Number 9 Stockton Place, which had been purchased by NB Properties, Inc., was arguably the most desirable of all the residences. It was a triplex constructed behind the facades of four of the twelve pre-Revolutionary brownstone buildings on that block of Stockton Place. The entrance was at Number 9. Cleverly concealed behind the facade of Number 11 was the entrance to the underground garage, with space for three vehicles.

The property was leased by NB Properties, Inc., to Mr. and Mrs. Nesbitt IV at a rate a good deal lower than it would have brought on the open market. At the time they had moved in, young Chad was being paid no more and no less than any other retail salesman employed by Nesfoods International, and it seemed the least his father-who was the sole stockholder of NB Properties, Inc.-could do for him. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III well remembered when he had been starting out with the company, on the bottom rung of the ladder.

There would be more than two hundred guests. A buffet, of course. Chad and Daffy's apartment was large, but not large enough to have that many people seated for dinner. Mrs. Nesbitt III had toyed with the idea of giving the party at the Merion Country Club, and Mrs. Browne had offered the Brownes' home-a forty-two-room copy of an English manor house, circa 1600, in Merion-for the occasion, but in the end she decided the thing to do was have Daffy give the party at her own home-with, of course, the help of her mother and her mother-in-law.

Daffy didn't really have the experience to do it, and she was busy with Penelope-both grandmothers were determined that the child never be called "Penny"-and it just had to be right.

The guest list had been difficult. Chad and Daffy's friends had to be invited, of course, but after Daffy had presented her list, that criterion was changed to "Chad and Daffy's oldest and dearest friends," which cut it down to less than a hundred, and left about that number of spaces for people who were important to the young couple, socially and business-wise. All six vice presidents of Nesfoods International and their wives were invited, of course, and some other businessmen connected to the company. And the Episcopal bishop of Philadelphia, of course, and the cardinal archbishop of Philadelphia. And the mayor. And the senator. And then the friends, most of whom had known Daffy and Chad all their lives.

Bailey, Banks amp; Biddle did the invitations, and the Rittenhouse Club was engaged to cater the affair.

There was a reception line, the birthday couple (a privileged few would be taken upstairs, later, to view Penelope Alice) and both sets of grandparents.

Matthew M. Payne entered the line at seven-fifty, a moment after Mrs. Nesbitt III had given Mrs. Browne a signi ficant look, indicating that she believed they should abandon the line to mingle with the children's guests.

"Hello, Matt," Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III said.

"Good evening, sir," Matt said.

"You look so nice in black tie, Matt," Mrs. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III said.

"Please tell my mother," Matt said.

"Your mother and dad are here," Mr. Soames Browne said.

"Daphne was afraid you wouldn't be coming, Matt," Mrs. Soames Browne said.

"That was when I thought Daffy was going to do the cooking."

"Matt, must I ask you yet again not to call her that?" Mrs. Soames Browne said.

Matt snapped his fingers in mock chagrin, indicating he had forgotten.

"Well, the birthday boy himself," he said, extending his hand to Mr. Nesbitt IV. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you for coming, buddy."

"And the mother of my goddaughter! About to spill out of her dress!"

"Oh, fuck you, Matt," Mrs. Nesbitt IV said.

The grandparents pretended not to hear.

Mrs. Soames Browne remembered again, as she usually did on such occasions, that at age five Matt Payne had talked Daphne into playing doctor and that she had concluded at that time that there was something wrong with him.

Over the years, he had done nothing to disabuse her of that notion.

There is a screw loose in him somewhere, she thought. The policeman business was another proof of that. The very idea of someone with a background like his being an ordinary cop is absurd.

If the truth were known, he probably had more to do with Penny getting on dope than anyone knows. When you roll around in the mud with pigs, you're going to get dirty.

Matt Payne took a look at the buffet laid out in the game room, then at the line waiting to get at the food, and walked to the bar.

"A glass of your very best ginger ale, if you please, my good man," he said, but then changed his mind. "Oh, to hell with it, give me a scotch, no ice, and soda."

The barman smiled at him.

"My mother's here. What I was going to do, was wait for the question, phrased accusingly, 'What are you drinking? ' to which I would have truthfully responded, 'Ginger ale.' Just to get her reaction."

"What changed your mind?" the barman asked as he made the drink.

Matt gestured around the crowded room.

"I need a little liquid courage to face all these merry-makers. "

The barman chuckled.

And then Matt spotted a familiar face.

"I'll be damned," he said. "There is someone human here, after all."

He crossed the room to a small, wiry, blond-headed man standing beside a somewhat taller female. There was a thick rope of pearls around the woman's neck, reaching down to the valley between her breasts, and on the third finger of her left hand was an engagement ring with a four-carat emerald-cut stone in it.

"Hello, Matt," the woman said, smiling at him. "How are you?"

"Feeling sorry for myself," Matt said.

"How's that?" she asked.

"My superiors are cruel to me. You wouldn't believe what they've had me doing all day. And all day yesterday. "

The man smiled.

"The tapes?"

"The obscenity-deleted tapes," Matt agreed.

"Getting anything?" the man asked.

"Stop right there, the two of you," the woman ordered firmly. "No shop talk! Really, precious!"

Precious was also known as Captain David R. Pekach. He was commanding officer of the Highway Patrol, and one of the two captains in Special Operations. The lady was his fiancйe, Miss Martha Peebles.

In the obituary of Alexander F. Peebles in the Wall Street Journal, it was reported that he had died possessed of approximately 11.5 percent of the known anthracite coal reserves of the United States. Six months later, the same newspaper reported that Miss Martha Peebles's lawyers had successfully resisted efforts by her brother to break her father's will, in which he had bequeathed to his beloved daughter all of his worldly goods of whatever kind and wherever located.

One night six months before, Captain Pekach had twice gone, at the "suggestion" of Mayor Carlucci, to 606 Glengarry Lane in Chestnut Hill to personally assure the citizen resident therein that the Philadelphia Police Department generally and the Highway Patrol in particular was going to do everything possible to apprehend the thief, or thieves, who had been burglarizing the twenty-eight-room turn-of-the-century mansion set on fourteen acres.

On his first visit that night, Captain Pekach had assured Miss Peebles that he would take a personal interest in her problem, to include driving past her home himself that very night when he was relieved as Special Operations duty officer at midnight. Miss Peebles inquired if his work schedule, quitting at midnight, wasn't hard on his wife. Captain Pekach informed her he was not, and never had been, married.

"In that case, Captain, if you can find the time to pass by, why don't you come in for a cup of coffee? I rarely go to bed before two."

During Captain Pekach's second visit to 606 Glengarry Lane that night, Miss Peebles had gone to bed earlier than was her custom, and for the first time in her thirty-five years not alone. Their engagement to be married had been announced three weeks before by her attorney, and her father's lifelong friend, Brewster Cortland Payne, Esq., of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, at a dinner party at 606 Glengarry Lane.