"I doubt it."
"Good," I said. "Now here's what I'd like you to do: Answer the ad in your own name from your home address. But make up a completely phony woman. Fake the date and place of birth. Fake the names of parents and grandparents. Buy some cheap gimcrack and send it along as this nonexistent woman's personal possession. I want to see what kind of a psychic profile you'll get for an imaginary person."
Connie laughed. "You're a tricky boyo, you know that? You really think the Glorianas will provide an analysis of a make-believe woman?"
"For a hundred bucks they will," I said. "I'll bet on it. Send a personal check along with your letter, and I'll make sure you get reimbursed. Will you do it?"
"Of course," she said. "It'll be fun. But why are you going to so much trouble, Archy?"
I had a con ready.
"An elderly gent is addicted to the mumbo jumbo the Glorianas are peddling. He's spending a fortune on private seances, fake demonstrations of telepathy and psychokinesis, and similar stuff. His grown children, our clients, are furious, figuring the old man is wasting their inheritance. They think the Glorianas are frauds. My father told me to investigate."
Connie bought it.
"Okay," she said, "I'll order a psychic profile for a woman who doesn't exist. Ah, here's our food. Now shut up and let me eat."
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
We finished dinner in record time, stopped at the bar for ponies of Frangelico, and then I drove Connie back to the Horowitz mansion.
"Sorry you have to work late," I said. "Next time we'll make a night of it."
"We better," she said. "Archy, tell the truth. Have you been faithful to me?"
I avoided a direct lie, as is my wont. Subterfuge is the name of the game.
"Connie," I said somberly, "I must be honest. Last week I flipped through a Playboy in the barbershop, and I confess I had lust in my heart."
She tried not to laugh but failed. "Just make sure it stays in your heart," she said, "and doesn't migrate southward. Thanks for the dinner, luv."
She gave me a very nice kiss, slid out of the Miata, and stalked back to her office. I waited until she was safely inside, and then I drove home singing "If You Knew Susie-Like I Know Susie." Actually, I've never met a woman named Susie, but one never knows, do one?
When I pulled into our driveway I saw Roderick Gillsworth's gray Bentley parked on the turnaround. The windows of my father's study were lighted, and he came out into the hallway when I entered.
"Archy," he said, "Gillsworth just arrived with bad news. Join us, please."
The poet was slumped in a leather club chair, biting at a thumbnail. The governor went behind his massive desk and I pulled up a straight chair.
"Another letter arrived today," my father said grimly and gestured toward a foolscap lying on the desk blotter. "Even more despicable than the others. And more frightening."
I hardly heard his final comments. I was thinking of "Another letter arrived today" and wondering why Lydia Gillsworth hadn't mentioned it. But perhaps she had. I recalled that during our telephone conversation, she had said, "I hope this isn't about that stupid letter I received." I had assumed she was speaking about the previous letter, not referring to a new one.
"Well, Archy?" father demanded impatiently, and I realized he had asked me something that simply hadn't registered.
"I beg your pardon, sir," I said. "Would you repeat the question?"
He stared at me, obviously saddened by the imbecile he had sired. "I asked if you had made any progress at all in identifying the writer of this filth."
"No, sir," I said, and let it go at that.
Gillsworth groaned. "What are we going to do?" he said, his last word rising to a falsetto.
I had never seen the man more distraught. In addition to the nail biting, he was blinking furiously and seemed unable to control a curious tremor of his jaw; it looked as if he was chewing rapidly.
"Mr. Gillsworth," I said, "I really think the police should be brought in. Or if your wife continues to forbid it, then private security guards should be hired. Round-the-clock. It will be costly, but I feel it's necessary until the perpetrator can be found."
The seigneur fell into one of those semi-trances that signified he was giving my proposal heavy thought, examining the pros and cons, and considering all the options in-between.
"Yes," he said finally, "I think that would be wise. Mr. Gillsworth, we have dealt several times in the past with a security service that provides personal guards. We have always found their personnel trustworthy and reliable. May I have permission to employ guards for your wife, twenty-four hours a day?"
"Oh God, yes!" Gillsworth cried, his skinny arms flapping. "Just the thing! Why didn't I think of it?"
"Where is Mrs. Gillsworth at the moment?" I asked.
"She went to a seance this evening," he said. "She should be home by now. May I use your phone?"
"Of course," father said.
Gillsworth stood, walked rather shakily to the desk phone, and dialed his number. He held the receiver clamped tightly to his head. While we all waited, I noted how he was perspiring. His face was sheened with sweat, and there was even a drop trembling at the tip of his avian honker. Poor devil, I thought; I knew exactly how he felt.
Finally he hung up. "She's not home," he said hollowly.
"No cause for alarm," my father said. "She may have stayed a few extra moments at the seance. She drove her own car?"
"Yes," the poet said. "A Caprice. I don't understand why she isn't home. She's rarely late."
"She may be delayed by traffic. Try again in five or ten minutes. Meanwhile, I suggest we all have a brandy. Archy, will you do the honors?"
I welcomed the assignment. In truth, I had caught Gillsworth's fear and needed a bit of Dutch courage. I went to the marble-topped sideboard and poured generous tots into three snifters. I served the poet and father.
Gillsworth finished half of his drink in one gulp and gasped. "Yes," he said, "that helps. Thank you."
"Father," I said, "when you talk to the security people about personal guards, I think it might be smart to ask that female operatives be assigned. I believe Mrs. Gillsworth might be more inclined to accept the constant presence of women rather than men."
"Yes, yes!" Gillsworth said, animated by the cognac and flapping his arms again. "You're quite right. A capital idea!"
The senior McNally nodded. "Good thinking, Archy," he said, and I felt I had been pardoned for my earlier inattention. "Mr. Gillsworth, would you have any objection if the female guard or guards actually moved into your home? Temporarily, of course."
"None at all," the poet said. "We have extra bedrooms. I'd welcome the presence of someone who'll watch over Lydia every minute I'm not with her. May I use the phone again?"
"Naturally," father said.
He called, and a moment later I saw his entire body relax and he actually grinned.
"You're home, Lydia," he said heartily. "All safe and sound? Good. Doors and windows locked? Glad to hear it. I'm at the McNallys', dear, and I should be home in fifteen minutes or so. See you soon."
He hung up and rubbed his palms together briskly. "All's well," he reported. "I'll stay with her until your security people arrive. When do you think that will be?"
"Probably early in the morning," father told him. "I'll call the night supervisor, and he can get things started. I'll request a female guard be sent to your home early tomorrow. Will that be satisfactory?"
"Eminently," Gillsworth said, and finished his brandy. "I feel a lot better now. I'm going to tell Lydia I insist the guards remain until this whole horrible mess is cleared up. Thank you for your help, Mr. McNally-and you too, Archy. I better go now."
"I'll see you to your car," my father said. "Please wait here for me, Archy."