What angered him, he knew, was that he felt he was being tricked and made a fool of. Someone of intellect was toying with him. Whichever way he turned, that path had been anticipated and blocked. All his training, experience, all his crafts and instincts brought to nothing by a guy who had probably killed for the first time! That's what hurt most: a beginner, a goddamned amateur, and he had Edward X. Delaney snookered. In such a smoldering mood, he could understand why cops used their fists and saps. The frustration curdled the stomach and rubbed nerve ends raw.

He was on his second beer when Abner Boone came lounging in. He took off his sunglasses, glanced around, spotted Delaney and nodded. He stopped at the bar for a Coke, gulped it down, ordered another. He brought that one to the Chief's booth and slid in opposite him.

"Jesus," he said, "feels like ninety. And high humidity. Been waiting long?"

"Not so long," Delaney said. "I was thinking about food, but I'm not really hungry. You?"

"I can skip," the sergeant said. "Right now I just want to cool off. My shirt's sticking."

"Take off your jacket," Delaney suggested.

"Ahh, I'm carrying," Boone said. "Someone will spot the heat and call the locals. I'll be all right." He dug his notebook from his inside pocket. "I hope you did better than I did, Chief."

"I did shit!" Delaney said, so vehemently that Boone looked up in surprise.

Delaney told the sergeant what he had discovered-or what he had not discovered.

"All negative," he said. "The only thing it proves, or apparently proves, is that Maitland was making no contributions to his mother and sister. And they already told us that."

"Could Dora have an account in another bank? Or Emily? Or maybe safe-deposit boxes loaded with cash?"

Delaney shook his head. "Thorsen checked all that out first thing. This was the only bank. How did you make out with Martha Beasely?"

"More questions than answers," Boone said, flipping through his notebook. "That's what snows me about this thing: every time we do something we get more problems. For instance, Martha Beasely claims she's been working for the Maitlands for almost four years. And in all that time she never even saw Victor Maitland or Saul Geltman. Knew they existed and visited occasionally because Dora and Emily talked about them. Now how do you figure that?"

"Easy," Delaney said, straightening up, leaning forward, interested now. "Maitland and Geltman made sure they only came up on Martha's day off, or maybe at night, when she wasn't there."

"But why?"

"That's something else again. I don't know that, sergeant. But I'll bet they timed their visits so the housekeeper wouldn't see them. What else?"

"A lot of nothing. Dora hits the bottle, just like we figured. She takes a lot of naps, but some afternoons she can't stand up. Emily never goes out by herself as far as the Beasely woman knows. No dates. No boyfriends coming around. No phone calls except from old family friends."

"Well ..." Delaney sighed, "that's that."

"No, sir," Sergeant Boone said. "Not quite. Something else. Another question. The Beasely woman was very tight at first. Suspicious. Wouldn't open up. But then I told her it had to do with Victor Maitland's tax troubles, that he claimed he was supporting his mother and sister, and we didn't think he did. Then she opened up and started complaining about how much money she made at the Maitlands-or how little. Says she makes a bill and a quarter for five and a half days. Does the cleaning and laundry, and usually cooks lunch for all of them. She says they've got less money than she has, so Victor couldn't have been supporting them. Then I said that was a big house with lots of grounds to take care of-you know, laying it on thick with the good-old-boy accent-and she said Emily and Dora had to take care of the grounds themselves because they can't afford a man to come in once a month to do it. Anyway, just talking away-this Martha Beasely is a widow and a gabber when she gets going-she said Emily is pretty good at mowing that big lawn, cutting down dead branches, odd repair jobs around the house, and stuff like that. I said something about that was a fair piece of lawn to keep mowed, and she said about two years ago they bought a second-hand power mower, which Emily learned how to use. And she mentioned that Emily keeps the power mower and a lot of other garden stuff, rakes and tools and junk, in that old barn."

"Oh-ho," Delaney said.

"Right," Boone nodded. "My ears perked up, I asked her how come? I said they had told us the doors of that barn had been nailed shut years ago because their old man had hanged himself in there, and I had seen them nailed shut. This Beasely woman said yes, the wide front doors were nailed shut and even locked with a rusty old padlock. But there was another door, a narrow back door, and inside was like a little shed where they kept the power mower and garden tools. Sorry I missed that other door, Chief."

"That's all right," Delaney said. "Maybe Emily wanted you to miss it."

"Well, why the hell would they make a big sentimental thing about nailing shut the doors of a place where the old man did the Dutch, and then have a back door that's open? Doesn't make any sense, does it, sir?"

"Nooo," the Chief said slowly. "Not much. Is that back door unlocked?"

"Beasely says yes. Says she's been in there once or twice. Nothing in there but the power mower, rakes and so forth, a can of gasoline, some old buckets, a tarp, and so forth. Old rusty shit like that. But still ..."

"Yes ... still," Delaney nodded. "I wouldn't give it a second thought except that they made sure we knew about the nailed doors. They didn't even have to mention it. Who cares? Not us, because it didn't have anything to do with our investigation. Did it?" He thought a few moments, then finished his beer. "You're sure you're not hungry?" he asked Boone.

