry like a longshoreman downing a boiler-maker.
“Ma’am,” I said, “I travel occasionally and may get to Boston one day. If I do, may I call you? Perhaps we might have dinner together?”
“I’d enjoy that,” she said, smiling. “You are a very dear young man.” And she swooped to kiss my cheek.
I watched her stalk away from me, indomitable, head high and spine straight. And still lugging that enormous bag containing Angus Wolfson in a mason jar.
I drove back to the McNally Building in a broody mood, trying to assimilate what Roberta Wolfson had told me. Vital stuff. Some of those oddly shaped pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had frustrated me for so long were beginning to snap together with an almost audible click. The picture they formed was not a sweet one—not something you’d care to hang over your mantel in place of that Day-Glo portrait of Elvis Presley on black velvet.
The problem with the scenario I envisioned was that, if proved valid, it was going to leave my father with an ethical dilemma as racking as the one I faced with Jennifer Towley. The future did not promise a million laughs for the McNallys, père et fils.
I arrived back in my office to find a message from Al Rogoff asking that I call him immediately. That I hastily did without even removing my panama.
“Got her!” he said exultantly. “Full name: Sylvia Montgrift. And guess what? She’s got a sheet. Did you know that?”
“No,” I lied, remorseful that I had neglected to tell him. “What’s she done?”
“She was running an unlicensed massage parlor. The West Palm Beach cops closed her down. She got off with a suspended sentence. Hey, she’s a real looker.”
“Not my type,” I said. “I suspect she may be a closet Hegelian. Al, may I come over?”
“Sure,” he said, “but don’t butt in. We’re waiting for her lawyer to show up. Lou Everton. You know him?”
“Of course,” I said. “Six-stroke handicap. He’s skunked me many times. And he’s also a very smart apple.”
“He is that,” Al agreed, “but I’ve worked with him before, and he’ll cut a deal. He likes fast-food justice as much as I do. He’ll tell her to talk and cop a plea. If he doesn’t we’ve got a problem. I mean what if she insists she found the stamps in the gutter. Then where are we? No way can we prove burglary.”
“Well, if she talks,” I said, “there’s something I’d like you to ask her. I’m on my way.”
The last thing in the world I wanted was a confrontation with Sylvia but, as we all know, fate delights in the unexpected rabbit punch.
I got over to headquarters and found Rogoff in the corridor chewing on a cold cigar.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Right now? In the john. Tweeny is with her to make sure she doesn’t climb out the window.”
“How did the bust go?”
“Like silk,” he said. “She showed up with the stamps at the Stuart dealer a few minutes after twelve. I flashed my tin and grabbed her. That was it. No muss, no fuss.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Yeah, she said, ‘Shit.’”
“Where are the stamps now?”
“We’ve got them. Crazy little things. I’ve contacted a retired professor in Lantana who’s supposed to be a hotshot on questionable documents. He’s going to take a look—at no cost to the county.”
At that moment Sylvia came out of the loo, Tweeny clasping her by the elbow, and they walked toward us.
She took one look at me and gasped, “Dooley! What are you doing here? Have you been arrested, too?”
But Officer Alvarez escorted her firmly into the sergeant’s office and closed the door.
Al looked at me. “Dooley?” he said. “What’s that all about? You haven’t been getting any massages lately, have you?”
“No, no,” I said hurriedly. “It’s just the name I used at Delray Beach.”
“Dooley,” Rogoff repeated, grinning. “Beautiful.”
“Listen, Al,” I said, “if Lou Everton lets you question her in his presence, ask her if Thomas Bingham was in on the deal.”
“Who?”
“Thomas Bingham.”
“Who the hell is he?”
“A friend of Bodin’s. He might have been part of it.”
The sergeant looked at me reproachfully. “Have you been holding out on me again?”
“Al,” I said, “this Bingham is just a walk-on. He might or might not be involved. Ask Sylvia, will you?”
“All right,” he said grudgingly, “I’ll ask.”
I saw Lou Everton coming through the front door and I went out the back, leaving the attorney and the police officer to their merry-go-round. I climbed into the Miata and headed for the Horowitz spread. I planned to do something exceedingly imprudent. If I had told Rogoff, he’d have had the pip.
Cut-rate justice, also known as plea bargaining, is as prevalent in Palm Beach as it is in Manhattan and everywhere else. Everton and the State Attorney would have disagreements, many arguments, and perhaps many drinks together. Eventually a quid pro quo would be forged: what Sylvia would deliver and the punishment she would receive.
My only problem with it, at the moment, was that it would take time. And there was always the possibility, of course, that Sylvia would refuse to peach on her muscleman. I could not believe loyalty was her strong suit, but I didn’t want to chance it.
So I drove beachward, too impatient to wait for a done deal. When I banged the brass clapper on the Horowitz front door, Mrs. Marsden opened it and didn’t even say hello.
“I hear the cops got the stamps back,” she said immediately, “and arrested the one who took them.”
“Mrs. Marsden,” I said, “the grapevine in this town is astounding. NASA should latch on to it, and they’d be hearing from Jupiter in seconds.”
“Then it’s true?”
I nodded. “The Inverted Jennies have been recovered. Happy?”
“Very,” she said, and led the way into the cavernous foyer.
I saw a set of matched luggage piled near the door. “Someone leaving?” I asked.
“Miss Stanescu,” the housekeeper said. “That Ken Bodin is going to drive her to the airport.”
“Then perhaps I’ll see her for a moment and say goodbye, if I may.”
