But then my musing veered from the relations of Madam X with the Chinless Wonder to her relations with yrs. truly. It occurred to me that Theo had been aware from the start that I had been assigned to investigate her bona fides. During that demented deli luncheon, her father had denied she knew of my role. But Hector, I now reckoned, was as consummate a liar as I.
And if Theo was cognizant of what I was about, perhaps the granting of her favors (with the promise of more to come) was her astute method of insuring my willing cooperation in her endeavor to snare the heir to the Smythe-Hersforth fortune. It's possible that was her motive, was it not? Naturally I preferred to believe she had succumbed to the McNally charm. But I could not delude myself by completely rejecting the notion that she had been the seductress and I the object of her Machiavellian plotting.
I simply did not know. And so I left immediately for the Pelican Club bar, seeking inspiration.
14
My parents were not present that evening, having been invited to dinner at the home of octogenarian friends celebrating the birth of their first great-grandchild. And so I dined in the kitchen with the Olsons, and a jolly time was had by all. Ursi served a mountainous platter of one of her specialties: miniature pizzas (two bites per) with a variety of toppings. Romaine salad with vinaigrette dressing. Raspberry sorbet on fresh peaches for dessert. (Please don't drool on this page.)
That delightful dinner numbed me, but I was able to work on my journal in lackadaisical fashion until it became time to depart for my meeting with Sgt. Rogoff. Obeying my mother's dictum-"Never visit without bringing a gift."-I stopped en route to pick up a cold six-pack of Corona. It is one of Al's favorites, but I must admit that when it comes to beers he has no animosities that I'm aware of.
Rogoff's "wagon" is a double mobile home set on a concrete foundation and furnished in a fashion that would make any bachelor sigh with content. Comfort is the theme, and everything is worn and shabby enough so you feel no restraint against kicking off your shoes.
The barefoot host was wearing jeans and a snug T-shirt, and when he uncapped the beer I had brought he put out a large can of honey-roasted peanuts. I said, "Al, I speak more as friend than critic, but your waistline is obviously expanding exponentially. To put it crudely, pal, you're cultivating a king-sized gut."
"So what?" he said. "I've noticed you're no longer the thin-as-a-rail bucko you once were."
"Touche," I said, "and I hope it will be the last of the evening. I've been meaning to ask, did you ever get to see that portrait of Theodosia Johnson by Silas Hawkin in the Pristine Gallery?"
We were sprawled in oak captain's chairs at the sergeant's round dining table. He had put on a cassette of the original cast recording of "Annie Get Your Gun," and what a delight it was to hear Ethel Merman belt out those wonderful tunes, even if the volume was turned down low.
"Oh yeah," Rogoff said, "I saw it. Great painting. And a great model. She's a knockout."
"My sentiments exactly," I said.
He looked at me quizzically. "Taken with the lady, are you?"
"Somewhat."
"You're asking for trouble."
"Odd you should say that, Al. Priscilla Pettibone at the Pelican Club told me the same thing."
"Smart girl," he said. "But I don't expect you to take her advice or mine. You're a hopeless victim of your glands. But enough of this brilliant chitchat. I've got the skinny on Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler. The agreement was that you tell me why you want it before I deliver. So let's hear."
"It's a long story."
He shrugged. "And it's a long night. We've got your six-pack and another of Molson in the fridge. Get started."
I told him everything relevant: my first glimpse of Hagler while I was with Shirley Feebling; learning that Hagler was one of Hector Johnson's bank references; his hole-in-the-wall office as an investment adviser; my luncheon with the two men; and my accidental meeting with Hagler when I had traveled to Fort Lauderdale to question Pinky Schatz.
"My, my," Rogoff said when I finished, "you have been a busy little snoop, haven't you. You figure these two guys are close?"
"Peas in a pod."
"And you think Hagler shot Shirley Feebling?"
"That's my guess."
"Motive?"
"Haven't the slightest," I admitted. "Pinky Schatz might know, but she's not talking. At least not to me."
"How did you get chummy with her in the first place?"
"Told her I was Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth."
The sergeant laughed. "What a scammer you are! If you ever turn your talents to crime, Florida will be in deeeep shit. Well, it's not my case but I'll give Lauderdale Homicide a call and tell them about this Reuben Hagler. I don't think I've ever seen the guy. What's he like?"
"Dracula."
"That sweet, huh? And what was the name of the woman you talked to?"
"Pinky Schatz. She's a nude dancer at the Leopard Club."
"Your new hangout?" he said. "Well, I guess it's better than collecting stamps."
"Oh, shut up," I said. "Now tell me what you learned from Michigan."
"Hector Johnson used to be a stock broker. Racked up for securities fraud. He was fined, made restitution, and was banned from the securities business for life. He never did hard time but apparently while he was in jail for a few weeks he met Reuben Hagler. This Hagler has a nasty file: attempted robbery, felonious assault, stuff like that. He's done prison time: three years for rape. He was also suspected of being an enforcer for local loan sharks."
"Sounds like he'd be capable of killing Shirley Feebling."
"I'd say so," Rogoff agreed. "And now he's an investment adviser in Fort Lauderdale?"
"That's what the sign on his office claims. But in view of Johnson's history, Hagler might be a front and Hector is calling the shots."
"Wouldn't be a bit surprised. What do you suppose Johnson's angle is on all this?"
I shook my head. "Can't figure it," I confessed, "but there's obviously frigging in the rigging."
We sat in silence awhile, trying to imagine scenarios that made some loopy kind of sense. But neither of us had any suggestions to offer.
"Al," I said, "how did you make out this morning when you talked to Louise Hawkin?"
"You were right," he said. "The lady was totally befuddled. And you know what? I think Hector Johnson means to keep her that way."
I will not say his comment was the key to the whole meshugass. But it did start me thinking in a new direction. I began to get a vague notion of what might be going on.
"Do you believe that letter Marcia Hawkin gave me?" I asked the sergeant. "Do you think she really did kill her father?"
He shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe yes, maybe no. If he had given her motive, I'd be more certain one way or the other."
"Me, too," I said. "Any word yet on that stained sheet or whatever it was we saw in the back of her Cherokee?"
"Nothing yet. These tests take time; you know that."
I stared at him a moment, then decided to put my vague notion to the test. "Are you a betting man, Al?"
"I've been known to place a small wager now and then."
"Tell you what," I said. "I'll bet you ten bucks I can tell you what those stains on the sheet are even before the tests are completed."
"They're not blood," he said. "I told you she was strangled."
"I know they're not blood. But I know what they are. Is it a bet?"
"Okay," he said. "For ten bucks. What are they?"
"Acrylic paint."
He took a swig of his beer. "How the hell did you come up with that?"
"A swami told me."
"If you turn out to be right, tell the swami there's a job waiting for him in the PBPD."
"I think I'm right," I said, "but I don't want your ten dollars. I want a favor instead."
He groaned. "I'd rather pay the ten."
"A simple favor," I said. "Get back to your Michigan contact and ask if they've got anything on Theodosia Johnson, Hector's daughter. The last name may be different but 'Theodosia' is probably for real. What woman would use that as an alias? And you met her this morning, you can describe her accurately. Or send Michigan a photo of that Silas Hawkin portrait."