Free McNally's Secret by Lawrence Sanders

and m’s in “accomodate.”
    The reason I visited headquarters that morning was to prepare my monthly expense account, which might be a contender for the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. I dug out all my bar and restaurant tabs, the bill for Jennifer’s tennis racquet, the signed receipt from Bela Rubik (the stamp and coin man), bills for dues paid to various clubs, and bits of this and that. I added them all up, and the total seemed to me woefully inadequate.
    So I tacked on a few imaginary cash expenditures: cab rides I had never taken, bribes to informants I had never made, gas purchases for the Miata. I did not go hog-wild, of course; I am not a swindler. But as I added more fanciful items, my swindle sheet grew satisfyingly.
    I was still hard at it when my phone rang. I was shocked. I mean, my phone almost never rings. And then it’s usually a wrong number.
    “Archibald McNally,” I answered.
    “The Machiavelli of Palm Beach?” Sgt. Al Rogoff said. “I just wanted to check that you’re in. What a pleasant surprise! I’ll be right over.”
    “What for?” I asked.
    “Hah!” was all he said before hanging up.
    A half-hour later he was squirming uncomfortably on the one folding steel chair allotted to me for visitors, regarding me more in anger than in sorrow.
    “Rat fink,” he said accusingly. “Oh, excuse me. I should have addressed someone who’s a pal of Lady Horowitz as Mister Rat Fink.”
    I held up my palms in surrender. “Al, I swear I didn’t know until this morning that she was going to file a complaint. I really thought it was going to be my headache. I had no idea it would end up on your plate.”
    “Yeah?” he said, staring at me. “Maybe. And maybe not. You been looking into it?”
    “Only for two days.”
    “What have you got?” he demanded, taking out his notebook.
    I gave him the names of the staff and guests residing at the Horowitz home. I recited the gist of the conversations I had with Kenneth Bodin, Angus Wolfson, Gina Stanescu, Jean Cuvier, and Clara Bodkin. I described Lady Cynthia’s bedroom, and told him about the unrifled jewelry box close to the wall safe.
    He scribbled rapid notes in his little book, and when I finished, he looked up at me suspiciously. “And that’s all you’ve got?”
    “That’s all.”
    “Come on, Archy, don’t try to kid a kidder. You’re holding out on me.”
    I had already polished the bone I intended to toss him.
    “Well, there is something,” I said hesitantly, “but I don’t think it’s important.”
    “Let me play the judge. What is it?”
    I told him that a few weeks before the stamps disappeared, a butler and a maid had left Lady Horowitz’s employ, claiming they couldn’t stand the heat of a Florida summer.
    “But the Inverted Jennies were seen after they left,” I pointed out, “so they couldn’t be involved in the snatch. Unless they sneaked back in.”
    “Uh-huh,” Al said. “Or told some light-fingered buddy about the stamps. Okay, I’ll look into it.” He closed his fat notebook and put a rubber band around it. “You figure to keep sherlocking on this thing?”
    I nodded. “I planned to go out there this afternoon and check out some of the people I haven’t talked to yet.”
    He considered that awhile, and I awaited his decision. If he ordered me off the case, I’d have to take a walk. He had the badge, not me.
    “All right,” he said finally, “you keep nosing around and we’ll compare notes. Nothing held back. Is that understood?”
    “Of course,” I said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
    He sighed and hauled himself to his feet. “I hate Beach cases,” he said. “Those richniks treat me like the hired help.”
    “Don’t give it a second thought,” I advised him. “They’re just as innocent and just as guilty as anyone else. And don’t forget the gifts at Christmastime.”
    “Yeah,” he said sourly. “A box of stale Girl Scout cookies.” He started for the door, then paused and