"No, it's planked. But earth right below. No cellar or foundation. The floor's just a few inches above the ground. I got the screwdriver down in a crack between two of the planks and poked around. Just dirt."

"And that's all?" Delaney asked. "Just that tool shed?"

"No," Sergeant Boone said, turning sideways to look at the Chief. "There's more. There's an old tarp hanging on the back wall. A greasy piece of canvas just hooked over a couple of nails. Like it was hung up to dry. There's a door behind the tarp."

"A door," Delaney nodded, with some satisfaction. "Behind the tarp. Hidden."

"Right," Boone said. "A modern door. A flush door. Solid, I'd say; not hollow. Hinged from the other side."

"Locked?"

"Oh yes. A good tumbler lock. Maybe a Medeco. But no door knob. No handle at all. Just that lock. You spring that and push the door open."

"You couldn't spring it?"

"No way. Not with a screwdriver and pliers. I figured you didn't want me to jimmy the door."

"You figured right. Got any idea what's behind the locked door?"

"No, sir. No cracks. No tracks. Nothing. So I put the tarp back the way it was, came out, and closed the outside door. Now get this ... I'm around the back of the barn, looking around. High up, right under the peak of the roof, there's a small window that's been boarded up. It's like fifteen, maybe eighteen feet from the ground. No way to get to it. And even if I had had a ladder, it was really sealed tight. Heavy planks nailed across it every which way. So while I'm staring at it, I hear a click, and then there's a low hum."

Delaney took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at Boone. "What the hell?" he said.

"Right," the sergeant nodded. "Just what I thought. So then I went back into the shed, pulled the tarp aside again, and put my ear on the door. I could hear it better: a low, steady hum. A drone. Like machinery."

"I can't believe it," the Chief said wonderingly.

"How do you think I felt?" Abner Boone said. "At first I thought I was hearing things. But then there was a click again, and the humming stopped. Just like that. Then I knew. An air conditioner."

"Jesus Christ," Delaney said.

"Had to be," the sergeant said. "Working on a thermostat. The temperature inside gets too high, and it kicks on automatically. So then I went outside again to see if I could find where the damned thing vents. That's what took me so long. I finally found it. There's a half-moon hole in the ground for runoff from the roof gutter. It's lined with rocks. Old, old, old. Anyway, the vent grille has been set into that. Below ground level but open to the air. Neat. If it drips, who's to notice? In fact, you'd never see the vent at all unless you went looking for it."

"An air conditioner," Delaney said, shaking his head. "What the hell they got in there-a meat market? The walls lined with hams and sides of beef?"

"Who the hell knows?" Boone said wearily.

"We'll never get a warrant," Delaney said.

"No way, sir," the sergeant agreed.

"Think you could pick that lock?"

"I could give it the old college try. I guess we'll have to, won't we?"

"I guess we will," Chief Delaney nodded. "We've got no choice."

They stopped at a gas station on the way back to New York, and Abner Boone washed up and tried to scrub a grease stain from the knee of his slacks, with no success. Then he took the wheel, and they drove into Manhattan without exchanging half a dozen words, both frowning because of what they were thinking. Once Delaney said, "He had to do something," but Boone didn't reply, and the Chief said nothing more.

Monica was out when they arrived at the Delaney brownstone. The Chief poked around in the refrigerator, and brought out bread, mustard, cold cuts, cheese, a jar of kosher dills, and an onion. He and Boone made their own sandwiches, two for each, and carried them into the study balanced on squares of paper toweling; no plates, nothing to wash up but a couple of forks and knives. The Chief took a can of Ballantine ale, and Boone had a bottle of tonic water. No glasses.

They ate slowly, in silence, still ruminating, their eyes turned downward and blinking.

"Look," Chief Delaney said, beginning to work on his second sandwich-salami and onion on pumpernickel-"let's do this ..." He tore a sheet from his yellow legal pad and pushed it across the desk to Abner Boone. He put a pencil alongside it. "You write what you think are the three biggest question marks in this mess. I mean besides who wasted Maitland. The three things that bug you the most. I'll do the same. Then we'll read each other's list and see if we're thinking along the same lines."

"Only three questions?" Boone said. "I can think of a hundred."

"Just three," Delaney said. "The three you think are most important. Most significant,"

"I'm game," the sergeant said, picking up the pencil as Delaney took out his pen.

