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 Jarn-dyce 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.
