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

want you going home hungry.”
    She gave me a nothing smile and moved away. She was wearing a very chaste long black skirt and severely tailored jacket. Her costume reminded me of a uniform: something a keeper in an institution might wear. “ Und you vill obey orders!” Silly, I admit, but that was my impression.
    Wandering about, glass in hand, I found Binky Watrous and Bridget Houlihan seated close together on a tattered velvet love seat. They were gazing into each other’s eyes with a look so moony I wanted to kick both of them in the shins.
    “Hi, kids,” I said, and they looked up, startled.
    “Oh,” Binky said finally. “Hello, Archy. Have you met Bridget?”
    “I have indeed,” I said. “Good evening, Bridget.”
    “The same,” she said dreamily, not releasing Binky’s paw. “Honey, do the call of the cuckoo again.”
    I hastily departed.
    I found the host putting another LP on his player and was happy he had not switched to CDs, which are too electronically perfect for me. I cherish those scratches and squawks of old vinyls. Mr. Gottschalk was about to place the needle on an original cast recording of Guys and Dolls .
    “Excellent choice, sir,” I said.
    He looked up. “Hello, Archy. Glad you could make it. Enjoying yourself?”
    “Immeasurably.”
    “Like old recordings, do you?”
    “Very much.”
    He paused to stare dimly into the distance. “I do too. And so did my dear wife. On our tenth anniversary she gave me an ancient shellac of Caruso singing ‘ Vesti la giubbla .’”
    “What a treasure!” I said. “Do you still have it?”
    He gave me a queer look. “I don’t know what happened to it. I’ll try to find it.”
    The record started and I listened happily to “Fugue for Tinhorns.” Hi lowered the volume and turned to me. “Have you met my daughters?”
    “Not yet. How shall I tell them apart?”
    “Very difficult. But one of them has a mole, a small, black mole.”
    “Oh?” I said. “Which one—Judith or Julia?”
    He grinned mischievously. “I’m not allowed to tell.”
    “Well, where is this small, black mole located?”
    His grin broadened and he tugged at his Vandyke. “You’re an investigator, aren’t you?” he said. “Investigate and find out.”
    What an aging satyr he was!
    The buffet was really nothing extraordinary: a spiral-cut ham, cocktail franks in pastry cozies, chilled shrimp, crudités, cheese of no particular distinction, onion rolls a bit on the spongy side, and, for dessert, petits fours I suspected had been stamped out in a robotized Taiwan factory.
    There was, however, one dish I sampled and found blindly delicious. Cold cubes of something in a yummy sauce. At first I thought it might be filet mignon, but it lacked the meat’s texture. I ate more, entranced by the flavor and subtle aftertaste. Finally, determined to identify this wonder, I found my way into the Gottschalks’ kitchen.
    There I met a plumpish couple identified in Hiram’s list of his staff as Mr. Got Lee, chef, and his wife, Mei, who apparently functioned as a maid of all work. They were wearing matching skullcaps of linen decorated with beads and sequins, and I’ve never encountered more scrutable Orientals in my life. Both giggled continually; they either enjoyed high spirits or had been hitting a gallon jug of rice wine.
    I introduced myself and we all shook hands enthusiastically.
    “Ver’ happy,” Got said in a lilting voice.
    “Ver’ ver’ happy,” Mei said, topping him.
    “My pleasure,” I assured them. “You have prepared a marvelous party.”
    They both bowed and I was treated to another chorus of “ver’ happy’s” interspersed with giggles.
    “Tell me,” I said, “what is that excellent cold dish in a spicy sauce? It tastes somewhat like broiled steak but I’m sure it’s not. What on earth is it?”
    More giggles and a lengthy explanation in English so strangled I could scarcely follow it. The treat turned out to be thick chunks of portobello