HE MOANED AS the hall light hit him.

Walt said, "I was getting some more towels and found him. I thought he was just sleeping one off until I saw he was hurt. He wanted I should get Mr. Adrian to help take him home."

I knelt next to him and felt his arms and ribs. Since he didn't yell any objections, I assumed nothing was broken. "Evan? Can you tell us what happened?"

"Truck with fists," he mumbled. There was a small cut over one eye, but most of the gore was seeping gently from his nose. I borrowed one of the towels, held it to his face, and told him to tilt his head back.

"There's a bathroom just next to us," Walt offered helpfully.

We gave Evan another minute to get his breath back, then I all but carried him out. He sank gratefully onto the closed lid of the toilet and sat quietly while Walt and I cleaned off the worst of the mess. In addition to his already-bruised cheek, his left eye was swelling shut. The first real sign of life was his shocked yelp when I dabbed antiseptic on the cut.

"Who did it?" I asked.

"Dreyer-what're you trying to do, top him?" He pushed the swab of cotton away petulantly. "One of his boys must have followed me around. I've never known such a sore loser."

"I think you're the one that lost."

"Walt, be a pal and find me something for the pain."

Walt obligingly searched the medicine cabinet until Evan made it clear he wanted his painkiller in a glass with ice.

I resumed cleanup on his face. "You want to go home?"

"Yes, I think that would be a very good idea."

"What about Sandra?"

"Oh, God... tell her I got an unexpected date and went home early. She'll understand. I hope."

"You have a way home?"

That stumped him, so I offered him a ride, which he woozily accepted. When Walt returned I told him to keep Evan in one place while I went back to the long hall.

Bobbi was singing "Gimme a Pigfoot" to the raucous delight of the crowd, and Titus Noble's quartet was attempting an impromptu accompaniment. Sandra was still with Adrian, no longer dancing, but standing on the edge of things and clapping in time to the music. Adrian's enjoyment looked a little forced, hut the hesitant smiles he gave Sandra were genuine enough. I elbowed over and passed on Evan's message to her.

"A date?" she puzzled. "Who with?" shrugged. "He didn't want you to worry about him, he said."

"There's a first time for everything," commented Adrian, not too helpfully.

Leaving them, I scribbled a quick note to Bobbi explaining I was driving home a drunk guest and would be back for her before the party was over. Since I couldn't interrupt her, I opted to give it to the cello player, who wasn't doing too much at the moment. I didn't trust Marza to pass it along.

Evan was anything but enthused over moving. The bruises were stiffening up, and now he insisted he'd be happy enough spending the rest of the night on the bathroom floor. When Walt offered to check with Reva about the loan of a bedroom, Evan changed his mind. One question would lead to another and eventually involve Sandra. He had no wish to listen to another sisterly lecture on the virtues of moderation and the avoidance of rough company.

Walt guided us out by a side door and would have helped us the rest of the way to my car except for Jannie's piercing shout.

The spare towels were long overdue by now. I told him to go back; Evan was a handful, but nothing I couldn't manage.

I was wrong.

The pounding on his stomach combined with that last drink ended in a predictable way. The cold night air hit Evan like a bag of cement, he went green, made a green noise in his throat, and doubled over. I was just quick enough to aim him at the flower beds before he lost it all.

"Ridiculous, isn't he?"

Adrian was in the doorway watching the show and not quite grinning.

"I've seen worse," I said truthfully. "I'm taking him home. Dreyer got to him again and he didn't want Sandra-

"Evan never fails to be considerate of others, at least after the fact. Need some help?"

"Yeah."

When it was over we hauled Evan past the long line of cars and loaded him into the back of my Buick, where he promptly fell asleep.

"You followed?" I asked Adrian.

"Of course. Your story to Sandra didn't sound like Evan at all. When he falls in love for the evening, one generally doesn't know about it until the next afternoon.

He's in no condition to give you directions now, I'll come along if you don't mind."

"Hop in."

I started it up, carefully backed out, and only remembered to turn the headlights on by correctly reading the growing alarm on Adrian's face. We rolled slowly down the drive to the distant street, and he guided us from there.

