"Not really," she said. "He just came up once or twice with Mr. Geltman. I don't think he had a personal attorney. Once he said to Mr. Simon, 'The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.' I don't think that was a very nice thing to say."

"No," Boone said, "it wasn't. But I guess Maitland wasn't a very nice guy. No one seems to have liked him."

"I certainly didn't," she said stoutly. "I thought he was rude and nasty."

"I know," he said sympathetically. "That's what everyone says. I guess his wife put up with a lot."

"She certainly did. She's such a lovely woman."

"Isn't she?" he agreed enthusiastically. "I met her, and that's exactly what I thought: a lovely woman. And married to that animal. Did you know-" Here he lowered his voice, leaned even closer. Susan Hemley also leaned to him, until their heads were almost touching. "Did you know-well, this wasn't in the papers. You've got to promise not to breathe a word of it to anyone."

"I promise," she said sincerely. "I won't say a word."

"I trust you," he said. "Well, when they found him, dead, he wasn't wearing any underwear."

She jerked back, eyes widening.

"Nooo," she breathed. "Really?"

He held up a hand, palm out.

"'Struth," he said. "So help me. We don't know what it means yet, but he definitely wasn't wearing any underwear."

She leaned forward again.

"I told you he was nasty," she said. "That proves it."

"Oh yes," he said. "You're right. We know he was very nasty to Mr. Geltman."

"He certainly was," she said. "You should have heard how Maitland talked to Saul. And in public. In front of everyone. He was so nasty."

"And to think Geltman was in your office at the time Maitland was killed," Boone said, shaking his head. "Makes you think. Maybe if Geltman hadn't been there, we'd have suspected him. But he was there all right. Wasn't he?"

"Oh sure," she said, nodding her head so violently that the blonde curls bounced. "I saw him come in. And I spoke to him a minute or two before he went into Mr. Simon's office."

"About ten o'clock that was," Boone said reflectively. "And then you saw him come out around one-thirty in the afternoon. Right?"

"Oh no," she said. "At one-thirty I was at lunch with Alma. Alma Maitland. Don't you remember?"

"Of course," Boone said, snapping his fingers. "How could I forget? Well, anyway, the other people in the office saw him come out. Didn't they?"

"Nooo," she said slowly. "Just Mr. Simon. Mr. Brewster was in court all day that day, and the clerk, Lou Broniff, was out with the flu."

"Well," he said, "Mr. Simon told us when he left, and that's good enough."

"It certainly is," she said. "Mr. Simon is a fine man. A pleasure."

"Mr. Geltman spoke very highly of him," Boone lied casually.

"I should think so," she laughed. "They've been friends for years. I mean they're more than lawyer and client. They play handball together. After all, they're both divorced."

"Very buddy-buddy," Boone observed, enjoying this.

"They certainly are. Mr. Geltman is such a nice little man. He really says funny things. I like him."

"I do, too," Boone agreed. "A lot of personality. Too bad he and Mrs. Maitland don't seem to get along."

"Oh, that," Susan Hemley said. "It's really just a little misunderstanding. Maitland was doing some paintings and making Geltman sell them and not telling his wife about them. I told Alma it wasn't Saul's fault. After all, he had to sell what Maitland brought him, didn't he? That was his job, wasn't it? And what Maitland did with the money was none of Saul's business, was it? If Maitland didn't tell his wife how much he was making, she really shouldn't blame Mr. Geltman."

"I agree with you," Boone said. "And you told Alma Maitland that?"

"I certainly did. But she seems to think there was more to it than that."

"More to it than that?" Boone asked. "I don't understand. What did she mean by that?"

"Goodness!" Susan Hemley cried. "Look at the time! I've got to get back to the office. Thank you so very much for the lunch, sergeant. I really enjoyed it. I hope to see you again."

"You will," he smiled once more. "Tuesday morning at ten o'clock. With Chief Delaney."

