McNally's Caper Read Free

my case, begin to look forward to dissolution with curiosity and, I must admit, a certain degree of relish.”
    “How long, O Lord, how long?” I prayed silently. And you know, the odd thing about this garrulous fogy was that he was not all that ancient. Not much older than my father, I reckoned; I knew his son was about my age. Yet the two Forsythes, II and III, had brought codgerism to new heights—or depths. I shall not attempt to reproduce their speech exactly on these pages; the plummy turgidities would give you a sudden attack of the Z’s.
    And not only in their speech, but both father and son affected a grave and stately demeanor. No sudden bursts of laughter from those two melancholies, no public manifestations of delight, surprise, or almost any other human emotion. I often wondered what might happen if their rusty clockwork slipped a gear.
    “Mr. Forsythe,” I tried again, desperately this time, “about the stolen items...”
    “Ah, yes,” he said. “Distressing. And we can’t let it continue, can we?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Distressing,” he repeated. “Most distressing.”
    We were seated in his library, a gloomy chamber lined with floor-to-ceiling oak cases of books, most of them in matching sets. There was a handsome ladder on wheels that enabled one to reach the upper shelves, but I couldn’t believe he or anyone else in his ménage had read even a fraction of those thousands of volumes.
    “I suggest you make this room your headquarters,” he instructed. “Your combat center, so to speak. Feel free to come and go as you please. Speak to anyone you wish: family members and staff.”
    “They are not aware of my assignment?”
    “They are not,” he said firmly. “Not even my wife. So I expect you to conduct your investigation with a high degree of circumspection.”
    “Naturally,” I said, reflecting that I had been called many things in my lifetime but circumspect was not one of them. “Mr. Forsythe, could you give me a brief rundown on your household.”
    He looked at me, puzzled. “The people, you mean?” he asked.
    Did he think I meant the number of salad forks? “Yes, sir,” I said. “The persons in residence.”
    “Myself and my wife Constance, of course. Our unmarried daughter Geraldine. Our son, whom I believe you know, and his wife Sylvia and their young daughter Lucy. The staff consists of Mrs. Nora Bledsoe, our housekeeper and majordomo, so to speak. Her son, Anthony, serves as butler and houseman. Two maids, Sheila and Fern. The chef’s name is Zeke Grenough. We also employ a full-time gardener, Rufino Diaz, but he doesn’t dwell on the premises.”
    “Quite an establishment,” I commented.
    “Is it?” he said, mildly surprised that everyone didn’t live so well-attended. “When my parents were alive we had a live-in staff of twelve. But of course they did a great deal of entertaining. I rarely entertain. Dislike it, in fact. Too much chatter.”
    I was tempted to ask, “You mean you can’t get a word in edgewise?” But I didn’t, of course.
    “I’m sure I’ll get them all sorted out,” I told him.
    “And when may I expect results?”
    “No way of telling, Mr. Forsythe. But I’m as eager as you to bring this matter to a speedy conclusion. And now, with your permission, I’d like to take a look around the grounds.”
    “Of course,” he said. “Learn the lay of the land, so to speak, eh?”
    I could have made a coarse rejoinder to that but restrained myself. Griswold Forsythe II led me to a back door that allowed exit to the rear acres of the estate.
    “When you have completed your inspection,” he said, “I suggest you request Mrs. Bledsoe to give you a tour of the house. There are many hallways, many rooms, many nooks and crannies. We don’t want you getting lost, do we?”
    “We surely don’t,” I said, repressing a terrible desire to kick his shins. Because, you see, I suspected he didn’t want me strolling unescorted through his home. Which