The Chief's list of the three most puzzling aspects of the case read as follows: 1. Why were no paintings found in Mott Street studio?

2. Where's the big money coming from that Dora and Emily Maitland are counting on?

3. Why didn't Victor Maitland, knowing he was dying, change his life style or make special plans?

Delaney looked up, but Boone was staring into space, pondering. So the Chief worked on his sandwich while the sergeant began writing again. Finally he nodded he was finished. They exchanged lists, and Delaney read what Boone had written: 1. What's in the Maitlands' barn?

2. Why didn't Maitland contribute to support of mother and sister?

3. Why did Victor Maitland and Saul Geltman arrange Nyack visits so Martha Beasely wouldn't see them?

"Jesus Christ," Abner Boone said disgustedly, "we're not even worrying along the same lines."

Chief Delaney raised his eyes slowly, stared at the sergeant a moment. Then he took his own list back, placed it alongside Boone's, read them both again. Then he raised his eyes again.

"Sure we are," he said softly. "We're both on the same track. Closer than you think. Look at this ..."

He took a pair of scissors from his top desk drawer. He trimmed the excess paper from the bottom of his and Boone's lists and dropped the scraps neatly into the wastepaper basket concealed in the well of his desk. Then carefully, slowly, he scissored each list into three parts. Now he had six slips of paper, six individual questions. He placed them in a single column and began to move them around.

Interested, Abner Boone rose, moved behind Delaney, bent over his shoulder. He watched the Chief try the six questions in various sequences. Then Delaney got them in an order that pleased him, sat back staring at them.

"Well?" he asked Boone, not looking at him.

The sergeant shook his head.

"I still don't get it," he said.

"Read them again," the Chief urged.

Now the list read: 1. Why didn't Maitland contribute to support of mother and sister?

2. Why didn't Victor Maitland, knowing he was dying, change his life style or make special plans?

3. Why were no paintings found in Mott Street studio?

4. Why did Victor Maitland and Saul Geltman arrange Nyack visits so Martha Beasely wouldn't see them?

5. Where's the big money coming from that Dora and Emily Maitland are counting on?

6. What's in the Maitland's barn?

Boone straightened up. He put his hands on his hips, bent backward until his spine cracked, stretched, took a deep breath.

"Chief," he said, "are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I sure am," Delaney said, trying not to sound excited. "I've got to make some phone calls ... You sit down. Or make yourself another sandwich. Or open another-no, wait. There's a job you've got to do while I phone."

He went to his bookcase, got the oversize art volume of the works of Victor Maitland, the book Boone had loaned him. He showed the sergeant the section listing the artist's oeuvre.

"This book was published six months ago," Delaney said, "and probably written at least six months before that. So the list won't be right up to the minute. But it should tell us if we're thinking straight."

"What you want is the number of known paintings Maitland did every year-right?" Boone asked.

"Right!" Delaney said. He wanted to clap the sergeant on the shoulder, but didn't. "The list starts twenty years ago, when he began to sell. You get on the numbers, and I'll call Jake Dukker."

He had no trouble getting Dukker's studio, but the receptionist told him the artist was busy in a shooting session and couldn't come to the phone.

"What's he doing-photographing pornographic confirmation cards?" Delaney said. "You tell Jake baby this is Chief Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department, and if he doesn't get his tuchas to the phone, there'll be a man in blue up there in-Oh hello, Mr. Dukker. Forgive me for bothering you, but I know how anxious you are to cooperate. Just one short question this time: How long did it take Victor Maitland to do a painting?"

Abner Boone raised his head from his counting to listen to Delaney's conversation.

"I know, I know ... Look, you told us he as a fast worker, Belle Sarazen told us he was a fast worker, Saul Geltman told us he was a fast worker. All right-how fast? ... Uh-huh ... I understand ... And if he was pushing it? ... Yes ... I get it ... But on average, what would you say? ... Yes ... So that could be at least fifty a year? ... Yes ... No, I'm not going to make you swear to it; it's just for my own information ... And you're faster?" Delaney winked at the listening Abner Boone. "I understand completely, Mr. Dukker. Thank you very much for your kind cooperation."

He hung up and made some quick notes on his pad while talking to the sergeant.

