McNally's Trial Read Online Free PDF

prerogative, and who are we to deny their last wishes. That’s not what bothers me; it’s the enormous number of deceased Whitcomb seems to be exporting. Don’t you find that intriguing?”
    Binky shrugged. “I’d rather not think about it. Too depressing, old sport. Listen, I think I’ve done enough hard labor for one day. May I go home now?”
    I glanced at my watch. “Almost two hours,” I commented. “Well, I suppose I must introduce you to the work ethic slowly and gradually. Sure, take off. Do you plan to be home this evening?”
    “I might,” he said cautiously.
    “Try,” I said. “It’s possible that I may phone you to continue your education as a detective.”
    “More of this stuff about people being buried? I’m not keen about it, Archy. Puts a damper on the Watrous spirits—you know?”
    “Where do you want to be buried, Binky?”
    “On the Cote d’Azur. Under three inches of sand.”
    And on that lighthearted note he departed. I cleaned up my corral, bundled the printout and the notes Binky and I had made into the original wrapping, and set out for home. I was pleased with my batman’s performance. True, he had only slaved two hours at his chosen profession, but he had exhibited enough wit to catch that business of shipping caskets up north. That was a plus, I thought. And somewhat of a shock. Like discovering Mortimer Snerd could explain the Pythagorean theorem.
    The weather was still growly, the sea churning, and so I skipped my late afternoon ocean swim. Instead, I went directly to my quarters, plunked down behind the battered desk, and opened my journal to a fresh page.
    I keep a record, y’see, of all my discreet inquiries and try to make daily entries while a case is under way. It serves as a jog to my memory, and sometimes a written account of observations, conversations, and events reveals a hidden pattern I might otherwise have missed.
    Also, my journal is a sourcebook for the narratives I pen and ensures accuracy. You didn’t think I’m making up all this stuff, did you?
    I made notes on what had transpired during the first meeting with Sunny Fogarty, what I had learned of the proclivities of Oliver and Mitzi Whitcomb, and what Binky and I had discovered: the perplexing number of defuncts that Whitcomb Funeral Homes were profitably putting aboard airliners for the final trip home.
    I finished my scribbling in time to dress for the family cocktail hour, a rigorously observed daily ceremonial of the McNallys. We gather in the second-floor sitting room, father stirs a jug of gin martinis (traditional formula), and we each have one plus a dividend. Then we descend to dinner. If that sounds unbearably Waspish, let me remind you that my paternal grandfather was a burlesque comic, and we are merely obeying the American dictum: Onward and upward. Of course it was dramaturgy. And whose life is not?
    After dinner, I rose from the table, returned to my digs, and phoned Sunny Fogarty.
    After an exchange of greeting, I said, “I trust I’m not disturbing you.”
    “Not at all.”
    “I was hoping I might see you this evening. It concerns the material you sent to my office. Probably a minor matter but I’d like to get it cleared up. Could you spare me, say, half an hour?”
    “Of course,” she said.
    “Thank you,” I said. “Miss Fogarty, would it—”
    “You can call me Sunny if you’d like,” she interrupted.
    “I’d like,” I told her. “And I’m Archy. Sunny, would you object if I brought along my assistant, a very personable and competent chap?”
    Long pause. “No,” she said finally, “I have no objection.”
    “Excellent,” I said. “We’ll be at your place within an hour.”
    I hung up and called Binky Watrous. “What are you doing?” I asked him.
    “Just finished dinner,” he reported. “You know, Archy, I hate Brussels sprouts.”
    “Who doesn’t?” I said. “Listen, lad, I want you to join me in an hour’s time to continue our investigation by