The matron who opened the door of Apt. 1102 was as I had imagined her: tall, heavy through the hips, but more muscular than plump. There was a solid massiveness about her: a large head held erect on a strong neck. Definitely a dominant woman.
But what I had not been prepared for was her sensuousness, so overt it was almost a scent. It was conveyed, I thought, by her full red lips, glossy black hair as tangled as a basket of snakes, ample bosom, and a certain looseness about the way she moved. It was easy to fantasize that she might be naked beneath her shift, a voluminous gown of flowered nylon.
She shook my hand firmly, got me seated in an armchair covered in a worn brocade. She asked if I would care for an iced tea. I said that would be welcome, and while she was gone I had an opportunity to inspect the apartment—or at least the living room in which I was seated.
It was a dreary place, colors drab, furniture lumpy. It was difficult to believe this was the home of the forthright Irma, the dapper Frank, the delicate Hertha. There was nothing that bespoke luxury, or even comfort. They were ambitious people; this dingy apartment had to be a temporary residence to be endured until something better came along.
Mrs. Gloriana returned with my iced tea—nothing for her—and sat in the middle of a raddled couch, facing me. She wasted no time on preliminaries.
“You believe in spiritualism, Mr. McNally?” she asked.
I took a sip of my tea. It had a hint of mint and was quite good. “Really more of a student,” I confessed. “I’m reading as much about it as I can.”
“Oh? And what are you reading?”
I mentioned the titles of two of the books Mrs. Gillsworth had lent me.
“Very good,” Irma Gloriana said approvingly. “But you must realize they are only instructional. True belief must come from the heart and the soul.”
“I understand that,” I said, fearing I was about to be proselytized and dreading the prospect. But she dropped the subject of my conversion.
“Hertha tells me you have asked her assistance in finding your missing cat.”
“A friend’s cat.”
“She may be able to help. My daughter-in-law has amazing psychic powers. And did you wish to ask about the cat during the séance?”
“No,” I said, “something else. I hope to receive a message from Lydia Gillsworth. I’m sure you knew her and have heard what happened to her.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Of course I knew Lydia. A sensitive soul. She attended a session here the evening she was killed. A brutal, senseless death.”
“Yes,” I said, “it was. Do you think there’s a possibility that Hertha may be able to contact the spirit of Lydia Gillsworth?”
“There is always a possibility,” she said, then added firmly, “But naturally we can offer no guarantees. You wish to ask Lydia the identity of her murderer?”
“Yes, that is what I intended.”
“It is worth trying,” she said thoughtfully. “Hertha has assisted in many police investigations in the past. With some success, I might add. Our standard fee for a séance is five hundred dollars, Mr. McNally. But that is usually divided amongst several participants. Since only you and your friend will attend, I believe a fee of two hundred dollars will be more equitable. Is that satisfactory?”
“Completely,” I said. “And you do accept credit cards?”
“Oh yes. This friend who will accompany you—a man or a woman?”
“A woman.”
“Could you tell me her name, please? Numerology is a particular interest of mine, and I enjoy converting names to numerical equivalents and developing psychic profiles.”
“Her name is Margaret Trumble.”
“A resident of this area?”
Then I was certain she was prying—no doubt about it.
“She is a new resident,” I said.
“So many refugees from the north, aren’t there?”
If she expected me to divulge Meg Trumble’s hometown, she was disappointed; I merely nodded.
“My son tells me you work for a law firm, Mr. McNally.”
“Yes, McNally and Son. My father is the attorney.”
“But you are not?”
“Regretfully, no,” I said, unable to cease staring at her bare neck, the skin seemingly so flawless and tender that it might be bruised by a kiss.
“And what is it you do at McNally and Son?”
It wasn’t exactly a third degree. Call it a second degree.
“Research, mostly,” I told her. “Usually very dull stuff.”
I finished my iced tea, but she didn’t offer a refill.
“Did you know Lydia Gillsworth a long time?” she asked.
“Several years. She and her husband were clients. And neighbors as well.”
“I have met Roderick Gillsworth. He attended a few of our sessions with his wife. His late wife, I should say. I found him a very intelligent, creative man. A poet, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He was kind enough to give me autographed volumes of his poems. Have you read his work, Mr. McNally?”
“Some,” I said cautiously.
“What is your opinion of his poetry?”
“Ah,” I said. Then: “Very cerebral.”
“It is that,” she said, her deep voice resonating. “But I believe he is more than an intellectual. In his poems I sense a wild, primitive spirit struggling to be free.”
“You may be right,” I said diplomatically, thinking I had never heard such twaddle. Roderick Gillsworth a wild, primitive spirit? Sure. And I am Vlad the Impaler.
She rose to her feet, a boneless uncoiling. “I’ll try to arrange your séance for later this week, Mr. McNally. I’ll give you at least a day’s notice. Will that be sufficient?”
“Of course,” I said. “I may be speaking to your daughter-in-law before that if she is able to receive additional information about Peaches.”
“Peaches?”
“The missing cat.”
Unexpectedly she smiled, a mischievous smile that made her seem younger. And more attractive, I might add.
