It had been a sunny day with a scattering of popcorn clouds, but when I awoke from my nap around six p.m., a dark overhang had moved in from the east and rain had started. There was no wind, so the drizzle fell vertically and soon became a steady downpour that threatened to drive us all to the rooftops.
I wondered if Al Rogoff would show up in that drencher, and by nine o'clock I was waiting in the kitchen, peering out the window and ready to go out with my big golfing umbrella if he arrived. He plowed up in his pickup only fifteen minutes late, parked close to our back door, and came rushing in before I had a chance to unfurl my bumbershoot.
He looked godawful. His features were slack with weariness and there were puddles of shadow under his eyes. Even worse, he seemed harried and uncertain, as if he was faced with momentous decisions and didn't know which way to jump. I took his dripping slicker, hung it away to dry, and led him to the study.
Father was waiting for us, took one look at the sergeant, and immediately broke out his bottle of Remy Martin XO. He reserved this superb cognac, he said, for "special occasions." To my knowledge there had been two in the past ten years.
Rogoff flopped into a club chair, accepted his glass gratefully, and took a deep pull. Then he sucked in a long breath, exhaled noisily, and said, "Manna."
"Sorry to bring you out on a night like this, sergeant," father said. "It could have waited."
"No, sir," Al said, "I don't think so. Things are moving too quickly. Right now it's all a big mishmash, and I'm hoping you can help make some sense out of what we know and what we guess."
I had poured tots of brandy for father and myself. He was enthroned behind his desk, as usual, and I took an armchair to one side, facing both of them. Rogoff fished a cigar from an inside pocket and looked at the old man questioningly.
"Of course," father said. "Light up. Are you hungry? We can supply combat rations."
"No, thanks, counselor," he said. "I had an anchovy pizza an hour ago. I'm just stressed-out. The cognac will do fine."
"How are things going, Al?" I asked. "Making any progress?"
He flipped a palm back and forth. "Comme ci, comme ca. Right now I'm working with an Assistant State Attorney, a brainy lady, and we're trying to get a handle on our options and figure out the best deal we can make."
"Is Frank Gloriana talking?"
"Some. We've got him cold on the catnapping. The ransom notes were written on his word processor and he was found with the money. But he claims it was all Laverne Willigan's idea, and she was the one who snatched the cat. He says he played along because he's madly in love with her."
"Oh sure," I said. "I was afraid he'd pull something like that. Any chance at all of keeping La-verne's name out of it?"
"Very thin," Al said. "We're trying to work a deal with his lawyer. If Frank tells us what he knows about his parents' murder plot, charges may be reduced and he could get off with a fine and suspended sentence."
My father spoke up. "As you know, sergeant, I represent Harry Willigan, and I'm just as eager as Archy to keep Mrs. Willigan out of any court proceedings. I presume everything said here tonight is entre nous."
"If that means will I keep my mouth shut, the answer is yes."
"Good. Is this Frank Gloriana a man of means?"
"He's stone-broke. His lawyer will probably end up with Frank's office furniture as his fee."
"I see," father said thoughtfully. "Archy, to your knowledge, does Laverne have any liquid assets?"
"I don't know about her bank balance, father, but I do know she's got a heavy collection of jewelry. Gifts from Harry. Expensive things."
"Better and better. Perhaps, sergeant, you might suggest to Frank Gloriana's attorney that he have a confidential talk with Laverne Willigan. She might be willing to pawn or sell enough of her gems to provide funds for Frank's legal defense. In return, of course, he would avoid mentioning her name. But this arrangement, I strongly urge, should be approved only after Frank tells you what he knows of his parents' involvement in the Gillsworth homicides. Frank might be disinclined to agree to that but if you explain the deal thoroughly to his attorney, I expect he'll recommend that Frank accept it. Especially if the ASA promises to do what she can to have charges reduced."
"Yeah," Al said slowly, "that plot might work. We clear up a catnapping and Frank gives us what he has on the murders. He gets off with a slap on the wrist. His lawyer gets paid. And Laverne keeps her name out of it. Everyone wins. A slick plan, Mr. McNally. I'll bring it up with the ASA."
