"Not for me," I said. "What is it?"

"Well…" he started, and I got another dose of "Uh's" and "Um's." "You see, Archy, before I met Theo, I had a, ah, fling with another young woman."

"Hardly a mortal sin, CW."

"Well, after I met Theo, I realized she was the genuine article. I fell completely in love and decided I wanted to marry her. So I broke off with the previous young woman- or attempted to."

"Oh-ho," I said, "I'm beginning to get the picture. The previous lady has raised objections?"

"Loud and clear," he said miserably. "She claims I had promised to marry her, and she threatens to sue me."

I laughed. "Breach of Promise? Forget it, CW. That's as common as Contempt of Congress. Everyone's guilty. The lady has no case."

"Well, uh," he continued, "she may not have a legal case, but there's more to it than that. I wrote her letters."

I looked at him. "You actually wrote letters to her? Promising marriage?"

"Yes."

"Told her how much you adored her, did you?"

"Yes."

"That you would be faithful for a lifetime?"

"Yes."

"That you desire no girl in the world but her?"

"Yes."

"CW, you're a fool."

"Yes," he said. "And now she's threatening to sell my letters to a tabloid. They're, um, somewhat passionate."

It was difficult to believe this lump could compose passionate prose, but I let it go. "How much does she want?" I asked.

"She doesn't mention money," he said. "She keeps saying that all she wants is to marry me."

"Who is she? What's her name? What does she do for a living besides collect letters from brainless bachelors?"

He swallowed the insult. "Her name is Shirley Feebling, and she works in a topless car wash down near Lauderdale. That's how I met her."

I wasn't surprised. Florida is the home of the topless car wash, topless restaurants, topless maid service, topless coffee shops. It is only a matter of time before we have topless funeral homes.

"And what is it you wish me to do?" I asked.

"Talk to her," he begged. "Persuade her to turn over the letters and keep quiet. If she wants money, I'll pay. Within reason, of course. Archy, if she carries out her threat, she could ruin me. Mother would disown me, Theo would give me the broom. You've got to do something!"

I didn't know why I should, but then the thought occurred to me that someday I might be in a similar fix myself. And after all, he was a client-or at least the son of a wealthy client.

"All right," I said finally, "I'll see what I can do. Give me her name, address, and telephone number."

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a ballpoint pen. Typical Chinless Wonder: He drove a Mercedes and carried a Bic. He tore a page from a pocket notebook and jotted down all the vital info.

I tucked it away, started to get out of the car, then paused.

"By the way, CW," I said, "I imagine you've met Hector Johnson many times. What is your impression of him?"

"A great fellow!" he said enthusiastically. "Never knew a man who understands as much about banking as old Heck. He used to own a bank somewhere out West, you know."

"Uh-huh," I said, and started to leave again. This time he stopped me.

"Listen, Archy," he said, the whine rising in pitch, "I hope you won't mention anything about my problem to your father. I mean it's just between us, isn't it? Confidential and all that?"

"Of course," I said. "My lips are sealed."

"Good man," he said.

So that evening, after my ocean swim, the family cocktail hour and dinner, I followed the sire to his study.

"Father," I said, "may I have a word with you?"

"Can't it wait?" he said testily.

I knew what irked him; I was delaying his nighttime routine. He was looking forward to having one or more glasses of port while he continued slogging his way through the entire oeuvre of Charles Dickens. I think he was currently deep in the complexities of Martin Chuzzlewit but it might have been Little Dorrit. The amazing thing was that he stayed awake while reading.

"It'll just take a few minutes," I promised.

"Oh, very well," he said. "Come on in."

He stood erect behind his massive desk and I stood in front. As I delivered a report on my recent conversation with Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth, his face twisted with distaste.

"A tawdry business," he pronounced when I had finished.

"Yes, sir," I said, "but troubling. Was I correct in telling him that the woman had no legal grounds for a suit against him for Breach of Promise?"

"You were quite right," he said. "Breach of Promise actions were abolished by the Florida legislature in 1945. In fact, lawmakers had such an abhorrence of the practice that they decreed that anyone initiating such a suit would be guilty of a misdemeanor in the second degree. Shortly after the statute was passed, a law review published an article on the subject entitled 'No More Torts for Tarts.' "

"Not bad," I said. "But now the question is how to handle CW's problem. I imagine the complainant will accept a cash settlement."

"A reasonable assumption," father said dryly. "But that doesn't necessarily mean the end of the affair. I can draw up a release she will be required to sign before she hands over the letters and gets paid. But a release never completely eliminates the possibility of her making another claim at some future date, especially if she's shrewd enough to keep photocopies of the letters. It could go on and on. It's really blackmail, Archy, and blackmailers rarely give up after one payoff."

"I concur," I said. "I think I better meet the young woman, get a take on her, and perhaps a rough idea of how much she expects for the letters. After that, we can decide how to deal with it."

My father was silent, mulling over my suggestion. He was a champion muller; I have seen him spend three minutes deciding whether to furl his golf umbrella clockwise or counterclockwise.

"Yes," he said finally, "I think that would be best. Interview the lady, appear to be sympathetic and understanding, and find out exactly what she wants. Then report to me, and we'll take it from there."

"Yes, sir," I said, resisting an urge to salute.

I trudged upstairs to my nest, put on the reading specs, and set to work recording the details of that eventful day. I paused while I was scribbling a precis of the Chinless Wonder's remarks about Hector Johnson: "Knows banking. Owned a Western bank." Let's see, I recapped, that made Theodosia's father an expert on orchids, electronics and/or computer stuff, government service (possibly espionage), and banking. Why, the man was a veritable polymath, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if my next interviewee claimed that Hector was a master bialy maker.

I finished my labors, closed my journal, and was preparing to relax by sipping a dram of marc and listening to a Patricia Kaas cassette when my blasted phone blasted. I glanced at my Mickey Mouse watch (an original, not a reproduction) and saw it was almost ten-thirty.

"Archy McNally," I said, expecting the worst. It was close.

"Ah-ha!" Sgt. Al Rogoff, PBPD, said in his heavy rumble. "I have tracked the sherlock of Palm Beach to his elegant lair. How you doing, old buddy?"

"Up to my nates in drudgery," I said. "And you?"

"Likewise," he said. "But enough of this idle chitchat. You know the painter Silas Hawkin?"

I hesitated for just the briefest. "Yes, I know him," I said. "Matter of fact, I visited him at his studio this morning."

"Interesting," Al said. "I think you better wheel your baby carriage back to his studio. Right now."

"Why on earth should I do that?"

"Because the maid just found Silas with a knife stuck in his neck."

I swallowed. "Dead?"

"Couldn't be deader," Rogoff said cheerfully.