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Authors: Lawrence Sanders
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my dear wife gave me on our tenth anniversary.”
“Yes, sir, I remember. The old shellac of Enrico singing ‘ Vesti la guibba .’”
“After I mentioned it to you I was bothered because I couldn’t remember where I had put it. So I went searching. I finally found it about ten minutes ago. Someone smashed it. Now it’s just junk.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly.
“That record meant a lot to me. A gift from the woman I loved.”
“I understand, Hi,” I said. “Would you like me to come over now and we’ll talk about it?”
“No, no,” he said. “Thank you but that won’t be necessary. I just thought you should know.”
“Of course. Hi, I don’t wish to be an alarmist but you should be prepared to find yourself a victim of similar acts of terrorism or viciousness before I can discover who is responsible.”
“You think you can find out?”
“Absolutely,” I said stoutly. There are some situations demanding unbridled confidence with all dubiety ignored. This was one of them.
“Thank you, Archy,” he said gratefully. “You make me feel a lot better.”
I went to bed that night wondering if the future would prove me Sir Galahad or Sir Schlemiel.
By the time I clumped downstairs on Thursday morning my parents had long since breakfasted. I found Jamie Olson sitting alone in the kitchen. He was sucking on his old briar (the stem wound with a Band-Aid) and clutching a mug of black coffee I was certain he had enlivened with a jolt of aquavit. His chaps were definitely fallen.
“What’s wrong, Jamie?” I inquired.
“That damned raccoon again,” he said indignantly. “Got the lids off both trash cans. Made a mess. I’m going to catch up with that beast one of these days and give him what for. You want some breakfast, Mr. Archy?”
“I’ll make it. Anything left over?”
“A cold kipper.”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll toast a muffin and slide it in with a bit of mayo. Enough hot coffee?”
“Plenty.”
I had a glass of V8 Picante, prepared my kipper sandwich, and poured a cup of inky caffeine. I sat across the table from our houseman.
“Jamie,” I said, “ever hear of the Gottschalk family?”
The Olsons, our staff of two, are part of a loose confederacy of butlers, maids, chefs, housekeepers, valets, and servants of all species who minister to the needs of the wealthier residents of the Palm Beaches. Experience had taught me that this serving but by no means servile class knew a great many intimate details about the private lives of their employers. It was information they would never divulge except, occasionally, to others in their profession when a good laugh was wanted.
“Gottschalk?” Jamie repeated. “Nope. Never heard of them.”
“They have a live-in Oriental couple, Got and Mei Lee, chef and maid. Do you know anyone who might be acquainted?”
He relighted his charred pipe. My father also smokes a pipe. His tobacco is fragrant. Jamie’s is not.
“Mebbe,” he said finally. “I know Eddie Wong, a nice fellow. He buttles for old Mrs. Carrey in West Palm. You want I should ask Eddie if he knows—what’s their names?”
“Got and Mei Lee. Yes, please ask him. I’d like to know if the Gottschalks have a happy home. And if not, why not.”
Jamie nodded. “I’ll ask.”
Before I left for the office I slipped him a tenner. Pop would be outraged, I knew, since the Olsons were more than adequately recompensed for keeping the McNally ship on an even keel. But I didn’t feel their salaries included Jamie’s personal assistance to yrs. truly in my discreet inquiries. Hence my pourboire for his efforts above and beyond the call of duty.
I had two messages awaiting me when I arrived at my cul-de-sac in the McNally Building. I answered Sgt. Al Rogoff’s call first.
“Heavens to Betsy,” he said. “You’re at work so early? Why, it’s scarcely eleven o’clock.”
“I do work at home, you know,” I replied haughtily. “Sometimes with great
“Yes, sir, I remember. The old shellac of Enrico singing ‘ Vesti la guibba .’”
“After I mentioned it to you I was bothered because I couldn’t remember where I had put it. So I went searching. I finally found it about ten minutes ago. Someone smashed it. Now it’s just junk.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly.
“That record meant a lot to me. A gift from the woman I loved.”
“I understand, Hi,” I said. “Would you like me to come over now and we’ll talk about it?”
“No, no,” he said. “Thank you but that won’t be necessary. I just thought you should know.”
“Of course. Hi, I don’t wish to be an alarmist but you should be prepared to find yourself a victim of similar acts of terrorism or viciousness before I can discover who is responsible.”
“You think you can find out?”
“Absolutely,” I said stoutly. There are some situations demanding unbridled confidence with all dubiety ignored. This was one of them.
“Thank you, Archy,” he said gratefully. “You make me feel a lot better.”
I went to bed that night wondering if the future would prove me Sir Galahad or Sir Schlemiel.
By the time I clumped downstairs on Thursday morning my parents had long since breakfasted. I found Jamie Olson sitting alone in the kitchen. He was sucking on his old briar (the stem wound with a Band-Aid) and clutching a mug of black coffee I was certain he had enlivened with a jolt of aquavit. His chaps were definitely fallen.
“What’s wrong, Jamie?” I inquired.
“That damned raccoon again,” he said indignantly. “Got the lids off both trash cans. Made a mess. I’m going to catch up with that beast one of these days and give him what for. You want some breakfast, Mr. Archy?”
“I’ll make it. Anything left over?”
“A cold kipper.”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll toast a muffin and slide it in with a bit of mayo. Enough hot coffee?”
“Plenty.”
I had a glass of V8 Picante, prepared my kipper sandwich, and poured a cup of inky caffeine. I sat across the table from our houseman.
“Jamie,” I said, “ever hear of the Gottschalk family?”
The Olsons, our staff of two, are part of a loose confederacy of butlers, maids, chefs, housekeepers, valets, and servants of all species who minister to the needs of the wealthier residents of the Palm Beaches. Experience had taught me that this serving but by no means servile class knew a great many intimate details about the private lives of their employers. It was information they would never divulge except, occasionally, to others in their profession when a good laugh was wanted.
“Gottschalk?” Jamie repeated. “Nope. Never heard of them.”
“They have a live-in Oriental couple, Got and Mei Lee, chef and maid. Do you know anyone who might be acquainted?”
He relighted his charred pipe. My father also smokes a pipe. His tobacco is fragrant. Jamie’s is not.
“Mebbe,” he said finally. “I know Eddie Wong, a nice fellow. He buttles for old Mrs. Carrey in West Palm. You want I should ask Eddie if he knows—what’s their names?”
“Got and Mei Lee. Yes, please ask him. I’d like to know if the Gottschalks have a happy home. And if not, why not.”
Jamie nodded. “I’ll ask.”
Before I left for the office I slipped him a tenner. Pop would be outraged, I knew, since the Olsons were more than adequately recompensed for keeping the McNally ship on an even keel. But I didn’t feel their salaries included Jamie’s personal assistance to yrs. truly in my discreet inquiries. Hence my pourboire for his efforts above and beyond the call of duty.
I had two messages awaiting me when I arrived at my cul-de-sac in the McNally Building. I answered Sgt. Al Rogoff’s call first.
“Heavens to Betsy,” he said. “You’re at work so early? Why, it’s scarcely eleven o’clock.”
“I do work at home, you know,” I replied haughtily. “Sometimes with great
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