I repeated my fictional plea, and he blinked furiously at me from behind smudged spectacles. I returned his flickering stare with a look I tried to make as honest and sincere as possible.
Apparently it worked, for he said in a reedy voice, "I have recently treated a female cat such as you describe, but a man brought her in, not a lady."
"A man?" I said thoughtfully. "That was undoubtedly her uncle. He frequently travels with her to prevent her being propositioned by uncouth strangers. She is an extremely attractive young woman. Could you describe the man, please, doctor?"
"Tall," he said. "Reddish hair. Broad-shouldered. Very well-dressed in a conservative way. About sixty-five or so, I'd guess."
"Her uncle to a T," I cried. "I'm enormously relieved. And was Peaches seriously ill?"
"I cannot divulge that information," he said sternly. "Medical ethics."
"Of course," I said hastily. "Completely understandable. Would you be willing to give me their address, sir? I'm eager to offer them what assistance I can."
He went back into his office and returned a few minutes later to hand me a scribbled Post-It note.
"The man's name is Charles Girard," he said. "On Federal Highway. A strange address for someone as prosperous as he seemed to be."
"A temporary residence, I'm sure," I said. "I believe Mr. Girard and his niece are on their way to the Lesser Antilles. Thank you so much for your cooperation, doctor."
I had noticed a glass jar on the receptionist's desk. It bore a label requesting contributions for the feeding and rehabilitation of stray felines. The jar was half-filled with coins. I extracted a twenty-dol-lar bill from my wallet and stuffed it into the jar.
"For the hungry kitties," I said piously.
The vet blinked even more rapidly. "You are very generous," he commented.
"My pleasure," I said, and meant it.
I boogied out to the Miata. I was very, very pleased with the triumph of my charade. Surely you recall Danton's prescription for victory: "Audacity, more audacity, always audacity." How true, how true!
The veterinarian had been correct about the address given him by Charles Girard: it was a strange neighborhood. The buildings on that stretch of Federal Highway appeared to have been erected fifty years ago and never painted since. They were mostly one- and two-story commercial structures housing a boggling variety of businesses: taverns, used car lots, fast-food joints, and a depressing plethora of stores selling sickroom equipment and supplies.
But there were many vacant shops with For Rent signs in their dusty windows. There was something inexpressibly forlorn and defeated about the entire area, as if the Florida of shining malls and gleaming plazas had passed it by, leaving it to crumble away in the hot sun and salt wind.
I found the address the vet had provided. It proved to be a motel, and when I tell you it consisted of a dozen individual cabins, you can estimate when it was built. I guessed the late 1940s. I drove past and left the Miata in a small parking area beside a seemingly deserted enterprise that sold plastic lawn and patio furniture.
I walked slowly back to the Jo-Jean Motel and entered the office. It was not air conditioned, but a wood-bladed ceiling fan revolved lazily. A large, florid lady was perched on a stool behind the counter, bending over one of those supermarket newspapers that everyone denies reading and which sells about five million copies a week. She didn't look up when I came in.
"I beg your pardon," I said loudly, "but I'm looking for Mr. Charles Girard."
"South row, Cabin Four," she said, still perusing her tabloid. I could read the big headline upside down. It said: "Baby Born Whistling 'Dixie.' "
I went out into that searing sunlight again, found the south row of cabins. Then I stopped, stared, turned around, and walked hastily back to my Miata.
Parked alongside Cabin Four was Roderick Gillsworth's gray Bentley.
I headed back to the McNally Building, reflecting that I had refused Gillsworth's offer of an eye-opener that morning, but he had certainly provided one now. I was totally flummoxed. I couldn't conjure up even the most fantastic scenario to account for the poet visiting a man who apparently had catnapped Harry Willigan's pride and joy. It made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever.
And that turned out to be a mistake. I was looking for rationality in a plot that might have been devised by the Three Stooges.
I was making a turn off Federal when it suddenly occurred to me that the Pelican Club was only a few minutes' drive away. The sun was inching toward the yardarm, and I decided that refreshment, liquid and solid, in a cool, dim haven was needed to clear my muddleheadedness and get the old ganglia vibrating again.
I lunched alone, waited upon by the saucy Priscilla. Ordinarily we'd have had a bout of chivying, but Pris recognized my mood, and after taking my order left me alone with my problems. I scarfed determinedly through a giant cheeseburger and a bowl of cold potato salad, and by the time I started on my second schooner of Heineken draft, the McNally spirits were bubbling once again. I finished lunch by devouring a wedge of key lime pie while silently reciting those fatuous lines from Henley's "Invictus," although I wasn't positive I was the captain of my soul. More like a Private First Class.
I paid my bill at the bar. Simon Pettibone was wearing a striped shirt with sleeve garters and a small black leather bow tie. With his square spectacles and tight helmet of gray hair, he radiated the wisdom and understanding of an upright publican familiar with all the world's enigmas.
"Mr. Pettibone," I said, "I need your advice."
"No charge, Mr. McNally," he said.
"I have a small puzzle I'm trying to solve. There are two men utterly dissimilar in occupation and probably education and personal wealth. Now what could those two men possibly have in common?"
Mr. Pettibone stared at me a moment. "Cherchez la femme," he said.
I could have hugged him! I was convinced he had it exactly right, and I was determined to follow his counsel. Unfortunately, as events later proved, I cherchezed the wrong femme.
I stopped briefly at the office, hoping Al Rogoff might have left a message to call him. I wanted to learn if the FBI report had been received and what it contained. I also needed to know if he had spoken to the Atlanta PD about the Glorianas. But there was no message from the sergeant, so I phoned him. He was not available and I left my own message.
Then, acting on Mr. Pettibone's advice, I drove over to Ocean Boulevard and headed south for the Willigans' home. I decided it was time to play the heavy with Laverne, to lean on her enough to discover her relationship with Hertha, the kissing medium.
The lady was home, but Leon Medallion informed me she was having her "bawth" and he'd ask the maid when Mrs. Willigan would be receiving. All very upper class and impressive until you remembered the lord of the manor was a lout. So I cooled my heels in the tiled foyer until the butler returned and notified me I had been granted an audience with milady.
I found Laverne in the master suite, which looked like it had been decorated by someone who specialized in Persian bordellos. I've never seen such a profusion of silken draperies, porcelain knick-knacks, and embroidered pillows. Instead of Laverne, it should have been Theda Bara reclining on that pink satin chaise longue, swaddled in a robe of purple brocade so voluminous it seemed to go around her three times.
"Hiya, Archy," the siren sang. "What's up?"
"Why didn't you tell me you knew Hertha Gloriana?" I demanded, figuring it would stun her.
But she wasn't at all discombobulated. "Because I was afraid you'd tell Harry," she said calmly. "I already told you how he hates all that stuff. He calls it 'fortune-telling bullshit.' If he knew I was going to the Glorianas' seances, he'd break my face."