"Yeah," he said, finishing his triple Chivas. "Sure I can."

"But then the hostility between Marcia and her stepmother became more venomous. After the death of her father Marcia had no money of her own; her only asset was the last painting by Silas Hawkin. So she decided to sell it. To you. Because she thought you were wealthy and would be willing to help her out. I tried to convince her that what she planned was illegal. She really didn't own the painting; after her father's death it became part of his estate and Louise was his beneficiary. But Marcia insisted on going ahead with it. How much did you pay, Heck?"

The direct question shook him. He gripped his empty glass with both hands and leaned forward tensely. "She told you the painting was a nude of her?"

"That's what she said."

Then he relaxed, sat back, nodded. "I paid her twenty thousand," he said. "A bargain."

"It certainly was," I agreed. "And now I'm going to offer you another bargain. I'll take that painting as a finder's fee instead of the hundred thousand dollars I asked. A nice profit for you, Heck."

He rolled his empty tumbler between his palms while he stared at me closely. "You're so generous," he said, not without irony. "Why?"

"Because I like Silas Hawkin's work. I already own some of his watercolors. And I want to own his last painting, especially since it's on wood, something he hadn't done since he was a student in Paris."

Johnson kept staring and I still wasn't certain he had bought my fairy tale. I added more.

"If you're afraid of getting involved in the police investigation of Marcia's murder, forget it. I figure you paid her and she went out to celebrate with some of those crazy dopers and bikers she knew. They partied, things got rough, and she ended up dead."

"Uh-huh," he said. "That's the way I figure it, too."

"Another consideration is this… What we're talking about is stolen property. Marcia started by stealing the painting from her father's studio. You committed an illegal act by purchasing stolen property. But you get out from under by turning it over to me. Then I have the hot potato. Do you think I'm going to hawk it, lend it to an exhibition, or even show it to anyone else? No way! That nude goes into my private collection and stays private for the rest of my life."

He was silent and I knew it was his moment of decision. Snowing him as I had was the only way to uncover the truth. And if what I suspected was correct, he would be forced to react.

He pondered a long time, not speaking, and I didn't know which way it would go. Finally he said, "Clue me in on this, Arch. What's my downside risk?"

That was Wall Street jargon and I remembered he had been a stockbroker cashiered for securities fraud.

"Your downside risk," I told him bluntly, "is that the cops question me and I repeat what Marcia told me of planning to sell you a painting. The stained drop cloth was found in her Cherokee when they hauled it out of the lake. That implicates you. Also I'd feel it my duty to inform Chauncey's mother that her darling son intends to sign a five-million-dollar prenuptial contract with your daughter, contrary to my advice. There goes Chauncey's inheritance.

"Your upside potential is that the cops never learn from me what Marcia said, and I advise Chauncey to sign the prenup immediately. And everyone lives happily ever after. If I get the painting."

He twisted his features into more grimace than smile. "I don't have much choice, do I?" he said.

"Not much," I agreed.

"I need a refill," he proclaimed hoarsely, hauling himself to his feet. "Be right back."

He went into the kitchen. I waited patiently, satisfied that I had given it my best shot. If it didn't work I'd be forced to consider enrolling in a Tibetan monastery.

It worked. Hector came slowly out of the kitchen, not with a drink but with a revolver. It looked like a.38 but I couldn't be sure. I don't know a great deal about firearms. Badminton rackets are more my speed.

I rose to my feet. "Judgment day," I said. "And it's only Monday. I suggested to Mr. Pettibone it might be tomorrow."

"What?" Johnson said, completely bewildered.

You may not believe this but the sight of him carrying a handgun was a source of exultant gratification more than fright. For I knew I had been right, and what is more pleasurable than saying, "I told you so," even if they're your last words.

He was holding the weapon down alongside his leg, not brandishing it, you know, but gripping it tightly. I took one small step toward the outside door.

"Is that the gun that killed Shirley Feebling?" I asked him.

Oh, but he was shaken! His face fell apart. Emotions flickered: disbelief, consternation, fear, anger, hatred.

"You're a real buttinsky, aren't you?" he said, his voice an ugly snarl.

"A professional buttinsky," I reminded him. "I get paid for it."

I took another small step toward the door. He followed as I hoped he would. He was my sole assailant but little did he know that I had two allies: Desperation and Adrenaline.

I took another step. He came much closer, raising the gun and pointing it at me. When I saw the muzzle I realized it wasn't a.38; it was the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel.

"Don't try to make a break for it," he warned harshly. "I'd just as soon drop you right here."

"And stain your beautiful shag rug?" I said.

I took a deep breath and made my play, a fast feint toward the door. It was a singularly adroit move if I say so myself, and I do. His gun swung to cover my anticipated departure. I whirled back and rushed, knocking the revolver aside and embracing him. We hugged, straining, tighter than lovers. He was heavy and he was powerful. It was like pressing a grizzly to one's bosom.

I feared this monster was capable of collapsing my ribs or snapping my spine, and so I craned and fastened my teeth, uppers and lowers, onto his nose. Of course I had no intention of amputating his beezer. That would have left me with a mouthful of nostrils, an unappetizing prospect. No, I merely hoped to cause him intense pain. And I succeeded admirably. His roars of anguish were sweeter to my ears than Debussy's Clair de Lune.

I increased the pressure, hearing the creaking of cartilage in his beak. His groans became gasping whimpers. I opened my mandibles, disengaged myself from his clutch, and stood back. He fell to his knees and I stooped and plucked the revolver from his nerveless grasp. He put both hands to his bleeding proboscis and continued to moan.

I looked down at him and was tempted to utter a dramatic proclamation, such as "Sic semper tyrannis." Instead, I just said, "Tough shit," and rapped him on the occiput with the butt of his gun. It seemed to have little effect so I slugged him again and this time he slid face down onto the carpet. Kaput.

I began my search, starting in the bedroom at the rear of the condo. Only one bedroom: that perplexed me but I continued to toss the entire apartment. Every few minutes I returned to see if the comatose Hector was stirring. If so, I'd give him another sharp tap on the noggin and he would lapse into deep slumber again.

I was beginning to ransack the living room when I heard a heavy pounding on the front door. I rushed to the window and saw a police car parked outside, roof lights flashing. I yanked open the door to find Sgt. Al Rogoff with a young officer behind him. Both men had hands on their open holsters.

"You okay?" Al asked anxiously.

"Dandy," I assured him. "How did you find me?"

"I was a few minutes late getting to your garage. I stayed in there for almost half an hour. When neither you nor Johnson showed up I knew something had gone wrong. His condo was the obvious place to start looking for you. Did everything go like you figured?"