Of course my hopes were more than dashed on Sunday morning; they were obliterated. But I shall not weary you with a detailed account of my agonies. The only thing more boring than another person's dream is another person's hangover. Suffice to say that it was almost noon before the McNally carcass calmed to the extent that I ceased thinking of suicide as the only cure for my woes.

But my physical fragility was not the only reason I stayed at home that day; I was awaiting a phone call from Hector Johnson. I was certain his daughter had told him of our conversation during that luncheon at the Ocean Grand, and I was just as certain dear old Heck would gobble the bait.

A word of explanation is in order here. The reason for my scheming was that I had no proof. I had suspicions aplenty, but they might well have been skywriting, so ephemeral were they without a test of their validity and permanence. And the only way I could do that was by scamming the scammers. It may sound unnecessarily devious, but bear with me.

I was in my rooms and it was almost one-thirty before my phone rang. I grabbed it up.

"Archy?" he said. "This is Hector Johnson."

A surge of satisfaction dissolved the last remnants of my Katzenjammer. "Heck!" I said cheerily. "Good to hear from you."

"Likewise," he said. "Listen, Arch, I think you and I should get together for a little man-to-man."

"Oh? Concerning what?"

"I can't discuss it on the phone," he said brusquely. "It's about what you mentioned to Theo yesterday."

"Ah," I said, "that. Yes, I agree you and I should have a chat. Where and when?"

"I'm leaving in a few minutes for Fort Lauderdale. I've got some business down there and I'll be gone all day. But I should be home tonight. Is, say, ten o'clock too late for you?"

"Not at all."

"Suppose I come over to your place. I know the address. We can sit in my car and talk."

"Surely you'll come in and have a drink."

"No, thanks," he said shortly. "My car would be best. Private, know what I mean?"

"Whatever you prefer," I told him. "I'll be waiting for you."

"Just you and me," he said. "Right?"

"Of course."

"Good," he said. "See you at ten."

He hung up and I did everything but dance a soft-shoe, thinking my plot was developing nicely.

Is it elitist to recognize there are cheap people? There are, you know. I don't mean "cheap" in the sense of stingy, but cheap as meaning shoddy, of inferior quality. I thought Hector Johnson was a cheap person, and so was his old buddy, Reuben Hagler.

But sleazy people can sometimes be remarkably clever and remarkably dangerous. I do not take their tawdriness lightly. And so I spent some time devising and rehearsing my dialogue with Hector that evening. I knew the role I had to play. I believed I knew his and could only hope I was correct.

I recognized there was a certain degree of risk involved. Good ol' Heck did not impress me as a man who would accept defeat resignedly. But if he became physical, I was breezily confident I could cope. A perfect example of my damnable self-deception.

But before we met there was something I needed to do. Not because it might aid my investigation but because it was simply something I felt necessary. I dressed conservatively and went downstairs to my mother's greenhouse. She and father were still at church, I could not ask her permission, so I stole one of her potted begonias. It was the Fiesta type with red flowers. I was certain mother would forgive the theft when she learned the purpose.

I drove south to the Hawkin home, slowed to make certain Hector Johnson's Lincoln was not present, then turned into the driveway and parked. I carried the begonia up to the front door and knocked briskly. Nothing. I tried again and there was no response. My third attempt brought results; the door was opened slowly and Mrs. Louise Hawkin stared at me dully.

Oh lordy, but she was a mess. I did not believe she was drunk but she seemed in a stupor, and I wondered if she was drugged. I wasn't sure she recognized me.

"Archy McNally, ma'am," I said. "I want to offer the condolences of my parents and myself on your stepdaughter's tragic death."

But she wasn't listening. She was staring at the plant I was carrying and I thought she brightened.

"Glads," she said.

"No, Mrs. Hawkin. It's a Fiesta begonia."

"The red flowers," she said. "My mother always had fresh glads in the house. She went to the market every three days. All colors but mostly she liked red. So cheerful. I should have bought fresh glads every three days."

"May I come in?" I asked.

She allowed me to enter and watched while I carefully placed the plant on a glass-topped end table. Then she came forward to touch the rosettes tenderly. It was a caress.

"So lovely," she murmured. "So lovely."

I feared she had been sleeping and I had awakened her. She was wearing a wrinkled robe of stained foulard silk. Her hair was unbrushed and looked as if it needed a good wash. Her makeup was smeary, the polish on her fingernails chipped and peeling.

"Mrs. Hawkin," I said, "is there anything I can do for you?"

"Do?" she asked, seemingly bewildered.

I looked around the littered room. Overflowing ashtrays. A spilled drink. A tilted lamp shade. Newspapers scattered on the floor. An odor of grease and mildew. Total disarray.

"Perhaps a cleaning woman," I suggested. "I can find someone for you."

Unexpectedly she flared. "Everyone is always picking on me," she howled.

"Picking?" I said, and then realized she meant hassling. "I didn't wish to upset you, ma'am, and I apologize. Would you like me to leave?"

She calmed as abruptly as she had exploded. "No, no," she said, then added coquettishly, "Sit thee down, lad, and I'll get us a nice drinkie-poo."

I should have declined, of course, but at the moment a drinkie-poo was exactly what I needed. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hawkin returned from the kitchen with two tumblers filled with a clear liquid. After a cautious sip I discovered it was warm gin.

"Have the reporters been bothering you?" I asked.

"Everyone," she said. "Everyone's been bothering me. Reporters, policemen, photographers, friends, strangers who park outside to stare at the house."

"Awful," I said.

"I can't stand it!" she shrieked. She threw her filled tumbler away from her. The contents spilled, the glass bounced on the shag rug without breaking. Then she fell to wailing, face buried in her hands.

Shaken, I did what I could to clean up the mess. Then I went into the kitchen, a pigsty. I poured about a quarter of my gin into a reasonably clean glass and added ice and water. I made another like it for Louise and brought it to her.

She had stopped keening. "Thanks," she said huskily and gulped down half. "I don't know what's happening to me."

"You've been through a horror," I told her. "First your husband, then your stepdaughter. It would shatter anyone. It's amazing that you're coping as well as you are."

She stared at me blankly. "Coping? Is that what I'm doing?"

I nodded.

"I'm not," she said. "I'm dead. I can't feel anything anymore."

I didn't believe that for a minute. I saw that strong, determined face sagging and the heavy body gone limp. Sorrow was taking its toll; she seemed to be shrinking. But there was something else in her expression besides grief. Something I could not immediately identify that I had recently seen and could not recall.

"Mrs. Hawkin," I said, "don't you think it might be wise to ask Jane Folsby to come back to take care of you and the house?"

"No," she said at once. "Not her. She knows too much and might talk."

Then I knew Mrs. Folsby had been telling the truth but I feigned ignorance. "Knows too much?" I repeated. "About what?"