We sat in padded captain's chairs at an oak dining table tucked into one corner of the living room. I sampled the wine, and it was just right.
"Who goes first?" Al asked.
"You start," I said. "My amazing revelations can wait."
He got up to fetch his notebook. He was wearing tan jeans and a T-shirt. He was unshod but his meaty feet were stuffed into white athletic socks. I noticed he was getting a belly, not gross but nascent. Most cops don't eat very well. They think a balanced diet is an anchovy pizza and a can of Dr Pepper.
"Okay," the sergeant said, hunching over his notebook, "here's what I got from Atlanta. Those people the Glorianas named as references just don't exist at the addresses given. The Atlanta bank they named was a savings and loan that folded three years ago."
"Beautiful," I said.
"Then I got through to a detective in the Atlanta PD who knew all about the Glorianas. Jerry Wein-garter. A nice guy. He's a cigar smoker, like me. He was a big help so maybe I'll send him a box of the best."
"McNally and Son will pick up the tab," I said.
Al grinned. "That's what I figured," he said. "Anyway, this Weingarter told me that Irma Gloriana and her husband were-"
"Whoa," I said, holding up a hand. "You mean Irma is married?"
He looked at me. "Sure she's married. What did you think?"
"I didn't know what to think," I said honestly. "Is her husband still living?"
"He was about six months ago when he got out of the plink. His name is Otto. Otto Gloriana. Got a nice sound to it, doesn't it? Drink your wine; there's another bottle cooling. Irma and Otto were running what my dear old granddaddy used to call a house of ill repute. It wasn't a sleazy crib; the Glorianas had a high-class joint. All their girls were young and beautiful. The johns paid anywhere from a hundred to five hundred, depending on what they wanted. Irma was the madam, Otto the business manager. They had been in business four or five years and had a nice thing going with a well-heeled clientele of uppercrust citizens. The law got on to it when one of their girls OD'd on heroin."
I finished my glass of wine and poured myself another. "A pretty picture," I said. "And what part did the son, Frank, play in all this?"
"He was like a bouncer, providing muscle if any of the johns got out of line."
"And Hertha?"
"Apparently she had no connection with the cat-house. Weingarter says she had her own racket, doing what she does now: holding seances and doing horoscopes. He also said she's a crackerjack psychic. Once she helped the Atlanta cops find a lost kid. Weingarter doesn't know how she did it,
but the lead she gave them was right on the money."
He paused to refill his glass, and I had a moment to reflect on what he had told me. I think I was more saddened than shocked.
"What happened after the cops closed them down?" I asked.
"Otto cut a deal. He'd take the rap if his wife and son got suspended sentences and promised to leave town."
"Very noble of Otto," I said. "How long did he get?"
"He drew three-to-five, did a year and a half, and was released about six months ago. No probation. Present whereabouts unknown."
I gazed up at the ceiling fans. "Al," I said, almost dreamily, "do you have a physical description of Otto?"
"Yeah," he said, flipping pages of his notebook, "I've got it somewhere. Here it is. He's-"
I interrupted him. "He's tall," I said. "Reddish hair. Broad-shouldered. Very well-dressed in a conservative way. About sixty-five or so."
The sergeant stared at me. "What the hell," he said hoarsely. "You been taking psychic lessons from Hertha or something?"
"Did I get it right?" I asked.
"You got it right," he acknowledged. "Now tell me how."
"He's down here," I said. "Using the name Charles Girard."
Then I gave Rogoff an account of how I figured Peaches might get sick, how the catnappers would seek medical help, how I canvassed emergency animal hospitals with a flapdoodle story, how I finally found a veterinarian who remembered treating
Peaches and gave me the name and address of the man who brought her in.
Al looked at me and shook his head in wonderment. "You know," he said, "you have the testicles of a brazen simian. You also have more luck than you deserve. Where is Otto living?"
"In a fleabag motel on Federal Highway. But I haven't told you the punch line, Al. I went out there this morning to pay a visit to Charles Girard, or, if he wasn't present, to see if Peaches was on the premises and could be rescued. But I took one look and departed forthwith. Roderick Gillsworth's gray Bentley was parked outside Otto's cabin."
The sergeant stared and slowly his face changed. I thought I saw vindictiveness there and perhaps malevolence.
"Gillsworth," he repeated, and it was almost a hiss. "I knew that-"
But I wasn't fated to learn what it was the sergeant knew, for the phone rang at that instant, star-tlingly loud.
Al waited until the third ring, then hauled himself to his feet. "I'll take it on the bedroom extension," he said.
He went inside and closed the door. I wasn't offended. If it was official business, he had every right to his privacy. And if it was that schoolteacher he dated occasionally, he had every right to his privacy.
He seemed to be in there a long time, long enough for me to finish what was left of the cabernet. Finally he came out. He had pulled on a pair of scuffed Reeboks, the laces flapping, and a khaki nylon jacket. He was affixing his badge to the epaulette of the jacket. After he did that, he took his gunbelt with all its accoutrements from a closet shelf and buckled it about his waist with some difficulty.
Then he looked at me. I could read absolutely nothing in his expression, because there wasn't one; his face was stone.
"There was a fire at Roderick Gillsworth's place," he reported tonelessly. "A grease fire in the kitchen. The neighbors spotted it. The firemen had to break down the door to get in. They put out the fire and went looking for Gillsworth. They found him in the bathtub. His wrists were slit."
I gulped. "Dead?" I asked, hearing the quaver in my own voice.
"Very," Al said.
"Can I come with you?"
"No," he said. "You'd just have to wait outside. I'll phone you as soon as I learn more."
"Al, there's something else I've got to tell you," I said desperately.
"It'll have to wait. Go home, Archy. You better tell your father about this."
"Yes," I said. "Thanks for the wine."
"What?" he said. "Oh. Yeah."
We both went outside and paused while Al locked up. Then he got in his pickup and took off. I stayed right there, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the star-spangled sky. Another spirit had passed over. Another ghost. It had never occurred to me before that the living were a minority.
12
The door to my father's study was open. He was seated at his desk working on a stack of correspondence brought home from the office. He looked up when I entered.
"I'm busy, Archy," he said irritably.
"Yes, sir," I said, "but I have news I think you should hear immediately. Not good news."
He sighed and tossed down his pen. "It's been that kind of day," he said. "Very well, what is it?"
I repeated what Al Rogoff had told me and, like the sergeant's, his face became stone.
"Yes," he said in a quiet voice, "I heard the fire engines go by earlier this evening. The man has definitely expired?"
"According to Rogoff. He promised to phone me when he learns more about it."
"Does the sergeant believe it was suicide?"