I could not, for the life of me, imagine what those things might possibly be. But then I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps I had been associating with an abnormal breed of ladies.

"I understand completely," I said, although I didn't. "Thank you again for your assistance and I wish you the best of good fortune in the future."

"Thank you," she said faintly.

I hung up and finished my cigarette, still mired in the stygian as to what happened at the Hawkin menage that a lady couldn't or wouldn't talk about. Mrs. Folsby was no mossback, and if she refused to utter a word or even drop a teeny hint it had to be something truly horrendous. To say my curiosity was piqued is putting it mildly.

I looked up Grabow's Art Supplies in the Yellow Pages and made a note of the address, telephone number, and proprietor's name, Luther Grabow. I grabbed up the white linen golf cap I was sporting that day and went downstairs to the Miata, with absolutely no idea why I was jaunting to West Palm to talk to Mr. Grabow. I could claim it was "gut instinct"-that favorite cliche of authors of detective novels. Actually, I had nothing better to do.

I found Grabow's Art Supplies in a freestanding building off Dixie Highway. It looked as big as a warehouse and the interior gave the same impression: row after row of steel racks holding an incredible assortment of everything from Crayolas to jointed six-ft. mannequins of polished wood that could be adjusted to any possible position including, I presumed, obscene.

The man behind the sales counter was seated on a high stool. He was reading a paperback, and I was bemused to note it was a Western. It seemed an odd choice for a clerk in an art supply emporium. He looked up when I approached.

"Could I speak to Mr. Luther Grabow, please," I said.

He inspected me. "I'm Luther Grabow," he said, "but I'm not buying."

"And I'm not selling," I said. "Mr. Grabow, I understand the late Silas Hawkin was a customer of yours."

He continued to stare. "Who told you that?" he demanded.

"His widow," I said, lying without hesitation.

He softened. "Yeah," he said, "he was a customer. That was a helluva thing, him getting knocked off like that. I don't say it just because he was a regular customer but because I admired the guy. He was a real professional and knew exactly what he wanted. Never settled for anything but the best. And a good painter. Not great, mind you, but one of the best around."

"Mrs. Hawkin told me he stretched his own canvases."

"That's right. The most expensive linen I carry."

"Did you sell him the wooden frames?"

"Assembled? Nah. He bought what we call sticks, the wood sides, top and bottom. Dovetail joints. You put together the size and shape you want. Hey, what's your interest in all this?"

He was a wizened little fellow, almost emaciated, with a Vandyke so jetty it looked dyed, and no larger than a merkin. The eyes behind wire-rimmed specs were alert and suspicious.

I handed him a business card and after he had examined it I plucked it away, remembering Sgt. Rogoff's warning. "My firm is settling Mr. Hawkin's estate," I glibly explained. "We have made a very careful inventory of his unsold works, using his own ledger. The one item we've been unable to locate is a painting he was apparently working on at the time of his death. It is carried in his ledger simply as 'Untitled,' but there is no indication of its size or subject matter. We were hoping you might be able to help."

His stare was owlish. "He was working on it when he was killed?"

"The police believe so."

"And it's missing?"

"That's correct."

"Do the cops think the killer took it?"

"A possibility."

He was silent for such a long time I had almost given up hope of gleaning any additional information when he suddenly sighed and began to speak.

"I guess there's no reason I shouldn't tell you," he said, "as long as you keep my name out of it. I don't want to get involved. Okay?"

"Certainly," I said.

"About a month ago Hawkin came in and told me he wanted to try acrylic on wood. It was a technique he had learned in Europe years ago, but then he decided to concentrate on watercolors and oil on canvas. Anyway, he wanted a whole palette of acrylics and a nice piece of wood. I had the primer and colors in stock, but I had to special order the panel from a guy in Boston."

"That's interesting," I said. "What kind of wood was it?"

"Seasoned oak. A beautiful plank. Just perfect. Hawkin was happy."

"Do you recall the dimensions?"

"Sure. Half-inch thick. Eighteen inches by twenty-four inches."

"That's not very large," I commented. "Most of his oil paintings were much larger."

"That's right," he agreed. "But where are you going to get a huge plank of oak that hasn't got a flaw? Not to mention what the damned thing would weigh."

"Yes," I said, "that would be a consideration. So the size Hawkin bought could easily be carried?"

He nodded. "No problem."

"Did Hawkin say anything at all about what he intended to do with it? The subject matter of the painting?"

Owl eyes flickered. "Why, no," he said finally. "He never mentioned a word about it, and I never asked."

I knew he was lying, but there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I thanked him for his kind cooperation and walked out. I was not too displeased with the interview. If Hawkin had painted "Untitled" on that wood panel, his killer could easily have tucked it under one arm and strolled away. I knew Al Rogoff would be interested in what I had learned but decided not to inform him pro tem, figuring I might need it in the future for a bargaining chip. Such are the ways of the world.

I drove back to the McNally Building, and my train of thought (really a trolley car) was curious. It may have been due to seeing all those artists' supplies, but I suddenly recalled Sargent's portrait of Madam X. Totally unlike Theodosia Johnson, of course, but I could visualize her in that black velvet gown with the marvelous decolletage.

Do you think I need professional help?

I am attempting to make this account as honest as possible so I must confess that after I returned to my office I had contemplated taking a short nap. But it was not to be, for propped against my stained coffee mug (POVERTY SUCKS) was a message stating that Mrs. Louise Hawkin had phoned and desired I return her call, which I did.

"Mr. McNally," she said briskly, "Hector Johnson, a good friend, tells me you are a real estate agent."

"Not a licensed broker," I said hastily, "but I do work closely with our Real Estate Department." That was true enough; I went to all their parties and frequently participated in their office pools.

"Since Si died," she went on, "I have decided to put our property here on the market, and I'd like to discuss it with you."

"Of course," I said, having little doubt I could sustain my impersonation of a realtor. "What time would be convenient for you?"

"Why, right now if you can make it," she said. "I intend to be in all afternoon."

"Excellent," I said. "Be there within the hour. Thank you for calling, Mrs. Hawkin."

Ordinarily the Real Estate Department of McNally Son does not handle residential properties but is limited to recommending to our clients the purchase or sale of commercial parcels and raw land. But occasionally they were called upon to broker the sale of the homes of Palm Beach residents who had gone to the great Gold Coast in the sky, and so they had all the printed forms required for listing.

I picked up a file of the necessary bumf and headed southward in the Miata, ruminating on Mrs. Hawkin's mention of Hector Johnson as "a good friend." That certainly gave credence to what Connie Garcia had told me about Louise and Hector being an "item." The pot was beginning to boil, I reflected, and the bubbling delighted me. I enjoy the mess other people make of their lives, don't you?