I drove back to the beach in a dullish mood. It seemed to me that our luncheon conversation had been inconclusive to the point of incoherence. I had to admit I simply didn't know Madam X. And so, when I arrived home, I reacted as I customarily do when confronted with a world-class brainteaser: I took a nap.

It was an uneventful evening at the McNally manse. Casual talk during the cocktail hour and dinner was mainly concerned with Lady Cynthia Horowitz's buffet on Tuesday night. Her engraved invitation had specified informal attire, and I declared that permitted Bermuda shorts and no socks. Naturally my father objected strenuously to such an interpretation. His idea of "informal attire" is appearing in public without a vest.

I returned to my cell after dinner to prepare for my ten o'clock brannigan with Hector Johnson. I was tempted to phone Sgt. Rogoff and remind him of his assignment as a confederate concealed in the McNally garage. But on further reflection I decided not to call. Al hates to be nudged. He said he'd be there and I knew he would.

I spent the remaining time rehearsing my lines, attempting to imagine Hector's responses, and devising my rebuttals. It all seemed so simple, so logical and neat, I saw no way he could escape the trap I was setting for him. I might as well have pledged allegiance to the Easter Bunny.

When my phone rang about nine-thirty I plucked it up, hoping it was Rogoff calling to confirm our arrangement. It was Hector Johnson.

"Arch?" he said. "Listen, I think we better change our schedule."

"But you-"

"I just don't feel comfortable driving around at night with this much cash in the car."

"We could-"

"Too many outlaws on the road these days," he charged ahead, ignoring my attempted interruptions. "The best thing is for you to come over to my place. Theo is having dinner at her guy's home so we'll be able to have a one-on-one and maybe a few belts to grease the wheels of commerce, if you know what I mean. So you just drop by at ten o'clock."

"Heck, I don't-"

"I'll be waiting for you," he said and hung up.

I sat stunned, my battle plan reduced to shredded wheat. I now had no doubt whatsoever that Hector had never intended to replay our first meeting. His last-minute change of setting was made to insure that he would not be caught in a snare, which was exactly what I had planned for him. No dummy, our Mr. Johnson.

It appeared to me that I had few options. I could phone him back immediately and postpone our get-together. But to what avail? We could set a different time, a different place, but Hector would surely make yet another revision at the last moment. I might curse his strategy but I had to admire it. Skilled one-upmanship.

Naturally I phoned Sgt. Rogoff. I tried his home first and received a curt reply from his answering machine. I left a message. Then I called police headquarters. He wasn't in his office and the duty officer informed me his present whereabouts were unknown. But if he called in, I was assured, he would be told to contact yrs. truly at once.

Snookered.

Deep, deep thoughts. Pros. Cons. The odds. The risks. Did I dare? Reuben Hagler was in the Fort Lauderdale clink so Johnson would be my sole antagonist. Could I take him? Could he take me?

I suspect you may think me an epicene lad with an overweening interest in wine, women, and song. (Not too heavy on the song, and I could live without wine.) It is true I am something of a coxcomb but I am not completely incapable of self-defense or violent physical action should it become necessary. I have played lacrosse at New Haven and rugby in South Florida. What I'm trying to convey is that my muscles are not spaghettini even though my brain may be Silly Putty.

And so I sallied forth to dance a pas de deux with Hector Johnson, papa of the unknowable Madam X.

The first thing I did after exiting was to search our three-car garage, hoping to find Al Rogoff lurking in the shadows. He was not. And during the early moments of my drive I tried to spot Al's parked squad car or pickup. No luck. I was on my own.

The Johnsons' condo was brightly lighted and Hector opened the door before I knocked. He was grinning, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me inside with a great show of boisterous good-fellowship.

"Glad you could make it, Arch!" he shouted. "Sorry about the change of plans, but I figure it's better this way. Am I right?"

"Sure, Heck," I said.

He practically pushed me onto that cretonne couch of recent fond memory.

"Hey," he said, looming over me, "I'm having a Chivas. How about you?"

"No, thanks," I said. "I've been drinking wine and it's instant blotto to mix the grape and the grain. But you go ahead."

"I was just pouring a refill when you pulled up," he said. "Be right back."

He went into the kitchen. I didn't think he was sozzled, but he wasn't stone sober either. I wanted him to keep drinking, figuring it might impair his coordination if things turned nasty. He returned with a full glass and no ice cubes that I could see.

"Your daughter is having dinner with her fiance?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, plopping down in an armchair facing me. "She drove the Lincoln. That guy of hers is a real stiff, isn't he? What Theo sees in him I'll never know."

"Maybe she sees five million dollars," I suggested.

His expression didn't change, but he took a deep gulp of his Scotch. "I'm glad you brought that up, Arch," he said. "Listen, I got bad news. I know I told you I had fifty grand and I did, but now I don't. I was depending on a pal to help me out, but he's in a bind and can't come up with the gelt. Arch, I'm really, truly sorry about this, and you have every right to be pissed. I mean I think you're in the right to ask for a finder's fee and if I had it I'd be happy to hand it over with a smile. But like they say, you can't get blood from a turnip. I only wish there was some other way we could work this out."

The opening I had hoped for…

I was silent a moment, looking at him thoughtfully. "There may be, Heck. And it won't cost you any cash."

He took another swig. "No money?" he said. "Then what do you want?"

"That painting you bought from Marcia Hawkin."

"What painting?" he cried. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Heck," I said, "let's stop playing games. I know Marcia sold you a painting."

"Are you calling me a liar?" he said menacingly.

"Of course not. I just think you're making a very chivalrous attempt to protect the reputation of that poor, unfortunate girl."

He suddenly switched gears. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "That's exactly what I want to do. Louise has enough problems without that. How did you know?"

Then I went into my rehearsed spiel, speaking slowly in a grave voice. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't con a con man. His ego is so bloated that it never occurs to him that anyone would even try to swindle him. Bankers have the same fault.

"Heck, when I spoke to Marcia the afternoon before she was killed she made a confession. I didn't ask questions; she just wanted to talk. You know what a flake she was.

"She told me she arrived home while the housekeeper, Mrs. Folsby, was on the phone reporting to the police she had just discovered the body of Silas Hawkin. Marcia went directly to the studio and saw that her father was dead. Murdered. She said he had been working on a nude portrait of her, acrylic on a wood panel, and she was so proud and happy that he wanted her to pose because it was the first painting he had ever done of her.

"So, she admitted, she stole it. Just wrapped it in a drop cloth, carted it away, and slid it under her bed in the main house before the cops arrived. What she did was unlawful, of course: removing evidence from the scene of a crime.

"But Marcia said she didn't care. She felt the painting belonged to her. Not only had she posed for it but it would be her only remembrance from her father. You can understand how she felt, can't you, Heck?"