"Uh-huh. You got any clues about the big theft?"

She rubbed at her nose again.

"Clues," I said. "Did you see a shadow skulk across the lawn? Did you overhear a snatch of mysterious conversation? That kind of thing."

Maybe she was looking at me. Maybe she wasn't. There was sort of a cockeyed grin on her face that made me wonder if she was high.

"Would you like to get back to your book?"

She didn't nod or blink or run screaming from the room. She just stared.

I went back through the dining room and the entry and out to my Corvette and cranked it up and eased down the drive. When I got to the street, Hatcher grinned over from his T-bird, and said, "How'd you like it?"

"Up yours," I said.

He laughed and I drove away.

Three years ago I'd done some work for a man named Berke Feldstein who owns a very nice art gallery in Venice on the beach below Santa Monica. It's one of those converted industrial spaces where they slap on a coat of stark white paint to maintain the industrial look and all the art is white boxes with colored paper inside. For Christmas that year, Berke had given me a large mug with the words MONSTER FIGHTER emblazoned on its side. I like it a lot.

I dropped down out of Holmby Hills into Westwood, parked at a falafel stand, and used their pay phone to call Berke's gallery. A woman's voice answered, "ArtWerks Gallery."

I said, "This is Michael Delacroix's representative calling. Is Mr. Feldman receiving?" A black kid in a UCLA tee shirt was slumped at one of the picnic tables they have out there, reading a sociology text.

Her voice came back hesitant. "You mean Mr. Feldstein?"

I gave her imperious. "Is that his name?"

She asked me to hold. There were the sounds of something or someone moving around in the background, and then Berke Feldstein said, "Who is this, please?"

"The King of Rock 'n' Roll."

A dry, sardonic laugh. Berke Feldstein does sardonic better than anyone else I know. "Don't tell me. You're trying to decide between the Monet and the Degas and you need my advice."

I said, "Something very rare from eighteenth-century Japan has been stolen. Who might have some ideas about that?" The black kid closed the book and looked at me.

Berke Feldstein put me on hold. After a minute, he was on the line again. His voice was flat and serious. "I won't be connected with this?"

"Berke." I gave him miffed.

He said, "There's a Gallery on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills. The Sun Tree Gallery. It's owned by a guy named Malcolm Denning. I can't swear by this, but I've heard that Denning's occasionally a conduit for less than honest transactions."

"'Less than honest.' I like that. Do we mean 'criminal'?" The black kid got up and walked away.

"Don't be smug," Berke said.

"How come you hear about these less than honest transactions, Berke? You got something going on the side?"

He hung up.

There were several ways to locate the Sun Tree Gallery. I could call one of the contacts I maintain in the police department and have them search through their secret files. I could drive about aimlessly, stopping at every gallery I passed until I found someone who knew the location, then force the information from him. Or I could look in the Yellow Pages. I looked in the Yellow Pages.

The Sun Tree Gallery of Beverly Hills rested atop a jewelry store two blocks over from Rodeo Drive amidst some of the world's most exclusive shopping. There were plenty of boutiques with Arabic or Italian names, and small plaques that said BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. The shoppers were rich, the cars were German, and the doormen were mostly young and handsome and looking to land a lead in an action-adventure series. You could smell the crime in the air.

I passed the gallery twice without finding a parking spot, continued north up Canon above Santa Monica Boulevard to the residential part of the Beverly Hills flats, parked there, and walked back. A heavy glass door was next to the jewelry store with a small, tasteful brass sign that said SUN TREE GALLERY, HOURS 10:00 A.M. UNTIL 5:00 P.M., TUESDAY THROUGH SATURDAY; DARK, SUNDAY AND MONDAY.

I went through the door and climbed a flight of plush stairs that led up to a landing where there was a much heavier door with another brass sign that said RING BELL. Maybe when you rang the bell, a guy in a beret with a long scar beside his nose slithered out and asked if you wanted to buy some stolen art. I rang the bell.

A very attractive brunette in a claret-colored pants suit appeared in the door, buzzed me in, and said brightly, "I hope you're having a good day." These criminals will do anything to gain your confidence.

"I could take it or leave it until you said that. Is Mr. Denning in?"

"Yes, but I'm afraid he's on long distance just now. If you could wait a moment, I'd love to help you." There was an older, balding man and a silver-haired woman standing at the front of the place by a long glass wall that faced down on the street. The man was looking at a shiny black helmet not unlike that worn by Darth Vader. It was sitting on a sleek red pedestal and was covered by a glass dome.

"Sure," I said. "Mind if I browse?"

She handed me a price catalog and another big smile. "Not at all." These crooks.

The gallery was one large room that had been sectioned off by three false walls to form little viewing alcoves. There weren't many pieces on display, but what was there seemed authentic. Vases and bowls sat on pedestals beneath elegant watercolors done on thin cloth that had been stretched over a bamboo frame. The cloth was yellow with age. There were quite a few wood-block prints that I liked, including a very nice double print that was two separate prints mounted side by side. Each was of the same man in a bamboo house overlooking a river as a storm raged at the horizon and lightning flashed. Each man held a bit of blue cloth that trailed away out of the picture. The pictures were mounted so that the cloth trailed from one picture to the other, connecting the men. It was a lovely piece and would be a fine addition to my home. I looked up the price. $14,000. Maybe I could find something more appropriate to my decor.

At the rear of the gallery there was a sleek Elliot Ryerson desk, three beige corduroy chairs for sitting down and discussing the financing of your purchase, and a good stand of the indoor palms I am always trying to grow in my office but which are always dying. These were thriving. Behind the palms was a door. It opened, and a man in a pink LaCoste shirt and khaki slacks came out and began looking for something on the desk. Mid-forties. Short hair with a sprinkling of gray. The brunette looked over and said, "Mr. Denning, this gentleman would like to see you."

Malcolm Denning gave me a friendly smile and put out his hand. He had sad eyes. "Can you give me a minute? I'm on the phone with a client in Paris." Good handshake.

"Sure."

"Thanks. I won't be any longer than necessary." He gave me another smile, found what he was looking for, then disappeared back through the door. Malcolm Denning, Considerate Crook.

The brunette resumed talking to the older couple and I resumed browsing and when everything was back the way it had been, I went through the door. There was a short hall with a bathroom on the left, what looked like a storage and packing area at the rear, and a small office on the right. Malcolm Denning was in the office, seated at a cluttered rolltop desk, speaking French into the phone. He looked up when he saw me, cupped the receiver, and said, "I'm sorry. This will take another minute or so."

I took out my license and held it for him to see. I could've showed him a card, but the license looked more official. "Elvis Cole's the name, private detecting's the game." One of those things you always want to say. "I've got a few questions about feudal Japanese art and I'm told you're the man to ask."