"Pretty much," I said. "Come on in."

They followed me into the living room and looked down at the prone Hector Johnson. Rogoff knelt and rolled him over.

"What happened to his nose?" he asked. "Did you bop him?"

"No," I said, "I bit him."

Al looked at me sorrowfully. "And I thought you were a gourmet," he said.

The two cops hauled Johnson to his feet. He regained a groggy consciousness, but they had to hold him upright. The sergeant cuffed him and they hustled him outside and thrust him into the back of the squad car. Rogoff returned, leaving the front door of the condo open. I handed him Johnson's revolver.

"This might be the gat used to kill Shirley Feebling," I told him.

"Gat?" he said. "I haven't heard that word since Cagney died." He examined the gun. "It could be," he admitted. "It's the right caliber. I'll send it down to Lauderdale for tests. What about the painting?"

"Haven't found it yet," I said. "I was just starting on this room when you showed up."

We searched and came up with zilch. Rogoff went into the kitchen and came back with two tumblers of Chivas and water on the rocks. He handed me one.

"Drink it," he advised. "You look a little puffy around the gills, and Johnson will never miss it."

He sat on the couch and I fell into the armchair recently occupied by mine host.

"Maybe he burned the painting," the sergeant said. "Getting rid of incriminating evidence."

I shook my head. "I don't think so, Al. That nude is valuable, and I can't see Johnson destroying anything that might prove profitable."

"Then what the hell did he do with it? Put it in storage?"

"Maybe he left it at Louise Hawkin's place," I suggested.

"That's a possibility. Or maybe-hey, why are you grinning like that?"

"I know where it is," I said. "Not exactly 'The Purloined Letter' but close to it."

"Cut the crap," Rogoff said roughly. "Where is it?"

"You're sitting on it."

"What?"

"The one place we didn't look. Under that ghastly couch."

I flopped down on my knees and dragged it out. I propped it up in the armchair and we stared at it. It seemed in good condition, a bit smeared but easily restored. The composition was classic, the colors vibrant, the pose almost lascivious. Perhaps wanton would be a better word: The model was more naked than nude. I looked for the tattoo of the blue butterfly and there it was.

"Sensational," Al breathed. "Better than that portrait of her at the Pristine Gallery. She was making it with Silas?"

"Whenever it pleased her," I said. "She's a free spirit. But she admits it costs. Naturally Silas was eager."

"That's why his daughter did him in?"

"Motive enough, wouldn't you say, Al? Marcia was a woman scorned. Daddy had brief affairs before, but Madam X was an obsession. I can understand that."

"Who?" he said, puzzled. "Madam X?"

"That's what I call her. So Marcia killed him, just as her letter said, and swiped the painting that infuriated her. But then she needed money and realized she had the perfect blackmail bait. If she showed the nude to Chauncey and Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth, the marriage would be canceled. Hector didn't have the cash she demanded so he had to put her down and grab the painting. I imagine Reuben Hagler helped him. It would be a two-man job to strangle Marcia and push her Jeep off the pier into the lake."

Rogoff took a deep breath. "All because of a beautiful broad," he said.

I was about to quote, "Beauty is power," when, as if on cue, we heard a car pull up outside. We moved to the open door to see Theodosia Johnson slide out of the white Lincoln. She paused a moment when she saw my Miata and the police car. She went over to peer in at the manacled Hector. Then she came marching into the house and confronted us. How I admired her! She was erect, shoulders back, eyes angry.

"What's going on here?" she demanded fiercely.

The sergeant showed his ID. "I'm afraid I'll have to take you in, miss," he said.

"Do you have a warrant?" she said stiffly.

"No, ma'am," Al said, "but I have probable cause coming out my ears. Do you wish to resist?"

She considered for the briefest of moments. "No," she said, "I'll come along."

Rogoff took her arm lightly, but she turned to me.

"Archy," she said, "I'm very fond of you."

"Thank you," I said faintly.

"And if you feel sorry for me I'll never forgive you."

I felt like weeping but a cliche saved me. "You're a survivor," I told her.

"Yes," she said, lifting her chin, "I am that."

She gave me a flippant wave and Sgt. Rogoff led her outside to join Hector. Eventually he returned. By that time I had finished my drink and his as well.

"What are you going to charge her with?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "Enough to convince her to make a deal. You had eyes for her, didn't you?"

"I did," I said, "and I do. I can't see where she did anything so awful. I think her father was the main offender."

Al didn't look at me. "Archy, Hector isn't her father. I heard from Michigan this afternoon. Her real name isn't Johnson; it's Burkhart or Martin or Combs or whatever she wants it to be. She was a cocktail waitress in Detroit. Model. Party girl. Arrested twice for prostitution. No convictions. She's been Hector's live-in girlfriend for the past three years."

"Oh," I said.

I arrived home shortly after midnight. Lights were still glowing in my father's study. That was uncommon; usually m'lord is abed by eleven o'clock. He met me at the back door.

"You're all right, Archy?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I'm fine."

"Good. Did things go as you hoped?"

"Mostly."

He nodded. "Let's have a nightcap."

We went into his study. I was hoping for a cognac, but he poured us glasses of wine. That was okay; any port in a storm. We got settled and he looked at me inquiringly.

I started with a brief description of the murder of Silas Hawkin.

"Marcia actually killed her father?" the patriarch said, aghast.

"Yes, sir. But she had been sexually abused from childhood. Now I think she was more than disturbed; she was psychotic. Understandable. Her father's affair with Theodosia Johnson was, in Marcia's raddled mind, his final act of cruelty and betrayal."

"What about the Johnsons? What was their role?"

"I think the three of them-Theodosia, Hector and Reuben Hagler-came down to Palm Beach from Michigan about a year ago with a definite plan. Their financial resources were limited but their main asset was Theo, her beauty and charm. The idea was to marry her off to a wealthy bachelor and take him for whatever they could grab."

"An intrigue as old as civilization."

"Yes, father, it is. The only difference was that these creatures were willing to murder to achieve their goal. I believe they thought of Shirley Feebling and Marcia Hawkin merely as impediments to their success. Shirley threatened to make Chauncey's love letters public unless he married her, and so she had to be eliminated. I suspect it was Reuben Hagler who shot her. And Marcia Hawkin threatened to show her father's nude portrait of Theo to Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth. That would have resulted in the marriage being called off or Chauncey being disinherited. And so Marcia also had to be eliminated. I have the feeling that Hector Johnson was guilty of that homicide."

"Despicable!" father said and rose to refill our glasses. When he was seated again I told him of the personal history of Theodosia Johnson.

The pater looked at me keenly. "You were attracted to this woman, Archy?"

"I was," I admitted. "Still am."

He sighed. "It never ceases to amaze me when talented people, intelligent people, imaginative people turn their energies to crime. One wonders what they might have achieved if they had devoted their talent, intelligence, and imagination to legal pursuits. The waste! When virtues are put in the service of vice it becomes not only a societal tragedy but a personal disaster."