I saw that his cognac was gone and my glass was getting low. I rose and refilled our snifters without asking permission. My father made no objection although he had barely touched his drink.
"Okay, Al," I said, "so much for the catnapping. Now what's happening with the homicides?"
He sighed deeply. "This is where things get sticky. First of all, you've got to know the whole thing started with Roderick Gillsworth's obsession with Irma Gloriana. We're trying to get a court order to open her safe deposit box, but even without the letters he wrote her, we have the evidence of his holographic will and the erotic poems he started writing after he met her. It's obvious the guy was nuts about her. I'm not saying he was temporarily insane; let's just say that after meeting Irma he became mentally disadvantaged."
"But penniless," I observed.
"Right," Rogoff said. "Which wasn't the way to win Irma's heart. The lady is Queen of the Bottom Line. So Roderick, knowing he was slated to inherit most of his wife's estate, suggested Lydia be knocked off. Irma said she could get it done if Roderick would sign over his inherited wealth to her."
"Wait just a minute, please," my father interrupted. "That doesn't quite compute. Why did Roderick make Irma his beneficiary? The fee for the murder was going to someone else."
"I admit it's fuzzy," the sergeant said. "But I figure Roderick wanted to marry Irma after Lydia was dead. He didn't know Irma was already married. And she agreed to marry him when he was a widower only if he made her the sole beneficiary of his estate. I think Roderick executed that handwritten will and signed it cheerfully because he knew that if Irma reneged, he could cancel out the holographic will at any time by writing a more recent will that superseded it. Am I correct, counselor?"
"Yes," father said slowly, "that's generally true. The most recently executed will at the time of death takes precedence."
But he and I looked at each other. I know we were both troubled by the sergeant's tortuous explanation of why Roderick had made Irma his beneficiary.
"There is something you should know about that holographic will, sergeant," father said. "It was executed about a month ago. At that time Lydia Gillsworth was still alive. Florida statutes provide that the surviving spouse of a decedent has a right to thirty percent of the decedent's estate regardless of the provisions of the decedent's will."
Rogoff was startled. "You mean Gillsworth's holographic will was null and void when it was written?"
"Not necessarily," father replied. "But if Roderick had predeceased Lydia and had left a sizable estate, Lydia could either let his will stand or 'elect against the will,' as it's called, and claim her rightful thirty percent. But the whole question is moot because Lydia died before Roderick, and if he had predeceased her, he had no estate to leave."
Al and I exchanged a brief glance. I knew what he was thinking: If the whole matter was moot, why had Prescott McNally mentioned it? I could have told him: If there was a nit to be picked, my father would be the first to volunteer.
"Well," Rogoff said, shaking his head, "all I know is that when Roderick signed that handwritten will he signed his own death warrant. I figure Irma and Otto had it worked out from the start, but Roderick was too pussy-whipped to suspect it. First, they knocked off Lydia. That made Roderick a rich man. Then Roderick was snuffed. And that was supposed to make Irma wealthy according to the terms of his last will and testament."
"You're probably right, sergeant," father said, nodding. "It's a likely scenario. But how much of it can you prove?"
"That Otto bashed in Lydia's skull with a walking stick? Not sufficient evidence to make a case. But things are different with the murder of Roderick, framed to look like a suicide. The most important piece of hard evidence is that we found a package of single-edge razor blades in Cabin Four of the Jo-Jean Motel. Otto Gloriana shaved with them. The same brand was left on the bath mat beside Roderick Gillsworth's corpse."
Father was obviously disappointed. "Hardly conclusive evidence," he said.
"I agree, sir. But we have something much better. Irma Gloriana states she was with her husband when he entered Gillsworth's house to kill him. She claims she didn't witness the actual murder but that
Otto announced his intention to kill the poet beforehand and bragged about it afterward."
Both my father and I were astounded. "Why on earth would she admit that?" I said. "It makes her an accessory."
