McNally's Risk Read Online Free PDF Page B

myself as an honorable chap, and if I were married it would mean that never again could I look at a dishy woman with lust in my heart. That is what scares me: that I would be incapable of resisting temptation, and so my self-esteem would evaporate, let alone the trust of my mate.
    You may possibly feel all that is blarney, and my sole reason for remaining a bachelor is that I relish the life of a rake. You may possibly be right.
    Connie and I had Leroy’s special hamburgers, a beef-veal-pork combination mixed with chilies. We shared a big side order of extra-thick potato chips and drank Buckler, which is a non-alcoholic beer that tastes swell but doesn’t do a thing for you except quench your thirst.
    Connie chattered on about a reception Lady Horowitz was planning for a visiting Russian ballerina and didn’t mention a word about L’Affaire d’Oeufs Benedict, for which I was thankful. She was excited about her arrangements for the party, and it showed in her features: snappy eyes, laughing mouth, squinched-up nose to express displeasure.
    Charming, no doubt about it. But different from Theodosia Johnson’s beauty. Not inferior or superior, just different. Connie was earthy, open, solid. Madam X was an unsolved riddle. So far.
    “Hey,” Connie said over coffee, “I’ve been yakking up a storm and haven’t asked about you. What mischief are you up to these days, Archy?”
    “Oh, this and that,” I said. “Nothing heavy. Right now I’m running a credit check on a man named Hector Johnson. Ever hear of him?”
    “Of course,” she said promptly. “He sent in a nice check for Lady Cynthia’s latest project, to install Art Nouveau pissoirs on Worth Avenue. Can you imagine? Anyway, the boss asked him over for cocktails. What a doll! He’s got charm coming out his ears.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said. “Retired, is he?”
    “Semi, I guess. He said he used to work for the government. He didn’t say doing what, but I got the feeling it was the CIA.”
    “Connie, whatever gave you that idea?”
    “Because he was so mysterious about it. I suppose I could have asked straight out, but I didn’t want to pry. Who cares if he was a spy? He’s nice and that’s all that counts.”
    “Sure,” I said.
    She looked at her Swatch. “Oh, lordy, I have to get my rear in gear. Sorry to eat and run, luv, but I’ve got a zillion things to do. Okay?”
    “Of course,” I said. “You go ahead. I think I’ll dawdle a bit.”
    She swooped to kiss my cheek, gathered up handbag and scarf, and sashayed out. I wasn’t the only man, or woman, in the dining room who watched her leave. Connie radiates a healthy vigor that even strangers admire. With her robust figure and long black hair flying, she could model for the hood ornament on a turbo-charged sports coupe.
    I finished a second cup of coffee, signed my tab at the bar, and wandered out. I was musing about Hector Johnson, a man who apparently was knowledgeable about orchids, had been a professor of electronics or computer stuff, and had worked for the U.S. of A., possibly as a spy. Curiouser and curiouser. I had been enlisted to investigate Theo Johnson, but now I found myself concentrating on daddy. Because, to paraphrase Willie Sutton, that’s where the money was, I supposed.
    I went back to my cubicle in the McNally Building on Royal Palm Way. It is a squarish structure of glass and stainless steel, so stark and modern it makes you yearn to see a Chick Sales just once more before you die.
    My office was a joke: a tiny windowless room as confining as a Pullman berth. I am convinced my father banished me there to prove to other employees that there would be no nepotism at McNally & Son. But at least I had an air-conditioner vent, and I lighted my first English Oval of the day as I set to work gathering the financial skinny on Hector Johnson and his wondrous daughter.
    I phoned contacts at local banks, promising my pals a dinner at the Pelican if they would reveal whatever they had