I identified myself and we exchanged brief holiday greetings. I asked to speak to the panjandrum and was put through immediately. Again salutations were traded and then Clemens explained the reason for his call.
He said, “I wanted very much to speak to you about what we discussed during your recent visit,” and I thought I detected something oleaginous in his voice. “I felt it would be best to report my decision to you as soon as possible.”
He paused, apparently awaiting a response. The best I could come up with was a tepid, “Of course, Fred.”
“However,” he continued, “it is not a subject I care to talk about on the phone. It really is a private matter, and I hoped to see you today and tell you what I have decided and explain the reasons for it. But unfortunately a critical business meeting in Boca Raton requires my personal attention and presence and so I will be unable to meet with you. I apologize. I am hoping you will be willing to have a one-on-one with Felix, my capable assistant and confidant. He has been thoroughly briefed on the situation and will be able to relay everything I planned to say as well as answering any questions you might have. What do you say, Archy? Will you allow Felix to sub for me?”
I had several instant reactions to his request.
Primero,
the two men were obviously closer partners than I had suspected.
Segundo,
his tale of “a critical business meeting in Boca Raton” was complete horsefeathers.
Tercero,
he probably had another activity scheduled, possibly an assignation with Helen Westmore. And
cuarto,
the substitution of Felix would slightly alter but not cancel the scheme I had devised after my inspiration at the Ritz during my dinner with Connie.
“I have no objection to meeting with Felix,” I told Clemens, “providing you can vouch for his discretion.”
“One hundred percent!” he said heartily. “I guarantee it! And I want to apologize again for my unavoidable absence and thank you for your understanding cooperation. Now I’ll put Felix back on the line and the two of you can arrange where and when you’ll meet.”
I had a brief and satisfactory conversation with Felix. I explained I had a luncheon appointment at the Pelican Club but if he could join me there at—oh, say two-thirty, the place would be relatively quiet, we could sit at the bar and have a drink or two while we talked. He immediately agreed and I gave him the address and told him how to find the Pelican.
“It’s not a fancy joint,” I warned.
“I’m sure I’ve been in worse,” he said politely. He had a sibilance in his speech that reminded me of Humphrey Bogart.
I tore (literally) through a stack of junk mail accumulated during the past week, deep-sixed everything, and hustled down to the garage. I arrived at the Pelican Club about one-thirty and was happy to see midday diners were already departing. I had two chili dogs and a brew at the bar, ate slowly, and by the time I finished my calorific lunch there was only one couple left in the dining area and I was alone at the bar: Perfect.
I made certain Priscilla removed all evidence I had lunched alone. Then I motioned Simon Pettibone closer and slid a fifty-dollar bill across the mahogany.
“Paying your tab, Mr. McNally?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Pettibone. It’s for you.”
He stared at the bill. “I wonder what General Grant would look like without a beard,” he said. “Probably like Mrs. Grant. Well, I thank you very much for your generosity but who do I have to kill?”
“No mayhem,” I said. “Just a little job for me.”
“Legal?”
“Eminently. Let me explain.”
“I think you better,” he said.
I told him exactly what I wanted him to do. It wasn’t difficult but it had to be done easily, nonchalantly, as if it were routine.
“He’s a bad man,” he said—more of a statement than a question.
“I think he’s bad, Mr. Pettibone. This is one way to find out.”
He stared at me a moment. “All right,” he said finally.
I ordered a vodka and tonic in a tall glass. I had taken only a few small sips when Felix Katz came through the door, paused, looked around. He saw me and sauntered toward the bar. I admired the slinky way he moved, with an almost feline grace. He was wearing black suit, white shirt, black tie, and I wondered what he had against colors.
I slid off my barstool and stood just long enough to shake hands. His four-fingered grip felt odd. Then we sat side by side, and Mr. Pettibone came over to us.
“What will you have, Felix?” I asked him.
“Chivas Regal, please,” he said. Then to Pettibone: “Do you have any Pellegrino?”
“No, sir,” the bartender said. “But we have Perrier.”
