co-worker with the unlikely name of Pinky Schatz became alarmed and stopped by her place after work. The door of Ms. Feebling's condo was unlocked, and inside Pinky discovered the sanguinary corpse. After a single scream, she dialed 911.
The homicide detective to whom Rogoff had spoken had revealed only that my business card and the letters of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth had been found during the initial search. If any additional significant evidence was discovered, he just wasn't saying.
"And that's all I've got," the sergeant concluded. He turned to me. "What have you got?"
I glanced at mon père. He was the attorney; it was his responsibility to decide how much to reveal and how much to keep undisclosed in the name of client confidentiality. Al and I waited patiently while Prescott McNally went through his mulling routine, a process that endured long enough to calculate the square root of 2. Finally the guru spake.
"Discretion?" he demanded, looking sternly at Rogoff.
"As usual," Al said.
Father then described the letters Smythe-Hersforth had written Shirley Feebling during a time the two apparently had been enjoying a steamy affair. Later the client had a change of heart, but the woman insisted he honor the proposal of marriage he had made in writing. If not, she vowed to sell his letters to any interested tabloid.
"Uh-huh," Rogoff said. "How much was she asking?"
"Archy?" papa said. "You take it from here."
"I went down to Lauderdale to see her," I told the sergeant. "I had just the single meeting and left my business card. She absolutely refused to discuss a cash settlement. She wanted to marry him and that was that."
"Where is the guy now—do you know?"
"His office says he left Monday morning for a bankers' convention in New Orleans and won't be back until Thursday."
Al had been making brief notes on all this in a fat little notebook he carried. Now he slapped the cover closed and bound it with a wide rubber band. He said casually, "Archy, you got any idea who might have clobbered the woman?"
I had learned to lie convincingly by age four. "Not a glimmer," I said.
"Sergeant," father said, "if inquiries by the Fort Lauderdale authorities prove—as I am certain they will—that Smythe-Hersforth was in New Orleans at the time of this unfortunate woman's death, I will deeply appreciate any assistance you may provide in retrieving our client's personal letters since they obviously will be of no further interest or import in the official investigation."
All that was said in one sentence. It's the way my old man talks.
"I'll see what I can do, sir," Rogoff said, rising, and the two men shook hands.
The sergeant was driving a police car that night, not his personal pickup truck, and I walked him outside. He paused to light a cigar and blow a plume of smoke toward the cloudless sky.
"Nice weather," he observed.
"You don't find it a trifle warm?"
"Nah," he said. "I like the heat. It keeps the juices flowing."
"And how are they flowing on the Hawkin homicide?"
"They ain't," he admitted. "We're going through the drill, talking to everyone. It's what I call an NKN case: nobody knows nothing."
"A double negative," I pointed out.
"The story of my life," he said. Then suddenly: "How about you? You got anything?"
"A crumb," I said. "Mrs. Jane Folsby has left the Hawkins' employ. For reasons the deponent knoweth not."
"Yeah?" he said. "Can't say I blame her for getting out of that nuthouse. Go to bed, sonny boy; I only wish I could. And remember what I said about your business cards. Will you, for God's sake, stop passing them out? Every time you do, someone gets whacked and I have to put in more overtime."
I watched him drive away, reflecting that his warning came too late. The last card I had distributed went to Theodosia Johnson. It was not a comforting thought. I went back inside. The door to father's study was shut, which meant he was deep in Dickens and port. So I trudged upstairs, finished
The homicide detective to whom Rogoff had spoken had revealed only that my business card and the letters of Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth had been found during the initial search. If any additional significant evidence was discovered, he just wasn't saying.
"And that's all I've got," the sergeant concluded. He turned to me. "What have you got?"
I glanced at mon père. He was the attorney; it was his responsibility to decide how much to reveal and how much to keep undisclosed in the name of client confidentiality. Al and I waited patiently while Prescott McNally went through his mulling routine, a process that endured long enough to calculate the square root of 2. Finally the guru spake.
"Discretion?" he demanded, looking sternly at Rogoff.
"As usual," Al said.
Father then described the letters Smythe-Hersforth had written Shirley Feebling during a time the two apparently had been enjoying a steamy affair. Later the client had a change of heart, but the woman insisted he honor the proposal of marriage he had made in writing. If not, she vowed to sell his letters to any interested tabloid.
"Uh-huh," Rogoff said. "How much was she asking?"
"Archy?" papa said. "You take it from here."
"I went down to Lauderdale to see her," I told the sergeant. "I had just the single meeting and left my business card. She absolutely refused to discuss a cash settlement. She wanted to marry him and that was that."
"Where is the guy now—do you know?"
"His office says he left Monday morning for a bankers' convention in New Orleans and won't be back until Thursday."
Al had been making brief notes on all this in a fat little notebook he carried. Now he slapped the cover closed and bound it with a wide rubber band. He said casually, "Archy, you got any idea who might have clobbered the woman?"
I had learned to lie convincingly by age four. "Not a glimmer," I said.
"Sergeant," father said, "if inquiries by the Fort Lauderdale authorities prove—as I am certain they will—that Smythe-Hersforth was in New Orleans at the time of this unfortunate woman's death, I will deeply appreciate any assistance you may provide in retrieving our client's personal letters since they obviously will be of no further interest or import in the official investigation."
All that was said in one sentence. It's the way my old man talks.
"I'll see what I can do, sir," Rogoff said, rising, and the two men shook hands.
The sergeant was driving a police car that night, not his personal pickup truck, and I walked him outside. He paused to light a cigar and blow a plume of smoke toward the cloudless sky.
"Nice weather," he observed.
"You don't find it a trifle warm?"
"Nah," he said. "I like the heat. It keeps the juices flowing."
"And how are they flowing on the Hawkin homicide?"
"They ain't," he admitted. "We're going through the drill, talking to everyone. It's what I call an NKN case: nobody knows nothing."
"A double negative," I pointed out.
"The story of my life," he said. Then suddenly: "How about you? You got anything?"
"A crumb," I said. "Mrs. Jane Folsby has left the Hawkins' employ. For reasons the deponent knoweth not."
"Yeah?" he said. "Can't say I blame her for getting out of that nuthouse. Go to bed, sonny boy; I only wish I could. And remember what I said about your business cards. Will you, for God's sake, stop passing them out? Every time you do, someone gets whacked and I have to put in more overtime."
I watched him drive away, reflecting that his warning came too late. The last card I had distributed went to Theodosia Johnson. It was not a comforting thought. I went back inside. The door to father's study was shut, which meant he was deep in Dickens and port. So I trudged upstairs, finished
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