McNally's luck Read Online Free PDF

women. Her conduct is beyond reproach."
    "Do you have the letter with you, Mr. Gillsworth?" father asked.
    The poet groaned. "I destroyed it," he said. "And the envelope it came in. I hoped it might be a single incident, and I had no wish that Lydia would ever find and read that piece of filth. So I burned it."
    Then we sat in silence. Gillsworth had his head averted, and I was able to study him a moment. He was a tall, extremely thin man with a bony face split by a nose that ranked halfway between Cyrano and Jimmy Durante.
    He was wearing a short-sleeved leisure suit of black linen. With his mighty beak, scrawny arms, and flapping gestures he looked more bird than bard. I wondered what a young coed had seen in the poet that persuaded her to plight her troth. But it's hopeless to try to imagine what spouses find in each other. It's better to accept Ursi Olson's philosophy. She just shrugs and says, "There's a cover for every pot."
    The silence stretched, and when the seigneur didn't ask the question that had to be asked, I did.
    "But you've received another letter?" I prompted Gillsworth.
    He nodded, and the stare he gave me seemed dazed, as if he could not quite comprehend the inexplicable misfortune that had befallen him and his wife. "Yes," he said in a voice that lacked firmness. "Two days ago. Lydia is home now, and she opened the letter, read it, showed it to me. I thought it even more disgusting and frightening than the first. Again it said that she must die for what she was doing, and it described her murder in horrendous and obscene detail. Obviously the work of a homicidal maniac."
    "How did your wife react to the letter?" my father asked gently.
    Gillsworth shifted uncomfortably in his wing chair. "First," he said, "I must give you a little background. My wife has always been interested in the occult and in psychic phenomena. She believes in supernatural forces, the existence of spirits, ESP, and that sort of thing." He paused.
    I was curious and asked, "Do you also believe in those things, sir?"
    He made one of his floppy gestures. "I don't believe and I don't disbelieve. Quite frankly, the supernatural is of minor interest to me. My work is concerned with the conflict between the finite expression of the human psyche and the Ur-reality concealed within. I call it the Divine Dichotomy."
    My father and I nodded thoughtfully. What else could we do?
    "To answer your question, Mr. McNally," Gillsworth continued, addressing mein papa, "my wife reacted to the letter with complete serenity. You may find it remarkable-I certainly do-but she has absolutely no fear of death, no matter how painful or horrid its coming. She believes death is but another form of existence, that we pass from one state to another with no loss, no diminution of our powers, but rather with increased wisdom and added strength. This belief-which she holds quite sincerely, I assure you-enables her to face her own death with equanimity. And so that letter failed to frighten her-if that was its purpose. But it frightens me, I can tell you that. I suggested to Lydia that it might be wise if she returned to Rhode Island for an extended visit until this whole matter can be cleared up."
    "Yes," father said, "I think that would be prudent."
    "She refused," Gillsworth said. "I then suggested both of us take a trip, perhaps go abroad for a long tour. Again she refused. She will not allow the ravings of a lunatic to alter her life. And she is quite insistent that the matter not be referred to the police. She accepts the entire situation with a sangfroid that amazes me. I cannot take it so lightly. I finally won her permission to seek your counsel with the understanding that you will make no unauthorized disclosure of this nasty business to the police or anyone else."
    "You may depend on it," my father said gravely.
    "Good," the poet said. "Would you care to see the second letter?"
    "By all means."
    Gillsworth rose and took a white envelope from his outside