"Says it depends on the artist," he said rapidly. "Some can spend a year on a single canvas. Maitland worked fast, like everyone told us. Twenty or thirty a year. Easily. One a week if he pushed it. Maybe even more, Dukker says. Didn't even let the layers of paint dry properly. Jake baby says Maitland could do a painting overnight on a bet, but let's figure an average of one a week to be on the conservative side. How you doing?"

"Give me a couple of more minutes," Boone said. "It looks good."

Delaney waited patiently while the sergeant counted the number of known paintings Maitland produced each year. Finally, Boone pushed the book away and studied his list.

"All right," he said, "here's how it stands: Beginning when the list starts, he did about twenty a year, then thirty, then more, and more, until he's doing like fifty paintings a year. This is on the average. Then, five years ago-"

"When he learns he's dying," Delaney put in.

"Right. About five years ago, suddenly it goes to twelve, ten, fourteen, eleven paintings a year. His annual production fell way off."

"The hell it did," the Chief said. "If anything, he began working harder and faster. If he turned out fifty paintings a year, say, for the past five years, and you subtract the number of known paintings listed in that book, how many paintings are unaccounted for?"

"About two hundred," Boone said, staring at his list. "Jesus, two hundred missing paintings!"

"Missing, my ass," Delaney said. "They're in the Maitlands' barn. That explains the air conditioner, doesn't it?"

"I'll buy that," Boone nodded. "Now give me the why."

Delaney grabbed for his Manhattan telephone directory.

"I'm going to call the Internal Revenue Service information," he told the sergeant. "You get on the phone in the hallway and listen in. I don't want to have to repeat the conversation; it'll probably be a long one."

Boone took his second sandwich and what was left of his bottle of tonic into the hallway. Delaney dialed IRS information and was answered by a recorded message telling him all the information lines were busy, and would he please wait. He hung up, dialed again, and got the same message. Went through it again, and on the third try decided to wait. He held the phone almost five minutes, and then a growly voice came on, saying, "Information. Can I help you?"

"I'd like some information on gift taxes," the Chief said.

"What do you want to know?" the voice growled.

"How much can I give to relatives-or to anyone-without paying taxes on it?"

"An individual can give three thousand a year to as many donees as he wants."

"And the donor doesn't have to pay any tax on that, and the donee receiving the gift doesn't?"

"Right," the growler said.

"Look," Delaney said, "that's for money. Cash. What about things-like, oh say sterling silver, antiques, stamps, coins, paintings-stuff like that?"

"The same holds true. The value of the annual gifts cannot exceed three thousand if they're to be tax-free."

Delaney was getting interested. Like most cops, he was intrigued by how the system could be fiddled.

"Suppose I sell something to a relative or friend," he suggested, "for, say, a hundred dollars, and it's really worth five thousand. Then what?"

"Then you're in the soup," the voice growled. "If we find out about it. Gifts of anything-antiques, stamps, coins, paintings, whatever-are evaluated at current market value at the time of the gift. We hire expert appraisers. If the sale price is obviously out of line, then the person who fakes the purchase has to pay tax on the value over three thousand."

"If you find out about it," Delaney reminded him.

"If we find out-right," the growler said. "You want to take a chance of being racked up on tax fraud, go right ahead; be my guest."

"Let me ask you another question," Delaney said. "All right?"

"Sure. This is more interesting than most of the stuff I get."

"Let me give you a for-instance. Suppose I own ten acres of land. Now the value of that land is three thousand dollars, and I sign the land over to my son, say. That's okay, right?"

"If the value of the land is legitimate, it's okay. It would mean that surrounding land, similar acres, are going for that price. Then, sure, that would be a legal gift, tax-free."

"All right, let's say it's legal. I've got proof those ten acres are worth three thousand. They're a gift I make to my son. Tax-free. But then, about ten years later, or fifteen, or twenty, oil is discovered on that land, and suddenly those acres are worth a million dollars. What then? Was it still a legal gift?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then: "That's a good one. First time I've had that thrown at me. Look, I got to admit the tax laws about gifts are murky. We know a lot of people get away with murder, and there's nothing we can do about it. Mostly because we never hear about it, never learn about it. But to get back to your question ... you give land to your son legitimately worth three thousand. Right?"

"Right."

"Then, years later, oil is discovered on that land, and it greatly appreciates in value. Have I got it correct?"

"Yes, correct."

"Then it's your son's good luck. That's the way I interpret the regulations. I may be wrong, but I don't think I am. When you gave that land to your son, you didn't know there was oil on it, did you?"