McNally's Gamble by Lawrence Sanders

Author:Lawrence Sanders [Sanders, Lawrence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9780425162927
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 1951-12-12T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

THE MURDER OF SYDNEY SMYTHE did not make blaring headlines in our local newspaper the following morning but it did earn a one-column story titled “Antique Dealer Slain”—leaving it to the reader to decide if the victim dealt in antiques or was an ancient merchant. In this case, both.

I read the article carefully. It stated: “Law enforcement authorities are investigating several leads”—journalese for, “The police are stumped and don’t know which way to turn.” But the account did give the name and address of Smythe’s motel. It also mentioned, “Windsor Antiques has been a fixture on Worth Avenue for almost twenty years.” I scissored the story from the newspaper, folded it carefully, and placed it in my wallet. Then I went to work.

The Real Estate Department of McNally & Son advises clients on the purchase or lease of residences, commercial properties, and raw land. For many years this section has been under the direction of Mrs. Evelyn Sharif, a jovial lady married to a Lebanese who sells Oriental rugs to the nouveau riche with nary a qualm about the prices he charges. But Evelyn was currently on maternity leave, having dropped twins, and real estate matters were temporarily being handled by her assistant, Timothy Hogan.

Hogan’s office was my first stop on Wednesday. I found him working on a large black coffee and two of the loathsome bran muffins available in our company cafeteria.

“Tim,” I said, “did you hear about the murder yesterday on Worth Avenue?”

“Yeah, I saw it on TV last night. A helluva thing. My guess is a dopehead did it.”

“Probably. You know, I’ve been in that antique store a few times. It looked like a rat’s nest, worse than a thrift shop. Never saw any customers in there. Never found anything expensive worth buying. Yet the newspaper report says the store’s been there for almost twenty years. How on earth did the owner manage to stay in business while paying Worth Avenue rents?”

Hogan took a gulp of coffee and then a bite of a bran muffin. “It’s an interesting story. The dealer had a twenty-year lease on the space with no option to renew. The lease is up at midnight on New Year’s Eve this year. I’m betting the rent will triple or quadruple or—what’s larger than quadruple?”

“Fivefold?” I suggested. “Sextuple? Sevenfold?”

“Whatever, the rent is going up one hell of a lot on January first. An antique shop will never be able to make it. The space will be taken over by a trendy boutique or an upscale jewelry store. They can carry the overhead.”

“You’re probably right, Tim. Enjoy your fiber.”

I returned to my office satisfied but saddened by what I had learned. I reckoned Smythe had really been on his uppers. He had been eking out a barren existence from his antique shop but he was to lose it on the last day of the year; he’d never be able to afford tripled or quadrupled rent.

I could understand his desperation. Retaining the shop had become secondary to bare living: food, shelter, perhaps necessary medicines.

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