"This happen to you often?" I asked.

"If you mean taking Evan home in such a condition, yes. I've done it more than once."

"The guy that found him was looking for you at first. Sorry this had to interrupt your evening with Sandra."

"We'll be back soon enough."

"I had an interesting talk with her about Leighton Brett's art... do you agree with her views?"

"I'm not certain what they are."

" I thought his stuff was too perfect, she said he planned it to be that way."

"No doubt she is right. Leighton insists on a great deal of control in his life, there's no reason why his art should be different."

"Doesn't that limit creativity?"

"That depends on your approach. All good art requires control, the real skill is not letting the control itself show."

"It should look easy? Like anyone could do it?"

He glanced over once, approving. "Exactly. You end up with a thousand students going in for art. It looks easy, especially the more modern schools. That's how Evan got started. He thought that anyone could slop paint over a canvas and call it art, but he surprised himself and a few other people. He's one of the few with a true talent for the expression of an idea as well as the work."

" But what about Brett's control?"

"He paints what the public wants to see and he does it so well. Not many of them notice what's missing."

"What's that?"

"Leighton Brett."

"Yeah?"

"Art is often a process of self-revelation, but he's a careful and private man, and his work reveals nothing of what is within him. He paints what's popular and saleable and enjoys the honors involved, such as they are. All you'll know about him from his paintings a hundred years from now was that he was a competent draftsman with a streak of bogus sentiment."

"What will people know about you a hundred years from now?"

"Probably the same thing, but without the sentiment."

"I doubt that."

"Why?" I've seen your work-nothing bogus there."

He looked at me sidewise. I'd meant it to be a compliment; he decided to take it as such. "Are you an artist as well?"

I hesitated, considering his past associations with reporters. "I write a little, so I can understand the creative process from that angle."

"What do you write?"

Nothing so far, but you don't say that to people. I decided on the truth and if he didn't like it, too bad. "I used to be a journalist, a paper in New York, but I had to get out."

"Had to?" he asked after a long pause. "Why?"

"I didn't like what it was turning me into so I stopped and became something else. I'm free-lance now."

His voice would freeze fire. "And is this an interview?"

"No. We're just two guys driving another home and having a talk about art."

I don't think he took it at face value, but then he had no real reason to trust me.

Except for his terse directions, conversation lagged, but he wasn't ready to bolt from the car yet.

We ended up in a lower-class neighborhood of tired brick buildings, cheap rent being the only obvious asset of the area. We dragged Evan from the car and got him up the steps of his house. Adrian struggled with the keys while I kept us more or less vertical.

Inside the narrow entry hall were the usual doors and stairs, which we went up, or tried to; Evan was so far gone as to be a danger to our collective balance. I had Adrian stand back, then hoisted Evan onto my shoulder in a fireman's carry.

"The strength of youth," he said, and led the way up to the second floor and opened the door of the Robleys' flat.

The front room was obviously a work area, its length running along one wall to take advantage of the north-facing windows. Two large easels were set up, one with a light cloth covering a work in progress, the other with its colorful canvas on display.

The place was stuffy with the smell of linseed oil and harsh turpentine. The furnishings were sparse and unpretentious: some simple chairs and a table with a lumpy bronze sculpture as its centerpiece. A few unframed paintings clung to the walls, mixed in with a family photo or two. One of them was of two young men grinning like devils, hamming it up at some kind of carnival. A slender girl stood between them and their arms were around her. It was Sandra, a young teen just starting to bloom into a woman. One of the men was Evan, who hadn't changed much in looks or attitude. The other was Adrian, who had. A lot of years and life had come between the carefree face in the photo and the solitary, saturnine man who stood next to me.

Adrian turned on the lights and pointed me toward the back, where I found Evan's bedroom. I eased him onto the bed and threw a quilt over him. I was just debating whether to remove his shoes when I heard an oddly familiar slap-and-grunt combination and hurried out to investigate.

