McNally's Trial Read Free Page A

detective.”
    “Of course I work. Very diligently, I might add. And yes, my specialty is discreet inquiries.”
    He looked at me thoughtfully—if such a thing were possible. “You know, I believe I could do that. Lurking about and asking questions.”
    “There’s more to it than that,” I assured him. “It requires unique skills, plus curiosity and a keen intelligence.”
    That pleased him. “Now I’m sure I qualify,” he said happily. “I’m inquisitive and no one’s ever doubted my brainpower.”
    “Or even mentioned it,” I said, but he could not be stopped.
    “I’ve read oodles of detective novels,” he rattled on. “Shadowing villains, threatening suspects, getting beat up and all that. I’m sure I can do it.”
    “Binky,” I said, fearful of what I suspected was coming, “it really is an extremely difficult profession. The tricks of the trade can be learned only by experience.”
    “You could teach me,” he said eagerly.
    “I’m not sure you have the temperament for it.”
    “Look, Archy,” he said, trying to harden his cherubic features into an expression of stern resolve, “why don’t you let me work with you on your next case. No salary, of course. Just to learn the ropes, so to speak.”
    “And then what?” I demanded. “The old man would never let me hire a full-time assistant.”
    “I realize that,” he agreed, “but after I catch on how it’s done I could set up my own business. Binky Watrous: Private Eye. How does that sound?”
    “Loathsome,” I said. “Believe me, son, you’re simply not cut out to be a sherlock.”
    “How do you know?” he argued. “I mean, you didn’t start out to be a snoop, did you? You were going to be a lawyer and then you became an investigator. And now you enjoy it, don’t you?”
    I had to agree.
    “Give me a chance, Archy,” he pleaded. “I’ll just tag along, observe and listen, and then I’ll get out of your hair. What do you say?”
    I sighed. I knew it would be a frightful error, but I could not deny his request. The poor dweeb was really in a bind.
    “Okay, Binky,” I said finally. “I’ll take you on as an unpaid helper. But I’ll be captain of the ship—is that understood?”
    “Of course!” he said gleefully. “You command and I obey—absolutely! Do you think I should buy a gun?”
    I gulped more Rémy. Allowing Binky to buy a gun would be like handing the Olympic torch to an arsonist.
    “No, I don’t think you’ll have any need for a firearm.”
    “A knife?”
    “No.”
    “Brass knuckles?”
    “No weapons whatsoever, Binky. You’re not going into combat, you know.”
    “We’ll just outsmart the bad guys,” he said. “Right?”
    “Right,” I said feebly, knowing he was incapable of outsmarting a Tasmanian devil.
    I finished my drink and rose. “Got to dash,” I said. “I told Connie I’d phone.”
    “When do we start?” he asked anxiously. “I want to tell the Duchess I’m hard at work getting on-the-job training.”
    “Call you tomorrow,” I promised.
    “Great!” he said. “But not too early, Archy. I’ve got a golf date at noon.”
    Typical Binky. I believe I told you in previous annals that his main talent was doing birdcalls. His imitation of a loon was especially realistic. I should also mention a formal dinner party we both attended during which corn on the cob was served. Instead of gnawing at the buttered kernels, Binky played the entire ear like a harmonica while humming “America, the Beautiful.” The other guests were convinced there was a lunatic in their midst.
    But enough about Binky Watrous. I drove home in a remarkably equable mood. I felt certain that by the time the sun was over the yardarm on the following day and the effects of Binky’s beaker of Scotch had worn off, my chum would have completely forgotten his determination to become a detective.
    It was my second serious miscalculation on that portentous evening.

3.
    T HE MCNALLY MANSE was darkened and silent by