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

cooperation in the affair of the Frobisher letters. I have made the gift selection and now must make delivery. And that is why it’s necessary to see you as soon as possible.”
    She laughed. “What a devious lad you are,” she said.
    “Three,” I said. “Rogoff was right. Now don’t tell me you’re the Tooth Fairy.”
    There was a brief silence. Then: “What are you gibbering about?”
    “Nothing,” I said. “Just idle chatter. Well, when is it to be?”
    “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “I’m going to be awfully busy. I’ve landed a new client who wants her bedroom done over in Art Nouveau. It’ll take me forever to find the right pieces.”
    “Then you’ll need a few hours of relaxation,” I said. “Dinner tomorrow night would be nice. Ever been to the Pelican Club?”
    “No, but I’ve heard a lot of weird things about it.”
    “They’re all true,” I assured her. “Dress informally. I’ll stop by for you around seven. Okay?”
    “All right,” she said faintly.
    “And I’ll bring your gift,” I said. “If I can get three men to help me load it onto the truck.”
    She was giggling when I hung up. That was a delight, to hear that restrained woman giggle. I went back to my journal with a song in my heart.
    I finished making notes and drew up a tentative plan of how I intended to proceed in the Inverted Jenny investigation. Then I poured myself a very small marc from a private stock of spirits and liqueurs I kept in an old sea chest in my sitting room. Pony in hand, I settled down to watch a rerun of Columbo on my portable TV set. I had seen that particular segment twice before, but it was still fun.
    One more marc and one more English Oval, and I was ready to kiss the day goodbye. I undressed, brushed my teeth, and showered. If I thought of Jennifer Towley—and I did, continually—they were innocent thoughts. Mostly.
    I pulled on my pajama shorts, set the air conditioner at 75°, turned out the lights, and went to bed. I slept the untroubled sleep of the pure at heart.

Chapter 4
    I PHONED LADY HOROWITZ after breakfast and asked if she had told her employees and house-guests that the Inverted Jenny stamps had disappeared. She said she had.
    “And now everyone knows,” she said bitterly. “I’ve already had a dozen phony sympathy calls—including one from a cousin in Sarasota. Bad news certainly travels fast.”
    “Always has,” I said cheerfully. “There’s nothing more enjoyable than other people’s troubles.”
    Then I asked if it would be all right if I spent most of the day at her place, making discreet inquiries. She said to come ahead, she would tell everyone I’d be nosing around. But she would not be present.
    “I’ll be gone all day, lad,” she said. “I have scads of things to do.”
    I asked if that meant Kenneth, the chauffeur, would also be absent.
    “No,” she said, “I’ll take the Jag.”
    I love it. That casual “I’ll take the Jag” meant she would not be chauffeured in her antique Rolls-Royce (a rare 1933 Tourer) but would pilot her spanking-new bronzy Jaguar XJ-S convertible.
    I was musing on the unique traits of the affluent when I pulled into the white graveled driveway of the Horowitz mansion. I drove to the left, past the guesthouse, to the broad turnaround in front of the five-car garage. Now there was a prime example of conspicuous consumption.
    When the long, low building had been erected in the early 1920s, it had been designed as a stable, to house the original owner’s riding and carriage horses. Would you believe that this habitat for nags was floored with gorgeous tiles from the palazzo of a bankrupt Venetian nobleman and walled with oak panels from an abandoned Spanish monastery? Money, I decided, has no conscience and no memory.
    I climbed out of the Miata and strolled into the shadowy garage where a large, muscular young man (about my age) was sponging down the Rolls. He was wearing the trousers of a chauffeur’s uniform