The Chief was back in ten minutes, appearing with startling suddenness at Boone's window.

"It's parked," he whispered. "They're in. Let's go."

Both men were wearing dark slacks, shirts, sweaters, shoes. They carried tools and equipment in two burlap bags, swaddled in the squares of black cloth to prevent clinking. Boone went first, one of the penlights switched on and held low; a small circle of dim light jerked along at his feet.

They were city cops, not woodsmen; they could not avoid snapping dried twigs on the ground and blundering into branches. But they moved slowly, stopping frequently to snap off the light, stand and listen. They made a wide circle to keep the barn between themselves and the house. It was a humid night, but a cool river breeze helped. The smells were unfamiliar: rank earth, a brief stench of some live animal, the odor of sappy things, an occasional thick, sweet smell of flowers. Once they heard the rush and scamper of a small beast running. It spooked them.

They came up alongside the barn. Boone turned the penlight aside briefly to show Delaney the rock-lined drain pit and the air-conditioner vent. Neither man spoke. They waited for clouds to obscure the moon completely before they slipped around the corner. The sergeant led the way into the shed, the Chief following close behind, one hand on Boone's shoulder.

They closed the outside door softly behind them, made a quick sweep of the shed with the watery penlight beam, then set to work. They took the canvas tarp from the wall and hung it across the ill-fitting outside door so light would not escape through the chinks. Then they moved close to the hidden door and went into the drill they had planned.

Chief Delaney held a square of black cloth between the lock and the house, to provide additional masking. He held the penlight in his mouth, gripping it lightly in his teeth, more firmly with his lips. Boone found the tube of liquid graphite, gave the key opening a little squirt, and selected two picks from the kit in his hip pocket. They were long needles, one pointed, one with a tiny paddle head.

He inserted the pointed lock pick into the keyhole, began to probe gently, staring up into the darkness. ("No use staring at the lock," Sammy Delgado had said. "Your eyesight will fuzz. It's all in the touch and feel.") But Boone touched nothing, felt nothing. He swabbed around gently, trying to catch a tumbler. But the pick kept slipping in his sweaty hands. He left it there, sticking from the lock, stooped and rubbed fingers and palms on the dusty floorboards. Then he went back to his probing, blinking nervously. Finally, he shook his head in the gloom. Delaney dropped one corner of the masking cloth, took the penlight from his mouth, switched it off. He moved his head closer to Boone's.

"Want me to try?" he whispered.

"Not yet. Let me rest a minute and get rid of the shakes. Then I'll try a hook."

They stood there in the blackness, both trying to breathe deeply. The shed held the day's heat and the must of years. It stuffed their nostrils, clotted their eyes. They smelled themselves, and each other.

"All right," Boone said in a low voice. "I need the light down here for a second."

Delaney held the penlight to illuminate the sergeant's dusty hands fumbling at his pick kit. He replaced the pointed pick, withdrew one with a tiny hook at the end. They went back to their original positions, Boone probing now with the hooked pick, frowning thoughtfully up into the darkness. He felt the pick catch.

"Got one," he breathed.

He slid the paddle-tipped pick into the keyhole alongside the hook. Now he was working with both hands, the paddle searching for clearance as the hook turned a tumbler.

It took almost half an hour, and they stopped to rest and listen three times. But finally the paddle pick slid firmly in; they both heard the satisfying click. Boone slowly turned his wrists until both elbows were pointing upward as Delaney pressed a knee softly but firmly against the door. The final click was louder as the tang pulled back. They stopped, sweating, listened again. Then Delaney nudged the door open.

The light was switched off. Both sat on the floor for a few minutes. Delaney kept his hand carefully on the sill of the opened door, to prevent it from swinging shut. They felt a waft of cool air pouring from the interior.

"Let's go," Boone said.

They got to their feet, picked up their burlap bags. The sergeant pushed the door open slowly.

"Wait," Delaney said.

He wedged a wrapped screwdriver and pliers into place across the lower inside hinge so the door was immobilized. They moved cautiously: a slow-motion film.

The first thing they did was to check the inside of the door. There was a knob, and when Boone satisfied himself that it worked the long tang, he withdrew his picks, and slid them back into his kit. Delaney removed the hinge obstruction, and closed the door softly behind them. They were in.

"A felony," the Chief said.

"The door fits tightly," Boone said. "Okay for the lantern?"

"Sure," Delaney said. "Here, I've got it."

He unwrapped the black cloth, stuffed it back into the burlap bag. He straightened up, held the lantern waist-high, snapped it on. A powerful beam probed straight ahead, so bright that their eyes squinted. Then widened. They saw it all.

The interior of the old barn had been insulated, and rough wooden racks built almost to the roof. A sturdy ladder leaned against a wall. A heavy air conditioner was emplaced in a corner. There was a wooden kitchen table, a single wooden chair. And nothing more. Except the paintings.

They were everywhere. On the racks. On the floor. Leaning against the walls. Not in stacks, canvas against canvas, but singly, apart, to dry and gleam. In the glare of the lantern, burning faces stared at them, eyes blazed, mouths mocked.

