He was built like a mahogany stump and, to carry the arboreal analogy farther, his voice was a rough bark. I imagined he might have been a good-looking youth, but a lifetime of sour mash and prime ribs had taken their toll, and now his face was a crumpled road map of burst capillaries. The nose had the hue and shape of a large plum tomato.
"What are you doing about Sweetums?" he screamed at me.
I quietly explained that I had barely started my investigation but had already visited his home to learn the details of the catnapping from his wife. I intended to return to question the servants and make a more detailed search of the premises.
"No cops!" he shouted. "Those bastards claim they'll kill Peaches if I go to the cops."
I assured him I would not inform the police, and asked to see the ransom note. He had taken it from the safe prior to my arrival and flung it at me across the desk. I questioned how many people had handled it. The answer: he, Laverne, his receptionist, Leon Medallion and perhaps the other servants at Casa Blanco. That just about eliminated the possibility of retrieving any usable fingerprints from the note.
It was neatly printed on a sheet of good paper, and appeared to have been written on a word processor, as Willigan had told his wife. What caught my eye was the even right-hand margin. The spacing between words had been adjusted so that all lines were the same width. Rather rare in a ransom note- wouldn't you say?
I asked if he had received any further communication from the catnappers, and Willigan said he hadn't. I then inquired if there was anyone he thought might have snatched the cat. Did he have any enemies?
He glowered at me. "I got more enemies than you got friends," he yelled. (A comparison I did not appreciate.) "Sure, I got enemies. You can't cut the mustard the way I done without making enemies. But they're all hard guys. They might shoot me in the back, but they wouldn't steal my Sweetums for a lousy fifty grand. That's penny-ante stuff to those bums."
I couldn't think of any additional questions to ask, so I thanked Willigan for his time and rose to leave. He walked me to the door, a meaty hand clamped on my shoulder.
"Listen, Archy," he said in his normal, raucous voice, "you get Peaches back okay and there's a nice buck in it for you."
"Thank you," I said stiffly, "but my father pays me a perfectly adequate salary."
"Oh sure," he said, trying to be jovial, "but a young stud like you can always use a little extra change. Am I right?"
Wretched man. How Laverne could endure his total lack of couth, I could not understand. But I suspected the Bloody Marys with fresh horseradish helped.
I walked back to the McNally Building, swung aboard the Miata, and headed for home. The old medulla oblongata had enough of the misadventure of Peaches for one day. I gave all those bored neurons a treat by turning my thoughts to Meg Trumble and Laverne Willigan.
I found it amazing that the two were sisters. I could see a slight resemblance in their features, but their carcasses were totally dissimilar. If they stood side by side, Meg on the left, they'd look like the number 18.
And their personalities were so unlike. Laverne was a bouncy extrovert, Meg more introspective, a serious woman. I thought she was not as coarsely woven as Laverne, not as many slubs. As of that moment I was not smitten, but she intrigued me. There was a mystery to her that challenged. Laverne was about as mysterious as a baked potato.
I pulled into the driveway of the McNally castle, a tall Tudorish pile with a mansard roof of copper that leaked. I parked on the graveled turnaround in front of our three-car garage, making sure I did not block the entrance to the left-hand bay where my father always sheltered his big Lexus. The middle space was occupied by an old, wood-bodied Ford station wagon, used mostly for shopping and to transport my mother's plants to flower shows.
I found her in the small greenhouse talking to her begonias, as usual. Her name was Madelaine, and she was a paid-up member of the Union of Ditsy Mommies. But she was an absolutely glorious woman, warm and loving. I had seen her wedding pictures, when she became Mrs. Prescott McNally, and she was radiant then. Now, pushing seventy, she was even more beautiful. I speak not as a dutiful son but as an eager student of pulchritude. (I carried in my wallet a small photo of Kay Kendall.)
Mother's specs had slipped down on her nose, and she didn't see me sneak up. I kissed her velvety cheek, and she closed her eyes.
"Ronald Colman?" she asked. "John Bar-rymore?"
"Tyrone Power," I told her.
"My favorite," she said, opening her eyes. "He was so wonderful in The Postman Always Rings Twice."
"Mother, that was John Garfield."
"I loved him, too," she said. "Where have they all gone, Archy?"
"To the great Loew's in the sky," I said. "But I'm still here."
"And I love you most," she said promptly, patting my cheek. "Ursi is baking scallops tonight. Isn't that nice?"
"Perfect," I said. "I'm in a scallopy mood. Ask father to open one of those bottles of muscadet he's been hoarding."
"Why don't you ask him, Archy?"
"Because he'll tell me that a jug chablis is good enough. But if you ask, he'll break out the good stuff. He's putty in your hands."
"He is?" she said. "Since when?"
I kissed her again and went up to my suite to change. "Suite" is a grandiloquent word to describe a small sitting room, cramped bedroom, and claustrophobic bathroom on the third floor. But you couldn't beat the rent. Zip. And it was my private aerie. I had no complaints whatsoever.
I pulled on modest swimming trunks (shocking pink), a terry coverup, and sandals. Then I grabbed a towel and went down to the beach. The Atlantic was practically lapping at our doorstep; just cross Ocean Boulevard and there it was, shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. The chop was not strong enough to give me second thoughts.
I try to swim two miles a day. Not out and back; that's for idiots. I swam parallel to the shore, about fifty feet out. I go a mile north or south and then return. I don't exactly wallow, as I told Meg Trumble, but I sort of plow along. However, since it is the only physical exercise I get-other than an occasional game of darts at the Pelican Club-it makes me feel virtuous and does wonders for the appetite. And thirst.
My father is very big on tradition. One of the ceremonies he insists on honoring is the cocktail hour, a preprandial get-together that usually lasts thirty minutes during which we imbibe martinis he mixes to the original formula of three parts gin to one of vermouth. Not dry enough for you? Complain to Prescott McNally, but be prepared to face a raised eyebrow-and a hairy one at that.
"Are you going out tonight, Archy?" my father asked that evening at the family gathering.
"No, sir," I said, "I hadn't planned to."
"Good," he said. "Roderick Gillsworth phoned this afternoon and wants to come over at nine o'clock. It concerns some matter he didn't wish to discuss at the office."
"And you want me to be present?" I asked, somewhat surprised.
The governor chomped on his olive which, in a small departure from his love of the hallowed, had been stuffed with a sliver of jalapeno. "Yes," he said, "Gillsworth particularly asked that you sit in."
"And how is Lydia?" mother asked, referring to the client's wife.
Father knitted his brows which, considering their hirsuteness, might have resulted in a sweater. "I asked," he said, "but the man didn't give me a direct answer. Very odd. Shall we go down to dinner?"
The scallops were super, the flavor enhanced by a muscadet the lord of the manor had consented to uncork. He's inclined to be a bit mingy with his vintage wines. It makes little difference to mother, who drinks only sauterne with dinner-a dreadful habit my father and I have never persuaded her to break. But I like a rare wine occasionally: something that doesn't come in a bottle with a handle and screw-top.