“Maybe they put something in the box without sending it through the mail, Carolyn. I know it’s a federal offense but I think we’re dealing with people who’ll stop at nothing.”

She gave me a look, then went out to the hall. She came back with a small envelope. It had been folded lengthwise for insertion through the small slot in the mailbox. She unfolded it.

“No name,” she said. “And no stamp.”

“And no return address either, and isn’t that a surprise? Why don’t you open it?”

She held it to the light, squinted at it. “Empty,” she said.

“Open it and make sure.”

“Okay, but what’s the point? For that matter, what’s the point of stuffing an empty envelope into somebody’s mailbox? Is it really a federal offense?”

“Yeah, but they’ll be tough to prosecute. What’s the matter?”

“Look!”

“Hairs,” I said, picking one up. “Now why in-”

“Oh, God, Bernie. Don’t you see what they are?” She gripped my elbows in her hands, stared up at me. “They’re the cat’s whiskers,” she said.

“And you’re the cat’s pajamas. I’m sorry. That just came out. Are they really? Why would anybody do that?”

“To convince us that they mean business.”

“Well, I’m convinced. I was convinced earlier when they managed to get the cat out of a locked room. They’ve got to be crazy, cutting off a cat’s whiskers.”

“That way they can prove they’ve actually got him.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. One set of whiskers looks a lot like another one. I figure you’ve seen one set, you’ve seen ’ em all. Jesus Christ.”

“What’s the matter?”

“We can’t get the Mondrian out of the Hewlett.”

“I know that.”

“But I know where there’s a Mondrian that I could steal.”

“Where, the Museum of Modern Art? They’ve got a couple. And there are a few in the Guggenheim too, aren’t there?”