McNally's Puzzle (23 page)

The smugglers’ methods are gruesome. Fully grown and fledgling parrots are hidden in luggage, stuffed into plastic piping, concealed in furniture and machinery, buried in mounds of grain, even sealed in ventilated cans. The mortality rate is horrendous. There is a tale of a smuggler apprehended at L.A. who was wearing a specially constructed vest of many small pockets each of which contained the egg of an endangered Australian cockatiel.

Allow me a spot of editorializing.

Apparently in our enlightened land there are people willing—nay, eager—to pay any amount for a brilliantly colored wild parrot, the rarer the better—with no interest whatsoever in the exotic bird’s antecedents or how it arrived on our shores. It becomes a status symbol, not a pet.

One of Judd’s contributors remarked that parrots suffer when taken from the wild, deprived of their mates, and thrust into a cage. Many of the captured birds develop neuroses, adopt self-destructive habits, or become aggressive. They sometimes bite and claw their new owners. Bully!

It really is a depressing record. As I’ve told you, I have no special fondness for parrots but the cruel trapping, smuggling, and profitable sale of wild and endangered species seem to me a particularly heinous practice. Especially since so many of those birds die shortly after being wrenched from their homes and imprisoned.

It was time for lunch and I fled to the Pelican Club as relieved as a schoolchild anticipating recess. The joint was sparsely occupied and so I was able to sit at the bar and order a gin and bitters from Simon Pettibone. Our estimable bartender and club manager gave me a puzzled look.

“Feeling ginnish this morning, Mr. McNally?” he inquired.

“Feeling bitterish,” I replied. He served my drink and I said, “Mr. Pettibone, I know you to be a man of vast erudition and experience. Tell me something. What do you think of birds?”

“Love ’em,” he said promptly. “Chickens, ducks, turkeys, all roasted, fried, or broiled. Any which way. I once ate a pigeon and very tasty it was.”

“Oh, I concur,” I said, “but I framed my question awkwardly. I was not referring to edible species raised for the table. What do you think of birds kept in cages? As pets or sometimes just as interior decoration.”

“Ah,” he said, suddenly serious, “that’s something else again. I don’t hold with caging dumb creatures. I’ve never had a bird as a pet and never will. It’s cruel to my way of thinking. Ever see an eagle soar? Now that’s something.”

“I understand what you’re saying but it’s a difficult moral choice, isn’t it? I mean I enjoy a roasted duck with a nice sauce of wild cherries as much as you. Never give the poor fowl’s fate a second thought. But the idea of keeping a bird in a cage turns me off.”

He looked at me. “No one keeps a duck in a cage, Mr. McNally.”

“I hope not. But I’m thinking about parrots. Especially beautiful and rare parrots taken from the wild and put behind bars.”

“No,” he said firmly, “I don’t hold with that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pettibone,” I said gratefully. “I respect your opinion.”

Then I lunched alone but,
mirabile dictu
, I cannot recollect what I had. This is astonishing, even shocking to relate for I have almost total recall of past breakfasts, brunches, luncheons, dinners, and late suppers. Why, I distinctly remember an excellent braised oxtail I consumed in 1984.

The reason for this memory lapse, I think, is heavy and insistent pondering as I scarfed. The knowledge that rare birds were captured in the wild, smuggled abroad, and sold to moneyed collectors distressed me. For the moment, I put aside how this illegal trade might possibly affect the homicides I was investigating. I was disturbed by the birdnapping itself.

I have, I suppose, a very limited personal code of moral conduct. To wit: I strive to behave in a manner that gives me pleasure but doesn’t harm anyone else. I mean I’m a live-and-let-live bloke. I’ve never been an -ist of any sort, not sexist, racist, leftist, rightist, idealist, realist, and so forth. Well, on occasion I act as an egoist—but only on occasion.

What my dilemma amounted to was something you may find ridiculous and I admit had a slightly farcical tone. If I objected to the capture and imprisonment of birds for profit, how could I justify my enjoyment of a baked free-range chicken, much more flavorful than the factory-raised variety?

I agreed with Mr. Pettibone that it was okay to feast on domesticated fowl but wrong to ensnare and incarcerate exotic parrots. But they’re all birds, aren’t they, and where is the moral justification for the difference in their treatment?

