Free McNally's Secret by Lawrence Sanders Page A

looked about my infinitesimal office. “You really rate,” he said.
    “The boss’s son,” I reminded him.
    He was laughing when he left.
    What I hadn’t told him, of course—and didn’t intend to—was the rumor that a few years ago Lady Horowitz had been enjoying fun and games with her chauffeur. It seemed to me the doyenne was the type of woman who’d terminate that relationship; it wouldn’t be Kenneth Bodin who split; he’d never want the gravy train to stop.
    And, assuming he was unceremoniously dumped, it was possible he had entertained dim-witted thoughts of revenge against the wealthy woman who had suddenly taken him up and then just as suddenly dropped him, either from boredom or because she found another lover with Bodin’s physical excitement plus the brains he lacked. So the muscleman, enraged by this slight to his machismo, decided to swipe the Inverted Jennies to teach the rich bitch a lesson.
    Thin stuff, you say? Of course it was. I knew it was. But it was all I had so far, and I wanted to check it out before handing over the results to Sgt. Al Rogoff.
    I finished composing my expense account, dropped it off at our treasurer’s office, and then stopped by the employees’ cafeteria. The luncheon specialty of the day was something called a “mushburger,” apparently made of minced mushrooms, carrots, black olives, and rhubarb. What, no turnips? Anyway I passed. But I did drink a glass of unsalted tomato juice and ate two rice cakes. Feeling healthy as all get-out, I leaped into the Miata and headed for the Horowitz domain.
    I rang the front-door chimes and, as I had hoped, the oak portal was opened by the housekeeper, Mrs. Marsden. We exchanged pleasantries, and I asked if we could talk privately for a moment.
    “I was wondering when you’d get around to me,” she said—a steely smile there—and led the way into the first-floor sitting room, which could have held the Boston Pops. We sat in chintz-covered armchairs in a secluded corner and leaned toward each other, speaking in hushed voices as if we were trading state secrets.
    She was a majestic woman with the posture and manner of a sergeant major. She was a widow, and I happened to know she had put two kids through college by enduring all the craziness of the Horowitz ménage. She had been with Lady C. a long time, and I doubted if any outrage her mistress might commit would surprise her. She knew she was working for a loony and accepted it.
    I took her through the usual questions, and she gave a firm negative to all. Then I sat back and regarded her gravely.
    “Mrs. Marsden, you know I’m not a lawyer, but I do represent my father, Lady Cynthia’s attorney. So in a sense I am bound by the same rules of lawyer-client confidentiality. What I’m trying to say is that it’s the job of McNally and Son to protect the interests of Lady Horowitz. With that in mind, is there anything at all you can tell me about the disappearance of the stamps? I assure you it’ll be held in strictest confidence.”
    She was silent for a long while, which was a tipoff in itself. If there was nothing, she would have said so immediately.
    Finally she stirred restlessly. “It’s nothing I can spell out,” she said. “Nothing definite—you understand?”
    I nodded.
    “A feeling,” she said. “That’s all it is, a feeling. I see people talking, and they shut up when I come close. And people meeting people they shouldn’t be meeting.”
    “Which people?” I asked.
    But she ignored my question. “Just the mood,” she said, almost ruminating. “Like something’s happening, something’s going down, but I don’t know what it is. That’s not much help, is it?”
    “More than you think,” I told her. “I trust your instincts. If things become a little clearer, will you contact me?”
    “Yes, I could do that.”
    “I know you have our phone numbers, at home and the office. I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me a call. This business is