Adrian was doubled over, holding his stomach. A man in a cheap, gaudy suit stood just inside the front door and had apparently just walked in and punched him.

A second, much larger man bulled his way past, grabbed Adrian's elbows from behind and hauled him upright with a sharp jerk. Cheap Suit laughed and landed another fist before he noticed my presence.

I grabbed the larger man from behind in his turn and pried his arms free. Adrian all but hit the floor, still trying to get his lost breath back. The big one shook an arm loose and swung it backhanded at my face. A couple of months earlier I'd have been flattened, but now I was just annoyed. I was about to let him know just how annoyed when the suit jumped in between us waving a knife under my nose.

He was grinning because he knew he had me cold, a wild-eyed maniac with bad skin and cartoon eyebrows. I released my hold on his friend. They were moving slowly now, but only because I was moving that much faster. His mouth dropped open in sluggish shock when I plucked the knife out of his hand and snapped the blade and handle in two like a dry twig. By the time he started to recover, Adrian grabbed both his shoulders and spun him around to pay his own respects.

The big one tried hitting me again. He was a solid piece of muscle and had had some sparring experience. His punches were short and controlled but I wouldn't let him get close enough to connect. This put him into a bad temper, but I wasn't feeling too kindly about things, either. I stepped into his right, trapped his arm under my own, and much to his surprise wrestled him against a handy wall, thumping his head for good measure. When we locked eyes I went in there as well, feeling righteous satisfaction when his expression went blank.

"Fall on the floor and stay there," I told him, and stepped back out of the way. He landed hard, like a tree trunk, without putting his arms out to cushion the impact.

Adrian was too busy to notice. I'd gotten peripheral glimpses of his fight, but nothing really clear. Now it was obvious he had one hell of a temper and had just lost it. He held the man up by his loud necktie and was systematically hitting his face and gut with hard, vicious punches. His teeth were bared in a parody of a smile, and breath hissed between them each time he connected. He backed the man up to a wall, then caught his throat and started squeezing to kill.

I had to step in then or end up with a pop-eyed corpse. Adrian ignored hearing his name, but I managed to work his hands loose without breaking anything and pulled him away. The suit, considerably rumpled, sank to the floor, too battered to even moan.

Adrian suddenly became aware of things and shook me off with a muted growl.

He glared at the man, puffing from the exertion, his lips peeled back wolflike, as if he'd welcome an excuse to start over again. He glanced at me, his eyes bright. The barriers were down for a moment and I wasn't sure I liked what they'd been hiding.

"Who are they?" I asked.

He checked both faces carefully, contemptuously. "Damned if I know. Probably more of Evan's friends."

"Dreyer again?"

"Perhaps."

I stooped and felt around for Cheap Suit's wallet. The Illinois license identified him as Francis Roller. He was carrying nearly eight hundred dollars, which I showed to Adrian in passing. Adrian searched the pockets of the other man.

"His name's Toumey. What's the matter with him? He looks like he's in a trance."

"Glass jaw," I said, and shoved Roller's wallet back in his pocket. He didn't look in any condition to remember his own name, much less answer questions, so I left him and knelt over Toumey, tapping his mug a few times for effect. "Hey, come out of it."

It worked faster than I expected. His eyes lost their fixed stare and got wider. He made an abortive attempt to get up, except I got a grip on one shoulder and leaned a knee into his stomach. My fingers were very strong; he winced and tried to writhe away, but Adrian was on his other side and held him down as well.

"Okay, Tourney, you tell us all about it," I instructed.

He went slack and staring again.

"Why did you come here?"

"Shake 'im up."

"Who?"

"Robley."

"Why?"

"Owes money."

"Give me a name."

"Dimmy Wallace."

I looked at Adrian. He shook his head. "Who's Dimmy Wallace?"

" Shut up. Tourney." This from Roller, who was still flat on his back and trying to talk through battered lips.

"He must be the brains of the outfit," I commented to Adrian. "Tourney, you stay right where you are until I say otherwise, got it?" Tourney nodded, his eyes glazed.

