desperate measures,” I replied, swinging aboard a barstool. “What do you recommend to banish the blues, Mr. Pettibone? I plan to have only one so I suggest it be muscular.”
“A negroni will provide needed warmth and nourishment. But only one,” he warned. “For it is a potion to be respected.”
“As well I know,” I said, “from sad experience. Very well, one negroni, Mr. Pettibone. And if I insist on a second I advise you to summon the gendarmes.”
I took one sip of the ambrosial concoction he set before me and suddenly the rain ceased, the sun shone, and Joan Blondell and I planned a weekend at Biarritz. Not literally, of course, but that’s the effect a negroni can have on an impressionable youth.
“Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “do you recall an ex-member named Timothy Cussack?”
“I do indeed,” he said promptly. “A welsher.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I don’t believe I ever met him. What kind of a chap was he?”
“Oozy.”
“And what precisely did he ooze?”
“Personality,” Mr. Pettibone said. “Charm. Too much, and so it oozed.”
“Ah,” I said, “a trenchant observation. I’ve heard him described as a hulk. Large, is he?”
“Oh yes. And handsome in a meanish kind of way, as if he might enjoy kicking a dog.”
“Doesn’t sound like a sterling character.”
“No, that he is not.”
“A scoundrel?”
Mr. Pettibone considered a moment. “I do believe he’s working up to it,” he said. “Or down.”
“What do you suppose drives him?” I asked.
“Mr. McNally, some people just have a natural talent for meanness. I think that may be true of Timothy Cussack. And also, of course, he was perpetually short of funds.”
I nodded. “As Shaw once remarked, ‘The lack of money is the root of all evil.’ ”
“I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Shaw,” Pettibone said solemnly, “but obviously he was a man of wisdom.”
I thanked him for his assistance and finished my drink. (Take note: only one.) I then drove home in a negroni-bemused mood. I was accumulating additional bits and pieces of information but to what purpose I could not have said. The Forsythe saga was beginning to resemble one of those children’s puzzles in which numbered dots are connected in sequence to form a picture. But in this case most of the dots were unnumbered—or missing.
At dinner that evening my father commented that the police questioning of the Forsythe family and staff had been brief and inconclusive. Everyone had eagerly cooperated but nothing new had been learned. Sgt. Rogoff had stated that his investigation would continue. I could believe that; tenacity is his middle name. (Not really, of course; it’s Irving.)
Later that night I was upstairs making desultory scribblings in my journal when the sergeant phoned, as I knew he inevitably would.
“You know,” he started, “I’m beginning to see us as Laurel and Hardy. I’m the fat one who always says, ‘Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into.’ ”
“Al,” I said, “I swear I had nothing to do with it except recommend that the police be notified.”
“But you told Griswold Forsythe to hand me the squeal, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “But only because I knew he demanded discretion.”
“Discretion?” He honked a bitter laugh. “It’s hard to be discreet, sonny boy, when someone’s tried to choke a woman to death.”
“I know you’ll try to keep a lid on it,” I said soothingly. “How did you make out at the Kingdom of Oz?”
“The Forsythe place? Hey, that’s a creepy joint, isn’t it? As damp inside as it is out. It’s a wonder they all don’t have webs between their toes. Archy, it’s another NKN case—nobody knows nothing. And don’t tell me that’s a double negative; I still like it.”
“Did you talk to the family physician, Dr. Pursglove?”
“Oh yeah,” Al said. “He’s Mr. Congeniality, isn’t he? I called in Tom Bunion from the ME’s office. He
“A negroni will provide needed warmth and nourishment. But only one,” he warned. “For it is a potion to be respected.”
“As well I know,” I said, “from sad experience. Very well, one negroni, Mr. Pettibone. And if I insist on a second I advise you to summon the gendarmes.”
I took one sip of the ambrosial concoction he set before me and suddenly the rain ceased, the sun shone, and Joan Blondell and I planned a weekend at Biarritz. Not literally, of course, but that’s the effect a negroni can have on an impressionable youth.
“Mr. Pettibone,” I said, “do you recall an ex-member named Timothy Cussack?”
“I do indeed,” he said promptly. “A welsher.”
“Exactly,” I said. “I don’t believe I ever met him. What kind of a chap was he?”
“Oozy.”
“And what precisely did he ooze?”
“Personality,” Mr. Pettibone said. “Charm. Too much, and so it oozed.”
“Ah,” I said, “a trenchant observation. I’ve heard him described as a hulk. Large, is he?”
“Oh yes. And handsome in a meanish kind of way, as if he might enjoy kicking a dog.”
“Doesn’t sound like a sterling character.”
“No, that he is not.”
“A scoundrel?”
Mr. Pettibone considered a moment. “I do believe he’s working up to it,” he said. “Or down.”
“What do you suppose drives him?” I asked.
“Mr. McNally, some people just have a natural talent for meanness. I think that may be true of Timothy Cussack. And also, of course, he was perpetually short of funds.”
I nodded. “As Shaw once remarked, ‘The lack of money is the root of all evil.’ ”
“I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Shaw,” Pettibone said solemnly, “but obviously he was a man of wisdom.”
I thanked him for his assistance and finished my drink. (Take note: only one.) I then drove home in a negroni-bemused mood. I was accumulating additional bits and pieces of information but to what purpose I could not have said. The Forsythe saga was beginning to resemble one of those children’s puzzles in which numbered dots are connected in sequence to form a picture. But in this case most of the dots were unnumbered—or missing.
At dinner that evening my father commented that the police questioning of the Forsythe family and staff had been brief and inconclusive. Everyone had eagerly cooperated but nothing new had been learned. Sgt. Rogoff had stated that his investigation would continue. I could believe that; tenacity is his middle name. (Not really, of course; it’s Irving.)
Later that night I was upstairs making desultory scribblings in my journal when the sergeant phoned, as I knew he inevitably would.
“You know,” he started, “I’m beginning to see us as Laurel and Hardy. I’m the fat one who always says, ‘Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into.’ ”
“Al,” I said, “I swear I had nothing to do with it except recommend that the police be notified.”
“But you told Griswold Forsythe to hand me the squeal, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “But only because I knew he demanded discretion.”
“Discretion?” He honked a bitter laugh. “It’s hard to be discreet, sonny boy, when someone’s tried to choke a woman to death.”
“I know you’ll try to keep a lid on it,” I said soothingly. “How did you make out at the Kingdom of Oz?”
“The Forsythe place? Hey, that’s a creepy joint, isn’t it? As damp inside as it is out. It’s a wonder they all don’t have webs between their toes. Archy, it’s another NKN case—nobody knows nothing. And don’t tell me that’s a double negative; I still like it.”
“Did you talk to the family physician, Dr. Pursglove?”
“Oh yeah,” Al said. “He’s Mr. Congeniality, isn’t he? I called in Tom Bunion from the ME’s office. He
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