I mean I am not a holier-than-thou johnny. Far from it. But her insouciance was startling. I have always been a hopeful romantic, but it was still something of an epiphany to learn that a woman of ethereal beauty could have earthy desires.

Or if not earthy, at least sandy. As well I knew.

I awoke on Tuesday morning in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. Ursi served paper-thin latkes with little pork sausages and apple sauce, and a big wedge of casaba with a crisp winy flavor.

The boss wanted to know if I required a lift to the office, his not-so-subtle way of telling me it would be nice if I got to work on time for a change. I explained I had to return the Buick and pick up my rejuvenated Miata. He accepted that without comment and took off alone in his black Lexus 400.

I drove over to West Palm Beach and reclaimed my little beauty, sparkling after a bath and wax job. Then I returned to the McNally Building around ten-thirty to find on my desk two telephone messages, both asking me to call. The name Hector Johnson was familiar, of course, but I stared at the other, Luther Grabow, and at first it meant nothing.

Then a lightbulb flashed above my head just as it does in comic strips. Luther Grabow. Ah-ha. The owner of the store where Silas Hawkin bought his art supplies. Intrigued, I phoned immediately and identified myself.

"Oh yeah," he said. "Listen, your firm is settling Si Hawkin's estate-am I right?"

"That's correct, Mr. Grabow." The experienced liar always remembers his falsehoods.

"And you told me one painting is gone. Is it still missing?"

"It is. It's listed in his ledger as 'Untitled,' but we haven't been able to locate it."

"The paintings you did find-were they on canvas?"

"All of them."

"So the chances are good that the missing work is the one he did on that wood panel I told you about. You agree with me?"

"Completely," I said. "There were no paintings on woods in Mr. Hawkin's inventory."

Long pause. Then he sighed. "I've been thinking about it," he said, "and I decided there's no reason I shouldn't tell you. The reason I didn't before was that I thought it might make the widow unhappy. You know? But when you sell off his stuff, she's going to get all the proceeds-am I right?"

"Oh yes," I said, padding my deception. "Mrs. Hawkin is the sole beneficiary."

"Then I might as well tell you. When Hawkin ordered the oak panel and said he was going to try acrylics, I asked him what he had in mind and he said he was planning to do a nude."

I may have gulped. "A nude?"

"That's what he said. He told me he had done some nudes when he was young, but then he found out there was more money to be made doing portraits."

"Did he tell you who the model would be?"

"Nah. He just said it was going to be a nude."

"Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. Grabow," I said. "I appreciate it and will make certain you are adequately recompensed for your professional assistance."

"That would be nice," he said.

I hung up, lighted a cigarette, and stared at the ceiling. A nude? I wondered if Silas Hawkin had met Pinky Schatz. Ridiculous. Or was it?

My second call, to Hector Johnson, was just as puzzling.

"Hiya, Arch," he said breezily. "How're you doing?"

I don't object to the diminutive Archy for Archibald, but I have an intense aversion to being called Arch. Too much like an adjective.

"Fine," I said. "And you?"

"Couldn't be better. I want to buy you lunch today. How about it?"

"Sounds great," I said.

It didn't. To be candid, Hector Johnson and men like him dismay me. They know all about professional football, they understand baccarat, and they can cure an arthritic septic tank. I mean they're so practical. I know little about such things. But then, on the other hand, if you're seeking an apt quotation from Publius Vergilius Maro, I'm your man.

"Do you like tongue?" Hector asked. I could think of a dozen snappy retorts to that query, some of them printable, but he plunged ahead before I could reply. "Nothing like a tongue sandwich on rye with hot mustard and a cold beer. You know Toojay's Deli on U.S. One, up near Jupiter?"

"Yes, I know it," I said, wondering why he was picking such a distant spot. Tongue sandwiches were available closer to home. His home, for instance.

"Meet you at twelve-thirty," he said briskly. "Okay?"

"I'll be there."

"My treat," he said, and hung up.

Toojay's is an excellent deli, no doubt about it, but hardly the place for a quiet, intimate luncheon even in midsummer when the tourists are absent. I could only conclude that Hector didn't want to be seen conferring with me in more familiar Palm Beach haunts. But what his reasons might be I could not fathom.

I arrived at Toojay's fashionably late, and it was as crowded and clamorous as I expected. I looked around for Hector and spotted him sitting at a table for four. With him was a gent with a profile like a cleaver and the body of a very tall jockey. I had absolutely no doubt that he drove a gunmetal Cadillac De Ville and his name was Reuben Hagler.

I made my way to their table, dodging the scurrying waitresses. By the time I arrived I had what I hoped was an unctuous smile pasted on my puss. Johnson rose to greet me, but the other man remained seated.

"Heck," I said, shaking his hand, "good to see you again."

"Likewise," he said. "Arch, I want you to meet Reuben Hagler, an old buddy of mine. Rube, this is Archy McNally, the dude I told you about."

The old buddy didn't rise or offer his hand, but he did grant me a glacial nod. I gave him one in return and sat down next to Hector, across from Hagler. The two men had glasses of beer but no food. Johnson snapped his fingers at a passing waitress, a habit I detest.

"How about it?" our host asked. "Tongue sandwiches all around with fries and slaw? And a beer for you, Arch?"

There were no objections, and that's what he ordered. Hector glanced at his wristwatch but it wasn't the old digital he had been wearing the first time we met. Now it was a gold Rolex, and I wondered if it might have been a gift from Louise Hawkin.

"Don't want to rush you, Arch," he said, "but Rube and I have an important business meeting in about an hour so we'll have to eat and run."

"No problem," I said and looked at the man sitting opposite. "What business are you in, Mr. Hagler?"

"Investments," he said. "Interested?"

"Sorry," I said. "At the moment I'm teetering on the edge of abject poverty."

Hector laughed but not Reuben. He didn't strike me as the kind of man who laughed often, if at all.

"If you change your mind," he said, "look me up. I'm in Lauderdale. I can promise you a twenty percent return with no risk."

When pigs fly, I thought, but didn't say it.

Our luncheons were served. They were enormous sandwiches with what I estimated was a half-pound of tongue between two slabs of sour rye. We set to work, but gluttonizing didn't bring our conversation to a halt.

"Arch," Hector said, "I got something to ask you, but first I want you to know you can talk in front of Reuben here. We've been friends a long time, and we got no secrets from each other. Right, Rube?"

"Right," the other man said.

"And he knows how to keep his mouth shut," Johnson added.

"I don't blab," Hagler agreed.

"Now tell me," Hector went on, "you work in the real estate department of your daddy's law firm. Is that correct?"

"Usually," I said cautiously, "but not all the time. Occasionally my father gives me other assignments. Things that require special handling."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," he said, "because it's been bothering me. I couldn't figure out how you got involved if all you did was real estate."