McNally's Puzzle Read Free

McNally’s son?” he demanded. “Archibald McNally?”
    “That’s correct, sir.”
    “Call you Archy?”
    “Of course,” I said.
    “Call me Hi,” he said. “Hate the name Hiram. Makes me sound like a Nebraska farmer.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Hiram Walker and I are old friends.”
    He picked up on it immediately. “Say, you sound like a sharp kid. Want to see me, do you?”
    “Yes, sir. At your convenience.”
    “Right now suits me fine,” he said. “Come on over.”
    “On my way,” I told him, and hung up, warning myself to be careful in greeting Mr. Gottschalk. “Hi, Hi” just wouldn’t do, would it?
    I found Parrots Unlimited with little trouble. It was on Hibiscus Street out west toward Cooley Stadium. I discovered a legal parking space about two blocks away and strolled back, grateful for my panama because the November sun thought it was still July.
    The store was larger than I had anticipated and appeared to be well maintained. There were no live birds behind the plate glass windows as one might expect of a pet shop, but there was an attractive display of framed color photos of macaws, lovebirds, cockatoos, parakeets, and one magnificently feathered Edward’s Fig-Parrot. There was also a printed sign: “ BOARDING AND GROOMING AVAILABLE AT REASONABLE RATES .” And a hand-scrawled notice: “Part-time assistant wanted. Inquire within.”
    I opened the door and entered, fearing I would be greeted with a cacophony of squawks and an odor that might loosen my fillings. Nothing of the sort existed. The interior was clean and uncluttered, the cool air smelled faintly of a wild cherry deodorizer, and rather than indignant screeches, all I heard was a subdued peep now and then, leading me to wonder if a wee bit of Valium might not be added to the daily diet of that multicolored aviary.
    Just inside the door a large, pure-white parrot was perched on a well-pecked branch of soft wood. It was uncaged and untied. I paused to stare at it and the fowl turned its head to stare back. It had beady, red-tinged eyes, reminding me of my own after I have inhaled three brandy stingers.
    I was approached by a salesperson, a plump, attractive young lady who was less parrot than robin redbreast.
    “May I help you, sir?” she chirped.
    (It always depresses me to be addressed as “sir” by a nubile lass. I dread the day when it may become “pop.”)
    “This bird,” I said, gesturing toward the unfettered white parrot. “Why doesn’t it fly away?”
    “His wings have been clipped,” she explained. “It’s a completely painless procedure.”
    I found that hard to believe. I know I’d suffer if my wings were clipped.
    “My name is Archy McNally,” I told her. “I have an appointment with Mr. Gottschalk. Would you be kind enough to tell him I’ve arrived.”
    “Just a moment, please, sir,” she said, and left.
    I wandered about examining the extraordinary selection of parrots being offered for sale, some in individual cages but many in communal enclosures where they seemed to exist placidly together. There were also racks of bird feed, grooming aids, books, cages, perches, and toys. It was truly a psittacine supermarket, with one glassed-in corner apparently devoted to the grooming and treatment of birds with the sniffles.
    The perky clerk soon returned to conduct me to Mr. Hiram Gottschalk’s private office at the rear of the store. It was a smallish chamber with steel furniture and a computer installation on a separate table. The only item rarely found in commercial offices was a large, ornate cage on a stand. Within was a single parrot of a gray-blue color. It turned its head to watch me warily as I entered.
    Our client was a short, stringy man sporting a nattily trimmed salt-and-pepper Vandyke. I guessed his age at about seventy, give or take, but his features were so taut I imagined additional years would wreak little damage to that tight visage. His eyes were hazel and alert. Exceedingly