Read Online McNally's Caper by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online Page B

interpret that comment? I didn’t even try.
    “Mrs. Forsythe,” I started, but she looked at me again and shook her head.
    “Sylvia will do,” she said. “And may I call you Archy?”
    “Honored,” I said, and gently disengaged my hand from hers. It was a noble act but a moment later I wanted to grab it up again and nibble her knuckles.
    “Sylvia,” I said, “do you have any idea who attacked you?”
    She sighed. “So many people have asked me that: the doctor, that police sergeant, my husband, father-in-law—just everyone. I’ve told them all the same thing but I’m not sure they believe me. The last thing I remember is being awakened from a sound sleep and becoming aware that someone was choking me. After that I have no memory at all. It’s just a total blank. Dr. Pursglove says that sometimes happens: the mind wipes out a painful, traumatic experience to aid healing. Self-protective, you know. But he expects the recollection will slowly return.”
    She looked at me wide-eyed and I did not believe a word she had said. But “You’re lying!” is not something one shouts at a convalescent young female—or at a healthy young male either. I was convinced Sylvia Forsythe knew the identity of her assailant. Why she chose not to reveal it was another unnumbered dot in that picture puzzle I was trying to draw.
    It seemed useless to pursue the matter and so I continued my detecting by switching to another subject. “Your mother-in-law tells me you’re an expert rider,” I remarked.
    “Not expert,” she said, “but I do enjoy it. I’m proud to say I’ve been thrown only once.”
    “I understand Mrs. Forsythe operates a horse farm and trains jumpers,” I went on. “Do you ever compete?”
    “Oh no,” she said, “I’m not that good. I just like to ride around and gallop occasionally. That’s exciting.”
    “What is the farm called?” I asked casually. “It sounds like an interesting place.”
    “Oh, it is. You really should see it, Archy. It’s called the Trojan Stables. Isn’t that a wonderful name?”
    “It surely is.”
    “It costs a fortune to run. Do you know the price of hay?”
    “No,” I said, “I haven’t been eating much lately.”
    She grinned at me. “Well, I suspect the function of Trojan Stables is to train jumpers and serve as a tax loss. I hope this conversation is confidential, Archy.”
    “Of course it is,” I assured her. “I’m a loyal employee, and even if the IRS uses thumbscrews I won’t talk. I may blubber but I won’t talk.”
    She laughed and took up my hand again. “I like you, Archy,” she said. “You’re fun and there’s not much of that around here. Perhaps we might go out to Wellington together and I’ll show you around the Trojan.”
    “I’d enjoy that,” I said, and wondered what Griswold Forsythe III might think of my squiring Sylvia. But then, I recalled, when Sgt. Rogoff had listed the models in Griswold’s nude photos he hadn’t mentioned the man’s wife.
    Then we were silent, but it was a reflective quiet. I imagine most of you ladies and gents have known such a moment—a briefness of balance, a shall-I or shall-I-not choice when you question not if you have the desire (that’s a given) but if you have the energy, psychic or physical or both.
    And always, of course, there is the problem of logistics. If the union contemplated is to be consummated, then where, when, and how? Sometimes craving remains just that only because to scratch the itch would require planning as complex as that for D-Day.
    And so Sylvia Forsythe and I gazed at each other tenderly while all we were thinking remained unspoken. Finally she released my hand and I assumed that was a signal of dismissal. I rose and expressed hope for her quick recovery.
    “I’ll be fine,” she said with a radiant smile. “And thank you again for stopping by. How is your cataloging job coming along?”
    “Slowly,” I said.
    “Good,” she said and left it to me to figure out