“That’ll do fine. In a tall glass, thank you.”
Quite mannerly, our boy, but his politesse was as cold and lifeless as his voice. His courtesies sounded like phrases from a foreign language.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he said, “but I’d like to get back to the office as soon as I can. As Fred told you, he’ll be away and I’ll have to hold the fort.”
“I understand,” I said, and waited while Mr. Pettibone carefully placed the highball on the bar. Katz picked up the glass in his right hand with no fumbling and tasted it.
“Satisfactory?” I asked him.
“Just right, thank you.”
“What have you decided about my proposition, Felix?”
I put it that way deliberately, wanting to see if he’d correct me by saying,
“Fred
decided...” But he accepted my wording.
“We decided to pass,” he said after taking a gulp of his drink. “I don’t need to tell you it was a very tempting offer. But after considering all the angles I’m afraid it’s a no-go.”
“I’m disappointed,” I said, although I had expected their verdict.
He swung around to face me directly. It was the first time I realized, almost with a shock, what a cadaverous face he had. “You’re disappointed?” he repeated. “Not as much as we are. Mrs. Westmore is not the easiest client to handle, and those children of hers are off the wall. But we’ve made a commitment to her. If we dump her now, our reputation tanks. Not only would she pull her account but all her friends who are clients would yank theirs as well. We can’t risk that. We’ve worked too hard to build our rep as an outfit to be trusted.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, bored because he was just parroting the mendacious excuses Clemens had already used. I drained my drink. “Let’s have another,” I suggested.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Just one more,” I urged.
“All right,” he said. “One more. Then I’ve got to split.” He finished his highball.
Mr. Pettibone took our empty glasses and placed them in the stainless-steel sink under the bar. He brought us refills in fresh glasses, and Felix and I began sipping again.
“Look,” I said, “I can understand how you and Fred feel. It makes sense. But what if Mrs. Westmore pulls out of the deal voluntarily, on her own. If that happens do I get first chance at buying the Fabergé egg?”
He looked at me directly again, not blinking.
“Absolutely,” he said. “You have my personal guarantee.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Makes me feel a little better. I’d really like to get in on it.”
“Don’t blame you; it’s a sweetheart deal. If Fred and I had the liquidity we’d swing it ourselves. But right now we’re tied up in other things.”
“How long have you and Fred worked together?” I asked, hoping it sounded like a casual inquiry.
“Years,” he said. “We met in Denver a long time ago. It was at a convention of security dealers and we hit it off right away. We decided to have our own company someday, catering to a limited number of clients looking for unusual and profitable investment opportunities. It took us a while to get rolling. Long hours and lots of black coffee and Tylenol.”
“But you’re successful now?”
“We’re doing okay but not as well as we could. We’ve been discussing opening branches in other cities.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Keep growing and one of these days you might be going public.”
“Could be,” he said. He finished his drink in three deep swallows and stood up. “I have to get back to the office. Glad I had a chance to talk to you and I thank you very much for the drinks.”
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I offered.
I thought he might object but he didn’t. We went out to the parking area, where the maroon Bentley was pulled in alongside my convertible. I wondered how Fred Clemens would get to his critical business meeting in Boca—walk?
“Great car,” I said to Felix.
“Thank you,” he said. “I would have preferred something with a little more zing but Fred feels this projects a better image.”
“He’s more conservative than you?” I suggested.
“You might say that,” he agreed, totally deadpan.
We shook hands; he slid into the Bentley, and pulled away. I stood there until I was certain he was well gone. Then I went back inside. Mr. Pettibone had Felix’s two empty highball glasses ready for me, loosely swathed in paper napkins.
“Beautiful,” I said. “Thank you for a professional job.”
“You may find my prints down near the base,” he said. “But the others are his. I lifted the empty glasses by spreading my fingers inside.”
“I think it’s going to work, Mr. Pettibone.”
“Let me know what happens,” he said, then added, “I don’t much like his looks. He’s got the kind of face you see on a post office wall.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “And you’re right.”
“Has he ever done time?”
“I have no idea. Why do you ask?”
