"No, Theo," I said, "I don't think you're wanton. Just a free spirit."
"Free?" she said with a crooked grin. "Don't you believe it. It costs."
Did she mean it cost her or cost others? I didn't know and couldn't guess. This woman never ceased to surprise and amaze. I was no closer to kenning her essential nature than I was the first time we shook hands at the Pristine Gallery.
"Theo," I said, "something is obviously troubling you. Would you like to tell me about it? Perhaps I can help."
"No," she said immediately. "But thanks. I can handle it. I always have."
"You're very independent," I told her.
"Yes," she agreed, "and I think that's my problem. It just kills me to have to rely on other people. I know I have to do it, but I don't like it."
"You're referring to Chauncey?"
"Chauncey. His mother. My father. You."
"Me?" I said, astonished. "What on earth do you rely on me for?"
"A four-letter word beginning with F."
I pondered. "Fool? Fuss? Fill?"
She laughed. "You know what I mean. I wish we had time this afternoon. But there will be other afternoons. Right, Archy?"
She was more riddles than I could count but the largest made me groggy when I tried to solve it. Was she aware of my role in her affairs and enlisting my support by letting her blue butterfly soar? Or was she genuinely attracted to me and needed my enthusiastic cooperation as an antidote to the numbing company of CW and his forbidding mama?
The enigma I faced was hardly original or unique. It faces every man when a woman acquiesces. Is it from profit or desire? The Shadow knows.
We sat quietly in that deserted room for another half-hour. I had a second glass of wine, but Theo declined a third martini. I don't recall what we spoke of. I have a dazed memory of murmurs, small laughs, a few sad smiles. I had a feeling, totally irrational, that this afternoon in a waning light was a farewell. I can't explain it but I had the sense of a departure, a leave-taking.
I believe Theo had the same impression, for just before we rose to leave she reached across the table to pat my hand.
"Thank you, Archy," she said softly, "for all you've done for me."
I was grateful for her sentiment, of course, but it did nothing to unravel the mystery of Theodosia Johnson.
I signed the tab at the bar and we went out to our cars. I think there was much we both wanted to say and neither had the courage. But perhaps I was fantasizing. There's a lot of that going around these days. I wondered if we would kiss on parting but we didn't; we shook hands.
I drove back to the beach in a dullish mood. It seemed to me that our luncheon conversation had been inconclusive to the point of incoherence. I had to admit I simply didn't know Madam X. And so, when I arrived home, I reacted as I customarily do when confronted with a world-class brainteaser: I took a nap.
It was an uneventful evening at the McNally manse. Casual talk during the cocktail hour and dinner was mainly concerned with Lady Cynthia Horowitz's buffet on Tuesday night. Her engraved invitation had specified informal attire, and I declared that permitted Bermuda shorts and no socks. Naturally my father objected strenuously to such an interpretation. His idea of "informal attire" is appearing in public without a vest.
I returned to my cell after dinner to prepare for my ten o'clock brannigan with Hector Johnson. I was tempted to phone Sgt. Rogoff and remind him of his assignment as a confederate concealed in the McNally garage. But on further reflection I decided not to call. Al hates to be nudged. He said he'd be there and I knew he would.
I spent the remaining time rehearsing my lines, attempting to imagine Hector's responses, and devising my rebuttals. It all seemed so simple, so logical and neat, I saw no way he could escape the trap I was setting for him. I might as well have pledged allegiance to the Easter Bunny.
When my phone rang about nine-thirty I plucked it up, hoping it was Rogoff calling to confirm our arrangement. It was Hector Johnson.
"Arch?" he said. "Listen, I think we better change our schedule."
"But you-"
"I just don't feel comfortable driving around at night with this much cash in the car."
"We could-"
"Too many outlaws on the road these days," he charged ahead, ignoring my attempted interruptions. "The best thing is for you to come over to my place. Theo is having dinner at her guy's home so we'll be able to have a one-on-one and maybe a few belts to grease the wheels of commerce, if you know what I mean. So you just drop by at ten o'clock."
"Heck, I don't-"
"I'll be waiting for you," he said and hung up.
I sat stunned, my battle plan reduced to shredded wheat. I now had no doubt whatsoever that Hector had never intended to replay our first meeting. His last-minute change of setting was made to insure that he would not be caught in a snare, which was exactly what I had planned for him. No dummy, our Mr. Johnson.
It appeared to me that I had few options. I could phone him back immediately and postpone our get-together. But to what avail? We could set a different time, a different place, but Hector would surely make yet another revision at the last moment. I might curse his strategy but I had to admire it. Skilled one-upmanship.
Naturally I phoned Sgt. Rogoff. I tried his home first and received a curt reply from his answering machine. I left a message. Then I called police headquarters. He wasn't in his office and the duty officer informed me his present whereabouts were unknown. But if he called in, I was assured, he would be told to contact yrs. truly at once.
Snookered.
Deep, deep thoughts. Pros. Cons. The odds. The risks. Did I dare? Reuben Hagler was in the Fort Lauderdale clink so Johnson would be my sole antagonist. Could I take him? Could he take me?
I suspect you may think me an epicene lad with an overweening interest in wine, women, and song. (Not too heavy on the song, and I could live without wine.) It is true I am something of a coxcomb but I am not completely incapable of self-defense or violent physical action should it become necessary. I have played lacrosse at New Haven and rugby in South Florida. What I'm trying to convey is that my muscles are not spaghettini even though my brain may be Silly Putty.
And so I sallied forth to dance a pas de deux with Hector Johnson, papa of the unknowable Madam X.
The first thing I did after exiting was to search our three-car garage, hoping to find Al Rogoff lurking in the shadows. He was not. And during the early moments of my drive I tried to spot Al's parked squad car or pickup. No luck. I was on my own.
The Johnsons' condo was brightly lighted and Hector opened the door before I knocked. He was grinning, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me inside with a great show of boisterous good-fellowship.
"Glad you could make it, Arch!" he shouted. "Sorry about the change of plans, but I figure it's better this way. Am I right?"
"Sure, Heck," I said.
He practically pushed me onto that cretonne couch of recent fond memory.
"Hey," he said, looming over me, "I'm having a Chivas. How about you?"
"No, thanks," I said. "I've been drinking wine and it's instant blotto to mix the grape and the grain. But you go ahead."
"I was just pouring a refill when you pulled up," he said. "Be right back."
He went into the kitchen. I didn't think he was sozzled, but he wasn't stone sober either. I wanted him to keep drinking, figuring it might impair his coordination if things turned nasty. He returned with a full glass and no ice cubes that I could see.
"Your daughter is having dinner with her fiance?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, plopping down in an armchair facing me. "She drove the Lincoln. That guy of hers is a real stiff, isn't he? What Theo sees in him I'll never know."