"Another nickname?"

"St. Norbert's Holy Denominational Church. You must've driven past it on your way here."

"Big building with a cross on top?"

"That's dear old St. Norby, yes." She started up another flight. "But before we donate this stuff to their fair next month, I thought I ought to get an expert opinion. And, after some debate, Tops gave in and allowed me to ask you over. Maybe this c.r.a.p is worth something after all."

When they reached the large, chill attic and he saw the seven canvases, it took Harry almost a minute to get himself to where he could speak. He had to sit down on a highly polished humpback trunk and cough a few times.

Six of the unframed canvases were, indeed, c.r.a.p. But the seventh, as he'd hoped ever since he'd heard the old art director's name, was a large oil painting of Santa Claus in his shirtsleeves sitting in front of a roaring fireplace after a long night of delivering toys. He was relaxing by drinking Kubla Kola straight from the bottle. It was, beyond doubt, an authentic Maxwell Van Gelder.

Although most people knew nothing about the long-dead commercial artist, who'd been a favorite of the equally long dead Faberhagen, his Kubla Kola Santa paintings were highly prized by certain collectors. He'd done fifteen during his lifetime, but only five had surfaced thus far. The last one that had been sold, over three years ago, had been purchased by a Kubla executive for nearly $400,000. This one, which was much handsomer, ought to bring at least $500,000.

Harry was finally able, after another cough, to inform his ex-wife, "They're not worth anything, Amy."

"Nothing, not anything?"

"Not exactly nothing, no. There are people who collect old advertising art. I'd say you could get probably a hundred dollars or so for each of these," he said. "That Santa, since it has a Christmas theme, might bring as much as two or three hundred."

Amy looked disappointed for a few seconds, then smiled. "Tops was right this time," she said, starting for the attic door.

"Wait a minute." He rose off the trunk. "I collect this sort of stuff myself."

"I didn't realize that. Although you did tend to clutter up the house with all sorts of silly-"

"How about a thousand dollars for the lot? I'd like to hang that Santa in my den, to remind me of my days with Kubla."

"That seems a fair price, and this stuff is only gathering dust up here."

His brother's check ought to get here tomorrow. He could write Amy a check for a thousand and still cover his condo payment and some of the other bills. And if he could sell the Van Gelder, very quietly, for even $450,000-h.e.l.l, he could live on that for years. Sure, if you invested that wisely, you could even live well here in Fair-field County.

"I'll take them with me, Amy, and send you a check first thing-"

"Oh, I'll have to talk it over with Tops first."

"Sure, of course. Can you phone him over in Long Island? Now, I mean."

"Well, he's off at lunch somewhere, I'm not exactly sure where, with Mommy Nayland and Dr. Boopsy and-"

"Dr. Boopsy?"

"His real name is Bublitzky. When Tops was little, he couldn't p.r.o.nounce that and his cute way of-"

"You can get in touch with him tonight, though?"

"Or tomorrow morning, yes."

"I could take them along now, save me another trip and you more bother. He's likely to say okay and-"

"I'd better not, Harry. I don't want to annoy Tops by making a household decision without consulting him first. Unlike the days when you and I were ... um ... living in the same house, Tops and I have a very democratic marriage."

"So did we, Amy, until you declared yourself fuhrer and ... But that's, as you say, all lost in the dim past." He forced himself to smile. "Do call me as soon as you talk it over with your husband. And be sure to wish Tops a joyous Noel."

Harry waited until noon the next day before phoning Amy. He didn't want to convey undue eagerness, which might make his erstwhile wife suspicious.

He let the phone ring eleven times.

After pacing his living room for what seemed a half hour but was actually only thirteen minutes, he tried the Southport mansion again. This time he got their answering tape.

While Chopin music played softly in the background, a thin, nasal male voice said, "Well, hi, this is, as you no doubt expected, the Nayland residence. But, as you may not have expected, neither Tops nor Amy can come to the phone just now. You know the drill, so wait for the beep, won't you?"

Not waiting for the beep, Harry hung up, muttering, "What an a.s.shole."

A chill, heavy rain was falling outside and it made his narrow view even bleaker. Harry sat there, phone waiting in his lap, watching the view for another twenty-six minutes.

