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private inquiry I am making: a credit check on a person Mr. Hawkin knew.”
    She considered a long time. “Very well,” she said finally, “you ask your questions and then I’ll decide whether or not to answer them.”
    “Excellent,” I said. “Sergeant Rogoff, a friend of mine, told me you went to the studio after you phoned your employer and received no reply. Is that correct?”
    She nodded. “The wife and daughter were out, and he hadn’t come over for dinner. So I called to ask if he wanted me to bring him a plate. I did that sometimes when he was working late. He didn’t answer, but I could see the studio lights were on, and I got concerned.”
    “Of course.”
    “So I went over to see if everything was all right. To tell you the truth, I thought maybe he had fallen asleep. Or passed out.”
    “Passed out? He was a heavy drinker?”
    “He did his share,” she said wryly. “Rum, mostly.”
    “Uh-huh. Tell me this if you will, Mrs. Folsby, when you entered the studio, did you see anything that might lead you to believe that he had been working? For instance, was there an unfinished painting on one of his easels?”
    She thought a moment. “No,” she said, “there was nothing on the big easel. That was the one he liked to use for his portraits. And nothing on the two smaller ones either.”
    I was disappointed. “So you saw absolutely no evidence that he had been working in the hours prior to his death?”
    She closed her eyes briefly as if trying to recall details of that frightful scene. “Now that you mention it,” she said hesitantly, “there was something odd. On the taboret next to the big easel was Mr. Hawkin’s palette and the paints on it were still wet. I could see them glistening under the lights. Also, there was a long-handled brush alongside the palette, and that had wet paint, a kind of creamy crimson, on the bristles. That wasn’t like him at all because he was very finicky about cleaning his brushes and palette when he wasn’t working.”
    “But you saw no evidence of what he might have been working on?”
    She shook her head.
    “Curious,” I said, “but I suppose there’s a very obvious explanation for it.” (I didn’t suppose anything of the sort, of course.) “Another question, Mrs. Folsby: When Mr. Hawkin was doing a portrait, did he ever allow anyone else in the studio other than the sitter?”
    “Never,” she said definitely. “He was very strict about that. He said the presence of an observer would distract the model and destroy his rapport with whomever he was painting.”
    “I expect most portrait artists feel that way. A final question, please. You know how people in Palm Beach love to gossip. I’ve heard rumors there was serious discord in the Hawkin family, an atmosphere of hostility in this house. Would you care to comment on that?”
    “No,” she said stonily.
    I persisted. “You mean no discord or no, you don’t wish to comment?”
    “I don’t wish to comment.”
    I admired her. There was loyalty up. I hoped there would be loyalty down.
    “Perfectly understandable,” I said, nodding, “and I wish to thank you for your patience and cooperation. You have been very helpful.”
    “I have?” she said, mildly surprised.
    I bid her good-bye and left the house. Marcia Hawkin was coming up the walk carrying one of those miniature Tiffany’s shopping bags. She saw me and stopped suddenly.
    “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
    “I stopped by for just a moment to express my sympathy to Mrs. Folsby on the death of your father.”
    She made a sound. I believe she intended it to be a sardonic laugh, but I thought it more a honk.
    “My father was a goat,” she said. “A goat !”
    Then she strode into the house and slammed the door. The Villa Bile indeed.
    I drove directly home, looking forward to an ocean swim that would slosh away, even temporarily, all the clotted human emotions I had dealt with that day. But it was not to be. I was just