The luncheon crowd had not yet assembled, but Simon Pettibone was on duty behind the bar, reading Barron's through his Ben Franklin glasses. He put the financial pages aside long enough to mix my drink, an ambrosial concoction with just a wee bit of Cointreau added.
Mr. Pettibone went back to his stock indices, and I nursed my plasma, savoring the quiet, cool, dim ambience of my favorite watering hole. A few members wandered in, but it was a pleasant Saturday afternoon and most Pelicanites were in pools or the ocean, on fairways and courts, or perhaps astride a polo pony out at Wellington. Life is undoubtedly unfair and one would be a fool not to enjoy one's good fortune.
Connie showed up a few minutes after noon. She was wearing stone-washed denim overalls atop a tie-dyed T-shirt. Her long black hair was gathered with a yellow ribbon, and there were leather strap sandals on her bare feet. She looked-oh, maybe sixteen years old, and I told her she might have to show her ID to get a drink.
We went back to the empty dining area, and a yawning Priscilla showed us to our favorite corner table. Connie ordered a white zin and I had a repeat of my daiquiri.
"Sorry about tonight, Archy," she said, "but there was just no way I could turn Lola and Max away; they are family."
"No problem," I said. "After they've gone, we'll make up for lost time."
She reached across the table to clasp my hand. "Promise?" she said.
"I swear by Zeus," I said. "And a McNally does not take an oath to Zeus lightly."
"Who's Zeus?" she asked.
"A Greek who owns a luncheonette up near Jupiter," I said.
I was spared further explanation when Pris brought our drinks and rattled off the specials of the day. Connie and I both opted for the mixed seafood salad (scallops, shrimp, Florida lobster) with a loaf of garlic toast.
"I've got news for you," Connie said after we ordered, "and you're not going to like it."
"You're pregnant?"
"No, dammit," she said. "I'd love to have kids, wouldn't you?"
"I can't," I said. "Being of the male gender."
"You know what I mean," she said, laughing. "Anyway, the bad news is this: I was turned down by that medium."
"What!?"
She nodded. "I got a letter from Hertha Gloriana, a very cold letter. She said it was obvious to her that the person I described doesn't actually exist, and therefore she could not provide a psychic profile and was returning my check. She also told me not to apply again unless I told her the truth."
"I'll be damned."
"Archy, how did she know my letter was a phony? There was nothing in it that might tip her off it was a scam."
I shook my head. "I can't figure how she knew. But what's even more puzzling is that she returned your money. If the Glorianas have a swindle going, as I thought, Hertha would have cobbled up a fictitious profile and cashed your check."
"Perhaps she really is clairvoyant and knew at once that my letter was a trick."
"Perhaps."
Our lunch was served, and we talked of other things as we devoured our salads. Connie gave me a long account of her trials and tribulations in planning Lady Horowitz's Fourth of July bash, but I hardly listened; I couldn't stop brooding about Her-tha's reaction to the fake letter. How did she know?
Connie didn't want any dessert and said she had to get back to her houseguests. I told her I was going to loll around the Club awhile and would phone her on Sunday. I escorted her out to her little Subaru.
"Thanks for the lunch, Archy," she said, "and I'm sorry I depressed you with the bad news about the medium's letter."
"You didn't depress me."
"Sure I did. You've hardly said a word since I told you, and when Archy McNally doesn't chatter, he's depressed."
"I think I'm more mystified than anything else. Connie, you don't happen to have that letter you received from the Glorianas, do you?"
"Yep," she said, fishing in the hip pocket of her overalls. "I'm glad you reminded me; I thought you might want it for your files. Don't forget to call me tomorrow, sweet."
She handed me a folded envelope, kissed my cheek, and hopped into her dinky car. I waved as she drove away. Then I unfolded the envelope, took out the letter, and read it in the bright sunlight. It was coldly phrased and stated pretty much what Connie had already told me. There were no surprises.
But what shocked was that it had an even right-hand margin and had obviously been written on the same word processor as the Gillsworth letters and Peaches' ransom notes.
I went back into the Pelican Club and used the public phone in the rear of the bar area. I called Al Rogoff but he wasn't in his office, and they refused to tell me where he was. On a hunch, I then phoned Roderick Gillsworth's home and got results.
"Sergeant Rogoff," he said.
"McNally," I said. "You're still there? What on earth are you doing?"
"Reading poetry."
"Gillsworth's? Awful dreck, isn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," Al said. "Erotic stuff."
"You've got to be kidding," I said. "Gillsworth's poetry is about as erotic as the Corn Laws of England. Which book of his are you reading?"
"I'm not reading a book. I'm going through unpublished poems I found in a locked drawer in his desk. I picked the lock. A piece of cheese. Inside was a file of finished poems. They're dated and all appear to have been written in the past six months or so. And I'm telling you they're hot stuff."
I was flabbergasted. "I don't dig that at all," I told Al. "I've dipped into some of his published things, and believe me they're dull, dull, dull."
"Well, the stuff I've been reading is steamy enough to add a new chapter to Psychopathia Sexu-alis. Maybe he decided to change his style."
"Maybe," I said. "We can talk about that later. Right now I've got something more important."
I told him how the Glorianas were selling psychic profiles by mail, how I tried to prove it a scam by having Consuela Garcia send in a trumped-up letter from a nonexistent woman, how Hertha rejected the fake application, and how her missive was identical in format to the Gillsworth-Willigan letters.
"That does it," Rogoff said decisively. "I'll send the rookie to the Glorianas' office to see if he can confirm that they own a Smith Corona word processor. And instead of one undercover cop, I'll plant a couple, man and woman, out at the Jo-Jean Motel and put round-the-clock surveillance on Cabin Four. And if the brass will give me the warm bodies, I'll stake out the Glorianas' apartment."
"That should do it," I said. "Al, Frank Gloriana carries a gun. Lydia Gillsworth told me."
"Thanks for the tip. Tell me, Archy, how do you figure the medium knew the letter you sent her was a phony?"
"I don't know," I said. "I just don't know."
I went back to the bar to sign the tab for lunch.
"Mr. Pettibone," I said abruptly, "do you believe in ghosts?"
He stared at me a moment through his square specs. "Why, yes, Mr. McNally," he said finally. "As a matter of fact, I do."
"Surely not the Halloween variety," I said. "The kind who wear white sheets and go 'Whooo! Whooo!' "
"Well, perhaps not those," he admitted. "But I do believe some of the departed return as spirits and are able to communicate with the living."
I had always considered the Pelican Club's major-domo to be the most practical and realistic of men, so it was startling to learn he accepted the existence of disembodied beings. "Have you ever spoken to the spirit of a deceased person?" I asked him.
"I have indeed, Mr. McNally," he said readily. "As you know, I am an active investor in the stock market. On several occasions the spirit of Mr. Bernard Baruch, the successful financier, has appeared to me. We meet on a park bench and he gives me advice on which stocks to buy and what to sell."