He returned to Jake Dukker's studio on Central Park South. It was now almost two P.M., not precisely corresponding to the hour of the murder but close enough, he felt, for a time trial by subway.

He found a parking space on the north side of 59th Street, locked his car, checked his watch. He decided to walk to the subway station on Lexington Avenue rather than wait for a cab. He walked rapidly, threading his way through the throngs, occasionally stepping down into the gutter to make better time. Like a man with murder on his mind, he dashed across streets against the lights, not heeding the blasting horns and screamed insults of the hackies.

In the 59th Street IRT station he waited almost four minutes for a downtown express. He changed to a local at 14th Street, took that to Spring, got off and walked quickly over to Maitland's Mott Street studio. He looked at his watch; forty-six minutes since leaving Dukker's place.

He then strolled around the block, using up the ten minutes allotted for the murder of Victor Maitland. Then he started back by the same route. This time he had a long wait for the local, and suffered the vexation of seeing two express trains thunder by on the inside track. Once aboard the local, he decided to stay with it to 59th Street. The train jerked to a halt for almost five minutes, somewhere between 14th and 23rd. It was one of those inexplicable New York subway delays for which no explanation is ever given the sweltering passengers.

He hurried off the train and out of the station at 59th, shouldering his way through the crowds, and dashed westward across town to Dukker's studio. He arrived under the canopy, puffing, his poplin suit sweated through. He looked at his watch. One hour and forty-nine minutes for the round trip. He could hardly believe it. He had made better time by walking and taking the subway than by driving the entire distance. It certainly proved his theory was plausible: Dukker or Sarazen could have made that trip, fixed Maitland and returned without their absence noted by the models and assistants in the downstairs studio. It would mean, of course, the two of them were in on it together.

Satisfied, jacket off, tie and collar jerked open, he drove home to East 85th Street. He lived in a relatively new high-rise apartment house. The rent and underground garage fee kept him constantly on the edge of bankruptcy, but he had lacked the resolve to move after his divorce. He would have had to move to a cheaper place if Phyllis had demanded alimony. But fortunately, she was into Women's Lib, took a five-thousand cash settlement, most of the furniture, and they shook hands. It was all civilized. And so awful he could never think of it without wanting to weep.

He collected his mail, bills and junk, and rode alone up to his eighteenth-floor apartment. It was sparsely furnished after Phyllis cleaned it out, but he still had a couch, chair, and cocktail table in the living room. The bedroom was furnished with bed, chest of drawers, and a card table he used for a desk, with a folding bridge chair. Rebecca Hirsch had brought over a little oak bedside table and some bright posters for the living-room walls. They helped. Rebecca kept talking about curtains and drapes, and he supposed he'd get around to them eventually. Right now, the Venetian blinds sufficed.

He flipped on the air conditioner, and stripped down to his shorts. He got a can of sugar-free soda from the fridge and sat down at the bedroom card table to write out a report while the interview with Susan Hemley was fresh in his mind. He typed out the report rapidly on an old Underwood that his ex-wife had left behind.

After he finished with the Hemley meet, he typed up a record of his two time trials, consulting his notebook to get the times exactly right. Then he added everything to his personal file on the Maitland homicide, wondering, not for the first time, if anyone would ever read it, or even consult it. But Delaney had told him to make daily reports, so he made daily reports. He owed the Chief that.

He took a tepid shower, dried in front of the air-conditioner, and felt a lot better. He started on his second pack of cigarettes and thought, fleetingly, of an iced Gibson. He opened another can of diet soda.

He checked his wallet and made a quick calculation of how much he could spend daily until the next payday. And he made a mental list of which creditors he could stiff, which he could stall, and who had to be paid at once. He knew how easy it was for a cop to get a loan, but he didn't want to start stumbling down that path.

