She was mystery incarnate. Ignoring her physical beauty-which I certainly did not-I sensed there was a fury in her convulsions. I do not believe I was the cause of her anger; it was her malignant destiny that enraged her, and she rebelled with puissance and a bravado that asserted her strength and independence.

I returned home exhausted and saddened, although if what I suspected was accurate, there was little reason for my sorrow. Still, I find it depressing when people with admirable attributes put their talents to wicked use.

I conducted myself with stately decorum during the evening routine of family cocktail hour and dinner. I do not believe either of my dear progenitors had any inkling of the deception I had practiced that afternoon.

After dinner I retired upstairs to work on my journal. I had hardly started scribbling when Sgt. Al Rogoff phoned.

"How many chukkers of polo did you play today?" he demanded.

"None," I replied.

"How many sets of tennis?"

"None."

"How many holes of golf?"

"None."

"Heavens to Betsy," he said, "what's happening to the primo playboy of Palm Beach? Then what have you been up to?"

"Investigating," I said. "I do work occasionally, you know."

"You could have fooled me," he said. "Hey, I told Lauderdale about Reuben Hagler and that Pinky Schatz. They can't locate him, but they've planted an undercover policewoman in the Leopard Club."

"Yikes!" I said. "Surely not as a nude dancer."

"Nope," Al said, laughing. "I guess she's not qualified. They put her in as a waitress. Her job is to buddy up to the Schatz woman and try to get her to spill."

"It might work," I said, "but I doubt it."

"Me, too," Rogoff admitted. "But one never knows, do one?"

"Al, will you stop stealing my line? You're infringing my copyright."

"Don't tell me you made it up."

"No," I confessed, "it's not original. I think Louis Armstrong said it first, or maybe it was Fats Waller. I don't remember."

"Talk about remembering," he said, "I just did. I owe you ten bucks."

"What?" I said, and then I recalled our bet and knew the real reason he had phoned. "You mean that sheet in the back of Marcia Hawkin's Jeep had acrylic paint stains?"

"Yep," he said, "but it wasn't a sheet. More like a drop cloth. Now tell me how you knew the stains were acrylic paint."

"Gut instinct," I said, and Al, who has as much contempt for that phrase as I do, roared with laughter.

"Bullshit!" he said. "You know something I don't know and you're holding out on me. This is a homicide investigation, you charlie, so let's have it."

"I really didn't know," I said. "I was just guessing. Listen to this Al…"

I told him of my conversations with Luther Grabow, the art supply dealer, and how Silas Hawkin had purchased a palette of acrylics to paint a nude on a wood panel.

"Nice job, sherlock," Rogoff said when I had finished. "You figure the nude on wood was the painting Hawkin labeled 'Untitled' in his ledger?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Oh, boy," he said. "Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble."

"It's 'Double, double toil and trouble,' " I told him.

"Whatever," he said. "Got any idea who the model was?"

"Nope."

"Could it have been his daughter? She ices him like she said in that letter and then swipes the painting because she's afraid it might incriminate her."

"Could be," I said. "You reckon she had it in the car when she went in the drink?"

"A possibility," Rogoff said. "I'll send divers down to look around and see if they can spot it. Maybe it floated out of the Cherokee."

"If it floated out," I said, "it would be on the surface, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, you're right. That scenario doesn't wash. But I still think she had the 'Untitled' painting in her possession sometime during the evening she was killed."

"And now someone else has it?"

"Sure," he said. "Unless she burned it or hacked it to splinters. That's what I like about my job: Everything is cut and dried."

"I know what you mean. Al, did you hear anything from Michigan about Theodosia Johnson?"

"Not yet. Archy, tell me something: Do you think the Shirley Feebling kill in Fort Lauderdale has anything to do with Marcia Hawkin's murder?"

I hesitated. "Yes," I said finally.

"Uh-huh," he said, "that's what I figured. Are the Johnsons involved?"

"It's all supposition."

"Sure it is," he agreed. "Like meat loaf; you don't know what's in it. We're tracing Marcia's movements the night she was killed and we've got what we tell the newspapers are 'promising leads.' Maybe they are, maybe they're not, but I'll keep working my end, old buddy, and you keep working yours. Eventually we may take the gold, though I'll settle for the bronze."

"Me, too," I said.

"See you," he said shortly, and hung up.

I sat there, stared at my open journal, and decided I didn't want to labor on a Saturday night. So I pulled on a nylon golf jacket (Day-Glo orange) and clattered downstairs to my wheels. I headed south on Ocean Boulevard to eyeball the Hawkin home, Villa Bile. I didn't have to stop to see that Hector Johnson's white Lincoln was parked outside.

Then I made an illegal U-turn and sped off to the Pelican Club. I was in dire need of a plasma injection, for what I envisioned had happened to Silas Hawkin, Shirley Feebling, and Marcia Hawkin seemed too awful to endure without Dutch courage.

It was still early so it was no surprise to find the club relatively quiescent. I tested Simon Pettibone by ordering an obscure cocktail from my antique Bartender's Guide.

"I would appreciate a Frankenjack," I stated.

He stared at me, rolled his eyes upward, concentrated a moment. Then he recited, "Gin, dry vermouth, apricot brandy, Triple Sec."

"You're incredible," I told him.

"Served with a cherry," he added. "You really want one, Mr. McNally?"

"No," I said. "A double vodka-rocks will do me fine, Mr. Pettibone. The good stuff."

"Sterling or Stoli?"

"Sterling, please."

He poured and placed the tumbler before me.

"First of the night?" he asked pleasantly.

"First and last," I said. "I shall not be a problem."

"You never are," he assured me. "Until you start reciting Shakespeare."

"Dear old Willy," I said. "What would I do without him? Tell me something, Mr. Pettibone: Do you believe that money makes the world go 'round?"

"Not entirely," he replied. "I do not believe it is money itself. After all, that is just metal and paper. No, it is the power money confers that makes the world go 'round."

"Power," I repeated reflectively. "Ah. As in comfort, people to serve you, no problems, the lush life?"

"You've got it, Mr. McNally."

"No," I said, "but I wish I did. However, I wouldn't kill for it. Would you?"

"Kill? Another person?"

"Yes."

"No," he said, "I would not do that. I enjoy my sleep too much."

"Well put," I said. "But I suspect there are those who would kill for money and sleep as soundly as you."

"Oh yes," he agreed, "there are those. But they will get their deserts on judgment day."

"And when will that be, Mr. Pettibone? Next Tuesday?"

He didn't laugh or even smile, so I ordered another belt. I finished that and departed. The Pelican was beginning to fill up with a riotous Saturday night throng and I was in no mood for revelry.

I returned home, undressed, and donned a silk nightshirt. But before I took to the sheets I consumed a dollop of marc and smoked one cigarette. To insure a deep, untroubled slumber, you understand. I finally went to bed absolutely convinced I would awake the next day with a clear head, a settled turn, a sweet breath-and possibly five pounds lighter.