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that his jacket had a shawl collar. I judged him to be about forty, and his fresh complexion suggested he was no stranger to facials. His thick black hair was as glossy as his wife’s but artfully coiffed into waves. I wondered who his barber was, knowing it couldn’t be Herman Pincus.
    “I’ll leave you now,” Sunny Fogarty said. “Don’t forget to stop at my place on your way home.”
    Then she was gone and I made my way over to the bar. I finished my wine and asked for a cognac. Oliver and the hefty man were close together, speaking quietly; I couldn’t catch a word.
    “By the way,” I said loudly to the barkeep, “I’m looking for Oliver Whitcomb. Have you seen him this evening?”
    It was a crude ploy but it worked. Oliver turned to me and flashed absolutely white teeth, so perfect they looked like scrubbed bathroom tiles. The smile was more than cordial. Mr. Charm himself.
    “I’m Oliver Whitcomb,” he said.
    “I’ve been hoping to meet you,” I enthused. “I’m Archy McNally, the son part of McNally and Son, your attorneys.”
    His handclasp was firm enough but brief.
    “Hey,” he said, “this is great! You people have been doing a great job.”
    “We try,” I said modestly. “I just wanted to thank you for a magnificent bash.”
    “Having fun, are you?”
    “Loads,” I assured him. “And it’s only the shank of the evening.”
    He looked at me with a gaze I can only describe as speculative. “Listen,” he said, “why don’t you and I do lunch. I have a feeling we have a lot in common.”
    “Sounds good to me.”
    “Great!” he said, apparently his favorite adjective. “I’ll give you a buzz.”
    “Fine,” I said with what I hoped was a conspiratorial smile. I doubted if he’d ever call, but nothing ventured, nothing gained: an original phrase I just created. I wandered away, gripping my brandy snifter. He hadn’t introduced me to his pudgy companion. But there could be an innocent reason for that—or no reason at all.
    I had noticed several small, chastely lettered signs posted about: “If you wish to smoke, please step outside to the terrace or dock.” And so, in dreadful need to inhale burning tobacco, I looked about for an exit to the terrace. I finally had to stop a passing servitor lugging a bucket of ice, and he pointed the way.
    But before I had a chance to befoul the Great Outdoors I came upon a tottering Binky Watrous. His pale eyes were dazed and his checkered bow tie hung askew.
    “Binky,” I asked anxiously, “are you conscious?”
    He gave me a sappy grin. “I’m in love,” he said.
    I looked at him. What a booby he was! “With Mitzi Whitcomb, no doubt,” I said.
    He was astonished. “How did you know?”
    “A wild guess.”
    “She gave me her phone number,” he said proudly. “She wants to see me again. Archy, I think she’s got the hots for my damp white body.”
    I was about to warn him off, but then I reflected if he was able to form an intimate relationship with the nubile Mitzi he might possibly discover details of the younger Whitcombs’ activities that would further our investigation.
    “I congratulate you on your good fortune, Binky,” I said solemnly. “Keep your ears open. Pillow talk and all that.”
    I don’t believe he grasped what I implied, for he merely shouted, “Party on!” and staggered away in search of the nearest bar.
    I found the wide, flagstoned terrace facing Lake Worth, but it was crowded with gabbling guests as intent as I on corroding their lungs. I lighted up and went down a side staircase of old railroad ties to the deepwater dock. I was alone there and could enjoy a brief respite from the brittle chatter.
    I would have guessed Mr. Horace Whitcomb owned a fine, woodbodied sloop or something similar. But moored to the dock was an incredible boat: a perfectly restored 1930 Chris-Craft mahogany runabout. It was a 24-footer, a treasured relic of the days when men in white flannels drank Sazeracs and women in