THE FOLLOWING MORNING I overslept (a not infrequent occurrence) and dashed down to the kitchen where I found Ursi Olson doing something violent to a pot of yams. Our cook-housekeeper is a stalwart woman who looks as if she could plow a field, pause to drop a foal, and then continue plowing.
“Breakfast?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. “But I’m on a diet.”
“No eggs Benedict?”
“I lied to you,” I said. “I’m not on a diet. Eggs Benedict, by all means.”
“You got a phone call from your father’s office,” she said. “Mrs. Trelawney. She wants you to call her.”
While Ursi rustled up my eggs, I used the kitchen phone to call my father’s secretary.
“I have your expense account check,” she told me.
“Bless you!” I said fervently.
“Can you pick it up?”
“You betcha,” I said. “Later today. Okay?”
“Whenever,” she said.
Sounds like a silly, innocuous phone call, doesn’t it? But later I was to reflect on how important it turned out to be. Because if Mrs. Trelawney hadn’t called me, and I hadn’t agreed to stop by the office and pick up my check, then I—but I’m getting ahead of myself. At the time it happened I felt nothing but joy at the news that funds awaited me. My checking account had become a bit emaciated. I don’t mean that poverty loomed, but one sleeps better with a few shekels under the mattress, doesn’t one?
After breakfast I hustled to the Horowitz mansion. I wanted to talk to the remaining residents before they were braced by Sgt. Rogoff and his henchmen. Al is a very capable investigator, but subtlety is not his long suit. First of all, he looks menacing, which makes a lot of people lockjawed—especially the guilty. I look like a twit, which fools many into telling me more than they intended.
I headed directly for the ground-floor office of Consuela Garcia, Lady Cynthia’s social secretary and my lost love. She was on the phone when I entered and motioned me to a chair.
“But I mailed the invitation myself, Mrs. Blair,” she was lying smoothly. “I really can’t understand why you didn’t receive it. Our dreadful postal service! Well, Lady Horowitz is planning a big Fourth of July bash, and I’ll make every effort to make certain you receive your invitation. And again, I’m so sorry you were disappointed last time.”
She hung up and grinned at me.
I rubbed one stiff forefinger against the other in the “shame on you” gesture. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I said.
“Listen, you,” she said, “I hear you were at the Pelican with a looker. Who is she?”
“My sister,” I said.
“Since when does a guy buy his sister champagne cocktails?”
“Oh-ho,” I said. “Priscilla’s been talking.”
Connie, who’s a member of the Pelican Club, said, “Priscilla never blabs and you know it. But my spies are everywhere. How are you, Archy?”
“If I felt any better I’d be unconscious. And you?”
“Surviving, barely. Half the calls I get are from yentas who want to know who snatched the madam’s stamps. I suppose that’s why you’re here.”
“You suppose correctly. Have the cops been around?”
“Not yet.”
“They will be.”
“That’s all I need,” she said mournfully. “The reporters are bad enough. Okay, let’s get it over with.”
I ran her through my shortened version of Twenty Questions and learned nothing important. Consuela had last seen the Inverted Jennies about six months ago when Lady Cynthia passed them around at a charity benefit. Everyone knew they were kept in an unlocked wall safe, and anyone could have snaffled them: staff, houseguests, or even brief visitors.
I stared at her as she spoke and saw what had attracted me originally: She was a shortish, perky young lady with cascading black hair. Once, in our brief escapade, I had the joy of seeing her in a string bikini. The memory lingered. But there was more to her than just a bod; she had a brain as well. She ditched me, didn’t she?
“Connie,” I said, “give me something, no matter how wild. Who do you think could have stolen those stupid stamps?”
She pondered a long while. “Not an outsider,” she said finally. “Not an over-the-wall crook. I don’t buy that. It was an inside job.”
I groaned. “Thanks a lot,” I said. “Five people on the staff, six house-guests. That’s eleven suspects.”
“Including me,” she said, grinning again.
“That’s right,” I agreed. “And the cops know it.”
“Oh, that’s beautiful.”
“What about Harry Smythe and his wife?”
“What about them?”
“I don’t like them,” I said.
“Who does?” she asked, reasonably enough.
“But if I had to make guesses, they wouldn’t head the list. They’re too mean.”
“Who would head the list?”
She hesitated just a moment. Then: “Alan DuPey and his wife.”
“Why them?”
“They’re too nice.”
I came close to slapping my thigh in merriment. “The FBI could use you, Connie. What a sleuth you are!”
