I gave him the names and addresses of the Glorianas' references, and he promised to get back to me as soon as he had something. At that point I had no idea of where I might turn next in my discreet inquiries, so I decided to drive over to Worth Avenue and see if I could buy a tennis bracelet for Connie at a price that wouldn't land me in debtors' prison.
Then fate took a beneficent hand in the investigation-which proves that if you are pure of heart and eat your Wheaties, good things can happen to you.
I went down to the garage to board the Miata for the short drive over to Worth. Herb, our lumbering security guard, had come out of his glass cubicle and was leaning down to stroke the head of a cat rubbing against his shins. I strolled over.
"Got a new friend, Herb?" I asked.
He looked up at me. "A stray, Mr. McNally," he said. "He just came wandering down the ramp."
That had to be the longest, skinniest cat I had ever seen. It was a dusty black with a dirty-white blaze on its chest. One ear was hanging limply and looked bloodied. And the poor animal obviously hadn't had a decent table d'hote in weeks; its ribs and pelvic bones were poking.
But despite its miserable condition, it seemed to be in a lighthearted mood. It purred loudly under Herb's caresses, then came over to sniff at my shoes. I leaned to scratch under the chin. It liked that.
"Looks hungry, Herb," I said.
"Sure does," he said. "Maybe I'll run up to the cafeteria and get it something to eat."
"Our cafeteria?" I said. "You're liable to be arrested for cruelty to animals. Are you going to adopt it?"
"Mebbe," he said. "But if I take it home with me, it's liable to get into my tropical fish tanks. You think it would be all right if I kept it around here? I'll bet it's a great mouser."
"It's okay with me," I said, "if you're willing to take care of it."
"I think I should take it to the vet first," he said worriedly. "I'll have that ear fixed up and get it a bath."
I stared down at the stray, and I swear it grinned at me. That was one devil-may-care cat. It looked a little like Errol Flynn in The Charge of the Light Brigade.
"You're going to be okay," the guard said, addressing his new pal. "The vet'll fix you up like new."
That's when it hit me. I clapped Herb on the shoulder. "God bless you," I said hoarsely, and he probably thought I was approving his kindness to a wounded and homeless beast.
I immediately returned to my office and dug out the Yellow Pages for what Southern Bell called Greater West Palm Beach. I turned to the listings for Veterinarians.
This was my reasoning: Suppose Peaches got sick while she was in the custody of the catnappers. That was possible, wasn't it? In fact, it was likely when the irascible animal found herself being held prisoner by strangers in unfamiliar surroundings. The thieves wouldn't want to risk the health of their fifty-grand hostage, so they'd hustle her to a vet. All I had to do was contact local veterinarians and ask if they had recently treated a fat, silver-gray Persian with a mean disposition.
It was a long shot, I admitted, but at the moment I didn't have any short shots.
But my brainstorm fizzled when I took a look at the Veterinarian listings in the Yellow Pages. There were pages and pages of them, seemingly hundreds of DVMs. It would take S. Holmes and a regiment of the Baker Street Irregulars a month of Sundays to check out all those names and addresses. Good idea, I decided, but imdamnedpossible to carry out.
But then my roving eye fell on a short section headed Veterinarian Emergency Service and listed animal clinics and hospitals open twenty-four hours a day. The roster contained only fifteen names and addresses, some as far afield as Boynton Beach. It seemed reasonable to guess that if Peaches became ill, her captors would rush her to the nearest emergency facility.
I was back in business again!
I scissored out the vital section and with my gold Mont Blanc I carefully circled the animal emergency wards in the West Palm Beach area. There were seven of them. I estimated I could visit all seven in two days, or perhaps more if I became bored with routine snooping.
Now the only problem that remained was devising a scenario that would insure cooperation at all those infirmaries for ailing faunas. I mean I couldn't just barge in, describe Peaches, and demand to know if they had treated a cat like that lately. The medicos would call the gendarmes for sure and tell them to bring a large butterfly net.
No, what I needed was an imaginary tale that would arouse interest and eager response. In other words, a twenty-four-karat scam. Here is what I came up with:
"Good morning! My name is Archibald McNally and here is my business card. I have a problem I hope you will be able to help me with. I returned from a business trip last night and found on my answering machine a message from a close friend, a lady friend, who apparently had arrived in West Palm Beach during my absence. The message was frantic. Her cat-she always travels with her beloved Peaches-had suddenly become ill and she was rushing it to an emergency animal hospital. But the poor dear was so hysterical that she neglected to inform me where she was staying or to which clinic she was taking her sick pet. I wonder if you could tell me if you have treated such an animal recently and have the address of the owner. It would help me enormously."
I would then describe Peaches.
It seemed to me a plea that would be hard to resist. Naturally I didn't know if the catnapper was male or female, but I planned to put in that bit about a "lady friend" to suggest a romantic attachment that might evoke sympathy. Emerson said all mankind love a lover-but of course he never met Fatty Arbuckle.
Anyway, that's how I spent Wednesday afternoon-driving to four animal hospitals and putting on my act. In all four the receptionist was a young woman, and I would bestow upon her my most winning 100-watt smile and launch into my spiel. The results? Nil.
But I was not discouraged. In fact, as I drove back to the beach for my ocean swim, I was delighted that my monologue had been readily accepted at all four facilities I visited. Although none of them had treated a feline of Peaches' description, all were cooperative in searching their records and sorrowful when they could not provide the assistance requested.
I had my swim and returned to my chambers to prepare for the family cocktail hour, my dinner with Meg Trumble, and the seance with the Glorianas that was to follow. I decided to dress soberly, if not somberly: navy tropical worsted suit, white shirt, maroon tie. But examining myself in the full-length mirror, I realized I looked a bit too much like a mortician, so I exchanged the maroon cravat for a silk jacquard number with a hand-painted design of oriental lilies. Much better.
Over martinis that evening, mother remarked that I looked "very smart." Father took one glance at the lilies, and a single eyebrow shot up in a conditioned reflex. But all he said was, "Gillsworth has returned. He phoned me late this afternoon."
"Is he ready to execute a new will?" I asked.
The patriarch frowned. "He said he would call me next week and set up an appointment. I would have preferred an earlier date-tomorrow, if possible- and told him so. But he said he hadn't yet decided on specific bequests and needed more time. I do believe the man was stalling, but for what purpose I cannot conceive."
"Prescott," mother said softly, "some people find it very difficult to make out a will. It can be a wrenching emotional experience."
"Nonsense," he said. "We're all going to die and it's only prudent to prepare for it. I wrote out my first holographic will at the age of nine."
I laughed. "What possessions did you have to leave at that age, father?"
"All my marbles," he declared.
A derisive comment on that admission was obvious, but I didn't have the courage to utter it.
Later, as I drove northward to Riviera Beach, the problem of Roderick Gillsworth's last will and testament was eclipsed by a more immediate quandary; to wit, where was I going to take Meg Trumble for dinner?