"I can wait till we get back to the city."

"Where are you parked?"

"Right around the corner."

"Well, let's do this ... I'll drive, and we'll go out to the Maitland place. I'll drop you off just before we get to their driveway. You stay in those trees for a few minutes. I'll drive up to the house. I want to see Dora and Emily anyway, to ask them if they knew Victor was dying from polymyositis. Geltman said they didn't know. But maybe he was lying, or maybe he didn't know they knew. Anyway, I'll keep the two of them busy inside the house for, oh say fifteen minutes. That long enough for you?"

"Sure," Abner Boone said. "I can make it. I'll keep the barn between me and the house, so in case they glance out the windows or from the porch they won't spot me. You'll pick me up on the road?"

"Right," Delaney said. "The same place I drop you. The housekeeper didn't say how big that storage place was, did she?"

"No. She just called it a tool shed. Like it was, at most, maybe ten feet by ten feet. Probably smaller."

Delaney thought a moment, eyes squinched, trying to remember.

"That barn's got to be at least fifty by thirty," he said.

"At least," Boone nodded.

"So there's a lot of space inside there left over," Delaney said. "Now I'm curious."

"Me, too," Sergeant Boone said.

On their way out to the Maitland place, Delaney driving, Boone said, "You don't happen to have a set of lock picks, do you, sir?"

"I own a set, but I haven't got them with me," the Chief said.

"I didn't bring mine either," the sergeant said. "A fine couple of dicks we are. Well, I've got a screwdriver, pliers, and a short jimmy in the trunk. I'll have to make do."

Delaney pulled off the road just before they got to the turnoff to the Maitland place. Trees screened them from the house. Abner Boone got out, and borrowed the keys long enough to open the trunk and take out his tools. Then the two cops compared watches.

"Let's make it about fifteen to twenty minutes," Delaney said. "About that. But take all the time you need; I'll wait for you."

"I should be able to do it in that," Boone agreed. "If I'm not out in half an hour tops, send in the Marines."

Delaney nodded, started up the car, drove slowly ahead. He glanced in the rearview mirror. The sergeant had disappeared. The Chief turned into the Maitland driveway.

He felt sure they were home-the big, black Mercedes was parked in the driveway-but he banged that tarnished brass knocker again with no result. He was beginning to wonder if they had strolled away somewhere when the door was opened a crack, a bright eye surveyed him, then the door was opened wide.

"My land!" Emily Maitland said. "It's Chief Delaney. Now this is a pleasant surprise!"

She stood in the open doorway, bare feet spread and firmly planted on the warm floor boards. She was wearing a caftan of tissue-thin Indian cotton. He was aware that she was naked beneath the semi-transparent cloth. Glimpsed dark shadows of oval aureoles and triangular pubic hair. But most of all, he saw the obese, randy body, thighs bursting, quivering melon breasts, all of her seemingly exploding outward, straining the seams of the flimsy garment she wore. And balanced on everything, the puffy throat, chin rolls, a bland, innocent face scarred by shrewd, glittering eyes.

"Miss Maitland," Delaney said, smiling genially, "it's good to see you again. Forgive me for not calling you first, but something important came up, and I decided to drive up at once in hopes of catching you at home."

"Of course," she said vaguely, looking over his shoulder. "And where is Sergeant Boone?"

"Oh, he's taking the day off," the Chief said. "Even cops need a rest now and then. May I come in?"

"Land!" she said. "Here we are tattling on the stoop! Of course, you come right in, Chief Delaney. Mama's a bit indisposed today, but I'm sure she'll be happy to see you. Mama, look who's here!"

She led him into a dim, musty parlor, where Dora Maitland reclined on a Victorian loveseat, the upholstery a faded maroon velvet, worn and shiny. Delaney could hardly make her out in the gloom: just another rococo whatnot and knickknack, fitting in perfectly with the antimacassars, belljars and dried flowers, china figurines, feather fronds and ornate paperweights, mahogany paneling and stained wallpaper, dust and murk-an archeological dig, an age lost, a culture gone.

She was wearing a peignoir of satin, the weave showing its age. One arm, in a soiled plaster cast, was cradled in a canvas sling. A knee was heavily bandaged, the surrounding flesh puffed and discolored. The pulpy body lay flaccid, spread. But resting on a suede pillow was that incredible cigar-box head: the flood of glossy black ringlets, skin of dusty ivory, flashing eyes and carmined lips half-pursed in a promised kiss.

"How nice," she murmured drowsily, holding out a limp hand. "How nice."

Chief Delaney touched those soft, hot fingers, then, without waiting for an invitation, sat in a sprung armchair from which he could see, dimly, Dora on the couch and Emily standing nearby. The daughter had picked up a sphere of glass in which a simulated snowfall floated. She bounced it back and forth in her plump hands, almost caressing the hard globe, feeling it, stroking it, her eyes on Delaney.