Then he punched out Amy's number again.

She answered, sounding impatient and out of breath, on the sixth ring. "Yes, what?"

"This is Harry and-"

"Oh, you picked a rotten time to call, dear heart. I've got Mr. Sanhammel in the parlor in his shorts and-"

"Beg pardon?"

"It's because of the Santa Claus Choraleers," she explained. "I'll be right back, Mr. Sanhammel. He's going on eighty, poor dear man."

"But why is he in your parlor in his underwear?"

"That should be obvious. As people grow older, they tend to put on weight, as you well know. His Santa Claus suit doesn't fit him anymore and has to be let out, quite a bit in fact, especially around the middle. But poor old Mrs. Sanhammel happens to be in intensive care at the Norwalk Hospital because of her-"

"What are the Santa Claus Choraleers?"

"A Southport tradition."

"Oh, so?"

"Every Christmas Eve they roam the streets and byways of our town, every man jack of them dressed as St. Nicholas, stopping at various spots to sing carols and unoffensive hymns."

"That's fascinating, Amy. Now about-"

"You don't think it's fascinating at all. I can tell by that familiar patronizing tone in-"

"Actually I was wondering if you'd talked to your husband about those second-rate old ad paintings. I'm going to be over your way this-"

"Yes, I did. Tops feels that if they're really only worth one thousand dollars, why we'll donate them to St. Norby."

"I'll go up to twelve hundred. I'll donate the money to St. Norby and save them the trouble of-"

"Let me be absolutely candid with you, Harry," she cut in. "Tops says he'd rather toss the paintings on the landfill than sell them to an odious toad such as yourself."

"What gave him the notion I was an odious toad?"

After a few silent seconds she answered, "Well, I may have exagerated my accounts of some of the low points of our wretched marriage, Harry."

He said, "Fifteen hundred dollars."

"It's no use. He won't sell them to you. But, hey, you can go to the fair at the church next month. I'll have Father Boody send you an invitation."

That was too risky. If the Van Gelder got out in public, somebody else might recognize it. "Wouldn't it be much easier if-"

"Poor Mr. Sanhammel is getting all covered with gooseflesh. I really have to go. Merry Christmas and maybe I'll see you at the church fair next month."

"Yeah, Merry Christmas."

The most difficult part was finding a Santa Claus suit. Harry didn't come up with his plan until the afternoon of Christmas Eve and by then the few costume shops in his part of Connecticut had long since sold or rented what they'd had in stock.

He persisted, however, and finally located a used-clothing outlet over in Westchester County that had one threadbare Santa costume for sale. They wanted two hundred dollars for the d.a.m.n thing, but since the check from his brother had come in, he was able to rush over into New York State with the cash to buy it. The beard was in bad shape, stringy and a dirty yellow color. When he got it home, Harry used some ivory spray paint on the whiskers and livened them up considerably.

The rest of that gray afternoon and into the evening he sat at his drawing board, studying all the material he'd saved about the Cyclops Security System from the days when he worked on the account. It seemed to him definitely possible, just by using the tools he had on hand, to outfox the type of alarm setup they were using at Amy's mansion.

His plan was a simple one. There'd be a dozen costumed Santas-he'd found out how many choraleers there were from the back files of the Southport weekly at the library-roaming the streets of the town from nine until midnight. n.o.body was likely to pay much attention to a thirteenth. Especially not on Christmas Eve. Amy and Tops were now over in Long Island and their house sat empty.

The Van Gelder Santa painting was resting quietly up in the attic. All Harry had to do was disarm the alarm system, enter the house, and gather up the picture. To throw suspicion off himself, he'd also swipe whatever silver and jewelry he could find. And he'd take all those awful Busino paintings that decorated the hall. The police would a.s.sume that the thief had stolen the advertising art under the a.s.sumption that it, too, was valuable.

Then, after a safe interval, he'd sell the painting and live on the $500,000. There wouldn't be any more job interviews with art directors who were ten or twenty years younger. No more loans or lectures from Roy.

