McNally's Gamble Read Free

Boca. They were so good, especially the ones with mint icing.”
    A sigh from behind the desk. “Mother, please get on with it.”
    “Anyway,” she continued, “we started talking about the stock market and real estate, and Edythe Westmore said she had recently consulted an investment adviser who is a real expert and is making her a lot of money in unusual things.”
    “Oh?” I said. “Such as?”
    “Stocks that aren’t even listed in the paper. And a tin mine in Bolivia and oil wells in Texas.”
    Mon pere and I exchanged a quick glance.
    “And now,” she went on, “Edythe said he has a wonderful deal for her. He says she could make a small fortune.”
    I knew the retort to that: “If she starts with a large fortune.” But all I said was, “Did Mrs. Westmore give any details about this wonderful deal?”
    “Yes, he wants her to buy a Fabergé egg from a man in Paris. This man needs cash and is willing to sell the egg for half a million dollars. Edythe’s financial adviser says she could easily get more than a million for it at auction, even two or three million.”
    “Then why,” I asked, “doesn’t the man in Paris put it up for auction?”
    “Edythe didn’t say. I don’t think it occurred to her to ask.”
    Then father and I stared at each other. “Is Mrs. Westmore wealthy, sir?” I inquired.
    He lapsed into his mulling mode: a long period of silence during which he undoubtedly held an internal debate on the ethics, necessity, and possible unwelcome repercussions of answering my question. He’d go through the same process if he was invited to put Colman’s mustard on his broiled calves’ liver.
    “Moderately wealthy,” he pronounced finally. “But not to the extent that a single investment of half a million dollars would be considered prudent.”
    “A Fabergé egg,” I repeated. “What an odd investment. I have heard them described as the world’s costliest tchotchkes.”
    Father straightened in his chair, not at all amused. “Do you have anything on your plate at the moment?” he demanded.
    “No, sir. Not since the Franklin kidnapping is resolved.”
    “Then I suggest you institute Discreet Inquiries anent this so-called investment adviser Mrs. Westmore is consulting and particularly his recommendation she purchase a Fabergé egg. You must tread carefully here, Archy. The lady has not requested our assistance and McNally and Son has no right or duty to go prying into her personal money matters. But she is a valued client and I would not care to see her defrauded by a common swindler. From what Mother has told us, I fear it is exactly what may happen.”
    “I concur,” I told him. “It has a whiff of flimflam.”
    “Then look into it,” he said sharply. “But be circumspect. The client must not be aware of your investigation. Is that clear?”
    “Yes, father.”
    He rose and I knew I was dismissed. I wished him a final “Happy Birthday,” which he accepted with a wan smile. Then I left my parents alone. I suspected they had private memories to exchange. Birthdays are a time for fond remembrances, are they not?
    I climbed the stairs to my third-floor mini-suite: sitting room, bedroom, bath. It was small, cramped, and under a leaky roof but I cherished it. It was my sanctuary and the rent was zilch.
    I lighted only my third English Oval of the day and poured myself a small marc. This is a brandy made from the residue of wine grapes after they have been pressed. It is possibly the world’s most powerful sludge.
    Thus equipped, I sat at my grungy desk, put up my feet, and phoned Consuela Garcia, the young woman with whom I am intimate and, regrettably, sometimes unfaithful. As I explained to my pal Binky Watrous, my infidelity is due to a mild but persistent case of satyriasis caused by seeing Jane Russell in The Outlaw at an impressionable age.

CHAPTER 3
    S HE PICKED UP THE phone.
    “Martha?” I said.
    “I’ll Martha you, goofball,” Connie said. “Have you been behaving