So I welcomed the return to my itsy-bitsy office where the air-conditioning was going full blast and the ambient temperature approximated that of Queen Maud Land in Antarctica.
Since the affair of the Chinless Wonder vs. Ms. Shirley Feebling was on temporary hold, I was free to concentrate on the investigation into the background and financial probity of Theodosia Johnson and her father. I spent a half-hour phoning my contacts at local banks, following up on my initial inquiries.
I had hoped that what I would learn might solve the riddle of those anorexic dossiers I had received from national credit agencies. But what I heard only deepened the mystery. Apparently a year ago Hector Johnson had opened a checking account at a Royal Palm Way bank with a cashier's check drawn on a bank in Troy, Mich. The identification offered had been a Michigan driver's license. He had submitted the names of two Fort Lauderdale residents as references. He had made no additional deposits, and his current balance was slightly less than $50,000.
I thought about that for a while and realized that if the Johnsons were hardly nudging poverty they soon might be if their level of spending continued and no additional funds became available. Perhaps that was the reason for Hector's business meeting with the cold-faced gent who had accosted Shirley Feebling in the pizza joint.
Another puzzle was why, with limited resources, the Johnsons had commissioned Silas Hawkin to do a portrait of Theo. Si had told me he had not yet billed for the painting, but according to Lolly Spindrift the artist charged thirty grand and up for portraits. Quite a hefty bite, wouldn't you say, from a bank balance of less than fifty?
Sighing, I donned my jacket and my new lid and ventured out again into the sauna enveloping the Palm Beach area. Walking slowly and trying to keep in the shade, I made my way to the Pristine Gallery on Worth Avenue. The portrait of Theodosia Johnson was prominently displayed in the front window with a card chastely lettered: The Last Painting by Silas Hawkin. Rather a macabre touch, wouldn't you say?
The gallery appeared empty when I entered, but a bell jangled merrily as the door opened, and Ivan Duvalnik, the corpulent owner, appeared from an inner room. I had met him when I purchased a charming watercolor of begonias in bloom as a Christmas present for my mother. Momsy had been delighted with the gift, and the painting now hung over the mantel in our second-floor sitting room.
"Mr. McNally," he said, holding out a plump hand. "A pleasure to see you again, sir."
"It's good to see you, Mr. Duvalnik," I said, briefly pressing his damp flipper. "I'm dreadfully sorry about Si Hawkin."
"He was my shining star," Ivan said dramatically. "I shall not see his like again."
"I notice you're still showing the portrait of Theo Johnson."
His mouth twitched. "An irritation," he said. "The painting has not yet been paid for. As a matter of fact, Si asked me to hold off billing for it. So now the painting is part of his estate, and I suppose I shall have to represent his widow. It's a valuable work."
"That I can believe," I said. "I'm surprised the Johnsons haven't claimed it."
He was mildly astonished. "The Johnsons?" he said. "But it isn't their legal property. The portrait was commissioned by Chauncey Smythe-Hersforth. I thought everyone knew that. He certainly made no secret of it. He intended it to be his engagement gift to Theo."
"Of course," I said. "And speaking of gifts, I was hoping to ask Hawkin to do a small portrait of my mother as a birthday present for her. Although I doubt if I could have afforded him."
"He was pricey," Duvalnik admitted. "I wanted to charge a minimum of thirty thousand for the Johnson portrait but, as I say, I could never get a firm number from Si. I think perhaps he hated to see that painting go. It was his best work and he knew it. A few fine artists are like that; they do something special and they want to hang on to it. But I represent a number of other gifted portraitists if you're really interested in a present for your mother. First let me get you something to wet your whistle."
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.