“He talks without moving his lips. Didn’t you notice?”
“No,” I confessed, “I didn’t.”
I went to the public phone at the rear of the bar area and called Sgt. Al Rogoff at headquarters.
“I have the fingerprints of Felix Katz,” I reported.
“Yeah?” he said. “How did you finagle that?”
I told him and he laughed.
“What a sly lad you are,” he said. “Well, it just might work. Bring in the glasses and we shall see what we shall see.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “And have you heard the one about what you don’t know won’t hurt you?”
“Go to hell,” he said cheerfully, and hung up.
I handled the glasses with TLC and delivered them to Rogoff about half an hour later. While I was in his office I dictated a statement detailing my discovery of the body of Sydney Smythe. It was recorded and the sergeant told me to stop by in a day or two and sign the transcript.
“Let me know what happens with the fingerprints, Al.”
“Sure,” he said. “If we can lift anything usable I’ll start a trace right away. But don’t expect overnight results; it’s going to take time. Meanwhile see if you can pull the same trick with Clemens. By the way, to save me time give me their address and telephone number.”
He wrote the information in his pocket notebook, so stuffed with scraps of paper it had to be closed with a thick rubber band.
“How about a telephone tap?” I suggested. “On Clemens Investments.”
He shook his head. “No can do. Not yet. We just don’t have enough to take to a judge. Listen, old buddy, don’t forget what I told you about watching your back.”
I nodded and left headquarters. Rogoff’s final admonition spurred some unpleasant thoughts.
I had assumed—quite logically I believed—Clemens and Katz had rejected my proposal to take over the Fabergé egg deal because my stipulations would destroy their con. They didn’t want a prospective victim flying to Paris to examine the merchandise and having it appraised by an independent expert. And they certainly didn’t want the pigeon paying the seller directly. By setting those conditions I had included myself out. They wanted a more credulous mark.
It was an understandable reason for refusing to accept my proposition. Another reason—just as valid I had to admit—was they were aware of or suspected my investigation into their activities—and particularly the Fabergé egg investment. In which case they sought to limit my knowledge of their proposed swindle and so put the kibosh on my cute attempt to bribe my way into participation.
And if they were cognizant of my inquiry perhaps their realization of the danger I represented drove them to employ Droopy to end my snooping. If that was true it was reasonable to assume their desire to get rid of me didn’t end with Droopy’s failure. They would try again.
Sgt. Rogoff was correct; I must watch my back.
It didn’t mean I had to hide in a closet, of course. Late in the afternoon I did something I had skipped for days and days: I went swimming in the ocean. During the warm-weather months I try to swim two miles three or four times a week. But Christmas was just around the corner and a winter dunk in a chill and choppy sea isn’t quite as tempting.
But I tried it that afternoon and the water was cold, no doubt of it, but endurable. I did perhaps one mile, wallowing parallel to the shore, and when I emerged my choppers weren’t clacking but I wasted no time getting back to the house and under a hot shower.
During the family cocktail hour something occurred which was to have a significant effect on my Discreet Inquiry. We were enjoying our martinis when mother asked an innocent question.
“Archy,” she said, “have you learned anything more about the Fabergé egg Edythe Westmore wants to buy?”
“Very little,” I said. “My investigation is progressing—but slowly.”
“I’m curious about what the egg is actually worth. Edythe said it was going to be appraised by an expert.”
“So I understand,” I said, and then realized this was a detail I had neglected. “Mother, how would you like to play detective?”
“Oh, I’d love to. Do I get to carry a big magnifying glass and wear one of those funny caps with earflaps?”
“A deerstalker,” I said. “No, you don’t have to dress up. Just phone Edythe Westmore and ask her the name of the expert who’s going to appraise her Fabergé egg.”
“Won’t she think it a rather strange request?”
“Possibly, but you might explain you have some heirloom jewelry you’d like appraised and need the name of a good man. I’d phone Edythe myself but I’m afraid she might mention my call to her investment adviser and I’d prefer to avoid that.”
“All right, Archy, I’ll phone her tomorrow.”