"Wasn't it," he agreed.
On my way through the outer office Mrs. Trelaw-ney took one look at my expression and evidently decided not to crack any jokes or make any reference to our recent visitor. Instead she silently handed me a message: Mrs. Laverne Willigan had phoned and I was to call her as soon as possible.
I returned to my closet, phoned the Willigan house, spoke to Leon, and eventually Laverne came on the line. She told me she had heard from the bank, the fifty thousand was ready, and I could pick it up anytime. I thanked her and hung up at once, fearing she might ask questions about plans for delivery of the ransom.
Then I phoned Sgt. Rogoff.
"Al," I said, "I'm in my office. Irma Gloriana just left, and you were right. But that bomb she dropped was a blockbuster. Can you come over?"
"On my way," he said. "Fifteen minutes."
He was as good as his word. He came barging in and plumped down in the uncomfortable steel chair alongside my desk. He lighted a cigar and took out his notebook. "All right," he said, "let's have it."
I gave him a complete account of what had transpired in my father's office. When I started, he tried to keep up by scribbling notes, but then he became so entranced by my report that he left off writing, let his cigar go out, and just listened, bending forward intently.
I finished, and he leaned back, relighted the cold cigar and stared at me. I lighted a cigarette, and within minutes my tiny office was fuggy.
"A handwritten will is legal?" he asked finally.
"My father says so. And a witness can be a beneficiary."
"And Irma gets everything?"
"Everything but the original manuscripts."
He made a grimace of disgust. "Why did the idiot do it?"
"That's obvious," I said. "Sexual obsession."
"I love the way you talk," he said. "You mean he had the hots for her."
"That's exactly what I mean," I said.
Then, when we both grasped the implications of the poet's folly, I think we became excited-hunters on a fresh spoor. We couldn't talk fast enough.
"Look, Al," I said. "Lydia was a lovely woman but something of a bluestocking. The gossip in Palm Beach was that the Gillsworths had a marriage in name only."
"Then Roderick goes to one of those cockamamy seances with his wife and meets Mrs. Irma Gloriana. Snap, crackle, and pop!"
"Irma was everything Lydia wasn't: voluptuous, dominant, and a wanton when it suited her purpose."
"And as rapacious as a shrike."
"So they have an affair. Rod learns there's more to life than iambic pentameters, and Irma calculates this besotted fool might be the answer to her family's money problems. Do you buy all that?"
"Every word of it," Rogoff said. "That's why he began writing those erotic poems; the poor devil couldn't control his glands. It happens to all of us sooner or later."
"But not many of us end up dead because of it."
"Thank God."
"You think Gillsworth knew Otto was Irma's husband?"
"I doubt that. I think she passed him off as her brother or a friend."
"You're probably right," I said. "How's this scenario: Irma learns that Rod is practically penniless but his wife is loaded."
"And if she dies, her husband inherits the bulk of her estate."
"Who do you think made the first fatal suggestion?"
"The husband," Al said promptly. "If that was the price he had to pay to keep enjoying Irma, he was willing."
"Maybe Irma promised to marry him once Lydia was out of the picture. That's assuming he didn't know she was already married."
"And I'm betting Irma told him he wouldn't have to do the dirty deed himself; her so-called brother or friend would take care of Lydia-for a price, of course."
"Maybe the price was Gillsworth writing out that holographic will, leaving everything to Irma. A lovely quid pro quo. But why the poison-pen letters, Al?"
"Just to send the cops galloping off in all directions looking for a psycho who didn't exist. By the way, I sent that rookie up to the Glorianas' office to try to sell Frank a Smith Corona word processor.
You were right; Frank already owns a model PWP 10 °C."
"You think he was in on the plot to murder the Gillsworths?"
Rogoff pondered a moment. "I doubt it," he said finally. "He obviously knew about it-he witnessed the will, didn't he? — but I don't think he was a partner. Frankie boy had his own plot in the works: the catnapping of Peaches with the loving assistance of Laverne Willigan."
"Who he probably met at a seance. Those seances are beginning to resemble the bawdyhouse the Glorianas operated in Atlanta."
"Archy, you figure the medium knew what was going down?"
"Hertha? I don't think she knew about the murder plan. She knew her husband was nuzzling Laverne Willigan, but she just didn't care. Hertha isn't guilty of any crimes, Al."
He looked at me, amused. "How about conduct that violates the ethical code of psychics?"
"Well, yes, she may possibly be guilty of that."
He laughed. "Listen, let's go through the whole megillah one more time from the top and see if we can spot any holes."
So we reviewed our entire scenario, starting with Roderick Gillsworth meeting Irma Gloriana and falling in love-or whatever he fell into. It seemed a reasonable script with only a few minor questions to be answered, such as the date Otto Gloriana arrived in Greater West Palm Beach, where Irma and Rod consummated their illicit union, and why Lydia Gillsworth had opened her locked door to allow her murderer to enter.
"We'll clear those things up," the sergeant said confidently. "Now that we've got a logical hypothesis, we'll know what evidence to look for and what's just garbage."
"Whoa!" I said. "I hope you're not going to discard facts simply because they don't fit our theory. That's ridiculous-and dangerous."
"It's not a question of discarding facts," he argued. "It's a matter of interpretation. Let me give you a for-instance. When Gillsworth's body was found, there was a big meal he had been preparing in the kitchen: six huge crab cakes and an enormous salad. Now there were three interpretations of that humongous meal. One: He was famished and was going to eat the whole thing himself. Two: He was making enough food so he could have a leftover dinner the next day. And three: He was expecting a guest and was preparing dinner for two people. According to our theory, the third supposition is the most likely. He was expecting Irma Gloriana to join him for dinner. The doorbell rings, he looks through the judas window, sees her, and unlocks the door. Otto is standing to one side, out of sight, and the moment the door is open, he comes barreling in with his single-edge razor blade. Doesn't that sound right to you? It's what I mean by interpreting facts. They don't become evidence until you can establish their significance. If you don't have a reasonable supposition, you can drown in facts."
"Thank you, professor," I said. "I've enjoyed your lecture enormously. Of course it's based on the belief that our scenario is accurate."
"You believe that, don't you?"
"I do," I said. "It seems to me the only plausible explanation of what happened."
But that wasn't the whole truth. Do you recall my mentioning a vague notion I had early on, something so tenuous that I couldn't put it into words?
Then, as more was learned about the homicides, I began to see an outline. Now, with the most recent revelations, the outline was filling in and taking on substance. If it proved valid, it would radically alter the script Sgt. Rogoff had adopted so enthusiastically. But I didn't tell him that.
"Al," I said, "the bank has the ransom money ready. Will you go with me to pick it up? You're the man with the gun."
"Sure," he agreed readily. "Then I want you to come back to headquarters with me. We've got to go over the program for tonight's payoff."
"I hope you've devised an effective plan."