Finally, he called Rebecca Hirsch. She sounded happy to hear from him, and said she could offer a tunafish salad if he could stand it. He told her he had been dreaming of a tunafish salad all day and would be right over. After dinner, he said, they could take a drive, or see a movie, or watch TV, or whatever.

She said she would prefer whatever.

9.

ON THE SAME FRIDAY morning that Detective sergeant Abner Boone began his time trials, Chief Edward X. Delaney was in his study planning the day's activities. He jotted down a list of "Things to do," and folded the note into his jacket pocket. He unpinned the three Maitland sketches from the map board, rolled them up, slid a rubber band around them. Then he called to Monica that he wouldn't be home for lunch, and started out. He carefully double-locked the outside door behind him.

His first stop was at a Second Avenue printing shop that also made photostats. Delaney ordered three 11x14 stats of each Maitland sketch. The clerk examined the nude drawings, then looked up with a wise-ass grin that faded when he saw Delaney's cold stare. He promised to have the photostats ready at noon.

The Chief then began walking slowly downtown to East 58th Street; his appointment with Theodore Maitland was at 11:00. Delaney had been doing so much riding in Boone's car recently, he figured the exercise would do him good. For awhile he tried inhaling deeply and slowly for a count of twelve, holding the breath for the same time, then exhaling slowly for another twelve-count. That regimen lasted for two blocks, and he didn't feel any better for it. He resumed his normal breathing and ambled steadily southward, observing the bustling life of the morning city and wondering when he was going to get a handle on the Maitland case: a break, a lead, an approach, anything that would give him direction and purpose.

He knew from experience that the first hours and days of an investigation were hardest to endure. Disparate facts piled up, evidence accumulated, people lied or spoke the truth-but what the hell did it all mean? You had to accept everything, keep your wits and nerve, let the mess grow and grow until you caught a pattern; two pieces fit, then more and more. It was like the traffic jam he saw at Second Avenue and 66th Street. Cars stalled every which way. Horns blaring. Red-faced drivers bellowing and waving. Then a street cop got the key car moving, the jam broke, in a few minutes traffic was flowing in a reasonably orderly pattern. But when was he was going to find the key to the Maitland jam? Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. And maybe, he thought morosely, he already had it and couldn't recognize it.

Mrs. Alma Maitland was nowhere to be seen, for which Delaney was grateful. A Puerto Rican maid ushered him into that cold "family room," where he sat on the edge of the couch, homburg on his knees. He waited for almost five minutes, guessing this was the son's form of hostility, and willing to endure patiently.

He had seen photos of Victor Maitland, of course, and was surprised at the close resemblance when the son finally stalked into the room. The same husky body, burly shoulders. Heavy head thrust forward. Coarse, reddish hair. The glower. Big hands with spatulate fingers. A thumping tread. The young face was marked by thick, dark brows, sculpted lips. Older, it might be a gross face, seamed, the mouth thinned and twisted. But now it had the soft vulnerability of youth. Hurt there, Delaney decided, and anger. And want.

He rose, but Ted Maitland made no effort to greet him or shake hands. Instead, he threw himself into one of the blonde wood armchairs, slumped down, began biting furiously at the hard skin around a thumbnail. He was wearing blue jeans with a red gingham shirt open almost to his waist. The inevitable necklace of Indian beads. Bare feet in moccasins. A bracelet of turquoise chips set in hammered silver.

"I don't know why I'm even talking to you," the boy said petulantly. "Only because Mother asked me. I've gone over this shit a hundred times with a hundred other cops."

Delaney was shocked by the voice: high-pitched, straining. He wondered if the kid was close to breaking. His movements and gestures had the jerky, disconnected look the Chief had seen just before a subject tried to climb barbed wire or began screaming and couldn't stop.

So he sat down slowly, set his hat aside slowly, spoke slowly in a low, quiet, and what he hoped was an intimate tone.

"I know you have, Mr. Maitland," he said. "And I'm sorry to put you through this once again. But reading or even hearing reports is never good enough. It's always best to go right to the source. A one-on-one, man-to-man conversation. Less chance of misinterpretation. Don't you agree?"