"Forgive me this intrusion," he said solemnly, his own voice sounding to him like a recording. "Sorry about your accident, Mrs. Maitland. At least that's what the Nyack cops called it-an accident. But I'm not here to talk about that. Did you-either or both of you-know your son and brother was dying of a fatal illness?"

There were a few seconds of breathy silence. Then: "My land!" said Emily Maitland.

"What?" said Dora Maitland.

"Whatever do you mean, Chief Delaney?" Emily asked. "A fatal illness?"

"Oh yes," he nodded. "Polymyositis. A muscle disorder. I have spoken to his doctor. I don't like being the one to tell you this, but Victor Maitland was dying. Should have been dead a few years ago. In any event, he hadn't long to live. A year or two at the most."

He was staring at Dora Maitland and saw, through the dusk, her face gradually tighten, slowly congeal. Tears welled and ran from her eyes, leaving smudged tracks down her cheeks.

"Victor," she choked. "My baby."

"I'm sorry," Delaney said humbly. "But it's true. Did either of you know?"

They shook their heads, two porcelain dolls, the round heads wagging back and forth.

"He never told you? Never mentioned it?"

Again the wagging.

"Oh Mama," Emily said. She set aside the crystal paperweight, put her hands lightly on her mother's shoulders. "Isn't that just awful? Land, I don't know what to say? Do you, Mama?"

"Emily, my medicine," Dora Maitland said with great dignity. "Sir, would you care for ... ?"

"Oh no," Delaney said hastily. "Nothing for me. Thank you."

He was watching Dora and didn't see where the glass came from, the full glass that appeared like magic in Emily's hand. Probably on the floor, tucked under the loveseat when I came in, Delaney thought. He watched Emily hand the drink to Dora, pressing her mother's fingers around the glass. A colorless liquid. Gin or vodka. No ice. She could be sipping water.

"You think it has something to do with my son's murder?" Dora Maitland asked, the voice low-pitched, husky, not quite raspy, but as furred as the worn velvet couch.

"It might," Chief Delaney said, wanting to stretch this charade to fifteen to twenty minutes. "It might not. Victor's wife never mentioned his illness?"

"We saw her so seldom," Emily said. "She never said a word, no."

"And Saul Geltman? Never told you about it?"

"Saul? Saul knew about it?"

"Yes, he knew."

"No, Saul didn't tell us about it."

Delaney nodded. He looked around the cluttered room. "I'm surprised you don't have any of your son's paintings, Mrs. Maitland. He never gave you any?"

"He gave us two," Emily Maitland said. "Portraits. Of Mama and me. They're hanging in our bedrooms." She giggled. "The one of me's a nude," she said.

"Ah," Delaney said. "And when did he do those?"

"My land, it must have been years ago," Emily said. "Twenty years ago. At least. He was just starting."

"To paint?" Delaney asked.

"To sell," Emily said. "Vic drew things and painted since he was seven years old. But he just started to sell twenty years ago."

"Well," Delaney said, "they're worth a lot more now."

"I should think so," Dora Maitland nodded, and couldn't stop nodding. "A lot more now."

Delaney glanced at his watch, rose to his feet.

"Thank you, ladies. Sorry to have troubled you."

"Land," Emily Maitland said. "No trouble at all."

"Maybe it's all for the best," Dora Maitland muttered.

The Chief didn't know what she meant, and didn't ask. Emily saw him to the door.

"Say hello to Sergeant Boone for me." She smiled mischievously.

"I'll surely do that, Miss Maitland," Chief Delaney said seriously.

He walked down the steps, heard the door close behind him. He stood at Boone's car while he slowly lighted a cigar. Then he took off his jacket, got in, started up. The car was an oven: no air stirring at all. He drove out to the main road, stopping across from the point where he had dropped Boone. But there was no sign of the sergeant. Delaney cut the engine, puffed calmly, waited.

About five minutes later, Abner Boone appeared among the trees on the other side of the road. He lifted a hand to Delaney, then came slouching across the pavement. He opened the back door, tossed the tools onto the floor. He stripped off his jacket. His shirt was soaked through. Sweat sheened on his face and glistened in the gingery hair on the backs of his hands.

"Like a sauna in there," he said to Delaney. "I'm demolished."

He got in and Delaney started up. Boone found a rag in the glove compartment, and tried to wipe some of the grime from his palms.

"They knew about Maitland's illness," the Chief said. "Claimed they didn't, but they were lying. How did you do?"

"About like Martha Beasely described it," the sergeant said. "There's a path from the gravel driveway to this back door. The path's been used a lot: grass beaten down, practically bare earth. The door itself is unlocked. Made of vertical planks with an inside Z-shaped frame. Looks as old as the barn itself. Original issue. Inside is this shed, like Martha Beasely said. About six by four. I paced it off. Goes up to the eaves. A lot of junk in there. The power mower, garden tools, a five-gallon can of gas, a box of hand tools, most of them rusty. Pieces of pipe, an old, cracked sink. Stuff like that. Mostly junk."

"Earth floor?"