gaze was so intent and unblinking that I wanted to look away but could not.
She came close. She was wearing a light floral scent. She put a hand gently on my arm. 'You are troubled,' she said.
'About the cat? Well, yes. This close friend of mine is very-'
'No,' she interrupted, 'not the cat. You, personally, are troubled.'
'Not really,' I said, my short laugh sounding nervous to me. 'Nothing I can't handle.'
She continued to stare. 'Two women, two loves,' she said. 'That is troubling you.'
I wasn't impressed; it smacked too much of a fortune teller on a carnival midway. Many men-at least many I know-are frequently involved with more than one woman. It's hardly a unique situation, is it? Mrs. Gloriana was not demonstrating any special clairvoyant talent.
She stepped back and smiled: a tremulous smile, very vulnerable. 'Do not worry,' she told me. 'The problem will eventually be solved.'
'Glad to hear it,' I said.
'But not by you,' she added. 'It was nice meeting you, Mr. McNally. I'll do my best to get a message about Peaches.'
'Thank you,' I said and turned away. I was at the door when I looked back. I hadn't heard her move but she was seated again in the high-backed wing chair, regarding me gravely. I made up my mind.
'Mrs. Gloriana,' I said, 'Lydia Gillsworth has told me of the meetings she attends during which you are sometimes able to contact those who are- who are-'
'Dead,' she said.
'Yes,' I said. 'I was wondering if I might possibly sit in at one of your gatherings. I find the whole concept fascinating.'
Her stare never wavered. 'Very well,' she said softly. 'Ask Lydia to bring you to our next session. She knows the time and place.'
'Thank you,' I said again and left her sitting there, distant and complete.
There was a middle-aged couple in the waiting room, holding hands. And Frank Gloriana was seated behind the desk, impassive and doing nothing.
'Your wife said she'd let me know if she is able to help,' I told him and handed over my card.
He glanced at it. 'You wish to be billed at your office, Mr. McNally?'
All business, this lad.
'Please,' I said. 'Thank you for your assistance.'
I went out into the corridor. I had a lot of impressions I needed to sort out, but there was something I wanted to do first.
When I had entered the office, Frank Gloriana had stalled me by saying the medium was busy with a client. Then, after a period of time, he reported she was now available. But I had seen no client leave the office.
That was understandable if there was another exit from the Gloriana suite. Psychiatrists frequently have such an arrangement to protect the privacy of their analysands. I mean, it would be a bit off-putting, would it not, to enter a shrink's office and bump into your spouse, lover, or boss coming out.
So, before I pushed the elevator button, I roamed the fourth-floor corridor looking for another doorway to the Gloriana offices. There was none. Which probably meant that Hertha had not been busy with another client when I arrived.
There were several innocent explanations. Frank Gloriana's prevarication might mean nothing.
Or it might mean something.
5
On my way back to the McNally Building I stopped at Harry Willigan's office. He was in his usual vile mood, and I wondered if he got his disposition from Peaches or if the cat had learned how to be nasty from her master.
He demanded to know what progress I was making in the search for his beloved pet. Very little, I told him, but my investigation would be aided if he'd let me have a photocopy of the ransom note.
'What the hell for?' he screamed at me.
I explained as patiently as I could that I wanted the letter analyzed by an expert. The vocabulary and grammar might enable the specialist to make some shrewd guesses as to the education, occupation, nationality, and social status of the writer. That wasn't total kaka, of course; there are analysts who can glean such information from the language of a document.
Finally, Willigan had his receptionist make a photocopy for me. I folded it carefully and tucked it into my jacket pocket along with the Gloriana flier. Then I left as quickly as I could, with Willigan shouting obscene threats of the mayhem he'd wreak if he ever got his hands on those effing catnappers. I believed him.
Back in my office, I found a message on my desk asking me to call Connie Garcia as soon as possible.
'Archy,' she wailed, 'about tonight-Lady Horowitz wants me to come back here after dinner and go over the budget for the Fourth of July shindig with her.'
'Aw,' I said, 'that's too bad. Want to postpone our date?'
'No,' she said definitely. 'I haven't seen you in ages. Instead of driving to Lantana for chili, we'll grab a bite at the Pelican Club and you can get me back here by eight-thirty or so. Okay?'
'Sure,' I said, much relieved that I wouldn't have to incinerate my uvula two nights in a row. 'But I guess that means no fun and games later. I'm disappointed.'
'Me, too,' she confessed. 'It's been so long that every time I sneeze, dust comes out my ears.'
'We'll have to do something about that,' I said.
Long pause. Then, suspiciously:
'You haven't been making nice-nice with that Meg Trumble, have you, Archy?'
'Who?'
She sighed. 'Now it's coming out your ears, and it's not dust. If I discover you've been cheating, you know what'll happen to you, don't you?'
'I'll be singing soprano?'
'You've got it, son,' she said. 'See you tonight.'
She hung up, and I sat there a few minutes remembering that her Latin temper was not to be trifled with. Once, during our initial liaison, she had caught me dining with another young lady and had dumped a bowl of linguine Bolognese on my head. Took me a week of shampoos to get rid of all those damned chicken livers.
It was a dangerous game I was playing, I reflected mournfully, and wondered if a vow of celibacy might be the answer. But then I recalled Hertha Gloriana's prediction: my problem would eventually be solved, and not by me. A welcome thought. I had enough bad habits without adding chastity.
I took the Gloriana flier from my pocket and reread it. Mommy didn't raise her boy to be an idiot, and my first reaction was that the offer of individualized psychic profiles was a scoundrelly con game. I figured the Glorianas had printed up a standard profile they mailed back to all the suckers, similar to those canned horoscopes you can buy at newsstands.
But, despite my cynicism, I found it hard to believe Hertha Gloriana was an out-and-out swindler. Husband Frank-the business manager-could be a flimflam artist capable of cutting a shady deal. But not Hertha, not that soft, vulnerable waif. Her eyes were too blue. How's that for logical deduction?
But there was a way I could test Hertha's bona fides, and I resolved to launch my mini-plot that evening. I was certain Connie Garcia would cooperate. She'd think it was a hoot.
Musing about the Glorianas and the apparently thriving business they owned, I realized how little I knew about parapsychology. I decided it was time I learned more about what I was investigating. I phoned Lydia Gillsworth. It was then almost noon.
'Oh, Archy,' she said after an exchange of cordial greetings, 'I do hope this isn't about that stupid letter I received.'
'Not at all,' I said, lying valiantly. 'This call includes a confession and a request. I was so interested in what
