He stared at me, rolled his eyes upward, concentrated a moment. Then he recited, "Gin, dry vermouth, apricot brandy, Triple Sec."
"You're incredible," I told him.
"Served with a cherry," he added. "You really want one, Mr. McNally?"
"No," I said. "A double vodka-rocks will do me fine, Mr. Pettibone. The good stuff."
"Sterling or Stoli?"
"Sterling, please."
He poured and placed the tumbler before me.
"First of the night?" he asked pleasantly.
"First and last," I said. "I shall not be a problem."
"You never are," he assured me. "Until you start reciting Shakespeare."
"Dear old Willy," I said. "What would I do without him? Tell me something, Mr. Pettibone: Do you believe that money makes the world go 'round?"
"Not entirely," he replied. "I do not believe it is money itself. After all, that is just metal and paper. No, it is the power money confers that makes the world go 'round."
"Power," I repeated reflectively. "Ah. As in comfort, people to serve you, no problems, the lush life?"
"You've got it, Mr. McNally."
"No," I said, "but I wish I did. However, I wouldn't kill for it. Would you?"
"Kill? Another person?"
"Yes."
"No," he said, "I would not do that. I enjoy my sleep too much."
"Well put," I said. "But I suspect there are those who would kill for money and sleep as soundly as you."
"Oh yes," he agreed, "there are those. But they will get their deserts on judgment day."
"And when will that be, Mr. Pettibone? Next Tuesday?"
He didn't laugh or even smile, so I ordered another belt. I finished that and departed. The Pelican was beginning to fill up with a riotous Saturday night throng and I was in no mood for revelry.
I returned home, undressed, and donned a silk nightshirt. But before I took to the sheets I consumed a dollop of marc and smoked one cigarette. To insure a deep, untroubled slumber, you understand. I finally went to bed absolutely convinced I would awake the next day with a clear head, a settled turn, a sweet breath-and possibly five pounds lighter.
16
Of course my hopes were more than dashed on Sunday morning; they were obliterated. But I shall not weary you with a detailed account of my agonies. The only thing more boring than another person's dream is another person's hangover. Suffice to say that it was almost noon before the McNally carcass calmed to the extent that I ceased thinking of suicide as the only cure for my woes.
But my physical fragility was not the only reason I stayed at home that day; I was awaiting a phone call from Hector Johnson. I was certain his daughter had told him of our conversation during that luncheon at the Ocean Grand, and I was just as certain dear old Heck would gobble the bait.
A word of explanation is in order here. The reason for my scheming was that I had no proof. I had suspicions aplenty, but they might well have been skywriting, so ephemeral were they without a test of their validity and permanence. And the only way I could do that was by scamming the scammers. It may sound unnecessarily devious, but bear with me.
I was in my rooms and it was almost one-thirty before my phone rang. I grabbed it up.
"Archy?" he said. "This is Hector Johnson."
A surge of satisfaction dissolved the last remnants of my Katzenjammer. "Heck!" I said cheerily. "Good to hear from you."
"Likewise," he said. "Listen, Arch, I think you and I should get together for a little man-to-man."
"Oh? Concerning what?"
"I can't discuss it on the phone," he said brusquely. "It's about what you mentioned to Theo yesterday."
"Ah," I said, "that. Yes, I agree you and I should have a chat. Where and when?"
"I'm leaving in a few minutes for Fort Lauderdale. I've got some business down there and I'll be gone all day. But I should be home tonight. Is, say, ten o'clock too late for you?"
"Not at all."
"Suppose I come over to your place. I know the address. We can sit in my car and talk."
"Surely you'll come in and have a drink."
"No, thanks," he said shortly. "My car would be best. Private, know what I mean?"
"Whatever you prefer," I told him. "I'll be waiting for you."
"Just you and me," he said. "Right?"
"Of course."
"Good," he said. "See you at ten."
He hung up and I did everything but dance a soft-shoe, thinking my plot was developing nicely.
Is it elitist to recognize there are cheap people? There are, you know. I don't mean "cheap" in the sense of stingy, but cheap as meaning shoddy, of inferior quality. I thought Hector Johnson was a cheap person, and so was his old buddy, Reuben Hagler.
But sleazy people can sometimes be remarkably clever and remarkably dangerous. I do not take their tawdriness lightly. And so I spent some time devising and rehearsing my dialogue with Hector that evening. I knew the role I had to play. I believed I knew his and could only hope I was correct.
I recognized there was a certain degree of risk involved. Good ol' Heck did not impress me as a man who would accept defeat resignedly. But if he became physical, I was breezily confident I could cope. A perfect example of my damnable self-deception.
But before we met there was something I needed to do. Not because it might aid my investigation but because it was simply something I felt necessary. I dressed conservatively and went downstairs to my mother's greenhouse. She and father were still at church, I could not ask her permission, so I stole one of her potted begonias. It was the Fiesta type with red flowers. I was certain mother would forgive the theft when she learned the purpose.
I drove south to the Hawkin home, slowed to make certain Hector Johnson's Lincoln was not present, then turned into the driveway and parked. I carried the begonia up to the front door and knocked briskly. Nothing. I tried again and there was no response. My third attempt brought results; the door was opened slowly and Mrs. Louise Hawkin stared at me dully.
Oh lordy, but she was a mess. I did not believe she was drunk but she seemed in a stupor, and I wondered if she was drugged. I wasn't sure she recognized me.
"Archy McNally, ma'am," I said. "I want to offer the condolences of my parents and myself on your stepdaughter's tragic death."
But she wasn't listening. She was staring at the plant I was carrying and I thought she brightened.
"Glads," she said.
"No, Mrs. Hawkin. It's a Fiesta begonia."
"The red flowers," she said. "My mother always had fresh glads in the house. She went to the market every three days. All colors but mostly she liked red. So cheerful. I should have bought fresh glads every three days."
"May I come in?" I asked.
She allowed me to enter and watched while I carefully placed the plant on a glass-topped end table. Then she came forward to touch the rosettes tenderly. It was a caress.
"So lovely," she murmured. "So lovely."
I feared she had been sleeping and I had awakened her. She was wearing a wrinkled robe of stained foulard silk. Her hair was unbrushed and looked as if it needed a good wash. Her makeup was smeary, the polish on her fingernails chipped and peeling.
"Mrs. Hawkin," I said, "is there anything I can do for you?"
"Do?" she asked, seemingly bewildered.
I looked around the littered room. Overflowing ashtrays. A spilled drink. A tilted lamp shade. Newspapers scattered on the floor. An odor of grease and mildew. Total disarray.
"Perhaps a cleaning woman," I suggested. "I can find someone for you."
Unexpectedly she flared. "Everyone is always picking on me," she howled.
"Picking?" I said, and then realized she meant hassling. "I didn't wish to upset you, ma'am, and I apologize. Would you like me to leave?"