"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?"
"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.