He pursed his lips and appeared to be giving my request serious consideration. "Mrs. Gloriana is busy with a client at the moment. May I ask how you learned of us?"
I didn't believe mentioning the Yellow Pages
would cut much ice. A personal recommendation might prove more efficacious.
"Mrs. Lydia Gillsworth suggested I consult Mrs. Gloriana."
He brightened immediately. "Mrs. Gillsworth. Of course. A charming lady."
He stood and came from behind the desk. He was a tall one and lean as a fencer. He was wearing, I noted, a heavy ring of Navaho silver set with a large turquoise in the expensive sky-blue shade.
"I'm Frank Gloriana," he said. "Hertha's husband."
We shook hands. He had a hard, bony grip.
"Archibald McNally," I said. "Happy to meet you."
He stared at me a moment. "McNally?" he repeated. "The law firm across the lake?"
"That's correct," I said. "McNally and Son. I'm the son."
His smile was cool. "I've heard excellent things about your outfit. As a matter of fact, I may need some legal advice shortly, and McNally and Son heads a short list of possibles I have drawn up."
"Glad to hear it," I said. "We have a number of specialized divisions, and I'm sure we can provide the services you require."
"I'm sure you can. Your visit here today-it concerns some legal business of your firm?"
"Oh no," I said hastily, "nothing like that. It's a personal thing, and I'm afraid you'll find it rather silly."
"Try me," he said.
"A close friend has lost his cat," I said earnestly. "Lost, strayed, or stolen. He really loves the animal and has been worried sick since it's been gone. He's advertised but with no results. It occurred to me
that Mrs. Gloriana might possibly be able to give me some hints or suggestions as to where his pet can be found."
"It's possible," he said immediately. "Hertha has had remarkable success in visualizing where missing objects or people might be located. I don't believe she's ever worked on an animal before, but I see no reason why she couldn't. She once enabled a builder in Atlanta find his missing bulldozer."
"Wonderful," I said. "Where was it?"
"In his foreman's garage," Gloriana said with a slightly sardonic smile. "Listen, why don't you make yourself comfortable out here, and I'll go in and see how much longer Hertha will be. Perhaps she'll have time to fit you in before her next appointment."
"I'd appreciate that," I said.
He departed through an inner door, closing it carefully behind him. I flopped into a mauve-and-aqua armchair alongside a glass cocktail table. It held a selection of thin books and magazines, most of them dealing with astrology, channeling, crystals, mysticism, and occult philosophies of the Far East.
There was also a stack of fliers, advertising circulars that looked as if they had been designed for mailing. A small sign read take one-so I did. It stated that Mrs. Hertha Gloriana, a licensed and bonded adviser, would prepare a "psychic profile" for anyone providing her with the exact time, date, and place of birth, names of parents and grandparents, and a snapshot or personal possession of the sender.
The cost of the psychic profile was a hundred dollars in U.S. funds, payable in advance.
I was stuffing a copy of this intriguing offer into my jacket pocket when Frank Gloriana returned. He saw at once what I was doing.
"Our new project," he said. "What do you think?"
"It makes no promises," I observed.
"Oh no," he said quickly, "no promises. The profile merely analyzes and suggests directions the subject might wish to take that could possibly enrich their lives. It is a serious attempt to provide psychic counseling. I assure you it is not a bunko scheme."
"I never thought for a moment it was."
"We've just started," he said, "but the response to newspaper and magazine ads has encouraged me to plan a direct-mail campaign. I think it could turn out to be a very successful enterprise, and that's the reason I may need legal advice on setting up a separate business venture." He paused and laughed: a thin, toneless ha-ha. "But you didn't come to listen to my business problems. Hertha is available now. Follow me, please."
He led the way through that inner portal, down a short hallway to an interior room. The door stood open, and I could see the chamber was furnished more as a residential sitting room than a commercial office. A young woman-younger than Frank Gloriana by at least five years, I guessed-rose from a high-backed mauve-and-aqua wing chair as we entered.
"Dear," he said, "this gentleman is Archibald McNally. Mr. McNally, my wife, Hertha. I'll leave you two alone."
And he left us, closing the hall door softly behind him.
She floated to me and offered a hand so soft and tender I feared I might crush it in my sinewy paw.
"Mrs. Gloriana," I said, "this is a pleasure."
I had always imagined a medium as an older
woman, heavy through the bosom and hips, with dyed and frizzled hair, caked makeup, a frowsy appearance, and perhaps the overwhelming scent of patchouli. In this case, all wrong. Hertha Gloriana was, if you will pardon the wordplay, a very rare medium indeed.
She was definitely a Pre-Raphaelite type, with a nimbus of chestnut hair, skin as white and smooth as wax, and features so classic they might have graced a coin. There was something ethereal in her beauty, I thought, and something delicate and unworldly in her manner. She moved slowly with a languid ease, and if she had suddenly levitated to the ceiling, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised. She was so insubstantial, you see.
"Mr. McNally," she murmured, voice low and breathy, "Frank has told me why you are here. Perhaps I can help. Perhaps. But I cannot promise. You do understand that, don't you?"
"Of course," I said, trying to determine the exact shade of her eyes. Periwinkle blue, I finally decided. "I would appreciate your trying."
"What is the cat's name?"
"Peaches."
"Female?"
"Yes."
"What breed?"
"Persian, I believe."
"Describe her, please."
"Plump. Silver-gray with tabby markings."
"How old?"
"I don't really know," I confessed. "Perhaps five years."
"Affectionate?"
"Not really. Not with strangers."
She nodded. "Please leave your address and phone number with my husband. If I'm able to do anything, he will contact you."
Apparently our consultation was at an end, but she continued to stare at me. Our eyes were locked, and her 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-"