“Before you go you might like to look at this,” Paula said, and flourished a long envelope at me. “The janitor brought it up just now. He found it in one of the pockets of that old trenchcoat you so generously gave him.”
“He did?” I said, taking the envelope. “That’s odd. I haven’t worn that trenchcoat for more than a year.”
“The cancellation stamp bears you out,” Paula said with ominous calm. “The letter was posted fourteen months ago. I suppose you couldn’t have put it in your pocket and forgotten all about it? You wouldn’t do a thing like that, would you?”
The envelope was addressed to me in a neat, feminine handwriting, and unopened.
“I can’t remember ever seeing it before,” I said.
“Considering you don’t appear to remember anything unless I remind you, that comes as no surprise,” Paula said tartly.
“One of these days, my little harpie,” Kerman remarked gently, “someone is going to haul off and take at slap at your bustle.”
“That won’t stop her,” I said, ripping open the envelope. “I’ve tried. It only makes her worse.” I dipped in a finger and thumb and hoisted out a sheet of note-paper and five onehundred-dollar bills.
“Suffering Pete!” Kerman exclaimed, starting to his feet. “Did you give that to the janitor?”
“Now don’t you start,” I said, and read the letter.