'Then if you'll give me your house keys, I'll be on my way.'
He rooted in the top drawer of his desk and finally handed me three keys strung on an oversized paperclip. 'Front door, back door, and garage,' he said.
'I'll look in while you're gone,' I promised. 'And may I tell father you'll consult him about a new will when you return?'
'Yes,' he said. 'New will. I'll think about it.'
He didn't stagger when he accompanied me to the front door, but he moved very, very slowly and once he placed a palm against the wall for support. He turned to face me at the entrance. I couldn't read his expression.
'Archy,' he said, 'do you like me? Do you?'
'Of course I like you,' I said.
He grabbed my hand and clasped it tightly between both of his. 'Good man,' he said thickly. 'Good man.'
I gently drew my hand away. 'Rod, be sure to lock up and put the chain on.'
Outside, the door closed, I listened until I heard the sounds of the lock being turned and the chain fumbled into place. Then I took a deep breath of the cool night air and drove home.
I garaged the Miata and saw lights in my father's study. His door was open, which I took as an invitation to enter. He was seated in the leather club chair, a glass of port at his elbow. He was reading one of the volumes from his leather-bound set of Dickens. The book was hefty, and I guessed it to be Dombey and Son. He was stolidly reading his way through the entire Dickens oeuvre, and I admired his perseverance. Even more amazing, he remembered all the plots. I don't think even Dickens could do that.
He looked up as I entered. 'Archy,' he said, 'you're home. You saw Gillsworth?'
'Yes, sir. He gave me a set of his house keys and asked that I look in once or twice while he's up north at the funeral.'
I was waiting for him to ask me to sit down and have a glass of something, but he didn't.
'You brought up the subject of the will?'
'I did. He said he'd give it some thought and consult you when he returned.'
'I suppose that's the best that can be hoped for. What condition is he in?'
'When I left him, he was half in the bag and still drinking.'
One of father's eyebrows ascended. 'That's not like Gillsworth. I've never known him to overindulge.'
'Emotional strain,' I suggested.
'No excuse,' the lord of the manor pronounced and went back to his Dickens.
I climbed the stairs to my perch, thinking of what an uncompromising man my father was. And as I well knew, his bite was worse than his bark.
I undressed, showered, and scrubbed my choppers. Then I pulled on a silk robe I had recently purchased at a fancy-schmancy men's boutique on Worth Avenue. It bore a design of multicolored parrots carousing in a jungle setting. One of those crazy birds had a startling resemblance to Roderick Gillsworth.
I treated myself to a dram of marc and lighted an English Oval-my first cigarette of the day! I slouched in the padded swivel chair, put my bare feet up on the desk, and ruminated on why the poet had asked if I liked him. His question was as perplexing as Hertha Gloriana's kiss.
I didn't think it was the vodka talking; Gillsworth was seeking reassurance. But of what-and why from me? I could only conclude that his wife's death had left him so bereft that he had reached out to make contact with another human being. I happened to be handy.
But that explanation was not completely satisfying. Sgt. Rogoff has often accused me of having a taste for complexity, of searching for hidden motives and unconscious desires when I'd do better to accept the obvious. A1 could be right, and mother was correct in suggesting that Gillsworth was simply lonely. But I was not totally convinced.
Take as a case in point the recent behavior of yrs. truly. When the poet had asked, 'Do you like me?' I had automatically replied, 'Of course I like you.' That was the polite and proper response to an intimate query from a man who was apparently suffering and needed, for whatever reason, a boost to his morale. And I had duly provided it.
But if the truth be known, I didn't like him. I didn't dislike him; I just felt nothing for him at all. That was my secret, and hardly something I'd reveal to him. I mention it now merely as an illustration of how the obvious frequently masks reality.
I was still musing gloomily on the strangeness of human nature when my phone rang. It was then almost midnight, and a call at that hour was not calculated to lift the McNally spirits. My first thought was: Now who's died?
'H'lo?' I said warily.
'Archy?' A woman's voice I could not immediately identify.
'Yes. To whom am I speaking?'
'Such elegant grammar! Meg Trumble.'
Relief was better than a schooner of marc.
'Meg!' I practically shouted. 'How are you?' 'Very well, thank you. I didn't wake you up, did
I?'
'Of course not. It's the shank of the evening.'
'Well, I did call earlier, but I guess you were out. Behaving yourself, I hope.'
'Unfortunately. You're calling from King of Prussia?'
'Yes, but I'm leaving early tomorrow morning, and I do mean early. I should be in Florida by Tuesday.'
'Can't wait,' I said. 'Listen, if you arrive in time, give me a call and we'll have dinner. You'll be ready to unwind after all that driving.'
'I was hoping you'd say that,' she said. 'I'm not even telling Laverne when I expect to arrive, but I'll phone you as soon as I get in. See you Tuesday night.'
'Good-o,' I said. She hung up, and I sat there grinning like an idiot at the dead phone.
It was incredible what a goose that phone call gave to my dismal mood. I was immediately convinced I would rescue Peaches, find the killer of Lydia Gillsworth, the sun would shine full force on the morrow, and I would lose at least five pounds.
When A. Pope wrote about hope springing eternal, he obviously had A. McNally in mind.
8
I don't believe I've ever mentioned my peculiar infatuation with hats. I love hats. When I was attending Yale Law (briefly), I wore suede and tweed caps, fedoras, bowlers, and once, in a moment of madness, a fez. But all that headgear was a mite heavy for South Florida, so when I returned to Palm Beach I opted for mesh caps, panamas, and a marvelous planter's sombrero with a five-inch brim.
Recently I had written to a custom hat maker in Danbury, Conn., and had ordered three linen berets in white, puce, and emerald green. They arrived on Monday morning, and I was highly pleased. They were soft enough to roll up and tuck in a hip pocket, yet when they were donned and the fullness pulled rakishly over to one side, I felt they gave me a certain devil-may-care look.
I went down to a late breakfast wearing my new puce beret. Fortunately my father had already departed for the office so I didn't have to endure his incredulous stare. Mother took one look, laughed delightedly, and clapped her hands.
'Archy,' she said, 'that beret is you!'
I was so gratified by her reaction that I wore the cap while breakfasting on fresh grapefruit juice, three slices of Ursi Olson's marvelous French toast with honey-apricot preserve, and a pot of black coffee. I was finishing my second cup when mater remarked casually, 'Oh, by the way, Archy, Harry Willigan phoned just before you came down. He'd like you to call him as soon as possible. He sounded in a dreadful temper.'
Dear mother! She made certain I had a nourishing breakfast before breaking the bad news. I went into father's study and called the Willigan home. Julie Blessington, the maid, answered the phone. I identified myself and
