Meg Townsend had known Hillyer was coming -- he had left a message on her machine before he left New York. Jim had decided on the flight over to end the affair -- it had become obvious to him over the last couple of months that he'd been making a middle-aged fool of himself. Plus, the stress of these fake business trips to London, and the requisite hiding and juggling of expenses like hotels and meal receipts was wearing on him.

As he mounted the stairs to Meg Townsend's second-story floor-through, he was rehearsing in his mind how he was going to tell her. He didn't know whether to expect crying and screaming, or total boredom. And frankly, he didn't care, as long as he was out of it once and for all.

The shabby rose-colored carpeting underneath his feet created static electricity, so when he touched the key to the lock of Meg Townsend's apartment-door, there was a shock and a spark.

"Damn!" Hillyer said aloud, to no one.

Bad career move. Okay. There IS a god. Hillyer's punishment for his illicit affair with Meg Townsend? He's about to get involved in a police investigation. Where it will lead is anyone's guess -- but you can be sure it'll be front-page news. If only Jim had taken up tennis, or mountain-biking ... instead of adultery. Oops.

He turned the doorknob, and, to his surprise, he had to turn on the light. She wasn't home. "Great," he said to himself. "She blew me off." Hillyer put his suitcase on the floor, and tore off the Armani trenchcoat, wrinkled beyond recognizability, that he'd worn from the airport. He tossed it carelessly on an overstuffed chintz chair near the door. Hillyer had made plans to take Meg Townsend to Annabelle's for a late dinner. Where the hell was she? "Meg?" he said in a conversational tone. And then, louder, shouting in the direction of the bedroom, "Are you here?" Nothing.

Angrily kicking off his uncomfortable-as-they-were-expensive loafers, Hillyer padded on aching, altitude-swollen feet over to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself a Scotch. It wasn't until he was sitting on the Laura Ashley-slipcovered sofa in the middle of the room, with his feet resting on a copy of Harpers & Queen on the coffee table, that he noticed something that alarmed him.

At a small table near the bay window were two Hitchcock chairs, which, when you sat in them, allowed you to gaze out through gauze curtains into Half Moon Street. If you craned your neck, you could even see a sliver of Green Park.

Both chairs, strangely, had been tipped over and been left on their sides.

Hillyer immediately bent over, set his drink down on the needlepoint rug beneath the coffee table, and walked over to the overturned chairs. The front leg had been snapped off one of them, and splintered wood was everywhere. He hadn't seen it when he'd first entered the flat.

He quickly glanced around the room, concerned that he'd walked in on a burglary, and for a moment he worried that he wasn't alone in the flat. But nothing else looked disturbed. Instinctively, Hillyer strode over and put his shoes back on -- if he were going to have to run screaming into Half Moon Street, it wasn't going to be barefoot -- and then walked carefully into the bedroom. To his astonishment, he found it completely ransacked.

The bed was torn apart, with the sheets, bedspread, and pillow on the floor. Dresser drawers were overturned and tossed about. The double closet-doors were left open and clothes -- both on and off hangers -- were thrown everywhere.

Hillyer's instinct wasn't to run, though, or even to call the police. For some reason, he had the sense that whatever had happened was over. His main concern now was Meg Townsend.

He walked once again into the living room and over to the broken chair. He'd read enough police procedurals to know not to touch it, but he leaned over to examine it, and noticed -- and this is when he got really worried -- that there was twine wrapped around the arms and back of the chair. The nylon rope had obviously been cut with a knife or scissors, and, for a brief instant, he contemplated the unthinkable notion that Meg Townsend had been tied to the chair.

It was then that his eyes fell upon the words -- evidently carved with a sharp object of some kind -- into the right front leg of one of the overturned chairs. If you weren't looking carefully, you might have missed them, but to Jim they were unmistakable. It looked like someone had taken a nail or screw -- or perhaps a penknife, or a salad fork, for God's sake, who knew what -- and nicked away at the polished cherry-wood to form the awkward letters spelling out a clear message of desperation: "HELP ME JIM."

This wasn't bad Agatha Christie, Jim thought. If only.

"It's me. Artemis."

Lucien smiled, chillingly, upon hearing his brother's voice on the speaker-phone on his desk. He quickly picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, lest anyone in the art department within eavesdropping distance hear his conversation with his would-be blackmailer.

Sydney Chen had just dropped an interoffice memo in the "In" basket on Lucien's desk, and pretended not to hear. She'd heard the snippet of conversation before the speaker phone had been turned off, but she had no idea who Artemis was, and little interest in Lucien's life. She walked out the door to deliver the rest of her stack of memos.

"I told you you'd hear from me," Artemis went on in that self-satisfied, "I've got the upper hand" voice that grated on Lucien's nerves.

"Yes, yes you did," replied Lucien.

"Don't condescend to me," Artemis snapped, his voice going down an octave so that it felt, to Lucien, as though he were suddenly speaking to someone else entirely. It was clear to Lucien that Artemis was unstable -- if not out-and-out schizophrenic -- and he didn't want to push him.

"I'm not condescending to you" Lucien responded calmly.

"So?" Artemis demanded. "When do I get my money?"

Lucien paused a beat. "Anytime you want." "What?" said Artemis, as though he hadn't heard correctly. "I said," repeated Lucien slowly and casually, "Anytime you want. I've got it." "Well!" said Artemis, sounding baffled. "You're smarter than I thought. You're not gonna fight me after all." "What's to fight?" asked Lucien. "You've obviously got me up against a wall. That's all there is to it." "You bet I do," laughed Artemis, with an evil chuckle. How Lucien hated him right now -- not only for what he was, but for what he was about to make Lucien do.

You GO, Lucien! There's a certain feeling of power -- and an undeniable calm -- that follows the decision to take action -- and defend yourself against those who'd like to screw you to the wall. Lucien's experiencing that power, that chilling calm, right now. And he likes it. A lot.

"I want to give you the money on neutral turf," Lucien said softly into the receiver, glancing around him to confirm that no one was within earshot.

"Fine with me," said Artemis, falling willingly into Lucien's trap.

"There's a place in Central Park where I want you to meet me. On Saturday morning. You'd better write this down."

"I'm writing," said Artemis. "I'll be there."

As Lucien gave his brother the particulars, he actually had a moment of regret -- indeed, a moment of guilt -- at the act he was about to commit. The act of murder.

But the moment passed.