Free McNally's Caper by Lawrence Sanders

what she meant.
    I was retreating down one of those gloomy corridors when suddenly Fern stepped from an alcove and clamped my arm. “What did she tell you, Mr. McNally?” she demanded, sharp face hard with anger.
    I was tempted to make a tart reply—“None of your business!”—but thought better of it. “Mrs. Sylvia?” I said softly. “Only that she was feeling better and hoped to be up and about in a day or so.”
    The maid released my arm and began to gnaw on a thumbnail. “She thinks I did it,” she said fiercely, “but I didn’t. I couldn’t do something like that. I hate and detest violence in any way, shape, or form.”
    Then I was thoroughly convinced I had blundered into a haunt of boobies.
    “I don’t believe Mrs. Sylvia believes you did it,” I said. “She remembers almost nothing about the attack and can’t identify the perpetrator.”
    “Well, I didn’t do it,” she repeated, still chewing at her thumb. “And anyone who says I did is a double-damned liar.”
    “Fern,” I said, hoping to calm her, “I must confess I don’t know your last name. You know mine but I don’t know yours. That’s not fair.”
    “Fern Bancroft,” she said glumly, and I thought how odd it was that both maids had the surnames of movie stars. But then my own name is similar to that of a famous mapmaker and during my undergraduate days I was known as Randy McNally.
    “Well, you mustn’t worry about this unfortunate incident,” I told her. “To my knowledge no one has accused you of anything. Try to put it from your mind.”
    “You know I’m innocent, don’t you?”
    What a question! She was referring to the attempted strangling of Mrs. Sylvia, of course, but it was difficult to attest to the complete innocence of a young woman who had posed for nude Polaroids.
    “I believe you,” I said simply, thinking that might suffice.
    “I just don’t know what’s happening around here,” she wailed. “Everything is so mixed up.”
    “It will all settle down,” I said soothingly.
    “I don’t think so,” she said and leaned closer, still munching on her thumbnail. “There are things going on,” she added in direful tones.
    I began to get a new take on Fern Bancroft. When we had first been introduced I had thought her something of a linthead, only because of her chronic giggle. But now I suspected that habit might have a neurasthenic origin. She was not giggling because she found life amusing but because she found it close to unendurable, and a constant laugh was her guard against hysteria.
    Thank you, Dr. McNally.
    “Fern,” I said, “what exactly is going on that upsets you so?”
    “Things,” she said and darted away. I was left in a state of utter confusion and a lesser lad might have been staggered by it. But I have learned to live with muddle—e.g.: my relations with the feminine gender—and so I was more fascinated than daunted by the hugger-mugger in the Forsythe household. It merely confirmed my belief, previously propounded, that the world is a nuthouse run by the inmates.
    I hoped to make a quiet and unobserved departure but I was doomed to another slice of fruitcake that Sunday morning. Sheila Hayworth, maid No. 2, was in the entrance hall busily wielding a feather duster with no apparent purpose or effect.
    “Hi, Mr. McNally,” she said cheerily. “Aren’t you glad the rain stopped?”
    “Delighted,” I said. “People always say the farmers need it, but truthfully I don’t much care what the farmers need—do you?”
    “Not me,” she said forthrightly. “I grew up on a farm and never want to see another one as long as I live.”
    “A farmer’s daughter,” I marveled. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
    “Now don’t tell me you’re a traveling salesman,” she said coquettishly. “I’ve heard all those old jokes.”
    What a flirt she was!
    “I may travel occasionally,” I said, “but I have nothing to sell.”
    She gave me a bold glance. “I wouldn’t say that.