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related. Wife and husband? Sister and brother? Mother and son? I found it intriguing and determined to seek a solution at the Gottschalk welcome-home party on Wednesday night.
    It was close to eleven o’clock when I completed my labors and I was pouring myself a small marc as a reward when my phone rang. The caller was Sgt. Al Rogoff of the Palm Beach Police Department. Al and I have joined forces on several cases in the past. He provides me with official assistance when he can and I act as his dragoman to the arcane complexities of Palm Beach society.
    Our relationship is, I truly believe, one of genuine friendship. But it does not lack on occasion a certain competitiveness. I mean when we’re cooperating on an investigation the sergeant doesn’t tell me all he knows, or guesses, and I return the favor. But that just adds a little cayenne to the stew, does it not?
    “How’s it going, old buddy?” he asked.
    “Swimmingly,” I replied. “And you?”
    “Existing. The last squeal I had was an old dame boosting avocados from a local supermarket. Pretty exciting, huh? You working anything?”
    “Nothing important. Dribs and drabs.”
    “Oh sure,” he said. “Because if you were on something heavy you’d tell me about it, wouldn’t you?”
    “Of course.”
    “When shrimp fly,” he said. “All right, I’m just checking in. If anything intriguing—your word, not mine—comes up, give me a shout. I’m bored out of my gourd.”
    “Aren’t we all?” I said, and we disconnected. It wasn’t time to bring Al into the Gottschalk inquiry. Not yet it wasn’t and I hoped it never would be. But I was troubled by—what? Not a premonition—I rarely have those—but by a nagging unease caused by the three frightful accidents that had befallen Hiram Gottschalk. I did not take them lightly.
    I like to go to sleep in a merry mood and so that night before retiring I listened to a recording of Tiny Tim singing “Tip-Toe thru the Tulips with Me.”
    It helped.

CHAPTER 5
    I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING knowing exactly what I intended to do. This was a rarity since I usually regain consciousness in a semibefuddled state, not quite knowing where I am or even who I am. I recall awakening one morning with the firm conviction that I was Oscar Homolka. I am not, of course, and never have been.
    What I intended to do requires a smidgen of explanation.
    A few years previously Sgt. Al Rogoff had introduced me to Dr. Gussie Pearlberg, a psychiatrist who had her home and office in Lantana. Dr. Pearlberg did not specialize in forensic psychiatry but on several occasions had provided local police departments with tentative psychological profiles of serial thieves, rapists, and killers. Her predictions had, in most cases, proved remarkably prescient.
    She was a wonderful woman, eighty at least although she would only admit to being “of a certain age.” It was said she had been psychoanalyzed by Dr. Sigmund F. himself but I cannot vouch for that. She had outlived two husbands and three children but her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were her joy. She had absolutely no intention of retiring, and why on earth should she, since her mind was twice as nimble as shrinks half her age.
    After making her acquaintance I had mentioned her acumen to my father and several times he had recommended her to clients or the relatives and friends of clients in need of psychiatric counseling, always with satisfactory results. The woman really was a blessing and it was she I intended to consult as soon as possible. Not in regard to my own shortcomings, I assure you; they’re incurable.
    I called her office at ten o’clock and, as usual, she answered the phone herself.
    “Dr. Pearlberg,” she said in her raspy voice. She has, I regret to report, a two-pack-a-day habit.
    “Dr. Gussie,” I said, “this is Archy McNally.”
    “Bubeleh!” she cried. “You have been neglecting me shamefully, you naughty boy.”
    “I have,” I admitted, “and I