"Something wrong?" I asked.

She leaned forward across the table to speak in a low voice. "There's a man over there who keeps staring at me."

"Quite understandable," I said cheerily. "You're worth staring at, Shirl, and I'm sure you're aware of it."

"But I don't like the way he keeps smiling with a smirky grin. Like he knows something secret about me."

"Have you ever seen him before?"

"No, I'm sure I haven't."

"Shall I go over and ask him to stop smirking at you?"

"Oh no," she said quickly, "don't do that. I don't want to cause no trouble."

We finished the pizza, and I tried again to persuade her to accept cash in return for CW's mash notes. But she was adamant; she wanted only to marry the man as he had promised, not once but many times, and if he reneged she would have no choice but to make his letters public.

She was explaining all this, determinedly and with some passion, when she suddenly broke off and said, "Here he comes."

A man halted alongside our table. I looked up to see a tall, saturnine bloke in raw black silk with a white Izod. He stared down at my companion, and I could agree with what she had said: It was a smirky grin. He didn't even glance at me.

"Hiya, Shirl," he said in a raspy baritone. "Having a good time?"

Then he sauntered away, paid his bill at the front counter, and went outside. I noted that he had a profile like a cleaver. I watched him get into a gunmetal Cadillac de Ville and pull away. I turned back to Shirley.

"You don't know him?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"He knew your name."

"I don't know how," she said, obviously troubled.

"Perhaps he was a customer," I suggested.

"No," she insisted. "I'd have remembered. I don't like his looks. He scares me."

"Nothing to be scared about," I assured her. "I doubt if you'll ever see him again."

But I couldn't comfort her. Her bouncy mood had vanished; she seemed subdued. "Listen," she said finally, "I've got to get to work."

I paid our tab and walked her back. I gave her fifty dollars, wondering how much would go to Jake and how much she'd be allowed to keep.

"Shirl," I said, "it's been a pleasure meeting you. I'll relay what you've told me to our client. But I still hope a mutually satisfactory solution to this impasse can be arranged."

"Sure it can," she said, "if he marries me."

"Uh-huh," I said. "May I come back and talk to you again if it proves necessary?"

"Of course," she said. Then: "You're nice," she added, and stretched up to kiss my cheek. "Thanks for the pizza."

She marched through the slit canvas curtain, providing me with a final glimpse of her thong bikini, also called a shoestring bikini in South Florida, and sometimes a flosser.

I drove back to Palm Beach in a reflective mood. It had not been a totally profitless trip, although CW might think so. But I had, at least to my own satisfaction, learned something about Shirley Feebling and could guess at what might be motivating her demands. There were three possibilities, none of which would bring a gleeful smile to the puss of our distraught client.

1. My discussion with Shirl had been the opening round of what would prove to be lengthy and difficult negotiations. In other words, the lady was hanging tough in order to up the ante.

2. She was shrewd enough to forgo an immediate cash settlement, no matter how generous, in hopes of marrying the Chinless Wonder and becoming the wife of a man who would inherit millions when his mommy passed to that bourn from which no traveler returns.

3. And this was the most disquieting: Shirley Feebling was totally sincere and honest. She really did love the simp, wanted to marry him, and was determined to become a loving helpmate. His present or potential wealth had no influence on her decision.

Very disturbing. I don't pretend to understand True Love. I don't know what it is or how it works. Oh, I know all about affection, attachment, admiration-stuff like that. But True Love stumps me. I am not only ignorant of its nature but suspicious of its effects because whenever I have observed it in others, it has always seemed to me infernally serious. And since my life has been sedulously devoted to triviality, I find the seriousness of True Love to be a fatal flaw.

Still, although I know no more about TL than I do about Babylonian cuneiform, I cannot ignore the testimony of poets and Tin Pan Alley tunesmiths. It is obvious that True Love does exist, and I reckoned Ms. Feebling might very well be infected with a particularly virulent strain. If so, it did not bode well for the Chinless Wonder.

Which led me to musing about his intended fiancee, Theodosia Johnson, and wondering if my own reactions to that stellar lady might be True Love or merely gonadal twinges. I just didn't know and decided that only another personal meeting with the radiant Theo might provide the answer.

I was then approaching South Palm Beach and on a sudden whim (the guiding principle in my life) resolved to stop at the Hawkin residence. You may ask, and justly so, what on earth I thought I was doing since I was not part of the official homicide investigation and my assistance had not been requested.

The answer to your question is simple: I am nosy. I admit it and don't give a tinker's damn-or dam, depending on your erudition-who knows it. Also, there were several puzzling aspects about the murder that piqued my curiosity. I could have asked Sgt. Al Rogoff, of course, but would he have told me? Fat chance.

Al is a closemouthed gent, even when he doesn't have to be. He and I worked several cases together in the past, to our mutual benefit, but he never tells me everything he knows any more than I Reveal All to him. I think that in addition to our friendship we keep the scimitar of competitiveness keenly honed, sensing that it contributes to our success.

The crime scene tape still surrounded the studio building, and there was a sole uniformed officer on guard. But the main house appeared to be open to all comers. I rang the chimes, expecting they would be answered by Mrs. Jane Folsby, the live-in servant I hoped to question.

And she indeed opened the door, recognized me, and smiled warmly. "Good afternoon, Mr. McNally," she said. "It's good to see you again."

"And it's a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Folsby," I said. "I can imagine what you've been going through. You have my sympathy, I assure you. What a shock it must have been."

She stood aside to allow me to enter, then closed the door.

"It was a shock," she said in a low voice. "I found him, you know."

"So I heard. A horrifying experience."

She sighed deeply. "He had his faults," she said, "but don't we all? But he wasn't a mean man, and no one should have to die like that."

"No," I agreed, "no one should. Mrs. Folsby, I'd like to ask you a few questions. But first I want you to know I am not part of the police investigation, and it's entirely up to you whether or not you choose to answer."

She looked at me steadily. "Questions about the murder?"

"Yes," I said. "That and other things."

"Why do you want to ask?"

"Because your answers possibly, just possibly, might have some bearing on a private inquiry I am making: a credit check on a person Mr. Hawkin knew."

She considered a long time. "Very well," she said finally, "you ask your questions and then I'll decide whether or not to answer them."

"Excellent," I said. "Sergeant Rogoff, a friend of mine, told me you went to the studio after you phoned your employer and received no reply. Is that correct?"

She nodded. "The wife and daughter were out, and he hadn't come over for dinner. So I called to ask if he wanted me to bring him a plate. I did that sometimes when he was working late. He didn't answer, but I could see the studio lights were on, and I got concerned."