McNally's Caper by Lawrence Sanders Page B

was delighted to come out in this monsoon, as you can well imagine. Anyway, he more or less confirms what Pursglove says: the attacker was probably a woman. So where does that leave us?”
    “Well, it certainly narrows the list of suspects to the women who were in the house at the time, doesn’t it?”
    “Not necessarily,” Rogoff argued. “It could have been an outsider.”
    “Al, they’re supposed to have a state-of-the-art security system.”
    “Doesn’t mean a thing,” he said. “It can be switched off, can’t it? As it is every morning. The control box is in a pantry off the kitchen. Anyone in the place could have thrown the switch and allowed someone to come in without making the balloon go up. By the way, what were you doing there before I was called in?”
    “The Forsythes are clients of McNally and Son. The senior Griswold was in a panic this morning after they found Mrs. Sylvia. My father was busy so I went over.”
    “Uh-huh,” Rogoff said. “And what were your notes doing on the library desk? I recognized your scrawl handwriting.”
    “Oh that ,” I said breezily. “I’m cataloging Mr. Forsythe’s books.”
    “You’re doing what ?”
    “Cataloging the Forsythe library. I don’t spend all my time nabbing villains, you know.”
    “Son,” the sergeant said heavily, “you’ve got more crap than a Christmas goose. But I’ll let it go—for now. You know all the people in that nuthouse?”
    “I’ve met them all, yes.”
    “Excluding the injured woman and Lucy, the kid, that leaves Constance Forsythe, the daughter Geraldine, the housekeeper Mrs. Bledsoe, and the two maids, Fern and Sheila. Five females, all with fingernails long enough to make those wounds on the victim’s neck. Assuming no outsider was allowed in, who’s your pick?”
    “Al,” I said, “I just don’t know and that’s the truth. I can’t even guess. Too many imponderables.”
    “I love the way you talk,” he said. “You mean it’s all shit—right?”
    “Something like that.”
    He sighed. “I hate these domestic violence cases. You can dig for weeks, months, years and never get to the bottom. You know that Fern, one of the maids?”
    “Sure. The one who giggles.”
    “Well, she wasn’t giggling this morning. Boo-hooing as a matter of fact. But I guess that’s understandable; she found the victim. Anyway, we were making a half-assed search of that loony bin and came across some bloodstained tissues in a wastebasket in Fern’s bedroom. She claims she got blood on her hands when she tried to revive Mrs. Sylvia. Could be.”
    “Of course it could,” I agreed. “And that’s all you discovered?”
    He laughed. “Not quite. Griswold Forsythe the Third, the uptight, upright heir to the throne, has a small but choice collection of nude photos.”
    “You’re kidding!”
    “I’m not. They aren’t professional. I think he took them himself. Polaroids. Same background, same lighting. We left everything where we found it. Now is that discretion or isn’t it?”
    I didn’t want to ask my next question but I had to. “Did you recognize any of the models?”
    “Sure,” Rogoff said cheerfully. “The two maids.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And Griswold’s sister Geraldine. Now do you know why I hate these family messes?”
    “Yes,” I said dully, “now I know.”
    We hung up after warm expressions of fealty, some of which were heartfelt. I like Al and I think—I hope—he likes me. But although we may be friends we are also, during the cases we work together, avid competitors. Nothing wrong with that, is there?
    I admit I was shaken by his final revelation. Griswold Forsythe III an eager snapper of nude photos? Including his maidservants and sister? It was mind-boggling. I imagined for one brief moment that it might be just an innocent hobby, somewhat akin to collecting Indian head pennies.
    Then I realized how insane that was. My fault was that I had assumed a man who wore mud-colored,