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

laboratory specimen. This doctor, I decided, had all the bedside manner of Jack the Ripper.
    “What kind of wounds?” I asked him.
    “Deep scratches and a few small, open cuts on the neck.”
    “Have you any idea what caused them?”
    “I am not a forensic pathologist,” he said crossly, “but it is my firm opinion that they were made by long fingernails.”
    I stared at him, shocked. “Dr. Pursglove, are you implying that Mrs. Forsythe’s assailant was a woman?”
    “It is, I think, a reasonable assumption,” he said at his pontifical best—or worst. “And there is contributing evidence. It is no simple task to strangle a human being, particularly one as young and vigorous as the patient. It would require considerable physical strength.”
    “And that is an added indication her attacker was a woman—she was rendered unconscious but not killed?”
    He nodded with grim assurance. “It is my belief that if the strangler had been a man Mrs. Forsythe would now be deceased.”

6
    I RECLAIMED MY YELLOW slicker and left the Forsythe home without speaking further to any of the inhabitants. Although my name is Archy, let me be frank: I departed in unseemly haste because I did not wish to be on the premises when Sgt. Al Rogoff arrived. His accusations, I well knew, would come later. And better later than sooner.
    I arrived home to find my father and mother, Madelaine, in the living room moodily inspecting an inconsequential puddle on the parquet floor. It had been caused by the fierce rain leaking in under French doors to our small flagstoned terrace. My parents were tsk-tsking in unison.
    I told them what had occurred at the Forsythes’, and they were both stunned.
    “How dreadful,” mother said, putting a trembling knuckle to her lips. “Prescott, is there anything we can do?”
    “Have the police been notified?” father asked me.
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “After I persuaded the senior Mr. Forsythe. I do think you should be there during the police investigation and questioning.”
    “You’re quite right, Archy,” he said. “I’ll go at once. Maddie, where did I leave my umbrella?”
    I waited until he had been adequately outfitted in raincoat, rain hat, and rubbers, and equipped with a bumbershoot large enough to shelter four close friends. He departed in his Lexus and I moved into his study to use the phone. I called Connie Garcia.
    “Thank you for phoning last night,” she said coldly, “as you so sincerely promised.”
    “Sorry about that, dear,” I said. “We had a tremendous flood in the living room—the rain was gushing in under the French doors to the terrace—and I was busy with mop and bucket for hours. Listen, how about lunch at the Pelican?”
    “Today?” she said. “Are you mad? It’s still pouring and I’ve just washed my hair and have no intention of taking a step outside.”
    “Ah, what a disappointment,” I said. “Oh, by the way, Connie, you mentioned that Geraldine Forsythe had been blindsided by an unscrupulous polo player. You don’t happen to recall his name, do you?”
    She was silent a moment. “Sorry,” she said finally, “I just can’t remember it—if I ever knew.”
    “Oh, well, it’s not important,” I lied. “I’ll buzz you tomorrow and if the weather has cleared by then perhaps we can have a nosh.”
    “Sounds good to me, Archy. I could do with a bowl of chili to chase my chilly.”
    We chatted a few more minutes about this and that, and she was in a sparky mood when we rang off. Connie does have her snits but usually they are not of long duration. Unfortunately while they last they sometimes result in physical assaults on the McNally carcass. But infidelity, like all delights, has its price.
    I then tried my favorite chronicler of Palm Beach turpitude. I knew Lolly Spindrift worked on Saturdays preparing his gossip column for the Sunday edition of his paper. Naturally he would demand a newsworthy disclosure in return for the information I wanted but