"Why?" Rogoff said disgustedly. "Because she thinks it'll get her off the hook. Otto is dead. He can't refute what she says or defend himself in any way, shape, or form. So his widow now says he was the sole killer. His motive, according to Irma, was to kill the man having an affair with his wife. He was aware of it, Irma says, and vowed revenge. He knew she had a dinner date at Gillsworth's home, put a gun to her head, and forced her to ring the doorbell so he could gain entrance to slit Roderick's wrists. She says she was in deathly fear of Otto, a man known to have a violent temper and who had already served time in prison. But she was totally innocent of complicity in Gillsworth's death, she claims. She was coerced, in fear of her life. But since she played no voluntary role in the homicide, she is free to walk and inherit Roderick's estate. A load of kaka-right? The only problem is that she may get away with it. It's the kind of story a jury just might buy if she ever comes to trial. And she's got an awfully smart lawyer who's probably charging her a nice hunk of Gillsworth's estate."
Father and I were silent. Rogoff was correct. Irma Gloriana had concocted a defense that just might work. If she told her story to judge and jury with all the sincere forcefulness of which I knew she was capable, she had a better than fifty-fifty chance of strolling out of the courtroom a free woman with no worries other than how long it might take to probate Roderick's will and collect his millions.
"It stinks," I said wrathfully and stood to refill our glasses.
"Counselor," Rogoff said, "isn't it true that under Florida law a murderer can't inherit anything from the victim?"
Father nodded. "Anyone who unlawfully and intentionally kills or participates in procuring the death of a decedent is not entitled to any benefits from the decedent's estate whatsoever."
"Then somehow," Al said determinedly, "I don't know how, but somehow I'm going to nail that lady. She's guilty as hell, and I don't want to see her getting one thin dime."
As I had listened to all the foregoing, my originally dim vision that had gained an outline and then taken on substance now suddenly snapped into sharp focus, and I knew it was time to display the McNally genius. If, in what follows, you feel I acted like a hambone, you must realize it was my Big Dramatic Moment. I could not let it pass without exhibiting my histrionic gifts, inherited, no doubt, from my grandfather, the famed burlesque comic.
I was still standing and addressed both men. "There is something you should know," I said portentously, "and I believe it may help the cause of justice. Otto didn't kill Lydia Gillsworth. And Irma didn't. Roderick murdered his wife."
Their jaws didn't sag, but Rogoff spluttered brandy and father looked at me sadly as if he finally realized his Number One (and only) son had gone completely bonkers.
"Impossible, Archy," he said hoarsely. "You and I sat in this room and heard Roderick talk to his wife. She was alive when he left here."
I made a great pretense of looking at my watch. "Damn!" I said. "It's getting late, and I promised
Binky Watrous I'd call. May I use your phone, father?"
He glared at me. "You wish to make a personal call at this moment? Can't it wait?"
"No, sir," I said. "It's important."
"Very well," he said huffily. "Make it short."
I used the phone on his desk, punched out a number, waited half a mo.
"Binky?" I said. "Archy McNally here. How are you feeling? Glad to hear it. Listen, how about dinner tomorrow night at the Pelican Club. Great! About eightish? Good-o. See you then, Binky."
I hung up and turned to the others. "Who did I just speak to?" I asked them.
They looked at each other, silent a moment, then Rogoff said, "All right, I'll play your little game. You talked to a guy named Binky."
"Binky Watrous is in Portofino," I said gently. "He's been there for the past two weeks and expects to stay another two. I was talking to a dead phone."
They caught it immediately, of course. The sergeant smote his forehead with a palm, then rose and began to walk in agitated circles. "Snookered," he said, his voice a gargle. My father groaned once, then shook his head in wonderment-at his own credulity, I suspect.
"Father," I said, "you and I didn't hear Roderick speak to his wife; we heard him talking, and that's all we heard. We just assumed his wife was alive and conversing with him."
He sighed heavily. "All my professional life I've sought never to assume anything, and yet I allowed myself to be deceived by Gillsworth. The man was a consummate actor."
"He had to be," I pointed out. "His fate depended on it. I reckon he killed his wife about an hour before he showed up here. He deliberately murdered her so he could inherit her wealth and marry Irma, just as the sergeant suggested. He set the grandfather clock an hour ahead and pushed it over to stop it. Then he put on fresh clothes and came to our house."
"Wait a minute," Rogoff said, sitting down again. "If you've got it right, then Lydia arrived home an hour before Roderick told you she did. But Irma Gloriana told me that Lydia had stayed late at the seance."