“Well, you asked me for wild ideas.”
“So I did,” I said. “I haven’t talked to the DuPeys yet. Are they around?”
“No one’s around. The madam is at the hairdresser’s and the rest of the crowd has gone out for the day on Phil Meecham’s yacht.”
“That old roué?” I said. “He’ll make a play for all the women and most of the men. All right, I’ll catch the DuPeys another time. Thanks for your help, Connie.”
I was starting out when she called, “Archy,” and I turned back.
“Who is she?” she asked again.
“You never give up, do you?” I said. “Well, it’s no secret; her name is Jennifer Towley.”
Connie’s smile faded. “Oh-oh,” she said. “You’ve got trouble, son.”
I stared at her. “What is this?” I demanded. “You’re the second person who’s warned me. Why have I got trouble? What’s wrong with my dating Jennifer?”
“Nothing,” she said, busying herself with papers on her desk. “Now get the hell out of here. I have work to do.”
I knew there was no use pushing it so I got the hell out of there as ordered. I drove to headquarters debating which mystery was more maddening: the missing stamps or Jennifer Towley. About equal, I reckoned.
In the cool lobby of the McNally & Son Building, the receptionist, a white male heterosexual (we were an equal opportunity employer), handed me a pink message note. It stated that Bela Rubik had phoned me about an hour previously and wanted me to call him as soon as possible.
But first things first: I went upstairs and collected my check from Mrs. Trelawney. She was a delightful old bird who obviously wore a wig and looked like everyone’s maiden aunt. But she loved raunchy jokes, so I spent ten minutes with her, relating the most recent I had heard. She had a couple of good ones herself. Then I went to my office and phoned Rubik.
“Archibald McNally,” I said, “returning your call. Do you have anything for me, Mr. Rubik?”
“Yes,” he said. “Something important.”
“What is it?”
“Not on the phone,” he said. “Come over as soon as you can.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll be there shortly.”
I stopped at my bank, a block away, and deposited the expense account check. I could have ambled down to Rubik’s shop—it was a nice stroll—but the day was becoming brutally hot, and I decided to drive. I found a place to park near Worth Avenue and walked over to the stamp and coin store, wishing I had worn my panama.
There was a cardboard sign taped to the glass door: BACK IN AN HOUR. I am not ordinarily a profane man, but I admit I may have uttered a mild oath, pianissimo, when I read that. Not only had I told the idiot I was on my way, but the sign gave no indication of when Rubik had left. Back in an hour could mean I’d have to wait three minutes or fifty.
Not at all gruntled, I started to walk away, then stopped. Suddenly I realized that stupid sign had been taped to the outside of the glass door. How often have you seen a merchant do that? Never. They fasten their signs on the inside of the glass so they can be removed and used again. Tape it outside and some nut will come along, rip it off, and toss it in the gutter just for the fun of it.
I retraced my steps and inspected the sign more closely. It seemed to have been hastily scrawled and was attached to the glass with a ragged piece of masking tape. I shielded my eyes and tried to peer within. I saw no movement, but on the tile floor alongside the showcase I spotted the stamp dealer’s crazy spectacles with the twin loupes. They were twisted and one of the lenses had popped out.
“Oh Jesus,” I said aloud.
I tried the doorknob. It turned easily. I opened the door a few inches. “Mr. Rubik,” I called, “are you here?”
No answer.
I entered cautiously, moving very, very slowly. He was lying on the floor behind the showcase. His bald skull had been dented so many times it looked like a crushed paper bag. It was clear that his spirit had flown. And next to his smashed skull lay what seemed to be the weapon: a crystal paperweight. There was very little blood coming from the shattered skull.
I am not a stranger to violent death, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. I hope not. I looked around, then stepped carefully over the corpse to a back office that was large enough to hold a big double-doored safe. No one was in sight and no one was crouched behind the desk ready to leap out and shout, “Boo!” The tiny lavatory was also empty.
I used the phone on Rubik’s desk, handling it lightly with my silk foulard pocket square. I called the PBPD, praying Al would be in. He was.
“Sergeant Rogoff,” he said.
“Archy McNally,” I said. “I’m in Rubik’s Stamp and Coin Shop. He’s on the floor waiting for the meat wagon. Someone smashed in his skull.”
Al didn’t miss a beat. “All right,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
“Make it fast, Al,” I urged. “I’m lonely.”
“Don’t touch a thing,” he ordered. “Go outside and wait for me on the sidewalk.”
