He brought me a glass of white wine. No Chilean chardonnay this time. It was dreadful plonk, but I smacked my lips gamely and told him how splendid it was. He showed me Polaroids and color slides of the works of several other artists, none of whom had Hawkin's talent. Prices ranged from twenty-five hundred to ten thousand.

"Let me think about it," I said. "If it's to be a surprise birthday gift I can hardly ask mother to sit for a portrait. I presume some of these people can do a painting from photographs."

"Naturally," he said. "No problem at all. Si Hawkin refused to work that way; he insisted on several sittings. He was a real pro."

"Was he working on anything new at the time of his death?" I asked casually.

"Not to my knowledge," the gallery owner said sadly. "Like the card in the window says, that portrait of Theo Johnson was Hawkin's final work."

"What a shame," I said. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Duvalnik. You'll be hearing from me."

And I tramped back to the McNally Building through parboiled streets, having picked up a few more tidbits of information that might prove valuable or might turn out to be the drossiest of dross. My investigations usually depend on the amassing of minor facts rather than major leaps of inspiration. When it comes to tortoise versus hare, I'm no cottontail.

It took a few minutes in my gloriously chilled office for my temperature, pulse, and respiratory rate to regain some semblance of normality. Then I phoned Lolly Spindrift at his newspaper, hoping to add a few truffles to my collection of bonbons.

"Hi, darling," Spindrift said in his high-pitched lilt. "Have you called to invite me to another lunch of champagne and caviar?"

"You mock," I said. "I haven't yet recovered from the last one."

"Wasn't that a kick?" he said. "We were talking about Silas Hawkin, and the next day the man is defunct. Let that be a lesson to you. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, laddie."

"I fully intend to," I said. "Lol, I need some information."

"So do I," he replied. "Every day, constantly. My lifestyle depends on it. You've heard of quid pro quo, haven't you, darling? English translation: You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours. Not literally, of course, since we're of different religions. But if you've got nothing for me, I've got nothing for you."

"I have a little nosh that may interest you," I said. "You will, of course, refuse to reveal your source?"

"Don't I always?" he demanded. "Jail before dishonor. What have you got?"

"Si Hawkin had sex just before he was killed."

I heard Lol's swift intake of breath.

"Beautiful," he said. "That I can use. Can I depend on it?"

"Would I deceive you?" I asked. "With your authenticated file on the peccadilloes of Archy McNally?"

"Okay," he said, "I'll run with it. Now what do you want?"

"Have you heard any rumors that Silas Hawkin may have had, ah, intimate relations with any of the women whose portraits he painted?"

His laughter exploded. "Any of the women?" he said, gasping. "You mean all of the women! Darling, the man was a stallion, a veritable stallion."

"Odd you should say that. I recently heard him described as a goat."

"More of a ram," Spindrift said. "Absotively, posilutely insatiable."

"Thank you, Lol," I said. "Keep fighting for the public's right to know."

"And up yours as well, dearie," he said before he hung up.

And that, I decided, was enough detecting for one morning. I reclaimed my horseless carriage in our underground garage and drove directly to the Pelican Club to replenish my energy. I might even have something to eat.

And so I did. I sat at the bar, ordered a Coors Light from Mr. Pettibone, and asked daughter Priscilla to bring me a double cheeseburger with home fries and a side order of coleslaw. She spread this harvest before me and shook her head wonderingly.

"On a diet, Archy?" she inquired.

"None of your sass," I said. "I have been engaged in debilitating physical labor and require nourishment."

She shrugged. "They're your arteries," she said.

As I made my way through all that yummy cholesterol I pondered the murder of Silas Hawkin and wondered if one of his clients with whom he had been cozy had slid that palette knife into his gullet. I could imagine several motives: jealousy, revenge, fury at being jilted for another woman.

If it was my case, and it wasn't, I would concentrate on the missing painting. Find "Untitled," I thought, and you'd probably find the killer. I had enough faith in Sgt. Al Rogoff's expertise to reckon he was on the same track.

But why would the murderer risk making off with the painting? It couldn't be sold, at least not locally, and if it was unfinished, as it apparently was, it would be of little value anywhere. The only logical conclusion was that the importance of "Untitled" lay in its subject matter. The killer didn't want it to be seen by anyone.

But if that was true, why wasn't the painting destroyed on the spot? After slaying the artist it would have taken the assassin only a few minutes to slash "Untitled" to ribbons, or even douse it with one of the inflammables in the studio and set it afire. But instead, "Untitled" was carried away.

Which led me to reflect on the size of the painting. The portrait of Theo Johnson, I estimated, was approximately 3? ft. tall by 2? wide. If "Untitled" had the same dimensions it was hardly something one could tuck under one's arm and then saunter away, particularly if the painting was still wet. A puzzlement.

I knew that art supply stores carried blank canvases already framed. But I also knew that most fine artists preferred to stretch their own canvas, buying the quality desired in bolts and cutting off the piece required for a planned endeavor. It would then be tacked to a wooden frame.

Still, it might be worthwhile to check the store where Silas bought his supplies. It was just barely possible he had recently purchased a stretched canvas that was to become "Untitled." And so, after I had consumed that cornucopia of calories in toto, I inserted myself behind the wheel of the Miata with some difficulty and set out for the Hawkin residence.

As I said, it was not my case, but it was of interest to me because of the peripheral involvement of Theo and Hector Johnson.

Also, I had nothing better to do on that sultry afternoon.

It had been my intention to ask the housekeeper for the information I sought, but when I rang the chimes at the main house the door was opened by Mrs. Louise Hawkin.

"Oh," I said, somewhat startled. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawkin. May I speak to Mrs. Folsby for a moment?"

"She is no longer with us," she said in a tone that didn't invite further inquiries.

But I persisted. "Sorry to hear it," I said. "Could you tell me where I might be able to contact her?"

"No," she said shortly. Then: "What did you want to talk to her about?"

"I just wanted to ask if your late husband used prepared canvases or if he stretched his own."

She stared at me. "Why on earth would you want to know that?"

I have a small talent for improv. "A young friend of mine is a wannabe artist," I told her. "He is a great admirer of Mr. Hawkin's technique and requested I ask."

She bought it. "My husband stretched his own canvas," she said. "A very good grade of linen. Good day, Mr. McNally."

And she shut the door. What I should have said was, "No more interest in a divorce lawyer, Mrs. Hawkin?" But I knew the answer to that.

I glanced toward the studio building. It seemed to be unguarded, and the crime scene tape drooped in the heat. I wandered over and tried the scarred oak and etched glass door, but it was locked. I turned away, then heard a "Psst!" that whirled me back. Marcia Hawkin was standing in the opened doorway, beckoning to me.