Anne complied, but once Henry had left, she made no attempt to sleep, tired as she was, but sat up in bed reading Sinclair Lewis. She knew it would take Henry about fifteen minutes to reach his office, so she waited a full twenty and then called his number. Ple ringing tone continued for almost a minute.
Anne tried a second time twenty minutes later; still no one answered the phone. She kept trying every twenty minutes, but no one ever came on the line. Henry's remark about trust began to echo bitterly in her head.
When Henry eventually returned home after midnight, he appeared apprehensive at finding Anne sitting up in bed. She was still reading Sinclair Lewis.
'You shouldn't have stayed awake for me.'
He gave her a warm kiss. Anne thought she could smell perfume - or was she becoming overly suspicious? 'I had to stay on a little later than I had expected since I couldn't immediately find all the papers Alan would require. Damn silly secretary filed some of them under the wrong headings.
'It must be lonely sitting there in the office all on your own in the mIddle of the night,' said Anne.
~Oh, ies not that bad if you have a worthwhile job to do,' said Henry, climbing into bed and settling against Anne's back. 'At least there's one thing to be said for it, you can get a lot more done when the phone isn't continually interrupting you.2 He was asleep in minutes. Anne lay awake, now resolved to carry through the plan she had made that afternoon.
When Henry had left for work after breakfast the next morning - not that Anne was sure where Henry went to work any more - she studied the Boston Globe and did a little research among the small advertisements. Then she picked up the phone and made an appointment which took her to the south side of Boston, a few minutes before midday. Anne was shocked by the dinginess of the buildings. She had never previously visited the southern district of the city, and in normal circumstances she could have gone through her entire life without even knowing such places existed.
A small wooden staircase littered with matches, cigarette ends and rubbish created its own paper chase to a door with a frosted glass window on which appeared in large black letters, 'Glen Ricardo', and underneath 'Private Detective (Registered in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts)'. Anne knocked quietly.
'Come right in, the door's open,' shouted a deep, hoarse voice.
Anne entered. The man seated behind the desk, his legs stretched over its surface, glanced up from what might have been a girly magazine. His cigar stub nearly fell out of his mouth when he caught sight of Anne. It was the first time a mink coat had ever walked into his office.
'Good morning' he said, rising quickly. 'My name is Glen Ricardo.' He leant across the desk and offered a hairy, nicotine - stained hand to Anne. She took it, glad that she was wearing gloves. 'Do you have an appointment?'
Ricardo asked, not that he cared whether she did or not. He was always available for a consultation with a mink coat.
'Yes, I do.'
'Ah, then you must be Mrs. Osborne. Can I take your coat?'
'I prefer to keep it on,' said Anne, unable to see anywhere Ricardo could hang it except on the floor.
'Of course, of course!
Anne eyed Ricardo covertly as he sat back in his seat and lit a new cigar. She did not care for his light green suit, the motley - coloured tie, or his thickly greased hair. It was only the fact that sbe doubted if it would be better anywhere else that kept her seated.
'Now what's the problemT said Ricardo, who was sharpening an already short pencil with a blunt knife. The wooden shavings dropped evdrywhere except into the wastepaper basket. 'Have you lost your dog, your jewellery, or your husband?'
'First, Mr. Ricardo, I want to be assiired of your complete discretion,'
Anne began.
'Of course, of course, it goes without saying,' replied Ricardo, not looking up from his disappearing pencil.
'Nevertheless, I am saying it~' said Anne.
'Of course, of course.'
Anne thought that if the man said 'of course' once more, she would screarn. She drew a deep breath. 'I have been receiving anonymous letters which allege that my husband has been having an affair with a close friend. I want to know who is sending the letters, and if there is any truth in the accusations!
Anne felt an immense sense of relief at having voiced her fears out loud for the first time. Ricardo looked at her impassively, as if it were not the first time he had heard such fears expressed. He put his hand through his long black hair which, Anne noticed for the first time, matched his finger nails.
'Right,' he began. "Ibe husband will be easy. Who's responsible for sending the letters will be a lot harder. You've kept the letters, of course?'