"That's easy," I said. "Irma lied to you. She was setting up an alibi for Roderick. And her price for lying was the holographic will. She made him pay in advance."
"Yes," my father said, "that's credible."
Rogoff swore a horrible oath. "I suspected that guy from the start," he said wrathfully. "The spouse is always the first choice in a homicide case. But I couldn't get around that phone call he made from here. How did you get on to the dead phone trick, Archy?"
"I really don't know," I confessed. "Maybe it's because I'm such a scamster myself-only when the occasion demands it, you understand."
"We were used," my father said angrily. "Roderick Gillsworth used us."
"That's right, sir," I agreed. "His attorney and his attorney's son-perfect witnesses to confirm his alibi. We were an important part of his plot."
Rogoff had been reflecting on my reconstruction of the murder. "Hold on," he said suddenly. "You say Roderick killed his wife and then changed his clothes. I'll buy that because his clean duds helped convince me he was innocent. But what did he do with the bloodstained clothes? We searched his entire house the moment we got there. No bloody clothes. He didn't have time to burn them or dump them somewhere. So what did he do with them?"
I didn't know then and if I live a millennium I don't think I'll ever know why I said what I did.
"Caprice!" I almost shouted. "Did you search Lydia's car, Al?"
He stared at me. "I told you I felt the engine block to test the heat, and I stuck my head inside the car to see how long the air conditioning had been off. But I didn't search the trunk." He stood up abruptly. "I think I'll do it right now. I've still got the keys to the house and garage. It's just possible. ."
"I'll come along," I said.
"May I join you?" my father asked.
Al pulled on his slicker and went out to his pickup. I took my big multicolored umbrella. My father donned his rain jacket. He and I ran out to the Lexus, and we followed Rogoffs truck southward to the Gillsworth home. We went slowly, for the roads were hubcap deep, and the rain showed no sign of lessening.
We pulled into the Gillsworth driveway, got out, and I opened my umbrella. Before it became soaked through, the sergeant had unlocked the garage door and lifted it up. We all crowded in, and Al switched on the light. The gray Bentley nestled close to the white Caprice. There was something ineffably sad about those two silent, empty cars, their owners slain.
Rogoff examined the lock on the trunk of the Caprice. "I can't pick that," he said. "This calls for surgery."
He went out to his pickup and came back with a two-foot crowbar. "Look the other way, gents," he said with heavy jocularity. "Then you can't testify against me." But we watched as, with some difficulty, he jammed the wedge end into the trunk's seal and then leaned all his weight onto the crowbar. The lock popped with a screech of metal. Al lifted the lid and we all pressed close.
It was in plain sight alongside the spare: a blue plastic garbage bag.
"Bingo," Rogoff said softly.
He used the crowbar to pry open the mouth of the bag, then hooked out the contents. We saw skivvies, T-shirt, khaki slacks. And a wadded pair of latex gloves. Everything was darkly blotched with blood.
"He didn't wear much," I observed.
"Did you expect him to put on soup and fish to snuff his wife?" Al said. "It's plenty." He closed the trunk lid with the bag of clothing inside. "I'll use the phone in the house. I need lab technicians on this stuff. I think it'll rgake the case."
"Sure it will," I said. "The clothes will be identified as Roderick's from the laundrymarks, and the blood will be identified as Lydia's. The holographic will and those letters he wrote to Irma will establish motive. Hertha Gloriana told me that Roderick came to the office frequently, and he and Frank would go into a back room to confer. Frank will probably testify that Roderick composed and mailed the threatening letters to his wife. You've got a strong case, Al."
"I concur," my father said. "I believe that when presented with the evidence Archy detailed, the court will make a determination that Roderick Gillsworth murdered his wife. Congratulations, sergeant. You get your wish."
Al was puzzled. "What wish?"
"You didn't want Irma Gloriana to get one thin dime. If it's determined that Roderick did indeed kill his wife, then he is not entitled to any benefits from her estate. And so, even if Irma manages to go free, she will inherit nothing from Roderick."
The sergeant walked out of the garage and turned his face up to the streaming heavens.
"Thank you, God," he said.