Adrian had begun to notice something odd going on, but if necessary I could fix that, too. We switched to Roller. He was just starting to roll over to get to his feet so we each slammed him flat again, and none too gently.

"Dimmy Wallace," said Adrian. "Talk."

He told Adrian to go somewhere and do something. I grabbed Roller's chin and forced him to look up at me. "Think about it, Francis, it's two to one now and you're already bleeding on the canvas. You want I should let my friend here finish the job he started on you?"

"Don't call me Francis," he muttered, but contact was established and he was under my influence for the moment.

"Who's Wallace?"

"My boss, best in the city."

"What does he do?"

"Big man, does it all."

"Gambling?"

"The works."

"A mob?"

"The biggest, the best there is."

"One can't fault him for his loyalty," Adrian remarked. "So Evan owes money to Dimmy Wallace, the one mobster in Chicago who hasn't made the papers yet."

"To judge from his hired help, I doubt he ever will. My guess is these saps don't even know what Evan looks like."

"You mean they mistook me for... ?" his lips thinned with disgust. "Now that is adding insult to injury. What do we do with them?"

"Kick 'em down the stairs?" I suggested.

He considered it. "What about informing the police?"

It was a little surprising that he would want to drag them in, especially if he still had a cloud over him because of his wife's death. To me, the cops meant charges, arrests, court appearances. Daytime stuff. "Hardly seems worth the trouble," I said, hoping I wouldn't have to talk him into it.

"Perhaps you're right. Let's throw them out."

"Hey!" was all Koller had time to say before we hauled him through the door and downstairs. I made sure he was shaken up, but not seriously hurt when we finally dropped him in the gutter outside. He started up with the obscenities again along with dire threats against the Robleys and everyone that knew them. While Adrian watched from the doorway I picked Koller up by his necktie and pushed him backward over a handy car hood.

"You got a bad mouth on you, boy, so shut it before you lose it. Go back to your roach hole and tell your boss to use the phone the next time he wants to collect on a bill. You or Tourney show up here again and-"

I didn't finish the threat, it was unnecessary. Koller saw exactly what he never wanted to see in my eyes. I gave him just enough to scare him, then let him go. He stumbled once, regained his footing, and ran down the block like hell was after him.

He never looked back.

Adrian's expression was closed and watchful again. "I wish I had your way with people."

I shrugged. "Let's get the other one."

Tourney was more quiescent than his partner, content to be led to the exit and shoved out, again with the instructions never to return. We got back to the flat and checked on Evan, who had slept through the party.

Adrian stripped away the quilt, picked up a bedside carafe, and poured what was left of the contents on Evan's face. What .ill the roughhouse and noise failed to do a half cup of water accomplished: Evan shot awake, flailing and spitting.

"You'll drown me!" he wailed.

"Not unless I strangle you first. Wake up." Adrian went to the bathroom off the hall and brought back a towel for him.

Evan vaguely blotted at the water, confused and muttering. "First there's Dreyer, then Sandra, then Dreyer, and then you. What's the matter with everyone tonight?"

"We've all had to deal with you. Who's Dimmy Wallace?"

"Who?" he said, a little too innocently.

"Two of his people were just here," I informed him. "And we both took a beating that was meant for you, so you owe us."

"What?" repeated the story until he said he understood things, but his comprehension might also have had something to do with Adrian refilling the carafe.

"All right," he grumbled, "but Sandra won't like me showing the dirty laundry."

"That's never bothered you before," Adrian pointed out.

Evan snarled blearily at him. "In your ear."

The carafe began to tilt.

"I didn't mean it! Dimmy's my bookie, sort of."

"We're listening."

"That's it-really. He gave me some credit on my losses, said he'd wait until I sold something. Well, I sold something, but then he said I owed him interest as well. I told him to wait until I sell another painting, but he's not the patient kind-"

"And the longer it takes to pay, the more your interest increases?" I put in.

"Exactly."

"You've paid the original debt, though?"

"And then some."

I had a deep and very sincere stab of sympathy for Sandra.

Adrian was simply exasperated but willing to take action. "Get your toothbrush, Evan. Sandra's as well."