“I know the drill,” I said crossly, but he had already hung up.
I went back outside and stood guard at the door. I stuck my hands in my pockets to hide the tremble. There were pedestrians moving lazily along, and some of them gave me a friendly nod the way people do in Florida. One old codger said, with a perfectly straight face, “I don’t think it’s too cold, do you, partner?” I wanted to top him by casually mentioning, “Hey, partner, there’s a murdered man in this store.” But I didn’t.
It seemed like an eternity but it probably wasn’t much more than ten minutes before I heard the sound of an approaching siren. What a sweet song that was! Then the police car pulled up with a squeal of brakes. Al and another uniformed officer climbed out, taking their time. The other cop was a stranger to me, but he seemed awfully young, which means I’m getting awfully old—right? Anyway, he was trying to look stern and purposeful, and he kept his hand resting on his gun butt.
We all moved inside and looked down at the crumpled remains of Bela Rubik.
“Thanks a lot, Archy,” Al said to me. “And it’s not even my birthday.”
The young officer squatted by the corpse and fumbled at the neck. I don’t know what he thought he was doing—probably feeling for the carotid. He looked up at Rogoff. “He’s stiff, sarge.”
“No kidding?” Al said. “Are you sure he’s not faking it?” He turned to me. “Go back to your office, Archy,” he ordered, “and don’t leave it even to take a pee. After I get the wheels turning here, I’ll give you a call and you come over to the palace and dictate your statement.”
I nodded. “That paperweight—” I offered. “It’s called a millefiori. It’s made by cutting cross sections of glass rods of different colors and shapes.”
“Thank you, professor,” the sergeant said. “That certainly is a valuable clue. Now beat it.”
I didn’t go directly back to my office. I stopped at the nearest bar and had a double Pinch. My shaking finally stopped. When I arrived at headquarters, I went to my father’s office, but Mrs. Trelawney said he had left for lunch with a client. So I retired to my cubbyhole and lighted my first English Oval of the day. I thought I deserved it.
I sat there for more than an hour, counting the walls and trying not to think about anything. But it didn’t work. I couldn’t stop reflecting on chance. If Mrs. Trelawney hadn’t phoned me about that expense account check, I wouldn’t have come into the office that morning. And if I hadn’t come into the office, I wouldn’t have received the message that Rubik had called. And if I hadn’t wasted time trading jokes with Mrs. Trelawney, I’d have left sooner. And if I hadn’t paused to deposit the check but hustled over to Rubik’s shop immediately, I might have walked in on a horrendous murder.
But what was the use of imagining. Life is all ifs, is it not?
Then Sgt. Rogoff called. “All right,” he said, “come over now. We’re ready for you.”
I drove over to the building on County Road Al liked to call the “palace.” His office was larger than mine (whose wasn’t?), and the decor was Police Station Moderne. I sat in an uncomfortable wooden armchair and dictated my statement into a tape recorder, with Al and two witnesses in attendance.
This time I omitted absolutely nothing. I told of my first meeting with Bela Rubik and how he had agreed to ask other dealers if a block of four Inverted Jenny stamps had suddenly come on the market. Then I stated how he phoned me that morning, saying he had something of importance to tell me that he didn’t want to discuss on the phone.
I described how the sign attached to the outside of the glass had aroused my curiosity. I said I had entered after seeing Rubik’s broken glasses on the floor. I noted that when I first visited the shop, the door had been locked and apparently the proprietor would not admit anyone he didn’t know who appeared threatening.
I said I had touched nothing but the doorknob and the phone on Rubik’s desk. I had seen no one leaving the shop as I approached. I had smelled no perfume, cologne, or any other scent inside the store. The stamp dealer had mentioned nothing to me of prior robberies or assaults. And that was all I knew.
The tape was taken away to be transcribed, and Sgt. Rogoff and I were left alone. He pulled out a cigar, sliced off the tip with a penknife, and began to juice it up.
“You come up with some doozies, you do,” he said. “You figure it had something to do with the Inverted Jennies?”
“I think that’s a reasonable assumption,” I said. “Unless it was plain and simple robbery. Was anything missing?”
“Didn’t look like it. The showcase was locked and intact. So was the safe in the back office. Rubik still had his wallet, untouched.”
“Al, was he married?”
“Yeah,” the sergeant said softly. “His wife’s in a nursing home. Alzheimer’s. He’s got one daughter with the Peace Corps in Africa. We’re trying to notify her. He had two sons but both were killed in a light-plane crash last year. ‘When troubles come, they come not singly but in battalions.’”
