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come to a preliminary conclusion: The threat against our client came from a member of his staff or his family.
    “The family,” she repeated, her harsh voice a mixture of scorn and sadness. “Always the family.”
    “Doctor,” I said, “regarding the three incidents I have described, can you discern any pattern?”
    “Perhaps,” she said. “Usually in cases of this nature there is a progression from the subtle to the obvious. An acceleration of disturbed passion. The slashing of the photograph of the client and his deceased wife appears to be an attempt to destroy a happy memory, demolish a remembered relationship. The posting of the mass card with the client’s name I interpret as a warning he is in danger if he does not mend his ways. The third act, the killing of his beloved bird, escalates the pressure. This, the bird strangler is saying, will be your fate if you persist in doing what you are now doing.”
    I sighed. “Not a happy prospect,” I said. “In effect you’re saying the client’s death may be the only option left to his enemy.”
    “Yes, Archy,” she said. “That is what I feel. The client has received no written or phoned threats?”
    “No. None.”
    “Then there is little the police can do.”
    “But what can I do?” I said desperately.
    “Do what you do best,” she advised. “Pry. Meet everyone he’s connected with. Ask questions. Get to know them all. Then come back and we’ll talk again. This troubles me.”
    “Yes,” I said. “Me, too.”
    I rose to depart but she grasped my arm, stared with those lucid hazel eyes.
    “Sonny, you haven’t asked the most interesting thing.”
    I was startled. “Oh? What is it?”
    “Is the psychopath responsible for these acts of aggression a man or a woman?”
    I looked into those knowing eyes. “Which do you think, Dr. Gussie?”
    “Either,” she said. “Or both.”
    And I had to be content with that Delphic utterance.
    I drove home in a mood somewhat less than gruntled. Dr. Pearlberg had told me little more than I had already suspected but her reaction to Mr. Gottschalk’s predicament had raised my anxiety level. And I was grateful for her suggestion that the perpetrator might possibly be female. I am such a romantic cove I usually leap to the conclusion that practicers of viciousness are limited solely to the masculine sex. Alas, dear reader, ’tis not so. Consider the career of the charming lady who made lampshades of human skin during the Holocaust.
    Ursi was puttering about the kitchen when I arrived. She was preparing a bouillabaisse for our dinner and if you could have bottled that fragrance your fortune would be made. Call it Eau d’Poisson and every trendsetter in the world would put dabs behind the earlobes.
    She interrupted her labors long enough to construct a towering Dagwood for me. Thick slices of sour rye served as bookends, and the literature within included slices of smoked turkey, beefsteak tomato, and Bermuda onion: all with a healthy dollop of Ursi’s homemade mayo containing a jolt of Dijon mustard. I carried this masterpiece up to my suite, silently giving thanks to John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich. I also lugged two bottles of chilled Dos Equis.
    I was seated at my desk, devouring my delayed lunch with eye-rolling rapture, when the damn phone shrilled. I was tempted to let it ring itself to smithereens, but then I imagined it could be an invitation to a social affair during which I might meet the current Girl of My Dreams who bore a remarkable resemblance to Theda Bara. No such luck. The caller was Binky Watrous.
    “Archy,” he said excitedly, “I got the job at Parrots Unlimited!”
    “Delighted to hear it,” I said, munching away.
    “They hired me around noon and I started work immediately!”
    “Excellent. And how are you getting along?”
    “Wonderfully!”
    “Meet everyone?”
    “Uh-huh. Archy,” he added soulfully, “I’m in love.”
    “Oh?” I said. “Which parrot?”
    “No, no.