Finally I gave up on my mental maunderings. I could find no way out of the maze of imponderables. It was, I decided, a question with no final answer. Similar to the problem of whether brandied apples or broiled oranges go better with roasted goose.

I
ARRIVED BACK AT THE
McNally Building to find on my desk a handwritten note from Yvonne Chrisling. It was an invitation to attend a “joyous tribute” to Hiram Gottschalk to be held that evening beginning at eight p.m. Not to mourn, she wrote, but to remember and celebrate the life of a wonderful man. “I want it to be more like a cheerful wake,” she added.

Uh-huh.

She finished with a fanfare: “Archy, I’ll be devastated if you don’t come. I want so much to see you again!”

Double uh-huh. I wondered again what game the Dragon Lady was playing and determined to present myself in all my sockless glory at the soiree that evening at the Gottschalk manse. It might, I reckoned, prove as educational and entertaining as a visit to a zoo.

I phoned Sgt. Al Rogoff and was put on hold for at least three minutes. He finally came on the line.

“What took you so long?” I asked. “Finishing an anchovy pizza and a can of Sprite?”

“Close but no cigar,” he said. “Actually I was beating a suspect with a short length of rubber hose. What’s up?”

“That’s why I called. Anything happening?”

“Nope. Nothing of any great interest.”

“C’mon, Al, you must be doing
something
.”

“Just routine. We got an alleged eyewitness who lives in the same condo as Sutcliffe and Gompertz. She claims she saw the two of them leaving at night with two guys she describes as ‘goons.’ She says the four of them got in a car and drove away.”

“Is this eyewitness a middle-aged lady carrying a ton of mascara?”

“You’ve got it. You know her?”

“Met her briefly during my last visit. She let me in—a stupid thing to do. I thought her a bit loopy.”

“That’s the word.”

“Can she identify the car they used?”

“Says it was white. Isn’t that beautiful? How many white cars are there in South Florida—a zillion?”

“Possibly more. Al, does the apparent abduction and murder of Gompertz and Sutcliffe take Peter Gottschalk off the hook for the killing of his father?”

“Well... maybe,” he admitted grudgingly. “I can’t find anything linking him to the Everglades cases. But that’s assuming all three homicides are somehow connected.”

“You believe it, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, sighing heavily, “I guess I do. Have you come up with anything?”

“Parrots,” I said. “I think parrots may be the key to the whole megillah.”

Short silence. “Parrots,” he repeated. “Archy, have you ever considered a brain transplant?”

“‘O ye of little faith.’ Believe me, parrots hold the answer.”

I was hoping he wouldn’t say it but he did.

“That’s for the birds,” he said, laughed, and hung up.

I tried to get back to fiddling with my expense account but found I had lost interest. My creative juices were still flowing but whereas, at lunch, I had put aside the Gottschalk puzzle to ruminate on the moral implications of gnawing a chicken’s crispy drumstick, now I postponed my monthly raid on McNally & Son’s bottom line to concentrate on the perplexities of my current discreet inquiry.

I went back to fundamentals, the start of everything. It all began with the acts of personal terrorism and vandalism that frightened Hiram: the slashed photograph, the mass card, the strangled mynah, the shattered phonograph record. They were all deliberate acts of cruelty. If I could determine the motive involved I might be able to identify the perpetrator.

Dr. Gussie had said the destroyed photo was an attempt to eliminate Hiram’s happy memory. The same could be said of the smashed Caruso recording, a gift from his beloved wife, now long gone. The posted mass card and killing of his favorite bird were more serious: warnings of a possible impending doom. Those explanations made a grisly kind of sense but led precisely nowhere. They yielded no clues as to who might be responsible for inflicting such grievous pain.

Just as puzzling was the manner of his death. It seemed obvious the killer had chosen to stab the hapless victim through the eyes because he had seen too much. In some benighted countries the hand of a convicted thief is lopped off. Mr. Gottschalk’s eyes were destroyed and his life taken because his slayer could not endure his continued observation or witnessing of—what?

But again, all that might be an explanation but it was not a solution, was it? I wrestled with the riddles for the remainder of the afternoon, doodling on a pad of scratch paper and finding myself making crude drawings of eyes and birds. I waited for an inspired flash of insight that never arrived. And so I closed up shop and went home wondering if I might be better suited for another profession. Stuffing strudel was one possibility.

