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of a feud between the young and reckless that got out of hand.
    “But how could it happen before our very eyes?” he moaned.
    I explained my theory to which he listened thoughtfully, nodding between sips of scotch. “It’s possible,” he said, not sounding completely convinced. “But those youngsters all seemed so upset over the boy’s death.”
    “And the guilty party, I’m sure, cried the loudest.”
    “Yes. Yes,” Nifty said. “I see what you mean.” With a shrug he continued, “Lolly asked me for a statement. I was too upset to give him one and said I would call him before he filed his story. Any suggestions, Archy?”
    I have several stock quotes for clients in thorny situations and pulled up the one best suited for today’s misfortune.
    “Mrs. MacNiff and I are deeply saddened by this terrible tragedy and extend our sympathies to Jeff’s family and friends. We will of course assist the family in any way we can in the difficult days ahead. Until the authorities can give us a more detailed explanation of what happened to the young man I’m afraid that is all I have to say at this time. I wish also to apologize to my guests and benefactors for the abrupt termination of my Tennis Everyone! fete and beg their understanding.”
    Nifty nodded his approval, his blue eyes glassy with grief, fear or booze. “That’s splendid, Archy. Will you write it out for me? I’m afraid my memory is not what it used to be.”
    He produced a pad and pen from the top drawer of a museum quality desk-on-frame. I wrote out the paragraph, which I was sure Lolly would recognize as having come from me and, before leaving, asked Nifty if he wanted to keep our lunch date tomorrow.
    “Oh, I do, Archy. I most certainly do. That’s another matter that needs clearing up.”
    Now, as I related this to father, he puffed on his cigar and repeated, “Another matter. How odd. So the lunch will have nothing to do with the boy’s death.”
    “I didn’t think it would,” I answered. “He made the date with me before we knew Rodgers was dead, if only by a few minutes.”
    “Do you truly believe one of the wait staff is responsible for this, Archy?”
    With regrets I stubbed out my cigarette and answered, “I said that to take the edge off Mr. MacNiff’s trying day. At this juncture I believe the field is wide open. If my theory is correct, anyone there today could have done it.”
    “Even one of us? Father said, echoing Malcolm MacNiff.
    We of the McNally clan do not belong to the upper echelons of Palm Beach society, as our start came from my grandfather, Freddy McNally, a burlesque comic with the Minsky circuit who invested in Florida real estate at the low and got out at the high. Hence our house on Ocean Boulevard, though it would show flaws upon close inspection like a suspect diamond under a jeweler’s loupe. Witness our leaky roof: the drip, drip, drip of the raindrops happens to be located over my third-floor digs.
    Father went to Yale, where he majored in law and denial, graduating with a bright future and a dim past. I do nothing to burst his bubble as a leaky roof is preferable to no roof. ’Nuff said?
    “Palm Beach has had its share of society murders, sir,” I reminded the squire. As we spoke the town was agog over the exploits of a man with more money than sense who came to Palm Beach wanting desperately to join the us crowd but was encumbered by an inconvenient wife. Not to worry. It’s believed he hired a hit man to expedite a divorce and is now in parts unknown. True, it’s an extreme case of one who wanted to push his way into Palm Beach society, which is as rewarding as pushing a Sherman tank uphill.
    “Do you think you’ll get involved in this, Archy? You were on the scene.”
    “Not unless I’m asked, sir, and I don’t see who would hire me to investigate the matter. Certainly not Mr. MacNiff, who just wants the whole thing to go away. Besides, until the police make a statement we won’t know if we