McNally's Puzzle Read Online Free PDF

clout. I am thankful she considers me a friend.
    Connie was happy to take a moment off from organizing a reception Lady Cynthia was planning for a visiting Zimbabwean griot.
    We gibbered a few moments about such vital topics as Connie’s new recipe for spicy sautéed trout and a curious dream I had a few nights previously involving Irene Dunne, Akim Tamiroff, and a Ferris wheel.
    “Listen, dear,” I said, “I have a problem.”
    “The dream?”
    “No, it concerns a chap named Peter Gottschalk. You know him?”
    “Do I ever!” she said. “He’s always hitting on me at the Pelican. A real dingbat.”
    “So I understand. You know I chair the Membership Committee, and we’ve had several complaints about his acting in an irrational way. We could throw him overboard of course and let him founder, but that seems cruel. Besides, he might sue. Simon Pettibone thinks it may be a mental disability and the poor boy needs professional help. Are you acquainted with his parents?”
    “No, but I’ve met his twin sisters.”
    “Have you now,” I said.
    The reason for my subterfuge is obvious, is it not? If I had started candidly by asking, “Do you know the Gottschalk daughters?” Connie would immediately assume I was casting covetous eyes on one or both and demand to know the reason for my interest. I hadn’t lied, you understand, just dissembled. I’m rather crafty at that.
    “What kind of females are they?” I asked casually. “I mean, do you think they’re sympathetic and understanding? Would they be willing to urge their brother to seek help for his crazy behavior?”
    “I don’t know,” Connie said doubtfully. “Sometimes they act like a couple of ding-a-lings themselves. Maybe it runs in the family.”
    “Maybe,” I agreed. “Well, it wouldn’t do any harm to attempt to enlist their assistance. I’d hate to chuck Peter Gottschalk from the Pelican Club simply for not acting in a reasonable manner.”
    “That’s right, kiddo,” Connie said. “Set that requirement and you’ll be the first to go.” She hung up giggling.
    I hadn’t learned much, had I? But that’s the way I work most of my cases: a slow, patient accretion of facts, observations, opinions, surmises, and sometimes apparently inconsequential details such as grammar, dress, and knowledge of how to eat an artichoke.
    My second phone call was to Lolly Spindrift, who writes a gossip column for one of our local gazettes. Lol and I have had a profitable quid pro quo relationship for several years. Occasionally I feed him choice tidbits of skinny about my current cases (without compromising client confidentiality) and in return Lol gives me tasty morsels from his consummate knowledge of the high jinks and low jinks of Palm Beach residents.
    “You swine!” he shrieked. “Hast thou forsaken me? Things have been so dull! My stable of tattletales seems to be infected with an epidemic of discretion. A horror! I have to struggle— struggle , darling!—to fill each day’s report. Tell me you have something juicy for dear old Lol.”
    “Nothing exciting,” I admitted, “but it may be worth a line or two if you promise not to mention his name. Call him the scion of a wealthy Palm Beach family. He’s about to be booted out of an exclusive private club for improper behavior.”
    “Name of scion?” Lol demanded. “Name of exclusive private club?”
    “Peter Gottschalk,” I said. “The Pelican Club.”
    He sighed. “Peter is a world-class nitwit and the Pelican is about as exclusive as Diners Club. Look, sweetie, this scoop you’re offering doesn’t quite rival the sinking of the Titanic .”
    “I know, Lol, but I hoped it might be worth an item.”
    “Only because I have nothing better. Now what do you want?”
    “Do you have anything on the Gottschalk daughters?”
    “Oh-ho,” he said, and I heard the sudden interest in his voice. “Do I detect a preoccupation with the Gottschalk family? Something going on there,