“There,” the girl pounced, ‘you wanted my permission to tell them and I won’t give it to you, so why don’t we stick to your original story? My father didn’t do it.”
“Do you know who your father is?” I asked her.
“You know I don’t,” she said.
“Then you don’t know what he is capable of doing or what circumstances might have driven him to the limit,” I stated, beginning to feel empathy with Robert Silvester.
On the brink of more tears, she sobbed, “It’s too horrible to be true.”
The clever reporter looked at me and asked, “Do you know who her father is, Mr. McNally?”
One of the few perks of the situation made it possible for me to answer honestly in the negative.
Determined to finish his story, Silvester was saying, “Sabrina received three calls last week. She went out at night after each one of them. I asked her where she was going, but she refused to tell me. I had no doubt that it was to meet Jill’s father.”
“How could he know what was going on?” Gillian said.
“Really,” I answered for Silvester. “Between Lolly’s gossip column and your snooping around the library and calling newspaper editors he would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know.”
“I think,” Silvester said, ‘that Sabrina tried to assure him that she would keep his secret and that she would take Jill home. Zack’s profession had also become common knowledge because Zack can’t refrain from showing people his press card. You can imagine how Mr. Anonymous felt about that.”
“I show my card when I have to,” Ward said. If Gillian wasn’t clinging to his hand, I believe he would have hauled off and hit Silvester.
Unperturbed, Silvester continued, “Sabrina was not a diplomat and I think the guy lost patience in their last meeting.”
It was clear they all believed only one man was involved. Would I have to tell the police differently, naming all three? How would Gillian react to that? Silvester? Zack Ward would love it. Would the men be forced to give a blood sample? Would the doctor go on national television holding an envelope and emote, “And the winner is…”
But now that Cranston and Appleton were in the clear did I have to name them? Couldn’t I just cut to Harry Schuyler? I didn’t know. But either choice would result in a betrayal of Sabrina’s bargain.
“Lost patience,” Gillian ridiculed. “Lost patience and took mother’s jewelry and money? It was a common thief. We would only be helping the murderer if we force the police to look elsewhere.”
“How would the police find your father?” Ward asked, as usual making the most sense. If we couldn’t find him, how will they?”
“That’s not the point,” she answered. “If we confess everything to the police the media will have a field day with it and my father will think that we are accusing him. That I believe he’s guilty. He would never agree to meet with me.”
“Which he has no intention of doing anyway, Jill.” Silvester seemed to take great pleasure in reminding his stepdaughter of her father’s reluctance to come forward. “I think that should be perfectly clear to you by now. We have to tell the police what we know.” Silvester looked at his watch. “The time has come to go down and face those reporters.”
My steroid al hormones were telling me the time had come to beat a hasty retreat. I began to withdraw slowly, shortening the distance between my back and the door.
“What do you suggest we tell the press, Mr. McNally?”
“No comment,” I suggested.
“Would you like to come to the police station with us?” Silvester invited.
“No, thanks. I have my car.”
“What will you tell the police?” Gillian called.
I had reached the door and opened it before replying, “The truth.”
“No,” she moaned. “No, no, no.”
I went directly to an accommodation phone and dialed Al Rogoff. If he was there I vowed to have no more than one cigarette a day for the next year.
“Palm Beach Police, Sergeant Rogoff speaking.”
And I learned firsthand the peril of answered prayers. Al, it’s Archy.”
Archy, where have you been? Sabrina Wright’s family is on the way here and the lieutenant wants to speak to you before he sees them.”
“Indulge me, Al, and refresh my memory. You told me no one knew that Sabrina had been relieved of her cash and her baubles. Does no one include her husband, Robert Silvester?”
“Yeah. We didn’t tell him nothing. He told us what she was wearing and he made a brief statement. That would be about three o’clock Sunday morning.”
“Could he have seen the jewelry missing when he saw the body?”
“He didn’t see it,” Al said. “The body went straight to the morgue. We knew who it was because of the car and the photo on her driver’s license, which was in her purse. The formal ID and grilling is set for today. How come you’re asking about them gems? We got a screwy call from some cheap rag up north this morning. They wanted to know if we could give them an estimate of the value of the missing jewelry. The lieutenant blew a fuse. So who leaked it?”
“Zack Ward. Sabrina’s daughter’s boyfriend. He works for that cheap rag.”
“So how does he know?”
“The murderers told him, Al.”
That got his attention. “You said ‘murderers!” Archy?”
“That’s right. The plural of murderer.”
“I don’t need no English lesson, pal. You on the level?”
“Trust me with this one,” I said. “The only people other than the police and this ignoramus investigator who knew that money and jewels were missing are the people who took them. Gillian Wright knows because she told me so and Silvester didn’t seem a bit surprised by the fact. When they get to the palace, Al, separate them posthaste.”
“You telling us how to run the show, Archy?”
“I think Zack Ward is a patsy. But he can tell you who told him about the missing loot and I can corroborate.”
It was to Al’s professional credit that he took my news calmly, silently digesting the facts before acting upon them. “Good,” he said,
‘the lieutenant will still want to see you.”
“I’ll be there, pal.”
Inspired by a flash of diabolical naughtiness I was unable to resist, I dialed Arnold Turnbolt. Arnold is secretary to Mrs. John Fairhurst, a PB matron on all the “A’ lists. Arnie doubles as Mrs. Fairhurst’s private ‘walker, a labor of love for which he is compensated by a tailor-made tux in which to strut about the best homes on the island.
Arnie is also a film buff nonpareil with an impressive collection of movie memorabilia, like old movie-house showcase stills and the official wedding photo of Alice Faye and Tony Martin, whose marriage was so brief neither party seemed to remember it in later years. When the actress Debbie Reynolds visited PB to speak at the Mary Rubloff YWCA Harmony House luncheon she saw Arnie’s collection and tried to snare a few items for her movie museum. If anyone could help me, it was Arnie.
“Fairhurst residence,” Arnie announced.
Archy McNally here.”
Archy, how are you? Long time no see.”
“Busy days, Arnie.”
“Sabrina Wright,” he said. “What a scandal. According to Lolly you were her main man. What do you know?”
“No time now, Arnie. I’m calling to ask if you have a mock statue of Oscar.”
“You mean the Academy Award Oscar? No, but I wish I did. When an actress, who shall be nameless, pawned hers I tried to get it out of hock, but the ghouls with deep pockets got there first. Why do you need one?”
“I want to present it to a young lady,” I confessed. “She just gave the performance of her life, and I thought it would be a nice gesture.”
“Is she Hollywood bound?” Arnie asked.
“No. In fact, she’s on her way to twenty-five years to life without parole.”
“You know the nicest people, Archy.”
“It’s my star quality that attracts ‘em. Thanks, anyway, Arnie, and if you drop in at the Pelican tomorrow night, I’ll stand you a drink for your trouble.”