"Fine," I said. "I have something to tell you, too. I know who swiped the cat."
"Don't tell me it was Willie Sutton."
"No," I said, laughing. "Even better. When do you want to make it?"
"Tomorrow morning at ten," he said. "At Gillsworth's house."
"Why there?"
"We're going to reenact the murder. You get to play the victim."
"My favorite role," I said. "I rehearsed this evening."
"What?"
"Nothing," I said. "See you tomorrow."
I poured myself a small marc and spent a few hours reviewing my journal, paying particular attention to the entries dealing with Laverne Willigan, her feelings about her husband, her reactions to the snatching of Peaches, and the gossip Jamie had relayed about her alleged lover.
I poured a second marc and lighted a cigarette. Absorbing alcohol and inhaling nicotine with carefree abandon, I mused on Laverne's motive for assisting in the catnapping, for I was certain she was involved up to her toasted buns. I scribbled a few notes:
1. Laverne is a sensual young woman with a jumbo appetite for the pleasures of the good life.
2. She is married to Harry, an ill-natured dolt much older than she but with the gelt to provide the aforementioned delights.
3. She meets a rakishly handsome immoralist, Frank Gloriana. He is married to the psychic, Hertha, but has no scruples about cheating on his wife, especially when the possibility of a payoff exists. (Or perhaps the medium is aware of his infidelity and couldn't care less, being as amoral as he.)
4. Laverne and Frank become intimate, enjoying each other's company with absolutely no intention of leaving their respective spouses.
5. But Frank suffers from a bad case of the shorts. (Bounced checks, etc.)
6. Question: Did Laverne or Frank dream up the idea of swiping Peaches for a good chunk of walk-ing-around money?
7. Answer: My guess is that it was Frank's scam, but Laverne merrily goes along since it causes distress to her boorish husband, he can easily afford the bite, and not to aid Frank might result in her losing him.
8. She sneaks the cat out of the Willigan home in its carrier and delivers it to Cabin Four.
9. Frank slides the ransom notes under the Willi-gans' front door.
10. Laverne returns the carrier when she learns from her sister that I have noted its absence.
11. All that remains to be done is the glomming of the ransom and the return of Peaches to her hearth.
12. Everyone lives happily ever after.
I reread these notes, and everything seemed logical to me-and so banal I wanted to weep. I went to bed reflecting that there are really no new ways to sin.
If you discover any, I wish you'd let me know.
Saturday morning brought brilliant sunshine and a resurgence of the customary McNally confidence. This high lasted all of forty-five minutes until, while lathering my chops preparatory to shaving, I received a phone call from Consuela Garcia.
"Archy," she wailed, "our orgy tonight-it's off!"
The bright new day immediately dimmed. I had consoled myself, in typical masculine fashion, that despite my rejection by Meg Trumble on Friday night, there was always Connie awaiting me on Saturday. I had envisioned a debauch so profligate that it might even include our reciting in unison the limerick beginning, "There was a young man from Rangoon." But apparently it was not to be.
"Connie," I said, voice choked with frustration, "why ever not?"
"Because," she said, "I got a call from my cousin Lola in Miami. She and Max, her husband, are driving up to Disney World and want to stop off and spend the night in my place."
"Ridiculous!"
"I know, but I've got to let them, Archy, because I spent a weekend with them at Christmastime."
I sighed. "At least we can all have dinner together, can't we?"
"Archy," she said, "Max wears Bermuda shorts with white ankle socks and laced black shoes."
"No dinner," I said firmly.
"But I want to see you," she cried. "Can't the two of us have lunch even if there's no tiddledywinks later?"
"Of course we can," I said gamely. "Meet you at the Club noonish."
"You are an admirable man," she proclaimed.
"I concur," I said.
A zingy breakfast did wonders for my morale. Being of Scandinavian origin, the Olsons had a thing for herring. Ursi kept a variety on hand, and that was my morning repast: herring in wine, in mustard sauce, in dilled cream, and one lone kipper. I wolfed all this with schwarzbrot and sweet butter. I know iced vodka is the wash of choice with a feast of herring, but it was too early in the morning; I settled for black coffee.
Much refreshed and happy I had been blessed with a robust gut, I tooled the Miata southward to meet Sergeant Al. It was a splendid day, clear and soft. If you're going to reenact a murder, that was the weather for it. The glory of sun, sea, and sky made homicide seem a lark. No one could possibly die on a day like that.
Rogoff was waiting for me in the flowered sitting room of the Gillsworth manse. I thought his meaty face was sagging with weariness, and I made sympathetic noises about his strenuous labors and obvious lack of sufficient sleep.
He shrugged. "Comes with the territory," he growled. "How to be a successful cop: Work your ass off, be patient, and pray that you're lucky. You smell of fish. What did you have for breakfast?"
"Herring."
"I shouldn't complain," he said. "I had a hot pastrami sandwich and a kosher dill. Tell me about the crazy cat."
We sat in facing armchairs, and I recited all the evidence leading to my conclusion that Laverne Willigan and Frank Gloriana had conspired in the catnapping.
Al listened intently and grinned when I finished. "Yeah," he said, "I'll buy it: the two of them making nice-nice and cooking up a plot to swipe the old coot's pet for fifty grand. I love it, just love it. You figure the cat is still out at the motel?"
"There's a cat in Cabin Four," I said. "I heard it mewing. I can't swear it's Peaches, but I'd make book on it."
He thought a moment. Then: "It might make our job easier when push comes to shove. That Cabin Four sounds like the combat center of everything that's going down. Otto Gloriana is staying there, and that's where you saw Gillsworth's Bentley and Laverne's Porsche."
"And heard the cat," I reminded him. "And also, the lady in the office said Otto drove off with a woman who could be Irma."
"Probably was."
"You want to raid the place, Al?"
"Not yet," he said. "The cat isn't as important as the homicides. I'd hate to tip our hand and send all the cockroaches scurrying back in the woodwork. But I think I'll put an undercover guy in one of the other cabins, just to keep an eye on things."
"All right," I said, "you play it your way. Now tell me about the FBI report."
He took out his notebook and flipped pages until he got to the section he wanted. Then he paused to light a cigar. I waited patiently until he had it drawing to his satisfaction. Then he started reading.
"The machine is a Smith Corona PWP 10 °C personal word processor with pica type. Paper is South-worth DeLuxe Four Star. Smith Corona ribbon used throughout. All letters written on same machine, probably by same operator."
"Interesting," I said, "but what good is it? What do we do with it?"
He smiled at me. "Archy, you've got to start thinking like a cop. I just had a rookie assigned to me. What I'll do is have the guy go through the Yellow Pages and make a list of all the companies in the area that sell and service office machines. He hits every one of them and makes his own list of those that handle the Smith Corona PWP 10 °C. Then he gets the names and addresses of customers who have bought that machine or had it serviced. It's a lot of legwork, I admit, but it's got to be done, and I think it'll pay off."
I thought a moment. "That's one way of doing it," I said. "The hard way."