And when I pealed the chimes at the Hawkin home, who should open the door but Hector Johnson himself. Surprise! He looked as elegantly jaunty as he had the first time we met and his hearty assurance hadn't deserted him.

"Archy!" he shouted, grasping my hand and pulling me into the house. "Glad you could make it! Good to see you again!"

In contrast to that enthusiasm, my response must have sounded like a mumble but, in any event, I don't believe he was listening. He led me into the Florida room where Louise Hawkin was half-reclining on a white wicker couch. She was wearing lounging pajamas in a garish flowered pattern, and since she was gripping a tall drink I didn't offer to shake hands.

"Mrs. Hawkin," I said, "I'm happy we meet again. I hope you're well, ma'am."

She gave me a glazed smile. "Tip-top," she said.

Not completely smashed, I reckoned, but about halfway there. I mean she spoke intelligently but slowly and carefully as if fearful of slurring. And her movements were also slow, careful, and seemingly planned beforehand as if she might suddenly spill her drink or knock over a lamp.

"Darling," Hector Johnson said, and I chalked that up, "you and I are indulging. Surely we can offer our guest the same opportunity. Archy, we're working on gin and tonics. How does that sound?"

"Just right," I said.

"Shall I mix it?" Hector asked the hostess.

"I'll get it," she said thickly, set her glass aside, and lurched to her feet. "Besides," she added, "I have to make wee-wee."

Johnson laughed uproariously. I managed a strained smile. She walked from the room in slow motion, and Hector and I sat facing each other in matching armchairs. Then he launched into one of the strangest conversational gambits I had ever heard.

"What do you think about luck?" he demanded.

I blinked, then stared at him, wondering if he might be attempting an elaborate joke. But he was quite serious. "Nice to have," I said lamely.

"When you need it," he continued, "desperately need it, it's gone. When you don't give a damn-win or lose, who cares?-there it is. Funny thing, huh?"

"Yes," I said, thinking, what's with this man?

"Real estate agents get six percent from the seller," he said, looking at me thoughtfully. "Am I correct?"

"Generally," I said. "But on commercial properties and undeveloped land it's usually ten percent."

"Uh-huh," he said, still looking at me. "I was the one who told Louise to give you a call."

There was no mistaking his meaning, but I wasn't going to help him. Let him spell it out.

"You ever pay a finder's fee?" he asked casually.

"It's not unheard-of," I said.

"Didn't think it was," he said with a wolfish grin, then concluded swiftly with, "Keep it in mind," as Louise Hawkin came back into the room carrying my drink.

I sampled it cautiously. Heavy on the gin, light on the tonic. If she had been drinking those bombs all afternoon it was no wonder her smile was glazed.

"Mrs. Hawkin," I said, "I presume the property will not be legally yours until your late husband's will is settled."

"No," she said, "it's mine now. The title is in my name."

"Louise is a lady of property," Johnson put in. "But that doesn't pay for the liverwurst, does it, darling? Land-poor is what it's called."

No matter how impeccably he was dressed, it was a louche thing to say, was it not? I mean his words and tone seemed calculated to belittle the widow, reduce her to the role of a hapless mendicant.

"Did you have a specific asking price in mind?" I asked her.

She glanced at Hector Johnson.

"Two million five," he said promptly. "For everything."

"Suppose I send out a professional appraiser," I suggested. "No cost to you. He or she will know the value of comparable parcels in the neighborhood and will be able to make an informed estimate of how your property should be priced to sell quickly."

"Two million five," Johnson repeated. "Asking, of course. Louise will be willing to negotiate. Won't you, sweetie?"

"What?" she said. "Oh, sure. Negotiate."

"Suppose I leave these listing applications," I said, placing my folder on an end table. "Have your attorney review them before you sign. They're standard boilerplate by which you grant McNally and Son the right to represent you in the sale of your home for a specified period of time at a specified percentage of the selling price."

"Honey," Louise Hawkin said anxiously, "what do you think?"

"Sounds legit," he told her. "I'll take a look at the contract."

"Mrs. Hawkin," I said, "if your home is sold, do you intend to remain in the Palm Beach area?"

"Of course she's going to stay," Hector answered. "Get rid of this white elephant, use part of the proceeds to buy or lease a smaller place, maybe on the beach, and have enough left over to invest in something that'll provide her with a guaranteed income. Doesn't that make sense?"

The moment he used the phrase "guaranteed income," my opinion of his financial acumen plunged to subzero. Dear old dad had taught me years ago that there is no such thing as a guaranteed income. As pop said, "Who guarantees the guarantor?" Scary, huh?

"Whatever Mrs. Hawkin wishes," I said. "It's her future happiness that's at stake, and she must decide how it best may be achieved."

"Dear Hector," she said, gazing at him wearily, "I don't know what I'd do without your advice."

He rose, porky face glowing, and seated himself on the couch next to her. He picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles. "Just like Archy said, baby," he crooned, "your happiness is all that counts."

I must tell you I felt acutely uncomfortable. I was invited, but I had the impression of having barged into an intimate and probably semi-drunken tete-a-tete. I was certain that after I departed they would dance the horizontal hula-hula.

That was hardly my business or my concern. What did trouble me was the role of Svengali that Hector Johnson seemed to have assumed. It was hard to believe that in the short period since her husband's murder Louise Hawkin had succumbed to the man's forceful charm and blandishments.

Unless, of course, their affair had started before Silas Hawkin's death. That could be easily explained. Hector's daughter had posed for the artist. It would not be extraordinary if he had met and become friendly with the Hawkin family. Perhaps what I had just witnessed was a relationship that had existed not for days but for months. One never knows, do one?

By then I'd had just about enough of the Hawkin and Johnson families for one day, thank you, and was looking forward to a quiet evening at home. I intended to retire to my digs after dinner and play my favorite Al Jolson cassette while bringing my journal up to date. I might even have a small marc to help me forget that as I labored, Connie Garcia and Binky Watrous were dining together. I hoped their raspberry souffle would collapse. A savage desire, I admit, but surely understandable.

Unfortunately I was no sooner ensconced behind my desk, marc in fist and Jolson singing "Swanee," than my phone buzzed. When it's an outside call it rings; when it's an interior call it buzzes. Don't ask me why. The caller was Jamie Olson downstairs in the kitchen.

"Woman parked outside," he reported. "Wants to talk to you."

"What woman?"

"Won't say."

"Did you ask her to come in?"

"Won't come in."

"What's she driving?" I asked, dreaming it might be Connie's white Ford Escort and that she had had a squabble with Binky and had sought me out for comforting. I would, I decided, provide it generously.

"A black Jeep Cherokee," Jamie Olson said.

I sighed. "I'll be right down."

It was parked on the graveled turnaround in front of our garage. The door on the passenger side was opened as I approached. I peered within. Marcia Hawkin. She was wearing a soiled cotton trench coat buttoned up to the neck. I wondered what she wore underneath-if anything. Right about then, I figured, Jolson was singing "I'm Sitting on Top of the World." I wasn't.