"Mrs. Folsby, if you know anything relating to Marcia's death, don't you think you should speak to the police? Sergeant Al Rogoff is handling the case. You've met him."
"No," she said determinedly. "This is something I don't want to tell the police. Because then they'll want a sworn statement and I'll get all involved and might even be forced to testify in court. And I really don't have any proof. But I know what I know, and I've got to tell someone. Please, Mr. McNally. I'll feel a lot better if I tell you, and then you can do whatever you think best. At least my conscience will be clear."
"This sounds serious," I said.
"It is serious. Will you meet with me?"
"Of course. Would you care to have lunch someplace or come to my office?"
"Oh no," she said immediately, "that won't do at all. Could you possibly come over here to my sister's home in West Palm Beach?"
"Be glad to," I told her, and she gave me the address. We agreed to meet at eleven o'clock on Friday morning.
"Thank you so much," she said, and the chirp came back into her voice. "You don't know what a relief it will be to tell someone. I haven't been able to sleep a wink since Marcia died."
And she hung up. Al Rogoff accuses me of overusing the word "intriguing." But at that moment I couldn't think of a better one.
I had absolutely no idea of what Mrs. Jane Folsby wished to reveal to me, so I discarded that topic instanter. I would learn on the morrow.
As for CW's admission that his marriage depended upon his signing a five-million-dollar agreement with his bride-to-be, I could only conclude that Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth might not be as witless as I had assumed. And further, the senior McNally had been his usual omniscient self when he had described marriage as a contractual obligation.
What was perhaps most astonishing to me was my own ingenuousness. When I first met Theodosia Johnson I was convinced her nature had to be as pure as her beauty. Then, after I had been privileged to view that blue butterfly, I became aware of her fiercely independent willfulness. And now third thoughts had superseded the second; she was apparently a young lady with a shrewd instinct for the bottom line.
But then my musing veered from the relations of Madam X with the Chinless Wonder to her relations with yrs. truly. It occurred to me that Theo had been aware from the start that I had been assigned to investigate her bona fides. During that demented deli luncheon, her father had denied she knew of my role. But Hector, I now reckoned, was as consummate a liar as I.
And if Theo was cognizant of what I was about, perhaps the granting of her favors (with the promise of more to come) was her astute method of insuring my willing cooperation in her endeavor to snare the heir to the Smythe-Hersforth fortune. It's possible that was her motive, was it not? Naturally I preferred to believe she had succumbed to the McNally charm. But I could not delude myself by completely rejecting the notion that she had been the seductress and I the object of her Machiavellian plotting.
I simply did not know. And so I left immediately for the Pelican Club bar, seeking inspiration.
14
My parents were not present that evening, having been invited to dinner at the home of octogenarian friends celebrating the birth of their first great-grandchild. And so I dined in the kitchen with the Olsons, and a jolly time was had by all. Ursi served a mountainous platter of one of her specialties: miniature pizzas (two bites per) with a variety of toppings. Romaine salad with vinaigrette dressing. Raspberry sorbet on fresh peaches for dessert. (Please don't drool on this page.)
That delightful dinner numbed me, but I was able to work on my journal in lackadaisical fashion until it became time to depart for my meeting with Sgt. Rogoff. Obeying my mother's dictum-"Never visit without bringing a gift."-I stopped en route to pick up a cold six-pack of Corona. It is one of Al's favorites, but I must admit that when it comes to beers he has no animosities that I'm aware of.
Rogoff's "wagon" is a double mobile home set on a concrete foundation and furnished in a fashion that would make any bachelor sigh with content. Comfort is the theme, and everything is worn and shabby enough so you feel no restraint against kicking off your shoes.
The barefoot host was wearing jeans and a snug T-shirt, and when he uncapped the beer I had brought he put out a large can of honey-roasted peanuts. I said, "Al, I speak more as friend than critic, but your waistline is obviously expanding exponentially. To put it crudely, pal, you're cultivating a king-sized gut."
"So what?" he said. "I've noticed you're no longer the thin-as-a-rail bucko you once were."
"Touche," I said, "and I hope it will be the last of the evening. I've been meaning to ask, did you ever get to see that portrait of Theodosia Johnson by Silas Hawkin in the Pristine Gallery?"
We were sprawled in oak captain's chairs at the sergeant's round dining table. He had put on a cassette of the original cast recording of "Annie Get Your Gun," and what a delight it was to hear Ethel Merman belt out those wonderful tunes, even if the volume was turned down low.
"Oh yeah," Rogoff said, "I saw it. Great painting. And a great model. She's a knockout."
"My sentiments exactly," I said.
He looked at me quizzically. "Taken with the lady, are you?"
"Somewhat."
"You're asking for trouble."
"Odd you should say that, Al. Priscilla Pettibone at the Pelican Club told me the same thing."
"Smart girl," he said. "But I don't expect you to take her advice or mine. You're a hopeless victim of your glands. But enough of this brilliant chitchat. I've got the skinny on Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler. The agreement was that you tell me why you want it before I deliver. So let's hear."
"It's a long story."
He shrugged. "And it's a long night. We've got your six-pack and another of Molson in the fridge. Get started."
I told him everything relevant: my first glimpse of Hagler while I was with Shirley Feebling; learning that Hagler was one of Hector Johnson's bank references; his hole-in-the-wall office as an investment adviser; my luncheon with the two men; and my accidental meeting with Hagler when I had traveled to Fort Lauderdale to question Pinky Schatz.
"My, my," Rogoff said when I finished, "you have been a busy little snoop, haven't you. You figure these two guys are close?"
"Peas in a pod."
"And you think Hagler shot Shirley Feebling?"
"That's my guess."
"Motive?"
"Haven't the slightest," I admitted. "Pinky Schatz might know, but she's not talking. At least not to me."
"How did you get chummy with her in the first place?"
"Told her I was Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth."
The sergeant laughed. "What a scammer you are! If you ever turn your talents to crime, Florida will be in deeeep shit. Well, it's not my case but I'll give Lauderdale Homicide a call and tell them about this Reuben Hagler. I don't think I've ever seen the guy. What's he like?"
"Dracula."
"That sweet, huh? And what was the name of the woman you talked to?"
"Pinky Schatz. She's a nude dancer at the Leopard Club."
"Your new hangout?" he said. "Well, I guess it's better than collecting stamps."
"Oh, shut up," I said. "Now tell me what you learned from Michigan."
"Hector Johnson used to be a stock broker. Racked up for securities fraud. He was fined, made restitution, and was banned from the securities business for life. He never did hard time but apparently while he was in jail for a few weeks he met Reuben Hagler. This Hagler has a nasty file: attempted robbery, felonious assault, stuff like that. He's done prison time: three years for rape. He was also suspected of being an enforcer for local loan sharks."