Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth returned from New Orleans on Thursday morning, and at eleven o'clock he and his mother had a conference with my father. I was not invited to attend. But after it ended the Chinless Wonder came down to my office wearing a grin so smarmy I wanted to kick his shins.

"This is your office?" he said, glancing around. "My walk-in closet at home is bigger than this."

"Most of my work is done on the outside," I said frostily. "Like going down to Fort Lauderdale to interview Shirley Feebling on your behalf."

He immediately composed his features into a theatrical expression of sorrow. "That was a terrible thing," he said, shaking his fat head. "Just terrible. She was a nice girl, Archy. I really liked her."

I made no response.

"What's the world coming to?" he demanded rhetorically. "Violence everywhere. Silas Hawkin murdered and now this. A decent citizen isn't safe on the street anymore."

I had enough of his profundities. "What's happening with your letters?" I asked.

The smarmy grin returned. "Your father is going to pull every string he can to get them back from the Lauderdale police. They're of no use to them, are they? I mean I have a perfect alibi; a hundred people saw me at the convention. Listen, Archy, how much money did Shirley want?"

"She didn't want any. She just wanted to marry you."

"She should have known that was impossible," he blustered, running a finger between collar and neck. "The difference in our class and all that…"

"Uh-huh," I said. "And what was your mother's reaction to your proposing marriage to Shirley?"

That deflated him. "Well, uh, in your father's office she just said, 'Boys will be boys.' But when I get home tonight I expect she'll have more to say on the subject."

"Yes, I expect she will," I said with some satisfaction. "Tell me, CW, did Shirl ever say anything about someone threatening her or following her or annoying her?"

"No, she never mentioned anything like that. I think it was a druggie who broke in to rob her. She caught him at it and he killed her."

"Could be," I said, waiting for him to say, "She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, keeping his reputation for fatuousness intact. "Well, it was an awful thing, but in all honesty it's a load off my mind to have that business about the letters cleared up."

Which I thought was somewhat akin to the classic question: "But other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the show?"

"I can't wait to tell Theo Johnson," he went on. "She'll be so relieved."

I was as aghast at hearing that as I'm sure you are in reading it. "Good lord, CW," I said, "don't tell me you informed your intended fiancee about Shirley Feebling?"

"Of course I did," he said, stroking that ridiculous pushbroom mustache. "Theo and I promised to be completely frank and honest. No secrets. We tell each other absolutely everything."

If that were true, I reflected, I better leave for Hong Kong immediately.

I finally got rid of him with a keener appreciation of why Ms. Johnson was postponing her decision to become affianced. The man was a pompous ass, and Theo had the wit to recognize it.

It was then noonish and time to saddle up if I expected to make that delayed trip to Fort Lauderdale. So I grabbed my notes on Hector Johnson's bank references and went down to our underground garage to embark. It was probably a fool's errand, I glumly reckoned, and if so I was just the man for the job.

The Miata was cranky on that drive and I realized my darling was badly in need of a tune-up and perhaps a new set of tires. So I didn't pretend I was competing in the Daytona 500 but took it easy and arrived in Lauderdale a bit after two o'clock. I stopped at a Tex-Mex joint for a bowl of chili hot enough to scorch my uvula and a chilled bottle of Corona. Then I headed for the address of the first reference.

It was easy to find. J.P. Lordsley was a men's clothier on Federal Highway south of Oakland Park Boulevard. It seemed to be a hip-elegant shop where Hector might have purchased his fancy duds. I admired his chutzpah in supplying the name of a clothing store as a bank reference. I didn't even bother going in the place.

The second required a little more time to locate. The address of Reuben Hagler was on Copans Road and I drove past twice before I realized it was a hole-in-the-wall tucked into a rather decrepit strip mall half-hidden by dusty palms and tattered billboards. I parked and found a narrow door bearing a sign: reuben hagler, investment adviser. It was squeezed between the office of a chiropodist and a store selling raunchy T-shirts.

I didn't enter. Because sitting out front was a gunmetal Cadillac De Ville, and I was certain Mr. Hagler would have a profile like a cleaver. The Caddie had Michigan plates, and I remembered the number long enough to jot it down on a matchbook cover with my gold Mont Blanc when I returned to the Miata.

I drove even more sedately on the trip back to Palm Beach. I had a lot to ponder. And the result of all my intense ratiocination? Zilch. I needed help.

I had hoped to keep Sgt. Al Rogoff out of this nonsense. After all, I was engaged in nothing more than a credit investigation, and it was really none of his business. But conviction was growing that possibly, just possibly, Hector Johnson might be involved in the Shirley Feebling homicide.

I drove directly home, garaged the Miata, and went looking for my mother. I found her in the greenhouse, sprinkling can in hand, murmuring to her plants.

"See here, Mrs. McN.," I said, "last night you said Theo Johnson wasn't for me and ascribed that opinion to a vague feeling. Couldn't you be a bit more specific?"

She paused and stared at me thoughtfully. "Archy, I just thought her a little too determined, a little too aggressive."

"Certainly nothing she said."

"Oh no. She was quite polite. It was her manner, the way she carried herself. I suppose you think I'm being foolish."

I swooped to kiss her cheek. "Not at all," I said valiantly. "I think you're a very wise lady."

"She's after you, Archy," mother said, nodding, and that's all she'd say.

Ordinarily, after hearing that a woman was "after me," I might preen. But as I left the greenhouse a cobweb drifted across my forehead, and as I wiped it away I thought of those female spiders who, after the ecstasy of the bedchamber, devoured their mates. I imagine the poor chaps might seek their fate with a curious mixture of passion and helplessness. Just like me.

I went into the main house and was heading upstairs when Jamie Olson stopped me in the hallway.

"That Mrs. Jane Folsby," he said. "Used to be the Hawkins' live-in."

I nodded.

He handed me a grimy slip of paper. "Got her phone number," he said. "No address, but I hear she's staying with her sister in West Palm Beach."

"Thank you, Jamie," I said gratefully and slipped him a sawbuck. Then I continued up to my nest, stripped off my travel-wrinkled jacket, and phoned Al Rogoff at headquarters.

"Can you give me an hour?" I asked him.

"Five minutes," he said.

"Then I'll talk fast," I promised. "I've got two names and one license plate. I'd like you to check them out with the gendarmes of Troy, Michigan."

"And why should I do that?"

"I would prefer not to say."

"Then I would prefer to reject your request," he said puckishly.

Silence.

"Tell you what," he said finally, "I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse. I'll do your digging for you, but if and when I get the skinny I won't turn it over until you tell me why you want it. Okay?"

"You drive a hard bargain."

"No, I don't," he said. "I drive a sensible bargain."