“Of course. She’s a very attractive lady.”
Her head came up again, and this time she grinned at me. “I think you ought to make a move there,” she said. “I think Meg is ready.”
I was happy to learn that Meg didn’t tell Laverne everything.
“Laverne!” I said as if shocked. “She’s your sister!”
“That’s why I want her to have fun. Give her a break, darling. It doesn’t have to be heavy. Just for laughs.”
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “I’m not sure she has eyes for me.”
“Try it,” Laverne urged. “It would do her a world of good. I realize she’s a skinny one, but remember: the nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat.”
Yes, she did say that. Was there a more vulgar woman in Palm Beach? If there was, I hadn’t met her and had no desire to.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I said and stood up. “I better pick up that letter and see if it’s any help in finding the catnappers.”
“And you’ll forget all about going to a psychic?”
The first two rules of successful deception are keep it short and never repeat. Ask me; I know. Laverne was obviously an amateur at deceit.
“I’ve already forgotten,” I assured her. “Don’t get too much sun or you might start peeling.”
Her reply is unprintable in an account that may possibly be read by impressionable youngsters and innocent oldsters.
I found the second ransom note on the taboret in the hallway. I handled it carefully by the corners and slipped it into my jacket pocket. No one was about so I let myself out and drove home, still smiling at Laverne’s final comment and wondering why she felt it necessary to conceal her acquaintance with the Glorianas.
At home, I went immediately to my rooms, sat at the desk, shoved on my reading specs. I unfolded the second ransom note carefully and examined it. It appeared to be printed in the same font as the first and the missives sent to Lydia Gillsworth. The right-hand margin was justified. The ink and paper stock seemed identical in all the letters.
The message itself was as Harry Willigan had stated. I was amused by the casual mention of Peaches being in good health but crying a lot. That was clearly intended to pierce the heart of the cat’s owner who might have the personality of a Komodo dragon but was obviously sappy with love for his obnoxious pet.
I added the second ransom note to my photocopy of the first, slid both into a manila envelope, and started out again. This time I left my new beret at home but took along my reading glasses tucked into a handsome petit point case that mother had made and given to me on my 36th birthday.
Before leaving, I phoned Mrs. Trelawney, my father’s private secretary. I asked if she could persuade the boss to grant me at least fifteen minutes from his rigidly structured daily schedule. I was put on hold while she went to inquire. She came back on the line to tell me His Majesty had graciously acceded to my request if I arrived promptly at eleven-thirty.
“On my way,” I promised.
The McNally Building on Royal Palm Way is a stark edifice of glass and stainless steel—so modern it makes my teeth ache. But it’s undeniably impressive—which was why my father had approved the architect’s design even though I knew he would have preferred a faux Georgian mansion.
But the esquire had drawn a line at his private office. That was oak paneled and furnished in a style that would have earned the approbation of Oliver Wendell Holmes. The main attraction was an enormous rolltop desk—an original, not a reproduction—that had, by actual count, thirty-six cubbyholes and four concealed compartments that I knew about.
Father was standing in front of this handsome antique when I entered, looking like a handsome antique himself. He glowered at me, and I was happy I had left the linen beret at home.
“This couldn’t have waited?” he demanded.
“No, sir,” I said. “In my judgment it is a matter that brooks no delay.”
Don’t ask why, but in his presence I sometimes began to speak like a character from his beloved Dickens. I knew it but couldn’t help myself. We sounded like a couple of barristers discussing Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce.
“Harry Willigan received a second ransom letter from the catnappers,” I told him.
“I am aware of that,” he said testily. “Willigan phoned me this morning. In a vile temper, as usual.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “but I don’t believe you’ve seen the two letters. I’ve brought them along. The first is a photocopy, the second is the original. Please take a look, father.”
I spread them on his desk. Still standing, he bent over to examine them. It didn’t take him long to catch it. I heard his sharp intake of breath, and he straightened to stare at me.
“They appear to resemble the poison-pen letters received by the late Lydia Gillsworth,” he said stonily.
“More than resemble,” I said. “Same type font. Justified right-hand margins. Apparently the same ink and the same paper.”
He drew a deep breath and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “Where are the Gillsworth letters now?”
“Sergeant Rogoff has them. He’s sending them to the FBI lab for analysis.”
“Does he know about these letters?”
“Not to my knowledge. I’ve told him nothing about the disappearance of Peaches.”
Hands still in pockets, he began to pace slowly about the office. “I see the problem,” he said. “The client has specifically forbidden us to bring the catnapping to the attention of the police.”
“And we are obligated to respect our client’s wishes and follow his instructions,” I added. “But by so doing, are we not impeding an official homicide investigation? That’s assuming all the letters were produced on the same word processor or electronic typewriter, as I believe they were.”
He stopped his pacing to face me. “And do you also believe they were all composed by the same person?”
“I think it quite possible.”
He was silent a moment. Then: “I don’t like this, Archy; I don’t like it at all. As an officer of the court I don’t relish being put in a position where I might fairly be accused of withholding evidence.”
“Possibly vital evidence,” I said. “In the investigation of a particularly heinous crime.”
He took one hand from his pocket and began to tug at his thick mustache, a sure sign of his perturbation. When he’s in a mellow mood, he strokes it.
“May I make a suggestion, father?”
“You may.”
“I think civic and moral duty outweigh ethical considerations in this case. I believe the police must be told of the Willigan letters. Perhaps they have nothing to do with the Gillsworth murder, but we can’t take that chance. Let me show them to Sergeant Rogoff, for his eyes only. I’ll impress upon him the need for absolute discretion on his part. Al is certainly no blabbermouth. I think we can safely gamble that Willigan will never learn we have told the police about the catnapping.”
