McNally's Caper by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

according to the doctor, had not suffered any life-threatening injury. She was able to speak in a croaky voice but could not identify her assailant. She had been sedated and was in no condition to be questioned further.
    Mr. Griswold Forsythe II pulled me into the library and closed the door.
    “GD it,” he said angrily, and it was, I imagined, the strongest oath he was capable of uttering. “I don’t understand what’s happening around here. First thievery and now attempted murder. What on earth is going on?”
    “Mr. Forsythe,” I said as gently as I could, “this matter must be reported to the police.”
    “No, no!” he shouted. “Absolutely not! The newspapers, television, the tabloids—all that. Can’t have it. Won’t have it.”
    “Sir,” I said with the solemnity the moment required, “you must report it. Attempted homicide is a serious crime, and not making a police report might possibly result in your becoming the subject of an official investigation. I strongly urge you to phone the authorities at once. I suggest you speak to Sergeant Al Rogoff. He and I have worked together several times in the past, and I can vouch for his intelligence, competence and, most of all, his discretion.”
    He gnawed on that a moment, then drew a deep breath. “Yes,” he said finally, “you’re probably right. I’ll call.”
    He picked up the phone and I left the library. I met a tearful Fern in the corridor and she directed me to Mrs. Sylvia’s bedroom on the second floor. I found Griswold Forsythe III standing guard outside his wife’s door. He was wearing a three-piece suit of mud-colored cheviot, almost identical to his father’s. I wondered if the male Forsythes patronized the same tailor and ordered two of everything.
    “How is she, Griswold?” I asked.
    “Dozing,” he said distractedly. “The doctor is with her now. He says her respiration and heartbeat are normal and she should make a complete recovery. But I’m worried.”
    “Of course you are,” I said. “Have you any idea who might have committed such a horrible act?”
    He stared at me and his eyes seemed slightly out of focus as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “What?” he said. “Oh. No, I have no idea. It has to be someone in the house. That’s what makes it so awful. I simply cannot believe this happened.”
    I was saved from replying when the bedroom door opened and the paunchy doctor came out carrying his black satchel.
    “You may go in now, Mr. Forsythe,” he said. “But stay only a few minutes and try not to disturb the patient.”
    Griswold nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.
    “How is Mrs. Forsythe doing, sir?” I asked the physician.
    He looked at me. “I am Dr. Cedric P. Pursglove,” he said haughtily, and I wondered if that middle P. stood for Popinjay. “And who might you be?” he demanded.
    I was tempted to answer that I might be Peter the Great but, sadly, I was not. “Archibald McNally,” I told him. “My law firm represents the Forsythes.”
    Of course he immediately assumed I was an attorney and I didn’t disabuse him. I mean there was no point in confessing I was merely a scullion in the McNally & Son kitchen.
    “From a legal point of view,” he said in such a pompous manner that I had a terrible urge to goose him, just to see him leap, dignity shattered, “—from a legal point of view this distressing matter should be reported at once to the proper authorities.”
    “I so advised the senior Mr. Forsythe,” I informed him.
    “Wise counsel,” he said as if pronouncing a benediction. “I further recommend a police physician be called to examine the patient and perhaps take photographs.”
    I was startled. “Why should that be necessary, sir?”
    “The contusions caused by the attempted strangulation are obvious on the neck of the intended victim. But there are other wounds of a superficial nature that might prove significant.”
    He spoke of his patient as if she were a