McNally's Dilemma by Lawrence Sanders, Vincent Lardo Page A

thereafter. My mind throbbed with thoughts both prurient and academic. The former I know how to quiet, but refrained; the latter I struggled with until dawn.
    Why was the alarm at the front gate of the Williamses’ house turned off?
    Did Veronica always give her mother the address of where she could be found when she went out in the evening?
    When Melva heard a car return she said she thought it was Geoff. Why didn’t she think it could have been Veronica, who was also out that evening?
    And something Hattie said had struck me as odd at the time, but the thought had vanished before taking root. What was it?
    When I did fall asleep, I dreamed I heard Hobo barking.

6
    T HE PIERCING RING OF my telephone jolted me out of a sound sleep at ten A.M. I awoke thinking Quasimodo had lost it in the campanile and immediately pulled the covers over my head. This did nothing to discourage the caller. I rose and moved toward the dastardly object like Boris Karloff in The Mummy. The telephone, it is my belief, is the underlying cause of modern man’s inhumanity to man. Its jarring summons on this gray morning did nothing to dispel that learned thesis.
    “Archy here.”
    “Archy’s father here.”
    This mummy was instantly wide-awake, if not raring to go.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Did I wake you?”
    “I was about, sir.”
    “About what?”
    “About to get up, actually.”
    “Late night, Archy?”
    “Late morning would be nearer the mark.”
    “I take it the young lady Ursi told me was asleep in the guest room is the Manning child?”
    “She’s not a child,” I quickly corrected, in defense of my lascivious longings. My few hours’ rest had done nothing to alleviate my untoward desires. “She’s twenty-one, at least.”
    “The child’s age is of no consequence, Archy.”
    “If you say so, sir.”
    “And I take it, once again, that the rather showy vehicle blocking our garage, and making me late for an early-morning client meeting, belongs to Miss Manning?”
    Hanging by the thumbs was too kind a punishment for Binky Watrous. Chinese water torture? Iron mask? “It is. I had to—”
    “No need to explain, Archy. Regarding our bid for poor Melva’s case, you’ve obviously held up your end very well indeed, and I’ve been doing my share here at the office.”
    Bid? I thought I was helping a friend, not selling the services of McNally & Son. The sire’s approach to things material never ceased to amaze me when it didn’t amuse me. And judging from his hale and hearty tone, father was in a jubilant state this morning, which I attributed to the sound of cash registers ringing on Royal Palm Way.
    “I spoke to Melva’s lawyers in New York,” he continued. “They do have a good man qualified to practice in Florida, and he, with a team, are on their way here as we speak. I’ve offered them office space at McNally & Son as well as carte blanche use of telephones, fax machines, etc. They have wisely accepted. We’ll also give them input from our perspective as Florida-based counsel.”
    When they see the carte blanche tab, they’ll think they’ve rented space in Buckingham Palace. Of course, I didn’t say that. What I did say was, “I was going to ask you to send one of your attorneys to the courthouse to see what they could do for Melva before her lawyers get here.”
    Our operation is a legal supermarket, sans the pushcarts and double coupons. Estate planning, taxes, revocable and charitable trusts are our mainstay, but we also employ associates skilled in litigation, real estate, copyrights, trademarks, patents, divorce, malpractice, personal and product liability, and, on a retainer basis, a man qualified to practice criminal law. This last was surely the man Father would dispatch to represent Melva.
    “Naturally, I sent a most qualified attorney to consult with Melva first thing this morning.”
    Naturally. “How is Melva doing?”
    “Remarkably well,” Father said. “Class will tell, my boy. We’re trying to