"Sure," she said, voice muffled. "People who are supposed to have second sight. They claim they can predict the future and things like that."
"Things like locating missing persons and objects," I said. "My idea is to contact some local psychic and see if he or she can get a vision of where Peaches is now."
Laverne raised her head to stare at me with an expression I could not decipher. "That's the nuttiest idea I've ever heard," she said. "You don't believe that voodoo stuff, do you?"
"I don't believe and I don't disbelieve. But it's worth trying, wouldn't you say?"
"No, I would not say," she said with what seemed to me an excess of vehemence. "It's crazy. Don't do it, Archy. If Harry finds out you've gone to someone who reads tea leaves or whatever it is they do, he'll fire both you and your father."
"Yes," I said regretfully, "I guess you're right. As I said, it was just a wild idea. I better forget it."
"That's smart," she said, settling down again. "By the way, I heard from Meg. She'll be back sometime this week. She's got her own apartment now in Riviera Beach. Will you be glad to see her again, Archy?"
"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 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."