They had names and Social Security numbers. And that's all their dossiers revealed.
I tried to puzzle it out, resisting the urge to light another cigarette. The more I gnawed at it, the more ridiculous it seemed to me that the Johnsons could be totally without a financial history. There must be a logical explanation for it, but whatever it might be I could not imagine. I hoped my Palm Beach contacts would help solve the riddle.
It was then pushing eleven o'clock, and I rushed upstairs to my father's office, for if I was even one minute late he was quite capable of canceling the appointment.
Prescott McNally, Esq., was standing solidly planted before his antique rolltop desk, and in his three-button, double-breasted suit of nubby cheviot, looking somewhat of a relic himself. He cast a baleful glance at my awning-striped seersucker jacket and didn't invite me to be seated.
I recited a condensed account of my interview with Shirley Feebling in Fort Lauderdale and finished by suggesting the lady might be sincere in professing love for Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth.
"She seemed totally uninterested in a cash settlement, sir," I remarked.
"Nonsense," father said sharply. "Did you make a specific offer?"
"No, I did not."
"That was a mistake, Archy," he said. "The mention of dollars would have concentrated her mind wonderfully. I'm afraid the lady bamboozled you. Her protestations of love were merely a bargaining ploy. And even if she is smitten, as you seem to believe, how can she possibly profit from an unrequited love? She can't force that young fool to marry her, you know."
"No, sir, but she can carry out her threat to sell his letters to a tabloid."
"Don't be so certain of that," he admonished me. "I would have to research relevant law, but it might be claimed the letters are his property since he created them, and if so ruled, the sale and publication could be legally enjoined. But before we go to that trouble, I suggest you consult with Smythe-Hersforth. Obtain his approval of your returning to Fort Lauderdale and making a definite offer to this woman. I believe the proposal of an actual cash payment will persuade her to talk business."
I was doubtful but made no demur. "How much do you think we should offer?"
He went into his mulling trance, and I waited patiently for his decision.
"I reckon a thousand dollars would be adequate," he finally said.
I was startled. "Isn't that rather mingy, sir?"
"Of course it is," he said testily, "and I expect the woman will reject it immediately. But it will serve as an opening move to begin bargaining. It will require her to reveal what she believes she should receive, and eventually, I trust, an equitable compromise can be agreed upon. The important thing is to shift negotiations away from discussion of her alleged emotional injury to the realm of a hard cash settlement. Do you understand?"
"Yes, father, and I'll attempt to explain it to CW, though he is not the swiftest man in the world."
"When you speak to him you might also ascertain how high he is willing to go. Five thousand? Ten? Or more? The decision must be his. Now is there anything else?"
"Just one more thing," I said hastily. "I had occasion to speak to Mrs. Louise Hawkin prior to the death of her husband. She said a friend was seeking a divorce lawyer and asked if we might recommend someone."
Father stared at me. "Do you really believe she was asking on behalf of a friend?"
"No, sir."
"Nor do I. And now that Mrs. Hawkin is a widow I doubt very much that she will inquire again about a divorce attorney. Your ten minutes are up."
I returned to my broom closet, slumped behind my steel desk, and silently groused. I was frustrated by that conversation with the senior. I thought he was totally mistaken about Ms. Shirley Feebling-but then I had met the lady and he had not. I really didn't believe she would accept a cash settlement, no matter how generous.
Still, I had no wish to flaunt my father's advice. His experience had been so much more extensive than mine, I simply had to defer to his judgment. But I am, as you may have guessed, an incurable romantic, and I mournfully reflected that if mein papa was correct and Shirley accepted money in lieu of love, I would be horribly disappointed and possibly take up the lute to express my weltschmerz in musical form.
Meanwhile, I had a job to do and when duty calls, yrs. truly can never be accused of shlumpery. I called Information and obtained the phone number of Hector Johnson. I had prepared a scam that, I felt, included sufficient truth to convince the most worldly-wise pigeon.
"The Johnson residence," a man's voice answered. Deep and resonant. A very slight accent. Midwestern, I guessed.
"Mr. Hector Johnson, please," I said.
"Speaking. Who is this calling?"
"Mr. Johnson, my name is Archibald McNally, and I am associated with McNally and Son, a law firm located on Royal Palm Way. I had the pleasure of meeting your lovely daughter during a recent art exhibit at the Pristine Gallery."
"Ah, yes," he said. "I'm afraid Theo is busy at the moment."
"No, no," I said. "It is you I'd like to talk to. Mr. Johnson, I am assigned to the real estate section of McNally and Son, and we have a number of very attractive properties for sale or lease in the Palm Beach area. Rather than deluge you with brochures and listings, I am taking the liberty of calling to ask if you have any interest in a Palm Beach estate, either as a residence or an investment."
"Not right now, thank you," he said. "But quite possibly at some time in the near future."
"In that case," I said, continuing to act the role of a pushy real estate hustler, "could I meet with you personally and perhaps get some idea of what you might be looking for? We have properties that range in asking price from a half-million to twelve, with financing readily available, I assure you. They are located on the beachfront, inland, and with Waterway frontages. Rather than try to sell you a particular offering, I'd much rather learn what you prefer, either now or, as you say, in the near future."
"That makes sense," he said. "You say your name is Archibald McNally?"
"That's correct, sir. Everyone calls me Archy."
He laughed. "Don't complain. Everyone calls me Heck. Who put you on to me, Archy?"
"Lady Cynthia Horowitz suggested I call," I said boldly. "She was quite impressed by your contribution to her latest effort at civic beautification."
I was hoping he would be impressed, and he was. "I was happy to help," he said. "And if you're a friend of Lady Horowitz I'll be glad to meet with you. When would you care to make it?"
"At your convenience, sir."
There was a brief pause. Then: "Well, I have an appointment with a business associate at three this afternoon, but if you could come by at, say, two o'clock, we should be able to get to know each other in an hour's time. How does that sound?"
"Splendid," I said. "I'm looking forward to it, and I promise you, no high-powered sales pitch."
"I'll hold you to that," he said, laughing again. "See you at two, Archy."
"Thank you, Heck," I said.
He gave me his address, and we hung up. I sat a moment staring at the dead phone and thinking of what a personable guy he was, how he projected warmth, confidence, good humor. Some people sound like duds when their voices come over the wire. Hector Johnson sounded like a political candidate who is absolutely certain he's going to win.
My second phone call was to CW's office. His secretary informed me that Mr. Smythe-Hersforth had departed that morning for a bankers' convention in New Orleans and was not expected back until Thursday morning. I thanked her, grateful that I could postpone for three days another go-around with a man silly enough to certify a proposal of marriage in writing.
I had time to buzz home and change into a costume more befitting a sober, industrious, and sincere real estate agent. I bounced down to the kitchen for a spot of lunch and found Ursi Olson preparing a Florida bouillabaisse that was to be our dinner that evening. But she paused long enough to make me an open sandwich of Norwegian brisling sardines with slices of beefsteak tomato and shavings of red onion on her home-baked sour rye. Life can be beautiful.