“Sure, Mr. McNally,” she said. “She’s upstairs.” Then she suddenly grabbed my arm tightly and looked directly into my eyes. “Is everything going to be all right?” she demanded.
“Everything is going to be fine,” I assured her, wishing I was telling the truth. “Exactly the way it was before all this started.”
She nodded, but I knew she didn’t believe me. Things were never going to be exactly as they were before. But Mrs. Marsden had learned to endure change. I was still learning.
The door to Gina Stanescu’s bedroom was ajar, and I glimpsed her packing toiletries into a small leather case. I rapped on the doorjamb. She looked up, smiled, beckoned me in.
“I understand you’re departing, Miss Stanescu,” I said, “and just wanted to stop by to say farewell.”
“Not farewell,” she said. “I prefer the German auf Wiedersehen, which means until we see each other again.”
“Of course,” I said, “and I hope we do. I wish you a safe and pleasant trip home, and Miss Stanescu—” I paused, not wanting to make a promise I might not be able to fulfill.
“Yes?” she said.
“Keep believing in a miracle,” I said. “Even a very small one.”
“A petite miracle?” she said, her smile strained.
“Sometimes they do happen, you know.”
We shook hands and parted. It was my day for goodbyes. And I feared more lay ahead.
I went downstairs and out to the garage. Kenneth Bodin was wiping down the Rolls as gently as a groom might curry a derby winner. He turned around at my approach, glanced at me, went back to his task. His jacket was off, and in his form-fitting T-shirt with cutoff sleeves, he looked a proper anthropoid.
“I hear the cops got the stamps back,” he said, still turned away from me.
“That’s right,” I said breezily, “and they nabbed the woman who was trying to sell them. Sylvia Something-or-other. They’re questioning her now. They don’t think she was the thief, so they want to know who gave her the stamps to sell. I understand she’s singing like a bird.”
I had him pegged as a rash lad with nothing but ozone in his bean. I wanted to provoke him into doing something exceptionally stupid, such as taking off as soon as possible: added evidence of his guilt. In his lavender Volkswagen Beetle, he wouldn’t be hard to trace. And if I had any luck at all, he might even resist arrest. That would put the frosting on the éclair.
“How did the cops happen to catch her?” he asked in a low voice, buffing the brightwork on the Rolls.
“Oh, that was my doing,” I boasted, hoping my braggadocio would infuriate him even more. “I told the police to alert every stamp dealer in South Florida. I figured the guy who had the Inverted Jennies was such a complete moron he’d try to convert them to cash locally as quickly as possible. And that’s exactly what the imbecile did.”
Then, reckoning I had pushed him as hard and as far as I could, I called cheerily, “See you around,” and wandered away, well-pleased with myself.
I know it wasn’t Confucius, but it may have been Charlie Chan who said, “Man who pats himself on back risks broken arm.” Right on, Charlie.
I stopped at Consuela Garcia’s office simply because I wanted to see her again. She always gave me a lift. If Jennifer Towley was a marmoreal woman, Connie was a warm, fuzzy type, as comforting as a teddy bear. Also, she laughed at my jokes: an admirable quality.
She was on the phone, as usual, and waved me to a chair.
“Yes, that is correct,” she said in the cold, official tone she used when speaking to reporters. “We understand the police have recovered the stolen stamps. Naturally, Lady Horowitz is delighted. Yes, you may quote me on that. Thank you so much for calling.”
She hung up and grinned at me. “All’s well that ends well,” she said.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Also, look before you leap versus nothing ventured, nothing gained—and where does that leave anyone? How did Lady C. really take the news that her stamps had been found?”
Connie frowned. “Not with wild jubilation,” she said. “In fact, I thought she was shook. She snapped, ‘Who the hell cares?’ A typical Horowitz performance. Listen, Archy, if the stamps are back, it’s obvious she didn’t use them to pay off a blackmailer. So your whole plot is demolished—right?”
“Wrong,” I said. “There’s still plenty of evidence that someone is leaning on her.”
“And you’re going to keep following her?”
“Whenever I can. It’s in her own interest, Connie,” I added earnestly. “She may be in danger.”
She looked at me suspiciously—but what could I tell her? That I was still curious as to why Lady Horowitz wouldn’t reveal her whereabouts at the time Bela Rubik was killed? If I told Connie that, she’d tell me to get lost and probably never give me another “Hola!” as long as she lived.
“Well...” she said hesitantly, “just one more time. And that’s it. She’s taking off tomorrow at one o’clock; destination unknown—to me at least.”
“Thanks, Connie,” I said gratefully. “I do appreciate it. You seeing anyone regularly these days?”
“Yeah,” she said in a doleful voice, “my periodontist—and that’s not much fun. In case you ever break up with the Towley woman, I’m footloose and fancy-free.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said. “One more question: The DuPeys have left and Gina Stanescu is on her way; when are Doris and Harry Smythe going to brighten Florida by their absence?”
“Those dolts?” Connie said, then giggled. “Listen to this, Archy: The madam knows a retired British couple who live in Kashmir. They’re both horse people, and for years they’ve been trying to get Lady Horowitz to sell them a Remington bronze she owns. She’s refused up to now, but yesterday she phoned and said she’d sell them the bronze, but they have to invite the Smythes for a two-week stay, beginning immediately. So on Monday, Doris and Harry take off for Kashmir.”
I laughed. “Lady Cynthia is a professional conniver.”
“Oh sure,” Connie said. “And you don’t do too badly in that game yourself. You’re not in her class, of course, but I’d rank you as a talented amateur.”
I was wounded. If she had known what I was planning, she’d have upped my rating. Semipro, at least.