"What difference does it make if I do or don't agree?" Theodore Maitland demanded. His eyes were on his bitten thumb, on the rug, the ceiling, the walls, the air. Anywhere but on Delaney. He would not or could not meet his eyes.

"I know what you've been through," the Chief soothed. "I really do. And this shouldn't take long. Just a few questions. A few minutes ..."

The boy snorted and crossed his knees abruptly. He was, Delaney thought, a handsome lad in a bruised, masculine way-his father's son-and he wondered if the kid had a girlfriend. He hoped so.

"Mr. Maitland-" he started, then stopped. "Would you object if I called you Ted?" he asked gently. "I won't if you don't want me to."

"Call me anything you damn please," the boy said roughly.

"All right," Delaney said, still speaking slowly, softly, calmly. "Ted it is. Just let me run through, very briefly, your movements on the day your father was killed, and let's see if I've got it straight. Okay, Ted?"

Maitland made a sound, neither assent nor objection, uncrossed his legs, crossed them in the other direction. He turned in his armchair so one shoulder was presented to Delaney.

"You left here about nine-thirty that Friday morning," the Chief said. "Took the downtown IRT at Fifty-ninth Street. A local. Got off at Astor Place. Had classes at Cooper Union from ten to twelve. At noon you talked awhile with classmates out on the steps, then bought a couple of sandwiches and a can of beer and went over to eat your lunch in Washington Square Park. You were there until about one-thirty. Then you returned to Cooper Union in time for lectures from two o'clock to four. Then you returned directly home. Here. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"You ate lunch in the park alone?"

"I said I did."

"Meet anyone you know, Ted?"

Maitland whirled to glare at him.

"No, I didn't meet anyone I know," he almost shouted. "I ate lunch alone. Is that a crime?"

Chief Delaney held up both hands, palms out.

"Whoa," he said. "No crime. No one's accusing you of anything. I'm just trying to get your movements straight. Yours and everyone else's who knew your father. That makes sense, doesn't it? No, it's no crime to eat alone in the park. And I don't even question that you didn't meet anyone you knew. I just walked down here from Seventy-ninth Street, and I didn't meet anyone I knew. It's natural and normal. Usually eat lunch alone, Ted?"

"Sometimes. When I feel like it."

"Frequently?"

"Two or three times a week. Why?" he demanded. "Is it important?"

"Oh Ted," Delaney said lightly, "in an investigation like this, everything is important. What are you studying at Cooper Union?"

"Graphic design," Maitland muttered.

"Decoration and printing?" Delaney asked. "Things like that?"

"Yeah," the boy grinned sourly. "Things like that."

"Proportion?" Delaney asked. "Visual composition? The history and theory of art? Layout and design?"

Ted Maitland met his eyes for the first time.

"Yes," he said grudgingly. "All that. How come a cop knows that?"

"I'm an amateur," Delaney shrugged. "I don't know a lot about art, but-"

"But you know what you like," the boy hooted.

"That's right," Delaney said mildly. "For instance, I like your father's work. What do you think of it, Ted?"

"Ridiculous," Maitland said. Scornful laugh. "Old-fashioned. Square. Dull. Out-of-date. Antique. Bloated. Emotional. Juvenile. Melodramatic. Reactionary. Is that enough for you?"

"Saul Geltman says your father was a great draftsman, a great anatomist, a great-"

"Saul Geltman!" Maitland interrupted angrily, almost choking. "I know his type!"

"What type is that?" Delaney asked.

"You don't know a thing about art in modern society," the boy said disdainfully. "You're stupid!"

"Tell me," Delaney said. "I want to learn."

Theodore Maitland turned to face him squarely. Leaned forward, arms on knees. Dark eyes aflame. Face wretched with his intensity. Quivering to get it out. Shaking with his fury.