"That's understandable, father."

"Of course it is," he said crossly. "They're entirely in the right, even though Chauncey is not a suspect. So apparently his letters will remain in their possession until the homicide of Miss Feebling is solved."

He looked at me intently, knuckling his Brillo mustache. I knew what he wanted me to say and I said it.

"Let me look into it, father."

"Yes, Archy," he said gratefully, "you do that. Nothing illegal, of course. Do not, in any way, shape, or form, interfere with the official investigation. But though I admire your ingenuity, I must tell you I doubt you will succeed where, to date, the police have failed. However, I want to be able to assure our client that McNally and Son has done its best to accede to her wishes." He paused a moment and gave me a wry smile. "Also," he added, "your investigation should result in a large number of billable hours."

I laughed. "I expect it will, father," I said.

He finished his glass of wine and stood up. It was my dismissal. The moment I left he would pack and light one of his James Upshall pipes, pour another port, and get back to Dickens. I wondered if he had started The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

"Kindly keep me informed of the progress of your investigation," he said. Very patrician. I admired him. He had the intonation just right.

I nodded, left his study, and started upstairs. I paused at the second-floor sitting room, where mother was watching a rerun of "The Honeymooners." I kissed her good-night and she patted my cheek while laughing delightedly at Ralph Kramden. I continued up to my own cloister.

It had been a long, arduous day, and instead of a shower I opted for a bath. I frothed the water with a mildly scented oil and launched a squadron of rubber duckies Connie had given me as a gag. Then I slid in with a moan of contentment.

An hour later I was dried and had donned one of my favorite kimonos, the one printed with images of Elmer Fudd at play. I sat at my desk and worked hard at my journal, recording everything that had happened since the last entry. I do work hard, you know, though I suspect you may think I'm just another pretty face.

I remembered to jot notes on what Luther Grabow had told me of Silas Hawkin's intention to paint a nude on wood; the insane luncheon with Hector Johnson and Reuben Hagler; and the even madder conversation with Marcia Hawkin in an underground garage.

That last item reminded me to take the white envelope from my jacket pocket and slip it into the top desk drawer. But before I did that, I held it up to the strong light of my student lamp. Unfortunately it appeared to be a security envelope-one of those with an overall pattern printed on the inside-and I could decipher nothing of what Squirrel might have written on the letter within. Frustrating, but I swear I was not tempted to steam it open. Subsequent events made me wish to hell I had.

Finished with my scribbling, I reviewed everything I had written since my initial interview with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth. Even more frustrating, for it seemed to me I had compiled a compendium of disparate facts and fancies. If there was a pattern, a design no matter how bizarre, I simply could not see it. Mishmash would be an apt description.

And now there was another spud in the stew: my father's request that I investigate the murder of Shirley Feebling. I could understand his doubts that I would succeed where, so far, the Lauderdale homicide detectives had failed. But neither the squire nor the police, as far as I knew, were aware of the existence of Reuben Hagler, the "old buddy" of Hector Johnson, father of the woman I had been assigned to dissect.

There were connections, I was convinced, but they were so tenuous as to be ungraspable. (There is such a word; you can look it up.) After a long bout of jumbled pondering I decided I had no choice but to engineer another meeting with Pinky Schatz, close friend of the slain Shirl Feebling. I could not forget my impression that the bouncy Ms. Schatz had lied to me because of fear. But fear of whom I could not imagine. Unless he drove a gunmetal Cadillac.

All this Sturm und Drang was so depressing. I really don't know how psychiatrists do it. I mean they listen to woeful confessions of ridden people every day. All they hear is weeping, wailing, and the gnashing of teeth: stories of hate, abuse, greed, lust, violence, and other swell stuff. Who could blame the shrinks if they went home at night and, to survive, read fairy tales-or anything that ends "And they lived happily ever after."

I suppose I was in that mood when I determined to call Connie Garcia. I needed a dose of normality. It was close to midnight, and I let her phone ring and ring. But she did not answer.

I went to bed. I was not gruntled.

I might have slept forever on Wednesday morning but I was gradually nudged awake by the persistent ringing of my bedside phone. I opened one eye wide enough to see the clock dimly. It was either 9:05 a.m. or a quarter to one p.m. But since a low sun was striking through my bedroom window I judged a new day had just begun.

"H'lo?" I said in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Don't you ever get to your office on time?" Sgt. Al Rogoff complained.

"That's why you called?" I said sleepily. "To comment on my working habits?"

"Wake up," he said sternly, "and try to listen. Have you seen Marcia Hawkin lately?"

I woke up. I saw no reason to prevaricate. "Yesterday afternoon," I told him. "At the McNally Building. We had a talk."

"About what?"

"Pure craziness. She was off the wall."

"That I can believe," Al said. "We've got a sheet on that young lady. Picked up for strolling naked on Ocean Boulevard at midnight. Picked up for throwing rocks at seagulls. Picked up for setting off illegal fireworks. Nothing serious. No charges. But the girl is a total fruitcake. What was she wearing when you talked to her?"

I tried to recall. "Uh, blue middy blouse with white piping, pleated silk skirt, scuffed running shoes."

"Uh-huh," Rogoff said. "That tallies. She have wheels?"

"Black Jeep Cherokee. Al, what's this all about?"

"Her mother called this morning. The kid didn't come home last night. She's gone and so is the Cherokee. We usually wait forty-eight hours on things like this. People stay overnight at a friend's house or pull off the road to grab some sleep. But since the Silas Hawkin homicide is still open, I got interested and decided to give you a call. Did she say anything about leaving home?"

"No."

"Meeting someone?"

"No."

"Going somewhere in particular?"

"No."

"Thank you for your kind assistance," the sergeant said with his heavy irony. "Would you care to make a wild guess as to where this loony might be?"

"Haven't the slightest," I said. "Al, did you hear anything from Michigan on those two names I gave you?"

"Nada. I told you these things take time. When I do hear, you'll be the first to know-after you tell me why you want the skinny. Archy, if you hear from Marcia Hawkin give me a shout."

"Sure I will," I said.

I hung up and crawled out of bed. It was just what I needed-a moral dilemma first thing in the morning. Should I open that cursed envelope or shouldn't I? Recalling my promise to Marcia, I decided not to. Only if she died, not if she was merely missing. I told myself she was sure to show up. Told but not convinced.

There was no one in the kitchen when I clattered downstairs, so I fixed my own breakfast: a large GJ, instant black coffee, and two toasted English muffin sandwiches with fillings of brisling sardines in olive oil. Look, you eat what you want for breakfast; don't give me a hard time.

I should have enjoyed that mini-meal but I didn't. Because the tickling of guilt continued. Had I been as sympathetic with Squirrel as I could have been? Might I have expressed more forcibly my willingness to help her? In other words, had I failed another human being in trouble? But then I am neither Dr. Schweitzer nor Mother Teresa. Looking for a saint, are you? Ta-ta.