"Huh?"

"I'm not leaving her alone in this house while people like that are after you."

"But I'm here!"

"As I said, she's not going to be left alone."

Maybe I could have assured him the toughs wouldn't be back, but someone like Dimmy Wallace would have others to take their place. "Okay, you guys pack the toothbrushes, I'll drive."

About ten minutes later we were in the car, making a circle back toward Leighton Brett's neighborhood, but not quite. The mirror was clean, no one had followed us.

Adrian directed me to a less pretentious area of quiet houses with demure picket fences and regular streetlights. His home was a long one-storied structure, with a closed garage on one side. On the paving in front of it was an oil stain marking the spot where his car usually stood. Somehow I wasn't too surprised he no longer used the garage for its original purpose.

Evan was installed in a long-unused guest room and went thankfully back to sleep with a soft groan. Adrian threw a blanket on him and shut off the lights.

"He might be disoriented when he wakes up," I cautioned.

"It won't be a new experience for him."

I followed him into the kitchen. Perhaps it had been a bright place once; cheery little feminine knickknacks decorated the walls and cupboards. Now they were dull with dust, and the once-fluffy white curtains hung limp and dejected. The usual litter of inexpert cooking and casual cleanup cluttered the counters, and a plate with its dried scraps rested on the table where Adrian had eaten the latest in a series of solitary meals.

He rummaged around in some half-opened parcels on the table and brought out a box of headache powders. He mixed a double dose in a glass of water and drank it straight down. "Need any?" he offered.

"No, thanks."

He edged the glass in with a dozen others by the sink. The sad atmosphere of the house was uncomfortable. It seemed to ooze from the walls, or more likely from Adrian. Either from his wife's death or by his natural temperament, he'd turned everything inward, and though too polite to obviously show it, he did not like having a stranger in his home, especially an observant ex-journalist.

When we got back to the party his posture relaxed slightly. He'd gone from being on guard to something else I couldn't quite read, and was twisting his wedding ring around again.

"Thank you," he murmured. I'll find Sandra and tell her what happened."

"Anytime," I said to his departing back as he disappeared into the crowd.

Bobbi was still in the big hall, but taking a break, or trying to. I could hardly see her for all the men grouped around, offering her enough drinks for a chorus line. One of them was Titus. He was close to Bobbi but facing outward, and doing a reasonable protection job by keeping the worst of the interlopers at bay. I squeezed my way to the center to relieve him. Without a word he took her hand and gave it to me, an exaggerated gesture, but necessary considering the tipsy state of most of the men. A few backed off to give us room, and we escaped into the garden again.

She drew a deep breath and laughed a little. "Thought I was going to smother.

Titus tries his best, but he's not as tall as you."

"Things did look a little crowded."

"Marza says they're like a pack of dogs following a-" She suddenly blushed.

"Never mind, I had one glass of champagne and it's making me rude."

"You get my note?"

"Yes, who'd you take home?"

"Some artist I met here. He had a little too much party so we took him to Alex Adrian's house-"

" The Alex Adrian?"

"Absolutely. I met him tonight."

"I had no idea he was here. What's he like?"

"Distant. The sort of smoldering type women go crazy for, except in his case I think the fire's gone out."

"Must be because of his wife."

"What do you know about it?"

"That she committed suicide, maybe, or was murdered, maybe. You met him.

What do you think?"

"The jury's still out for me. Are you on a break or is the party over yet?"

"I'm on a break. My contract expires at one A.M., and then you can take me home and put me to bed."

"With great pleasure, but I thought-"

"You thought right. I am tired, so I'm very glad I decided to seduce you earlier.

Do you mind just tucking me in?"

I pulled her close and let her know exactly how I felt on that subject.

Rather than let her out of my sight again, I sat in the hall, gritting my teeth through the string quartet pieces until I could take her home. It was twenty minutes to quitting time when Sandra Robley drifted in, spotted me, and came over.

"Thank you for helping Evan," she said as I stood.

"You're welcome."

"Would you please tell me what happened?"

"Alex clam up on you?"