“It’s not so much Willigan I’m concerned about, it’s the catnappers. If they learn the police have been informed, it’s quite possible they will carry out their threat to kill Peaches. And then McNally and Son may well be the target of a malpractice suit brought by our contentious client. It would be difficult to defend our conduct: a clear breach of confidentiality.”
We were both silent then, pondering all the ramifications of the problem. The decision was not mine to make, of course. It was my father who might have to take the flak, and it would be presumptuous of me to urge him to any particular course of conduct.
“Very well,” he said at last. “Show the Willigan letters to Sergeant Rogoff, explain the circumstances of the catnapping, and try to convince him that the future of Peaches depends on his circumspection.” He paused to smile wryly. “To say nothing of the future of McNally and Son.”
“I’ll convince him,” I said, gathering up the letters. “I think you’ve made the right decision, father.”
“Thank you
, Archy,” he said gravely. “I am happy you approve.”
I think he meant it. Irony is not the governor’s strong suit.
I was exiting through the outer office when Mrs. Trelawney beckoned me to her desk. My father’s secretary is one of my favorite people, a charming beldame with an ill-fitting gray wig and a penchant for naughty jokes. She was the first to tell me the one about the American, the Englishman, and the Frenchman who visit a—but I digress.
“What have you been up to, young McNally?” she said accusingly. “Romancing married women, are you? And if you are, why wasn’t I first on your list?”
“I am not,” I assured her, “but if I were, you would certainly be first, last, and always. Also, my dear, just what, exactly, are you talking about?”
She looked down at a note she had jotted on a telephone message form. “While you were with your father, you received a call from a Mrs. Irma Gloriana, who demanded to speak to you personally. From her voice I would judge her to be of what is termed a ‘certain age.’ She insists you phone her immediately. What’s going on, Archy?”
“A professional relationship,” I said haughtily. “The lady happens to be my acupuncturist.”
Mrs. Trelawney laughed and handed me the message. “I’m glad someone’s giving you the needle,” she said.
I had intended to phone Sgt. Rogoff the moment I was in my office, but this call from Mrs. Irma Gloriana seemed more important and more intriguing. I sat at my desk and punched out the phone number. It was not, I noted, the number of the Glorianas’ office on Clematis Street.
My call was answered on the second ring.
“The Glorianas’ residence,” a woman said sharply. A deep voice, very strong, with a rough timbre. Almost a longshoreman’s voice.
“This is Archibald McNally,” I said. “Am I speaking to Mrs. Irma Gloriana?”
“You are, Mr. McNally,” she said, the tone now softened a bit. “Thank you for returning my call so promptly. Hertha has informed me that you wish to arrange a private séance.”
“That’s correct,” I said. “My understanding is that it would be attended by Hertha, her husband, you, myself, and a friend who accompanies me. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Mr. McNally,” she said, and I marveled at that voice so deep it was almost a rumble, “I prefer to meet personally with new clients before making plans. You must understand that many people who apply to us simply cannot be helped by Hertha’s unique talents. It saves us a great deal of time—and would-be clients a great deal of money, of course—if we might have an interview during which I describe exactly what happens at our séances, what we hope to achieve, and what we cannot do. I must know what you hope to accomplish. I trust this preliminary screening doesn’t offend you, Mr. McNally.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I can understand why—”
“You see,” she interrupted, “we are sometimes approached by people who seek the impossible or who are motivated by idle curiosity and have no real interest in sharing the truth of spiritualism.”
“That seems to be a—”
“And there are those who come just to mock,” she said darkly. “My daughter-in-law is much too sensitive and vulnerable to be forced to cope with stupid and arrogant disbelief.”
“I assure you that—”
“When may I expect you, Mr. McNally?” she demanded.
“I can come over now, Mrs. Gloriana,” I said. “I could be there in a half-hour.”
“That will be satisfactory,” she said crisply. “Please make a note of this address. You should also be aware that smoking is not permitted in our home.”
So I made a note of her address, hung up, and immediately lighted a cigarette. I smoked it down before venturing out to meet this termagant with the foghorn voice.
On the drive across the bridge to West Palm Beach I tried to make sense of what Mrs. Irma Gloriana had told me. Her insistence on a preliminary screening of would-be clients seemed suspect. Why should the medium and her entourage question the motives of potential customers? Their ability to pay the tariff demanded would seem to be the only necessary requirement.
But then I realized there might indeed be method to this madness. Mrs. Gloriana wanted to know what I hoped to accomplish at the séance. Suppose I told her I wished to contact the spirit of Sir Thomas Crapper. Thus forewarned, Irma, Frank, and Hertha could easily discover that the gentleman in question was the inventor of the water closet, and they could call up a ghost familiar with the workings of that justly famed device.
Similarly, these preliminary interviews could reveal names, dates, even intimate personal details that would be of value in convincing a séance attendee that the medium possessed extraordinary psychic gifts.
This was, I admit, a very jaundiced view of extrasensory powers. But at that stage of the investigation I believed a healthy dollop of cynicism was justified. “Innocent until proven guilty” is the cornerstone of our law. But most detectives, myself included, prefer the dictum “Guilty until proven innocent.” That’s how crimes are solved.
The building in which the Glorianas’ condo was located was not as “ratty” as Al Rogoff had described, but it was surely no Trump Plaza either. It had an air of faded elegance, with cooking odors in the hallways and frazzled carpeting.
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 alway
s 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.”
The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1 Page 36
