Leon Medallion opened the door to my ring, and if it wasn't so early in the morning I would have sworn the fellow was smashed. His pale blue eyes were bleary and his greeting was slurred, as if he had breakfasted on a beaker of the old nasty.
He must have seen my astonishment because he said, "I ain't hammered, Mr. McNally. I got my allergies back again. I been sneezing up a storm and now I'm stuffed with antihistamines."
"So it wasn't the cat after all?"
"I guess not," he said mournfully. "But this place has enough molds and pollens to keep my peepers leaking for the rest of my life. You find Peaches?"
"Not yet, Leon. That's why I stopped by-to talk to you and the rest of the staff. Is Mrs. Willigan home?"
"Nah, she took off about a half-hour ago."
"And Miss Trumble?"
"In the pool doing her laps. The woman's a bloom-in' fish. You want to talk to all us peons together?"
"Might as well," I said. "No use repeating the same questions three times."
We assembled in the big kitchen: Leon; Ruby Jackson, the cook-housekeeper; the maid, Julie Blessington; and me. Ruby was a tiny, oldish woman who looked too frail to hammer a scaloppine of veal. Julie was younger, larger, and exceedingly plain. Trust Laverne not to employ a skivvy who might light her husband's fuse.
I questioned the three of them for about twenty minutes and got precisely nowhere. Only Julie and Leon had been in the house the afternoon Peaches disappeared. They swore the back door of the screened patio had been securely closed. There were no holes in the screening through which the cat might have vamoosed.
None of the three had seen strangers hanging about recently. No one lurking in the shrubbery; nothing like that. And none could even hazard a guess as to who might have shanghaied Peaches. They all testified to Harry Willigan's mad infatuation for his pet and hinted they'd all be happy to endure the permanent loss of that irascible feline. I could understand that.
I hadn't expected to learn anything new and I didn't. I thanked them for their cooperation and wandered out to the back lawn. Meg Trumble was still slicing back and forth in the pool, wearing the shiny black maillot that looked like a body painting. She saw me approach, paused to wave, then continued her disciplined swim. I moved a sling chair into the shade and waited.
She finished her workout in about five minutes. I loved the way she got out of the pool. No ladder for her. She simply placed her hands flat on the tiled coping and in one rhythmic surge heaved up and out, a bent leg raised for a foothold. It was a joy to see, and I never could have done it in a million years.
She came padding to me across the lawn, dripping and using her palms to scrape water from hair, face, arms. "Good morning, Archy," she said, smiling. "Isn't it a lovely day?"
"Scrumptious," I said, staring at her admiringly. She really was an artfully constructed young lady. "Would you care to have dinner with me tonight?"
"What?" she said, startled.
"Dinner. Tonight. You. Me."
"I don't-" she said, confused. "I shouldn't- I better- Perhaps if-"
I waited patiently.
"May I pay my own way?" she asked finally.
"Keep talking that way," I said, "and you'll be asked to resign from the female sex. No, you may not pay your own way. I'm inviting you to have dinner with me. Ergo, you will be my guest."
"All right," she said faintly. "What shall I wear?"
I was able to repress the reply that came immediately to mind. "Something informal," I said instead. "A flannel muumuu in a Black Watch tartan might be nice."
"Are you insane?" she said.
"Totally," I assured her. "Pick you up around seven."
I left hastily before she had second thoughts. I walked through the house, down that long corridor lined with antique weapons. They made me wonder if someone might, at that very moment, be taking a scimitar to Peaches. I do believe the plight of that offensive beast was beginning to concern me.
I exited and closed the front door behind me. Took two strides toward the Miata and stopped. Turned around and rang the bell again. Eventually the butler reappeared.
"Sorry to bother you, Leon," I said, "but a question occurred to me that I neglected to ask before. Was Peaches ever taken to the vet?"
"Oh sure," he said. "Once a year for her shots, but more often than that for a bath and to have her teeth and ears cleaned. And once when she got a tapeworm."
"How was she taken? Do you have a carrier-one of those suitcase things with air holes and maybe wire mesh at one end?"
"Yeah, we got a carrier."
"Could I take a look at it, please?"
"I'll dig it out," he said and departed, leaving me standing in the foyer.
I waited. And waited. And waited. It must have been at least ten minutes before he returned. He looked flummoxed.
"Can't find the damned thing," he reported. "It's always been kept in the utility room, but it's not there now. It's probably around here somewhere."
"Sure it is," I said, knowing it wasn't. "Give me a call when you find it, will you."
I drove officeward, not pondering so much on the significance of the missing cat carrier as wondering what inspired me to ask about it in the first place. Frequently, during the course of an investigation, I get these utterly meshuga ideas. Most of them turn out to be Looney Tunes, but occasionally they lead to something important. I had a creepy feeling this particular brainstorm would prove a winner.
My office in the McNally Building had the spaciousness and ambience of a split-level coffin. I suspected my father had condemned me to that closet to prove to the other employees there was no nepotism in his establishment. But allowing me one miserable window would hardly be evidence of filial favoritism, would it? All I had was an air-condition-ing vent.
So it was understandable that I rarely occupied my cubby, using it mainly as a message drop. On those rare occasions when I was forced to write a business letter, my father's private secretary, Mrs. Trelawney, typed it for me and provided a stamp. She also informed me when my salary check was available, the dear lady.
On that morning a telephone message placed precisely in the middle of my pristine desk blotter requested that I call Mrs. Lydia Gillsworth. I lighted and smoked my first cigarette of the day while planning what I might say to a woman who had received a dreadful prediction of her doom.
Actually, when I phoned, she could not have been more gracious and lighthearted. She inquired as to my health and that of my parents. She expressed regret that she did not see the McNallys more often. She said she had brought a small Eyelash begonia back from Rhode Island especially for my mother, and as soon as it recovered from jet lag, she would send it over. I thanked her.
"Now then, Archy," she said, "Roderick says you'd like to talk to me about that silly letter I received."
"If I may, please," I said. "I really don't think it should be taken lightly."
"Much ado about nothing," she said firmly. "People who mail letters like that exhaust all their hostility by writing. They never do anything."
"I would like to believe you're correct, Mrs. Gillsworth," I said. "But surely it will do no harm if I look into it a bit."
"Rod said you thought the police should be consulted. I will not allow that. I don't wish this matter to become public knowledge and perhaps find its way into the tabloids."
She spoke so decisively that I knew it would be hopeless to plead with her, but I reckoned her command could be finessed. I have sometimes been called "devious"; I much prefer "adroit." It calls up the image of a skilled fencer and a murmured "Touche."
"No police," I agreed. "Just a private, low-key investigation."
"Very well then," she said. "Can you come over at two o'clock this afternoon?"