especially when I had two or more cases running concurrently. I jotted down facts, impressions, bits of actual dialogue, and whatever else I thought might be of value. Most of my scribblings turned out to be of no value whatsoever. But one never knows, do one?
That night I hurriedly made brief notes on my interview with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth, the chat with Simon Pettibone, the information learned at that bibulous luncheon with Lolly Spindrift, and what mother had mentioned about Hector, Theodosia Johnson’s father. Finished, I read over what I had written and found absolutely zilch in the way of inspiration. So I closed up shop, clattered downstairs, and went to meet my fate.
It was a still, cloudless night but hot and humid as a sauna. As I drove back to Worth Avenue I hoped the owner of the Pristine Gallery, Ivan Duvalnik, would have the decency to serve something refreshing. He did: a Chilean chardonnay so cold it made my fillings ache.
It turned out to be a hugger-mugger evening, the gallery overcrowded, chatter too loud, paintings almost hidden by the billows of chiffon gown (f.) and the sheen of silk sport jackets (m.). I knew most of the guests and mingled determinedly, working my way toward the piece de resistance: the portrait of Theodosia Johnson.
When I finally stood before it, I was simultaneously rapt and unwrapped. I mean I was totally engrossed and at the same time felt a sag of the knees and a horrible need to let my jaw droop and just gawk. Spindrift had not exaggerated; the lady was a corker. What beauty! But not of the plastic variety one sees so often in fashion ads and centerfolds. Again, Lolly had it right: she was half-Garbo, half-Dietrich, with all the mystery and promise in those two mesmerizing faces.
I am not an expert on paintings, figuring one man’s “September Morn” is another man’s “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.” But I defy any hot-blooded yute to look at that portrait of Madam X without saying to himself, “I must meet her.”
I was filling my eyes when a voice at my elbow interrupted my fantasies by stating, “Awfully good, am I right, Archy? Si has caught her expression perfectly, and the colors are striking. Don’t you agree?”
I turned, and there was the Chinless Wonder himself, Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth, wearing a midnight blue dinner jacket and looking like the groom on a wedding cake. His pushbroom mustache was meticulously trimmed and he was exuding a fruity cologne. That was a surprise. CW was known as a nebbishy sort of chap. Palm Beach gossips (the total population) claimed he wore a helmet while pedaling his Exercycle.
“You couldn’t be righter, CW,” I said. “Or more right—whichever comes first. Hawkin has done a marvelous job, and the lady is beautiful.”
“My fiancée,” he said with a fatuous grin. “Or soon to be.”
“Congratulations!” I said, smiling, and recalling that “one may smile and smile, and be a villain.”
“Well, it’s not exactly official yet,” he said in that pontifical way he had of speaking. “But it soon will be, I assure you.”
“I’d like to meet the lucky lady,” I said, perking his ego. “Is she here this evening?”
“Somewhere,” he said vaguely, looking-about the mobbed gallery. “Just find the biggest crowd, and she’s sure to be the center.”
Then he drifted away, obviously having no desire to introduce me personally. Quite understandable.
I glanced around and saw in one corner a jammed circle of men surrounding someone I presumed to be the star of the evening. Rather than join the adoring throng, I eased my way to the bar to replenish my supply of that excellent chardonnay. And there I bumped into Silas Hawkin, the famous portraitist and plastic surgeon himself.
“Hi, Si,” I said, thinking how silly that sounded.
He stared. “Do I know you?” he demanded.
We had met several times; he knew very well who I was. But feigning ignorance was his particular brand of
That night I hurriedly made brief notes on my interview with Mrs. Gertrude Smythe-Hersforth, the chat with Simon Pettibone, the information learned at that bibulous luncheon with Lolly Spindrift, and what mother had mentioned about Hector, Theodosia Johnson’s father. Finished, I read over what I had written and found absolutely zilch in the way of inspiration. So I closed up shop, clattered downstairs, and went to meet my fate.
It was a still, cloudless night but hot and humid as a sauna. As I drove back to Worth Avenue I hoped the owner of the Pristine Gallery, Ivan Duvalnik, would have the decency to serve something refreshing. He did: a Chilean chardonnay so cold it made my fillings ache.
It turned out to be a hugger-mugger evening, the gallery overcrowded, chatter too loud, paintings almost hidden by the billows of chiffon gown (f.) and the sheen of silk sport jackets (m.). I knew most of the guests and mingled determinedly, working my way toward the piece de resistance: the portrait of Theodosia Johnson.
When I finally stood before it, I was simultaneously rapt and unwrapped. I mean I was totally engrossed and at the same time felt a sag of the knees and a horrible need to let my jaw droop and just gawk. Spindrift had not exaggerated; the lady was a corker. What beauty! But not of the plastic variety one sees so often in fashion ads and centerfolds. Again, Lolly had it right: she was half-Garbo, half-Dietrich, with all the mystery and promise in those two mesmerizing faces.
I am not an expert on paintings, figuring one man’s “September Morn” is another man’s “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.” But I defy any hot-blooded yute to look at that portrait of Madam X without saying to himself, “I must meet her.”
I was filling my eyes when a voice at my elbow interrupted my fantasies by stating, “Awfully good, am I right, Archy? Si has caught her expression perfectly, and the colors are striking. Don’t you agree?”
I turned, and there was the Chinless Wonder himself, Chauncey Wilson Smythe-Hersforth, wearing a midnight blue dinner jacket and looking like the groom on a wedding cake. His pushbroom mustache was meticulously trimmed and he was exuding a fruity cologne. That was a surprise. CW was known as a nebbishy sort of chap. Palm Beach gossips (the total population) claimed he wore a helmet while pedaling his Exercycle.
“You couldn’t be righter, CW,” I said. “Or more right—whichever comes first. Hawkin has done a marvelous job, and the lady is beautiful.”
“My fiancée,” he said with a fatuous grin. “Or soon to be.”
“Congratulations!” I said, smiling, and recalling that “one may smile and smile, and be a villain.”
“Well, it’s not exactly official yet,” he said in that pontifical way he had of speaking. “But it soon will be, I assure you.”
“I’d like to meet the lucky lady,” I said, perking his ego. “Is she here this evening?”
“Somewhere,” he said vaguely, looking-about the mobbed gallery. “Just find the biggest crowd, and she’s sure to be the center.”
Then he drifted away, obviously having no desire to introduce me personally. Quite understandable.
I glanced around and saw in one corner a jammed circle of men surrounding someone I presumed to be the star of the evening. Rather than join the adoring throng, I eased my way to the bar to replenish my supply of that excellent chardonnay. And there I bumped into Silas Hawkin, the famous portraitist and plastic surgeon himself.
“Hi, Si,” I said, thinking how silly that sounded.
He stared. “Do I know you?” he demanded.
We had met several times; he knew very well who I was. But feigning ignorance was his particular brand of
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