During the family cocktail hour at twilight I casually mentioned I was attending the memorial service for Hiram Gottschalk that night. Father paused in his preparation of our martinis.

“Your mother and I were invited,” he said stiffly. “But I thought it best we not accept.”

“Sir, would you prefer I didn’t go?” I asked him.

“No, no,” he said. “Represent McNally and Son. And perhaps you may learn something to further your inquiry.”

“Perhaps,” I said, thinking, Not bloody likely—which proves how mistaken a sleuthhound can be.

After dinner I went upstairs to change. I decided to wear
a suit
. Can you believe it? Yep, my jacket and trousers matched: a black and tan glen plaid in a windowpane design. Classic but jaunty. I lightened the formality further with a knitted sport shirt of Sea Island cotton in hunter green. Cordovan loafers with modest tassels. The final effect, I decided, was assertive without being aggressive.

I must confess my getup was an attempt to trump Ricardo Chrisling’s Armani elegance. Didn’t someone once say you can cure a man of any folly except vanity?

It was a so-so night hardly worth mentioning, but I shall. The sky was totally overcast, making for a heavy darkness, and what breeze existed came in fits and starts. I was aware of an unusual odor on the air. Not quite fishy. Not quite sewer gas. Brimstone? Nah. That was my imagination galloping amok.

There was a plenitude of cars already parked on the slated driveway of the Gottschalk estate as I drove in. I spotted Binky Watrous’s dented antique M-B cabriolet and was happy my gormless aide would be present. I was sliding from my fire engine-red quadriga when Peter Gottschalk came out of nowhere, hand outstretched. He was grinning. Not a drugged grin or a sappy grin. Just a nice natural expression of pleasure.

“Hiya, Archy,” he said. “I was hoping you’d show up.”

I shook the proffered paw. “Peter, good to see you again. How are things going?”

“Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to thank you for steering me to that shrink.”

“Dr. Pearlberg?”

“Yeah. I went to see her. She’s something, she is.”

“I concur. A marvelous woman.”

“Anyway, she sent me to another doc—a
doctor
doc, not a mind bender—and he’s got me on medication.”

“Any results?”

“Not yet but I feel better knowing I’m getting help. I’m off the booze and the weed and that’s a drag. But I can stand it if my brain starts functioning.”

“Good for you,” I said. “Coming inside?”

“In a while,” he said. “Not right now. I just want to walk around and look at things. It’s like I’m seeing them for the first time. That’s goofy, isn’t it?”

“Not so. Very understandable. Peter, what is this shindig all about? A sort of delayed wake?”

“It’s supposed to be but it’s just a party. My sisters’ idea. They love a bash.”

“Tell me something: Do you always know which is which?”

“Oh sure. It’s easy. Julia wears Chanel Cristalle perfume and Judith uses Must de Cartier.”

I laughed. “I had never considered that method of identification. But what if they switch scents?”

He shrugged. “So what? Who cares? They’re a couple of airheads anyway. See you later.”

Then he was gone. I stayed a moment thinking of the sobriquet he had used to describe his sisters: airheads. It had been my initial impression also, but now I was beginning to think there was another trait the twins shared. It was darker and far less superficial than their fondness for partying.

The front door of the Gottschalk home was wide open. I entered and paused to glance about. Yvonne Chrisling came bustling up to give me a tight
abrazo
and press a warm cheek against mine.

“Archy!” she exclaimed. “I am
sooo
happy you have arrived. What a delight to see you!”

My ego is of the stalwart variety, as you well know, but her effusion startled me. I do like to fancy I am a reincarnation of Ronald Colman, but I could not believe I had captivated this woman to the degree she displayed in speech and manner.

“Come along,” she said in her hearty contralto voice, “and let me get you a drink. You prefer vodka, do you not?”

She grasped my arm and led me to a portable bar set up by the caterer handling the affair. She made certain I was supplied with a heavy Sterling on the rocks with a slice of lime. Then she toyed with my left ear.

“Now I must act like a hostess,” she said, managing a girlish pout, “but you and I shall have a nice long talk later.”

She moved away, leaving me a bit rattled. I had no doubt the lady was coming on to me, as she had before, and I could not guess her motive. That it was not overwhelming passion I was well aware. And I doubted if she even knew of my store of scabrous limericks. So why was she being so
physical
? It could of course be merely a case of chronic flirtatiousness—but I didn’t think so.