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professional enemies—people with whom you were at any time in serious conflict over money, contracts, promises, position, reputation. List number two: unresolved personal conflicts—ex-friends, ex-lovers, partners in affairs that ended badly. List three: directly menacing individuals—people who have made accusations against you or threatened you. List four: unstable individuals—people you dealt with who were unbalanced or troubled in some way. List five: anyone from your past whom you have run into recently, regardless of how innocent or accidental the encounter may have seemed. List six: any connections you have with anyone living in or around Wycherly—since that’s where the X. Arybdis post-office box is, and that’s where all the envelopes were postmarked.”
    As he dictated the questions, he observed Melleryshake his head repeatedly, as if to assert the impossibility of recalling any relevant names.
    “I know how difficult this seems,” said Gurney with parental firmness, “but it needs to be done. In the meantime leave the notes with me. I’ll take a closer look. But remember, I’m not in the private-investigation business, and there may be very little I can do for you.”
    Mellery stared bleakly at his hands. “Apart from making these lists, is there something else I should be doing myself?”
    “Good question. Anything come to mind?”
    “Well … maybe with some direction from you I could track down this Mr. Arybdis of Wycherly, Connecticut, try to get some information about him.”
    “If by ‘track down’ you mean through his home address rather than his box number, the post office won’t give it to you. For that you need to get the police involved, but you refuse to do that. You could check the Internet White Pages, but that gets you nowhere with a made-up name—which this probably is, since he said in the note it wasn’t the name you knew him by.” Gurney paused. “But it’s an odd thing about the check, don’t you think?”
    “You mean the amount?”
    “I mean the fact that it wasn’t cashed. Why make such a point of it—the precise amount, who to make it out to, where to send it—and then not cash it?”
    “Well, if Arybdis is a false name, and he has no ID in that name …”
    “Then why offer the option of sending a check? Why not demand cash?”
    Mellery’s eyes scanned the ground as if the possibilities were land mines. “Maybe all he wanted was something with my signature on it.”
    “That occurred to me,” said Gurney, “but there are two difficulties with it. First, remember that he was also willing to take cash. Second, if the real goal was to get a signed check, why not ask for a smaller amount—say, twenty dollars or even fifty? Wouldn’t that increase the likelihood of getting a response?”
    “Maybe Arybdis isn’t that smart.”
    “Somehow I don’t think that’s the problem.”
    Mellery looked like exhaustion was vying with anxiety in every cell of his body and it was a close contest. “Do you think I’m in any real danger?”
    Gurney shrugged. “Most crank letters are just crank letters. The unpleasant message itself is the assault weapon, so to speak. However …”
    “These are different?”
    “These may be different.”
    Mellery’s eyes widened. “I see. You will take another look at them?”
    “Yes. And you’ll get started on those lists?”
    “It won’t do any good, but yes, I’ll try.”

Chapter 6
For blood that’s as red as a painted rose
    I n the absence of an invitation to stay for lunch, Mellery had reluctantly departed, driving a meticulously restored powder blue Austin-Healey—a classic open sports car on a perfect driving day to which the man seemed miserably oblivious.
    Gurney returned to his Adirondack chair and sat there for a long while, nearly an hour, hoping that the tangle of facts would start to arrange themselves in some kind of order, some sensible concatenation. However, the only thing that became clear to him