Free McNally's Caper by Lawrence Sanders Page A

Tuesday is my day off.”
    Her impudence was impressive. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her.
    “You do that,” she said. “You can always leave a message for me with Rufino.”
    “The gardener?”
    “Uh-huh,” she said, staring at me. “He has a cute little apartment in West Palm.”
    Her brazenness was amazing and, I must admit, engendered a slight weakening of the joints between femur and tibia. I mean I’m as eager for a romantic lark as the next johnny but I like to play a role in its creation. But in this drama (comedy? farce?) Ms. Hayworth seemed to be playwright, director, set designer, and female star. It was a trifle humbling to be reduced to a walk-on.
    Naturally I didn’t wish to offend the lady by a brusque rejection, but neither did I wish to flop upon the floor and wait to have my tummy scratched.
    “It’s something to think about,” I said, a spineless remark if ever I heard one.
    She gave me a mocking glance. “Do you require references?” she inquired archly.
    I realized I had met my match with this one and a hasty escape would be prudent. But then she added, “I could provide them, you know. From men whose opinion I’m sure you trust.”
    I was aware that my smile was glassy as I fled without saying another word. Rufino Diaz was still raking the lawn and gave me a half-wave of farewell as I drove away. I headed homeward, thoughts jangled, trying to guess the identities of those men whose opinions I would trust.
    I had to conclude she was referring obliquely to the Griswold Forsythes, II and III. And perhaps Anthony Bledsoe, the butler. And perhaps Zeke Grenough, the chef. And perhaps Count Dracula and Friar Tuck.
    I realized I was now making no sense whatsoever. I blamed the fogging of my keen, cool, and lucid mind on a morning spent at the Forsythe asylum. I seemed to have been contaminated by whatever was afflicting the residents. I decided a good dose of normalcy was needed as an antidote. And so the moment I arrived home I built myself a vodka gimlet.
    Purely for medicinal purposes, you understand.

8
    T HE REMAINDER OF THAT Sunday was blessedly uneventful. I stayed inside all afternoon and the quiet ordinariness of the McNally household was a comfort. We had a fine rack of lamb for dinner, I took a nap, worked on my journal, ate cold corned beef and cheese sausage as a late supper, and forgot to phone Connie Garcia. Everything seemed refreshingly sane and orderly.
    Of course Ms. Garcia called me later that night to read me the riot act for neglecting her. It required twenty minutes to beg forgiveness and squirm my way back into her graces. But even my performance was a relief because I had done it so many times before and routine was welcome after that confused morning at the Forsythes’.
    Monday brought genuine sunshine and a concurrent return of the McNally brio. My father supplied me with a list of the items of value reported as missing by Griswold Forsythe II, and to that I added the articles of jewelry Geraldine Forsythe told me she had lost. It made an impressive inventory. Obviously someone was looting the family manse—but for what purpose? Was the thief fencing the swag or merely assembling his or her own collection of objets d’art?
    By the time I arrived at my miniature office in the McNally Building I had decided I needed to know more about the finances of that seemingly dysfunctional Forsythe clan. I phoned Mrs. Trelawney, my father’s private secretary, and asked if His Majesty might spare me a few moments.
    “Fat chance,” she scoffed.
    “Try,” I urged. “The fate of the civilized world hangs in the balance.”
    “That’s a good one,” she said. “You’ve never used that before. Okay, I’ll give it a go.”
    She came back on the line a moment later and announced I would be granted an audience of ten minutes if I arrived instanter. I went charging up the back stairs to the boss’s sanctum, not wanting to wait for our lazy automatic elevator. I found