To explain his income, he'd pretend he was doing gallery painting. As a matter of fact, he'd been a d.a.m.n good painter once and he might really give that a try again.

His plan wasn't a bad one. But what Harry hadn't antic.i.p.ated was the fourteenth Santa Claus.

A strong wind came up at nightfall and the rain grew heavier. When Harry went running out to his carport, shortly after ten p.m., the rain hit at him hard.

He was carrying the Santa costume in a large, cloth laundry bag. Later, after he'd changed into the outfit, he was going to use the sack to carry off the Van Gelder and the rest of the loot. No one would pay much attention to a Santa Claus with what looked like a bulging sack of toys.

The Southport library sat less than a block from Amy's mansion. The building was dark and there were only two other cars in the unlit parking lot. Harry parked there and opened the sack. He took out the jacket to the Santa suit.

After glancing around at the rainswept lot, he started getting into the jacket. The sleeves had several moth holes in them. Next he struggled into the pants, which were tough to tug on over his jeans. He heard a ripping sound, but when he felt at the trousers he couldn't locate a rip.

The rain was drumming on the car roof, the wind rattled the tree branches overhead.

"Oh, s.h.i.t," he said aloud. "Where's the beard? Where's the d.a.m.n beard?"

He thrust his hand deep into the sack again.

"Ow! d.a.m.n it."

He'd stuck his forefinger with one of the screwdrivers he'd brought along for working on the alarm system.

"Ah, here it is." He yanked out what felt like the false whiskers. It turned out, however, to be his Santa hat.

"I had the beard. I know I put it in the sack."

Then he noticed something white on the floor of the car, over on the pa.s.senger side. He grabbed up the beard and attached it with the wire ear loops. Stretching up, he attempted to get a look at himself in the rearview mirror. The thing was all steamed and there wasn't enough light anyway.

Harry started to open the door. "Half-wit," he reminded himself. "Gloves! You almost forgot the d.a.m.n gloves."

They were in the laundry bag someplace, too. "Ow!" He found them and slipped them on.

Nodding to himself, Harry gathered up the big laundry bag and left the car.

Wind and rain struck at him, shoving him off in the wrong direction. He fought, gasping, and managed to get himself aimed right. The wind caught at the beard, and unhooked it from one ear.

Harry rescued it, got the whiskers back in place. As he stood on the sidewalk watching Amy's dark mansion across the way, a Mercedes drove by on the wet street.

The driver honked and someone yelled, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Sanhammel!" out a briefly lowered window.

Harry waved. Maybe he was putting on weight.

After the car had been swallowed up by darkness, he ran across the street. He sloshed swiftly across the lawn, circled around to the backside of the Victorian house.

He intended to enter by the back door, which couldn't be seen from the street and was sheltered by a stand of maples. Down across the back acre of lawn was a narrow stretch of beach. The water on the Sound was dark and foamy.

"This is typical of Amy," he muttered when he reached the rear door. "She was always going off and leaving things wide open."

The door stood an inch open. Gingerly Harry reached out with his gloved right hand and pushed at the door. Creaking faintly, it swung open inward.

After listening for a half minute, he crossed the threshold and started along the back hall. The house smelled exactly as it had the other day.

In the front hall, he stopped and frowned. Even in this dim light he noticed that the Busino paintings weren't hanging on the walls anymore.

Then he spotted them, stacked and leaning against the bottom steps of the staircase.

That was just ten seconds before he became aware that somebody was coming down the stairs.

"Well, sir, hi there," said Harry, affecting what he hoped was an older man's voice. "I'm Mr. Sanhammel from-"

"You walked in at the wrong time, friend." The man approaching him had a suitcase in his right hand and a .38 revolver in his left. Tucked under his arm was a lighted flash.

He was also wearing a Santa Claus suit and a handsome beard.

"d.a.m.n! Somebody else with the same idea." Harry pivoted and made ready to run.

The other Santa came diving down the stairs. He dropped the suitcase and it hit the floor with a metallic rattle. He grabbed Harry by the arm, swung him around, and hit him hard across the temple with the b.u.t.t of his gun.

That wasn't what killed Harry, though. It was falling to the floor and cracking his head against the frame of the topmost Busino.