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

an archive where this information is readily available.”
    “Good idea, Archy.” Father retrieved the playbill and returned it to the secret compartment. What other treasures were resting within the belly of that masterpiece of eighteenth century American craftsmanship?
    I told Father that I had asked Vance Tremaine if Ouspenskaya knew who would be attending the séance. “Tremaine told me the psychic insisted on a guest list before agreeing to a sitting. He knew I would be there and I have reason to believe he knew I invited myself. A check on my association with McNally and Son would be sufficient for him to figure out what I was up to.”
    “I agree,” Father said, “but does he know who hired you?”
    “I think he does, sir, and I believe his performance last night was an exhibition of his powers aimed directly at me.”
    “A warning, Archy?”
    “It couldn’t be clearer, sir.”
    “What worries me is that if he knows who hired you to snoop around his operation it makes us look negligent in our promise of confidentiality to Richard Holmes and less than diligent in carrying out our duties. I don’t like it, Archy.”
    “Nor I, sir.”
    Before leaving I told Father that the person he had hired to tend Mother’s garden had arrived that morning.
    “Yes,” he said, “Kate Mulligan, I believe. Mother flatly refused to go on the cruise unless I hired someone to see that her garden and greenhouse didn’t suffer for her absence. What’s the woman like, Archy?”
    “Very pleasant, I would say, sir. She told Mother that begonias are her favorite flower and immediately won Mother’s approval.”
    Father smiled sheepishly, which is a rare occurrence, and admitted, “I informed the agency that Mother raised begonias and to instruct whomever they sent to make a point of praising the begonia family.”
    “Agency, sir?”
    “Yes. An agency in West Palm that supplies all sorts of temporary help. Mrs. Trelawney has used them for clerks when needed and she made the arrangements for Mother’s helper. The agency called me for personal details, which I thought very prudent, and from what you’ve told me it seems to have worked very well.”
    And from what I had seen of Kate Mulligan, I would have to agree.

FIVE
    I N MY OFFICE I called my friend and compadre at the PBPD, Sergeant Al Rogoff. Al and I have worked together on several cases, usually to our mutual satisfaction.
    “Sergeant Rogoff,” he answered.
    “Archy McNally here,” I said. “How was your week in New York?”
    “Great. I rode the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, took the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building and hit all the topless bars the mayor hasn’t pressured into closing.”
    “Nice try, Al, but I’m not buying it. You were at the ballet every night. Right?”
    “Can it, Archy,” he stage whispered into the phone. “If that gets around the palace the Joe Sixpacks will be hanging tutus in my locker.”
    The palace is Al’s euphemism for the Palm Beach police station and Al is a closeted aficionado of the classical arts, from ballet to opera and all the stops along the way. One should not be misled by his passion for Mahler and Mendelssohn because Al Rogoff is as macho as they come and built like a bull. However, in a china shop he wouldn’t upset a Limoges teacup.
    “I’ll not betray you, Al,” I assured him. “Can I buy you lunch?”
    “Sorry, pal, I’m spoken for.”
    “If you’re turning down a free meal it must be serious business. Who’s the lucky lady, Policewoman Tweeny Alvarez?”
    “Jesus, Archy, I’d rather have lunch with you.”
    “Then why don’t you?”
    “You pay the lunch bill, Archy, but I end up with more work, more stress and one large headache, so no thanks. Solve your own problems.”
    “What makes you think I have a problem?”
    “Because you don’t invite me to lunch to gaze into my bloodshot eyes, but to pump me for information—or ask me for help.”
    My word, have he and Connie