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

consenting adult companion, or does he play the field? Any unusual habits or predilections? I want you to provide a complete dossier on Ricardo. I suspect he may be more than just another pretty face. Find out.”
    “Listen, Archy,” my henchman said distractedly, “do you think it’s really necessary I marry Bridget? I mean, couldn’t we, you know, uh, what’s that word?”
    “Cohabit?” I suggested.
    “Yes!” he said eagerly. “Couldn’t we cohabitize?”
    I groaned and hung up. If I were a cat Binky would be a hair ball.

CHAPTER 8
    I HAD DRESSED WITH SPECIAL care that morning, preparing for my luncheon with the Gottschalk sisters. I hoped they might be impressed by careless elegance, so in addition to a silver-gray jacket of Ultrasuede, black silk slacks, and a faded blue denim shirt I sported an ascot in a Pucci print and used a four-in-hand as a belt, à la Fred Astaire. No socks of course.
    I had suggested the twins dress informally and so they did: one in a rumpled suit of white sailcloth, the other in a magenta leotard under a gauzy blouse and open skirt. They looked smart enough but I had the impression they were dressing down and their garments had been adapted from street styles by frightfully pricey French designers. They were wearing trendy costumes as foreign to their taste and nature as the sari.
    The arrival of these lovely look-alikes at the Pelican Club occasioned startled reactions from members in the bar area. Even Priscilla in the dining room was so surprised by the entry of doubles she tempered her sassy impudence and treated us with solicitous politesse. I imagined the sisters were accustomed to the stir their appearance caused and took it casually as their due.
    I wish I could describe our luncheon in lip-smacking detail but I confess my remembrances are vague. My recollections are hazy since all my attention was concentrated on how they looked, what they said, and trying to follow Dr. Gussie Pearlberg’s injunction to pry and ask questions.
    Mike #1 swung about to examine our surroundings. “Rather grotty, don’t you think?” she asked her sibling.
    “Yes but comfortably so,” Mike #2 replied, and they both gave me pixieish grins.
    They surely must have noted my discomfiture, for I truly believe the Pelican to be the ne plus ultra of all private clubs in the Palm Beach area. Grotty, yes. Raffish, undoubtedly. Unconventionally stylish, true. But where else could I leap upon a table late Saturday night and attempt to sing “Volare”?
    “Archy,” one of the sisters said, “this game has gone on long enough and we’ve decided to come clean with you. I’m Julia.”
    She was wearing the sailcloth suit.
    “And I’m Judith,” the other said.
    She was wearing the magenta leotard.
    They both looked at me as if expecting gratitude.
    I dimly recall we were drinking Kir Royales at the time. And I definitely remember their stares of wide-eyed innocence. I didn’t totally believe them or totally disbelieve them. I was willing to suspend judgment since I had an ace in the hole or rather—from what Hiram Gottschalk had revealed—a mole in the hole.
    “Julia and Judith,” I repeated, nodding to each in turn. “Yes, that does simplify things, and I thank you for your confidence in me. I swear I won’t tell a soul.”
    “Tell them what?” Julia asked.
    “Which of you is which.”
    “And how could you possibly do that?” Judith asked.
    This was, I believe, my first indication that I was not dealing with bubbleheads and that these two females had more than lint between their ears.
    I sighed. “You have a point,” I admitted. “Which means every time the three of us meet you must identify yourselves again. What a drag! Couldn’t one of you agree to a small tattoo? Perhaps the symbol of pi engraved on one earlobe.”
    They stared at each other, then stared at me.
    “Are you completely insane?” Judith demanded.
    “He is,” Julia said. “Absolutely bonkers.”
    I believe at the