"It's his specialty. He said there was some trouble, but won't tell me what kind or why it means Evan and I have to stay at his house for the night."

"He thought it might be safer." I briefly outlined what had happened at her flat.

"We didn't break anything, but he wasn't about to leave you and Evan alone with those goons on the loose. You know about Dimmy Wallace?"

"Only that Evan owes him money."

I had an idea or two on how to help them, but decided to wait before committing myself.

"It's unbelievable that these people think they can just walk in-and neither of you thought to call the police?"

"Well, I-"

She made a dismissive gesture. "At least I know how Alex's knuckles got scraped.

Honestly, sometimes he can be so infuriating. You as well. I'm grateful about Evan, but should it happen again, just tell me the truth, no more stories on last-minute dates."

I raised three fingers. "Scout's honor, ma'am."

She melted a little and flashed a muted version of her smile. "Thank you. Now I'm going to talk to Alex about his overprotective attitude."

It must not have been a long lecture, for about ten minutes later they both turned up again. Sandra was on his arm and he almost looked relaxed as they listened to the music.

"That's good to see." Reva Stokes appeared next to me, watching them with contentment. "No, please don't get up, I'm just passing by and wanted to check on things."

"They're special to you?"

"Very special friends. When Celia died we thought Alex might do the same thing, but tonight he seems to be coming out of it. I'm glad Sandra's there for him."

"Sandra seems pretty glad about it as well. I wish her luck."

"With a brother like Evan, she'll need it. I haven't seen him for a while, I hope he's-"

"Alex and I took him home earlier. He was tired."

She made a wry face. "Is that what you call it?"

"When in polite society, yes. Thank you for having me along, it's meant a lot to Bobbi."

"You're welcome. Are you in the entertainment business yourself?"

"In a way. I'm a writer."

"What do you write?"

Good question. I gave her a song and dance about a novel I'd started in high school and she lost interest quickly enough. It's probably the reason I never finished the thing and went into journalism instead.

One o'clock finally came and Bobbi launched into one last song, its theme concerned with saying good night and goodbye. A few of the more sober guests took the hint and drifted out, and Reva vanished to see them on their way. Bobbi finished and took her bows, and I felt free to intrude on the stage area before various young swains flooded her with offers of a ride home.

"Reming."

It was Adrian. Sandra was busy for the moment talking with a trio of gaunt-looking women dressed in black velvet.

"Everything okay? I had to tell Sandra about-"

"Yes, that's all fine now. I wanted to clear some business up with you... about that portrait commission."

He had my full attention. "Yeah, what'd you want to clear?"

Adrian didn't quite meet my eye, but it seemed more from diffidence than anything shifty. He was like a man unsure of the thickness of ice under his feet. "Did you still want to engage me for the commission?"

"Yes, certainly, but-"

"Do you think you can afford it?"

I couldn't fault him for his honesty-or at least bluntness. "How much?" He named a figure I could live with and I told him so. "Is it a deal?"

He didn't answer right away, apparently still testing the ice within him. "Yes... I think so. The usual procedure is half down and half on delivery."

"Fine. I can get it for you tomorrow, if that's okay."

"One thing, Fleming. I-I'm not sure I can do it... If I find I cannot, I'll return the money."

I nodded. "Fair enough. And if you can?"

"Then you get your portrait and I get the balance, of course."

"Deal." I held out my hand. He didn't seem to understand what it was there for at first, then hesitantly shook it. "What made you change your mind?"

From his wallet he gave me a business card with his name and number. "Call me sometime tomorrow and we'll work out a schedule for the sittings. Good night." He turned and went back to Sandra.

Bobbi broke off her chatting with Titus and came over. "What was that all about?

Who was-"

I slipped an arm around her. " The Alex Adrian, and that was about my Christmas present to you."

"I see what you mean about smoldering-what Christmas present?"

"Well, it might take that long for the paint to dry."

"Jack-"

"You said you didn't want diamonds, but what about your portrait done by-"

She gave out a soft shriek of pure delight and threw her arms around me in a stranglehold.