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

but had taken off the jacket. His upper torso was tightly sheathed in one of those tailored T-shirts body-builders affect: nipped-in at the waist and with abbreviated cap sleeves, to display their biceps, triceps and, for all I know, forceps.
    “Kenneth Bodin?” I asked.
    He looked at me, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if he would answer or snap my spine just for the fun of it.
    “That’s right,” he said finally in a high-pitched voice that was shocking to hear issuing from the mastodon.
    “I’m Archibald McNally,” I said. “Did Lady Horowitz tell you I’d be around asking questions about her missing stamps?”
    “She said,” he acknowledged and tried a smile. I wished he hadn’t; his teeth weren’t all that great. “I hope she don’t think I swiped them.”
    “Of course not,” I assured him. “She doesn’t believe anyone in the house had a thing to do with it. Probably someone from outside.”
    “Sure,” he said. “A cat burglar.” When I nodded, he went back to washing the Rolls.
    “Just a few questions, Mr. Bodin,” I said. “When was the last time you saw the stamps?”
    He stopped his work and appeared to think a moment. If he was capable of it. Which I doubted.
    “Oh lordy,” he said, “I haven’t seen those things in years. Maybe two or three.”
    “You live on the premises?”
    “Nope.” He gestured toward the end of the garage where a lavender ’69 Volkswagen Beetle was slumbering peacefully on the Venetian tiles. “That’s mine.”
    “Beautiful car,” I said politely.
    “I keep it up,” he said proudly. “Anyway, I drive in every day. I live in Delray.”
    “Long way to commute,” I observed.
    “Not really,” he said. “I start out early. Not much traffic, so I can make time. That’s a Miata you got—right?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Nice,” he said. “I wish I could afford one.”
    “Mr. Bodin,” I said, “you suggested the stamps might have been lifted by a cat burglar. Have you seen anyone casing the place recently? You know—lurking about or driving past frequently?”
    He shook his head. “No one like that. You could ask the Beach Patrol.”
    “Good idea,” I said. “Can you think of anyone—staff or houseguests—who might have been tempted?”
    He stopped wiping off the Rolls with a shammy and turned to face me. God, he was a bruiser! Even his muscles had muscles. If the gossip was true—that he had once been Lady C.’s lover—I could understand her brief fling. The guy was a hulk.
    But my admiration for his physique stopped at his thick neck. I thought he had the face of a dyspeptic terrier, and his blond hair was too metallic to be credited to the Florida sun. It was carefully coiffed and artfully streaked. Clairol, I was certain, had provided assistance.
    “Why no,” he said. “To my way of thinking there’s no one around here who’d rob the Lady. She’s a good boss, and the guests are all family.”
    “What about the friend, Angus Wolfson?”
    “Shit!” he said with unnecessary vehemence. “That old guy’s a butterfly. But he seems to be loaded. So why should he cop the stamps?”
    “Why indeed?” I said, and couldn’t think of any more questions to ask that he might be willing to answer. “Thank you for talking with me, Mr. Bodin. I appreciate it.”
    “Sure,” he said. “Why not? I got nothing to hide.”
    He turned away, and I saw he had an unlighted cigarette tucked behind his ear. Why he wasn’t sucking on a toothpick I’ll never know.
    I wandered out into the sunlight, heard soft laughter coming from the pool area, and ambled over there. A man and a woman were seated at an umbrella table, working on what appeared to be iced black coffees and a plate of mini-croissants. They looked up as I approached, and the ancient male rose slowly to his feet.
    “Good morning,” I said, taking off my white linen cap and giving them a 75-watt smile (my max is 150). “I hate to disturb you, but I wonder if I might join you for a few