I hesitate to use the adjective “seductive” to describe any woman, but I can think of none more fitting for Irma Gloriana. I don’t wish to imply her manner was deliberately designed to entice, but I could not believe she was totally unconscious of her physical allure. But perhaps she was. In any event, she projected a strong and smouldering sexuality impossible to ignore.
“Peaches,” she repeated. “A charming name. Is the cat charming?”
“The cat is a horror,” I said, and this time she laughed aloud, a booming laugh. “But my friend loves her,” I added.
“Love,” she said, suddenly serious. “Such an inexplicable emotion, is it not, Mr. McNally?”
“It is indeed,” I said, and her final handclasp was soft and warm, quite different from the hard, cool handshake with which she had greeted me.
I drove back to the office trying to sort out my impressions of Mrs. Irma Gloriana. Al Rogoff had initially dubbed her a “tough broad,” and I could understand his reaction. But I thought her more than that: a very deep lady whose contradictions I could not immediately ken. I had a sense that she was playing a role, but what the script might be I had no idea.
The first thing I did on my return to the McNally Building was to phone Sgt. Rogoff. He wasn’t in, so I left my name and number, requesting he call me as soon as possible.
I then clattered down the back stairs to our real estate department on the second floor. This section of our legal supermarket advises clients on the purchase and sale of commercial properties and raw land. It also assists on negotiations for private homes, helps arrange mortgages, and represents clients at closings.
The chief of the department was Mrs. Evelyn Sharif, a jovial lady married to a Lebanese who sold Oriental rugs on Worth Avenue. But Evelyn was absent on maternity leave (twins expected!), so I spoke to her assistant, Timothy Hogan, an Irishman who wore Italian suits, English shirts, French
cravats, and Spanish shoes. The man was a walking United Nations.
I explained to Tim what I needed: all the skinny he could dig up on the Glorianas’ Clematis Street office and their condo near Currie Park. That would include rent, length of lease, maintenance, purchase price of the apartment if they indeed owned it rather than renting, and the references they had furnished.
“Are you sure you don’t want the name of their dentist?” Hogan asked.
“I know it’s a lot of work, Tim,” I said, “but see what you can do, will you?”
“What’s in it for me?” he asked.
“I won’t tell the old man you’re peddling Irish Sweepstakes tickets on company time.”
“That’s called extortion,” he said.
“It is?” I said. “I could have sworn it was blackmail. Whatever, do your best, Tim.”
Back in my private closet, I got busy on the phone calling a number of contacts at banks, brokerage houses, and credit rating agencies. Most of the people I buzzed were fellow members of the Pelican Club, and the only price I had to pay for the financial lowdown I sought on the Glorianas was the promise of a dinner at the Pelican.
It was late in the afternoon before I finished my calls, and a subdued growl from the brisket reminded me that other than breakfast the only nourishment I had had all day was a glass of iced tea and a cigarette. I was heading out the door for a pit stop at the nearest watering hole when a jangling phone brought me back to my desk. It was Sgt. Rogoff.
“I’m phoning from the airport,” he said. “I just checked with the station and they told me you called.”
“What are you doing at the airport?” I asked. “Leaving for Pago Pago?”
“Don’t I wish,” he said. “Actually I wanted to make sure Roderick Gillsworth made his flight. He’s taking the casket up north.”
“And he did?”
“Yeah, he’s gone. I’m a little antsy about letting him go, but he swears he’ll be back in a couple of days. He better be or I’ll look like a first-class schmuck for letting him go.”
“Al, don’t tell me you still suspect him?”
“No, but he’s a material witness, isn’t he?”
“What kind of condition was he in?”
“It’s my guess he was nursing a hangover.”
“Shrewd guess,” I said. “When I left him last night he was sopping up the sauce like Prohibition was just around the corner. Listen, Al, I’ve got to talk to you.”
“That’s what we’re doing.”
I sighed. “You want me to be precise? Very well, I shall be precise. It is extremely urgent that I meet personally with you, Sergeant Rogoff, since there are certain letters I wish to show you that may prove to be of some importance in your current homicide investigation. There, how’s that?”
“What letters?” he demanded.
“Al,” I said, “you’re going to kill me.”
“Cheerfully,” he said.
Chapter 9
AL TOLD ME HE wanted to drive back to the Gillsworth home to make certain the poet had locked up when he left. I said I’d meet him in an hour.
“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be there awhile.”
I thought that an odd thing to say but made no comment. I grabbed the envelope with the Willigan letters and rode the elevator down to our underground garage. I waved to the security guard and mounted the Miata for the canter home.
No one was about in the McNally castle so I hustled into the kitchen and slapped together a fat sandwich of salami on sour rye, slathered with a mustard hairy enough to bring tears to your baby blues. I cooled the fire with a chilled can of Buckler non-alcoholic beer, then ran upstairs to get Gillsworth’s house keys in case I arrived before Rogoff.
But when I got there, a police car was parked in the driveway and the front door of the house was open. I walked in and called, “Al?”
“In here,” he yelled, and I found him sprawled in a flowered armchair in the sitting room where Lydia had been murdered. He hadn’t taken off his cap, and he was smoking one of his big cigars.