“Why, Sergeant Rogoff,” I said, “that’s beautiful. But you’ve got it wrong. It’s ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.’”
“Troubles or sorrows,” he said, “what’s the diff? So you figure it was someone he knew?”
“Someone he recognized,” I said. “Someone he had dealt with before.”
“What do you think was important that he wanted to talk to you about?”
I shrugged. “I asked him to find out if any Inverted Jennies were being offered for sale. Maybe he found out.”
“And was killed for it?”
“It’s possible.”
Al grinned at me. “Anything is possible,” he said. “It’s even possible that you’re holding out on me.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I protested. “Not about murder.”
Rogoff thought a moment. “How are you coming along with the Horowitz clan?” he asked suddenly.
“Still at it. Nothing to report.”
“Stick with it,” he said. “You handle the stamp theft—those people will tell you more than they’ll tell us—and I’ll concentrate on the Rubik homicide. How does that sound?”
“Makes sense,” I said. “And I think eventually we’ll discover we’re working the same case.”
“You think someone in the Horowitz group offed Rubik?”
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t you?”
But “Could be” was all he’d say. The stenographer came in with my typed statement: original and four photocopies. I signed them all, and Rogoff gave me one of the copies for my file.
“If you think of anything else,” he said, “let me know.”
“I just did,” I said. “That sign on the door—did the killer bring it with him? I mean, was the whole thing planned?”
The sergeant shook his head. “I doubt it. There was a stack of cardboard like that in the bottom drawer of Rubik’s desk. He probably used it to stiffen envelopes when he mailed stamps. He also had a roll of masking tape.”
“So it was a spur-of-the-moment thing?”
“I’d say so. He and the perp got in an argument about something, and it ended up with him getting his skull cracked.”
“And the killer hung out the sign to give himself more time to get far away?”
“That’s the way I see it.”
“Did they dust the sign? The tape? The paperweight?”
“They’re still at it,” Al said. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“May I go now?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “You better go home, have a belt, and lie down. You don’t look so great.”
“I don’t feel so great,” I said. “Thanks for your prompt assistance, sergeant. Sorry I had to dump this on you.”
“If not this,” he said, sighing, “it would be something else. It never ends.” He paused a moment. Then: “I didn’t much like Rubik, did you?”
“No,” I said. “Still...”
I drove slowly and carefully back to the McNally spread. I wondered why I was driving in that Medicare fashion and realized it was a whiff of mortality that had inspired my caution. One never knows, do one?
I garaged the Miata and entered the house through the side door. My mother was standing at the sink in the kitchen, arranging cut flowers from our garden in a crystal vase. She looked up as I came in.
“Hello, Archy,” she said brightly. “Isn’t it a splendiferous day!” She paused a beat, doubting. “Did I use the right word?”
“Exactly the right word,” I assured her.
“Good! And what have you been doing today?”
“Oh,” I said, “this and that. Right now I’m going to change and take my swim.”
“Do be careful,” she said. “It’s rough out there. Now these are the last of the roses, Archy. The heat just eats them up.”
I watched a moment as she worked, bending over the sink and smiling as she clipped stems and placed the blooms in the vase just so.
“Mother,” I said, “how have you been feeling lately?”
“Tiptop,” she said. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Of course. Every day.”
I swooped suddenly to kiss her velvety cheek, and she looked at me with pleased surprise.
“Oh my!” she said. “What was that for?”
“I got carried away,” I said, and left her laughing with her flowers. She had a little girl’s laugh.
I changed, took up my beach bag and towel, and trotted across A1A to the ocean. I saw at once that mother had been right; it was rough out there, with a pounding surf and big patches of seaweed lifting and falling on the waves farther out. I decided not to dare it.
So I smeared on sunblock and sat on the sand in the latticed shade of a palm tree. I stared out at that turbulent sea and tried to review the events of the day. I did all right with my mental rerun until I got to the strip of film where I stood staring down at the crushed skull of Bela Rubik. And that became a freeze-frame; I couldn’t get past it.
I never thought I could shiver on a blazing late-May afternoon in South Florida, but I did. It required almost a physical wrench to dissolve that morbid scene from my memory. I did it by resolutely focusing my mind’s camera on more positive images. Jennifer Towley’s classic elegance. Consuela Garcia in a string bikini. And similar recollections of love, joy, and calm seas. All to keep the specter of sudden death at bay.
Listen, I’m no hero.