"What's going on here?" she demanded fiercely.
The sergeant showed his ID. "I'm afraid I'll have to take you in, miss," he said.
"Do you have a warrant?" she said stiffly.
"No, ma'am," Al said, "but I have probable cause coming out my ears. Do you wish to resist?"
She considered for the briefest of moments. "No," she said, "I'll come along."
Rogoff took her arm lightly, but she turned to me.
"Archy," she said, "I'm very fond of you."
"Thank you," I said faintly.
"And if you feel sorry for me I'll never forgive you."
I felt like weeping but a cliche saved me. "You're a survivor," I told her.
"Yes," she said, lifting her chin, "I am that."
She gave me a flippant wave and Sgt. Rogoff led her outside to join Hector. Eventually he returned. By that time I had finished my drink and his as well.
"What are you going to charge her with?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "Enough to convince her to make a deal. You had eyes for her, didn't you?"
"I did," I said, "and I do. I can't see where she did anything so awful. I think her father was the main offender."
Al didn't look at me. "Archy, Hector isn't her father. I heard from Michigan this afternoon. Her real name isn't Johnson; it's Burkhart or Martin or Combs or whatever she wants it to be. She was a cocktail waitress in Detroit. Model. Party girl. Arrested twice for prostitution. No convictions. She's been Hector's live-in girlfriend for the past three years."
"Oh," I said.
18
I arrived home shortly after midnight. Lights were still glowing in my father's study. That was uncommon; usually m'lord is abed by eleven o'clock. He met me at the back door.
"You're all right, Archy?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, I'm fine."
"Good. Did things go as you hoped?"
"Mostly."
He nodded. "Let's have a nightcap."
We went into his study. I was hoping for a cognac, but he poured us glasses of wine. That was okay; any port in a storm. We got settled and he looked at me inquiringly.
I started with a brief description of the murder of Silas Hawkin.
"Marcia actually killed her father?" the patriarch said, aghast.
"Yes, sir. But she had been sexually abused from childhood. Now I think she was more than disturbed; she was psychotic. Understandable. Her father's affair with Theodosia Johnson was, in Marcia's raddled mind, his final act of cruelty and betrayal."
"What about the Johnsons? What was their role?"
"I think the three of them-Theodosia, Hector and Reuben Hagler-came down to Palm Beach from Michigan about a year ago with a definite plan. Their financial resources were limited but their main asset was Theo, her beauty and charm. The idea was to marry her off to a wealthy bachelor and take him for whatever they could grab."
"An intrigue as old as civilization."
"Yes, father, it is. The only difference was that these creatures were willing to murder to achieve their goal. I believe they thought of Shirley Feebling and Marcia Hawkin merely as impediments to their success. Shirley threatened to make Chauncey's love letters public unless he married her, and so she had to be eliminated. I suspect it was Reuben Hagler who shot her. And Marcia Hawkin threatened to show her father's nude portrait of Theo to Mrs. Smythe-Hersforth. That would have resulted in the marriage being called off or Chauncey being disinherited. And so Marcia also had to be eliminated. I have the feeling that Hector Johnson was guilty of that homicide."
"Despicable!" father said and rose to refill our glasses. When he was seated again I told him of the personal history of Theodosia Johnson.
The pater looked at me keenly. "You were attracted to this woman, Archy?"
"I was," I admitted. "Still am."
He sighed. "It never ceases to amaze me when talented people, intelligent people, imaginative people turn their energies to crime. One wonders what they might have achieved if they had devoted their talent, intelligence, and imagination to legal pursuits. The waste! When virtues are put in the service of vice it becomes not only a societal tragedy but a personal disaster."
I nodded gloomily. I was really in no mood for his philosophizing. We sat in silence for several minutes, sipping our port, and I could see he had gone into his mulling status. I wondered what was stirring in the dim recesses of his mazy mind. Finally he spoke.
"I think you have done an excellent job, Archy, and you are to be commended."
"Thank you."
"Not only have you cleared up a disagreeable mess but I believe it quite likely you have prevented one and possibly two homicides."
I stared at him in astonishment. "Prevented? Homicides? How so?"
"Hasn't it occurred to you that if Chauncey had signed the prenuptial agreement and married the young woman he might have suffered an early demise, perhaps in an accident craftily planned by this gang of miscreants. Or, in lieu of that, they might have plotted to arrange the death of Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth first. Chauncey would inherit, and then he would be exterminated."
I sucked in my breath. "Leaving Theodosia Johnson with the Smythe-Hersforth millions."
"Exactly."
"Do you really believe they planned that scenario, father?"
"I do," he said decisively. "From what you have told me, I am convinced these people are sociopaths. They are totally devoid of any moral sense. Nothing is good-except money-and nothing is bad. Things just are. And if you believe that, you can commit any heinous act carelessly without a twinge of guilt or remorse."
I finished my wine and rose. "I think I better go up," I said. "It's been a long, tiring night."
"Of course," he said, looking at me sympathetically. "Get a good sleep."
But it was not a good sleep; it was fitful and troubled, thronged with visions I could not identify except that I knew they were dark and menacing. My bed became a battleground on which I fought demons and constantly looked about for hidden assassins.
It was no wonder that when I finally slept I did not awake until almost noon on Tuesday morning. I staggered to the window and saw the sky had cleared, the sun shone and, I presumed, somewhere birds were chirping.
I took a hot shower, shaved, and dressed with special care. Not because I had important social engagements that afternoon but I needed the lift that nifty duds always give me. I went downstairs to a deserted kitchen, inspected the larder, and settled on a brunch of a garlic salami and cheddar sandwich (on pump) and a frosty bottle of Heineken. The old double helix began twisting in the wind.
I went first to my father's study, sat at his desk, used his phone, and called Sgt. Rogoff.
"What's happening?" I asked him.
He laughed. "It's finger-pointing time," he said. "Hagler, Johnson, and the bimbo are-"
"She's not a bimbo," I protested.
"Whatever," he said. "Anyway, the three of them are all trying to cut deals. Johnson says Hagler shot Shirley Feebling. Hagler says Johnson strangled Marcia Hawkin. These are real stand-up guys. Not!"
"What do you think they'll draw?"
"You want my guess? I don't think they'll get the chair. The evidence isn't all that conclusive. But they'll plea-bargain down to hard time."
"And Theodosia?"
"She'll walk," he admitted. "She's being very cooperative. And she agrees that she'll get out of Florida and never come back. Good riddance."
"Yes," I said.
I wanted to tell him that I thought Madam X was a self-willed, undisciplined woman who just didn't give a damn. But she was smart, sensitive, and fully aware of her excesses and how they doomed her. I didn't say it, of course; Rogoff would have hooted with laughter.
"Al," I said, "thank you for your help and keep me up to speed on this magillah. Okay?"