“Make yourself at home,” I said.
“I already have,” he said. “Let’s see those cockamamy letters you were talking about.”
I tossed him the envelope. “Photocopy of the first received by Harry Willigan. The second is the original. Handle it with care; it might have prints.”
He read both letters slowly while I lounged on a wicker couch and lighted an English Oval. Then he looked up at me.
“Same paper,” he said. “Looks like the same ink, same typeface, same even right-hand margins.”
“That’s right,” I said. “The reason I haven’t shown them to you before is that the client forbade it. You know Willigan?”
“I know him,” he said grimly. “A peerless horse’s ass.”
“I concur,” I said. “And if he ever finds out I’ve told you about the catnapping, he’ll be an ex-client and probably sue McNally and Son for malpractice. Al, will you please keep a lid on this? My father knows I’m showing you the letters; it was his decision. All we ask in return is your discretion.”
“Sure,” he said, “I’m good at that. What have you done so far about finding the damned cat?”
“Not a great deal,” I said. “One thing I did do—and this will probably give you a laugh: I went to Hertha Gloriana, the psychic, and asked her help in locating Peaches.”
But he didn’t laugh. “Not so dumb,” he said. “Cops hate to admit it, but psychics and mediums are consulted more often than you think. Mostly in missing person cases. What did she say?”
I repeated Hertha’s description of the room where she envisioned Peaches was being held prisoner. “She couldn’t give me a definite location but said she’ll keep trying. Do you think these ransom notes have anything to do with the Gillsworth homicide?”
“Definitely,” he said. “Too many similarities in the letters to call it coincidence. I’ll get these off to the FBI and ask for a comparison. I’m betting they were all printed on the same machine.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Nothing, until we get the FBI report. If Willigan gets instructions on delivering the fifty thousand, let me know and we’ll try to set up a snare. I wonder if there’s anything to drink in this place.”
“Let me take a look,” I said. “I’m a neighbor; Gillsworth won’t mind if I chisel a drink or two.”
I went into the kitchen and found my bottle of Sterling vodka in the freezer. It was still a third full. I brought that and two glasses into the sitting room, then made another trip to bring out a bowl of ice cubes and a pitcher of water.
“Help yourself,” I said to Rogoff. “It’s McNally booze; I loaned it to Gillsworth last night when he ran dry.”
We built drinks for ourselves and settled back. It was really a very attractive, comfortable room—if you didn’t look at the bloodstains that had not yet been scrubbed away or painted over.
“That cane that killed her,” the sergeant, said. “You told me Mrs. Gillsworth showed it to you.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you touch it?”
“No, she held it while she was telling me about it.”
“The shank has a lot of prints,” Al said. “Hers, Gillsworth’s, some other.”
“Probably the antique dealer who sold it to her.”
“Probably, and any other customers who picked it up in his shop. But it also has some interesting partials. Our print expert says they were made by someone wearing latex gloves.”
“The killer?”
“Seems likely, doesn’t it? The latex prints were over the old ones, so I’ve got to figure they were the last to be made.”
“Where does that leave you?”
“Out in left field—unless you spot a guy in the Pelican Club wearing latex gloves.”
“Surgeons use them.”
“And house painters, window washers, people who scrub floors, dentists, and your friendly neighborhood proctol
ogist. How are you doing with the Glorianas?”
“They’re setting up a private séance for me this week. Irma is handling it.”
“So you met that bimbo. Did she come on to you?”
“I don’t think she’s a bimbo, Al, and she didn’t come on to me.”
He looked at me quizzically. “But didn’t you get the feeling that if you hit on her she wouldn’t be insulted?”
“Maybe,” I said warily. “But I think she’s a very complex woman.”
“You and your complexities,” he said disgustedly. “You can’t call a spade a spade. To you it’s a sharp-edged implement used for digging that can be inserted into the ground with the aid of foot pressure. To me Irma Gloriana is a hard case with a bottom-line mentality.”
I let it go. Al thinks like a policeman. I think like an aged preppy.
“I know you’ve checked the Glorianas through records,” I said. “Anything?”
“No outstanding warrants,” he reported. “I’ve got a lot of queries out and I’m waiting to hear. Something may turn up—but don’t hold your breath.”
I told him about the inquiries I had made to determine the Glorianas’ financial status.
“Good going,” he said. “I’m betting they’re on their uppers—but that’s just a guess. Elegant vodka, Archy.”
“It’s all yours,” I said, finishing my drink and rising. “I’ve got to get home for the family cocktail hour or mommy and daddy will send out the bloodhounds. Something you should be aware of, Al: You’re not Roderick Gillsworth’s favorite police officer.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. And you think I lose sleep over it?”
“He asked if he could phone me from up north and get a report on the investigation. He thinks you’re holding out on him.”
“I am,” Rogoff said with a hard smile. “Do me a favor, will you? If he calls you, tell him I’ve been acting very mysteriously and you think I’ve got a hot lead I’m not talking about.”
“Do you? Have a hot lead?”
“No.”
“Then why should I tell him that?”
“Just to stir him up, keep him off balance.”
McNally's Luck Page 13
