McNally's Caper by Lawrence Sanders

has to do with the Forsythes, doesn’t it?”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because you asked me about them and then there was that item in Lolly Spindrift’s column.”
    “Clever lady,” I said.
    “So your job does involve the Forsythes?”
    “Wild horses—and I met a few this morning—couldn’t drag that information from me.”
    “Too bad,” Connie said, “because just yesterday I heard some hot gossip about the Forsythes.”
    I’m not sure how one’s ears perk up but I think mine did. “That’s interesting,” I said. “What did you hear?”
    But then Priscilla served our wine and salads, and there was a cessation of talk as we began stuffing. An observer might think we had both been on oat bran diets for several weeks.
    “So,” I said after my hunger pangs had diminished slightly, “what gossip did you hear yesterday?”
    She stopped excavating her salad bowl and looked up. “What will you give me?” she demanded.
    “Connie,” I said, “what you have just asked leaves me totally aghast. I mean I am saddened that after our many years together—intimate years I might add—you should require payment before divulging rumors that might possibly be of assistance and further my career. This is extortion, nothing less than rank extortion, and I refuse to be a party to it.”
    “How about a dinner at Cafe L’Europe?”
    “You’ve got it,” I said eagerly. “What did you hear?”
    “Well, I heard it through a friend of a friend of a friend. The original friend was having lunch in the back room of Ta-boo and at a nearby table were the Forsythes, father and son. They weren’t exactly shouting at each other, you understand, but there was a king-sized argument going on: red faces, raised voices, some pounding on the table. Very nasty it was, the informant reports.”
    “And did the informant overhear the subject of the fracas?”
    “Afraid not. But apparently it was a first-class squabble. Archy, is that a clue?”
    I almost choked on a chunk of crabmeat. “A clue to what ?”
    Connie shrugged. “Whatever it is you’re doing.”
    “Darling, I appreciate your help. Really I do. But I’m not certain of the importance of the Forsythes’ brannigan. Perhaps they were arguing about the best way to iron one’s shoelaces. They’re quite capable of that. But thank you for the report.”
    “And our dinner is still on?”
    “Of course. Give you a call tomorrow.”
    “No,” she said firmly. “I’ll call you tonight.”
    We had lemon sorbet and cappuccino for dessert. Then I signed the tab and we went out to our cars.
    “Thanks for the grub, luv,” Connie said. “Do I get a goodbye kiss?”
    “With mucho pleasure,” I said, and so we kissed in the sunbaked parking lot: a delightful kiss tasting faintly of garlic. Connie looked smashing that day—but then she always looks first-class. She is shortish and plumpish but has a glowing suntan that doesn’t end, a mane of long, glossy black hair, and burning eyes. All admirable physical attributes, to be sure, but her greatest attractions are her wit and supercharged esprit. What bounce she has! Kissing her is akin to sticking your tongue in a light bulb socket. Then she turns on the switch.
    After that fervent parting I drove to the Forsythe estate wondering what might have been the cause of the altercation that made both men, père et fils , become red-faced and pound the table. I could not believe it was anything serious simply because I did not take either of them seriously. I thought they were both bloodless prigs. What a mistake that turned out to be!
    Anthony Bledsoe opened the front door for me. I had the weirdest feeling that he had been awaiting my return.
    “Have a good time?” he asked.
    “Very enjoyable,” I replied. “Although I’m not all that keen about horses. Do you ride?”
    “Occasionally,” he said. “I like it. Sometimes, on my day off, I go out to Mrs. Forsythe’s farm and she lets me exercise one of the