McNally's Dare by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo Page B

squirm. It was my turn to give, and not taking any chances I parted with only what would soon be common knowledge.
    “Jeff Rodgers was murdered,” I said. “Chloroformed before being shoved into the pool.”
    Denny pursed his lips to whistle but if any sound emerged it was lost to the babble as early diners began arriving to join the bar crowd. He was too much of a pro to speculate on how Jeff had been shoved into the pool while Nifty’s party was in full swing, probably because he had already figured it out for himself. Who had done the shoving was the question which Denny now posed.
    “You think Jeff was made redundant because of what he had on the Talbot guy?”
    “I have no idea,” I said, “mostly because I didn’t know there was a connection between the two until you told me.”
    Again, he asked, “Are you working for Malcolm MacNiff?”
    “I plead client confidentiality,” I told him before asking, “Why haven’t you told the police why you came to Palm Beach?”
    “That would be revealing a source, which I never do,” he said.
    “Your source is dead,” I reminded him, “and what he told you could help the police in their investigation of his death.”
    “It could also help you, Archy. That is, if you are looking into Jeff’s murder on behalf of a client.”
    “We’re shadowboxing, Denny,” I said, thinking that we had reached an impasse and I was getting bored with the charade and with Denny. True, he had given me a connection between the assignments I had undertaken for Nifty—Jeff’s murder and the legitimacy of Lance Talbot’s claim—but I wasn’t about to tell Denny that. In fact, I was going to tell Denny as little as possible and learn as much as I could. In the game of give-and-take, the object is to take as much as you can get and give as little as you can get away with. And, lest I forget, I was playing with a pro.
    Denny again signaled our waitress and indicated by pointing that we were ready for another drink. It’s long been rumored that reporters are big-time boozers and Denny wasn’t doing anything to dispel the supposition. “If you’d like a cigarette we could move out to the terrace,” he offered.
    “What makes you think I’m a smoker?”
    “You’re beginning to fidget,” he said, mockingly.
    “And you’re beginning to bore, Denny. Now if you’ll excuse me...”
    “Cool your heels,” he said, motioning me to stay seated. When I kept my place he leaned forward and, speaking in earnest, got down to the purpose of our meeting. “Look, Archy, I need your help and I’m willing to pay for it. What’s your fee?”
    “Steep, like everything else in Palm Beach, but I’m sure you, or your magazine, can afford it. What did you have in mind, Denny?”
    The waitress deposited our drinks and took away the empties. When she was out of hearing range Denny said, “I want you to. find out what Jeff had on Lance Talbot. I thought I had come down here chasing a rainbow but the kid’s murder changes all that. He was on to something. Something so big it got him killed. Drugs? Kinky sex? Maybe. But my guess is that Jeff Rodgers knew who Lance Talbot’s father was and the disclosure would make headlines.”
    “So you know he was born on the wrong side of the blanket,” I said, impressed with Denny’s facts.
    “My assistant compiled a dossier on Talbot, his mother, grandmother and the Detroit Reynolds connection. My first thought was that Jeff had learned who fathered Lance and that it was a man of note who would like to remain anonymous. It’s why I came down here.”
    This, of course, opened a can of worms I had not even considered nor, I suspect, had Malcolm MacNiff, who was unaware of the link between Jeff and Lance. It was Lance’s identity, not his father’s, that worried Nifty. As for Jeff’s murder, all Nifty cared about was clearing his friends of the crime. Denny, on the other hand, didn’t have a clue that Talbot might not be Talbot. If I signed on with