Delaney and Boone stood frozen, awed by the liquid fire of color that poured over them. They had a sense of shame, of having invaded a church, violated a holy place. There were a few still lifes, landscapes, portraits. But most of the paintings were nudes, bursting Victor Maitland nudes, strangling with their ripeness, gorgeous tints of cream and crimson. Shadows of violet. Hidden parts, secret nooks. Arms reaching, eager legs grasping.

"Jesus Christ," Boone whispered.

They stood and stared, stared, stared. The Chief moved the lantern beam slowly about. In the shifting illumination, now bright, now gloom, they saw swollen limbs quiver, move languorously. They choked in a sea of flesh, drowning. Bodies came writhing off canvas to embrace, entwine, suffocate with breath of steam and hair of flame.

Delaney flicked off the lantern, and they heard themselves breathing heavily.

"Too much," the Chief said in the darkness. "All together like this. Too strong. Too much to take."

"What do you figure?" Abner Boone said hoarsely. "About two hundred of them?"

"Say two hundred," Delaney said. "Say a minimum of a hundred grand a painting."

"Say twenty million," Boone said. "In a wooden barn. I can't believe it. Let's lift ten or so, Chief, and take off for Rio."

"Don't think I haven't thought of that," Delaney said. "Except I know I could never bring myself to fence them. Let's take another look. Use the penlight this time."

The weak light was a relief; they were no longer dazzled, befuddled. They moved to the nearest painting, a dark, rope-bodied nude, torso twisted, hip sprung, legs and arms like serpents, and a wicked smile that challenged. Boone moved the circle of light to the lower righthand corner. They saw that neat bookkeeper's signature, Victor Maitland, followed by the date: 1958.

"Son of a bitch," Delaney said. "Try another."

They went from painting to painting. All were dated 1957, 1958, 1959, a few 1960. None more recent.

"Beautiful," Boone said. "Not only a fake record in Geltman's safe, but a fake date right there on the painting. The IRS will have a sweet job proving they were done a year ago."

"They thought of everything," Delaney marveled. "It had to be J. Julian Simon. Had to be. It smells of the legal mind at work. Let's get some shots. Just to prove this harem exists."

Boone held the lantern, turned on for added illumination while Delaney shot a pack of color Polaroid with flash. The colors of the prints weren't as rich as the oils of the paintings, but the overall shots were impressive: a crowded mint of art.

They gathered up all their equipment, stowed it into the burlap bags. They inspected the floor carefully to make certain they were leaving no track of their presence.

They went out slowly, cautiously, guided by the beam of a penlight, now weak and flickering. Boone wiped the inside knob before he stepped through to the shed. He closed the door by inserting a hooked pick into the keyhole, then pulling the door to him until the tang snicked into place. They quickly hung the greasy tarp back in its original position. They waited a few moments in darkness, listening. Then they moved silently outside.

They both glanced toward the Maitland house. Even as they did, a light came on in an upstairs window. They didn't rush, but they didn't dawdle either. Around the corner, down the side, into the trees. Twenty minutes later they were headed back to New York, both of them smoking furiously.

"What do we do now?" Boone asked. "Brace Geltman?"

"What for?" Delaney asked. "It's just a tax rap. He won't scare. J. Julian Simon maybe. He's the key to Geltman's alibi. But why should he talk? Shit, shit, and shit. Maybe Belle Sarazen."

"Why her?"

"Possible motive. Oh God, I don't know, sergeant. Just fishing."

"Maybe the wife found out about the tax scam and got sore. Because those paintings wouldn't be included in the estate, in her inheritance."

"Another possibility," Delaney sighed. "We've got plenty of those. Want me to drive awhile?"

"No. Thank you, sir. I'm fine. Steadying down now. How the B-and-E guys get the balls to do that, I'll never know."

"I suppose it gets easier with experience."

"I don't want to find out," Boone said. "Stop for coffee-and, if we can find a place that's open?"

"Let's go straight in. You stop by; Monica left a fresh pot and some cinnamon buns for us in the kitchen."

"Sounds good," the sergeant said, and began driving faster.

It was past three A.M.; the Chief expected Monica had been asleep for hours. But when they pulled up in front of the Delaney brownstone, the living-room lights were on; he saw the figure of his wife standing at the curtains peering out.

"Now what the hell?" he growled.

They went up the stairs with some trepidation, hands hovering near gun butts. But Monica unlocked the door for them, safe, eager to tell her story.

Jason T. Jason had called several times. He had also tried calling Abner Boone's apartment. He told Mrs. Delaney he would call every fifteen minutes, on the quarter-hour, until the Chief returned home, and Jason could talk to him.

"Did he say what it was?"

"No, he just said it was important, and he had to report to you or Abner as soon as possible. He's very polite."

The two cops looked at each other.

"In trouble?" Delaney suggested.

"Or he's found Mama Perez," Boone said. "One or the other."

"Well ..." Delaney looked at his watch. "About ten minutes before he calls again."

"The coffee's warm," Monica said. "I'll just turn up the light. The two of you wash up. You look like you've been digging."

They sat around the kitchen table, sipping their coffee, munching their cinnamon buns. Monica refused to go to bed; she wanted to hear what had happened.

Delaney was telling her about that incredible cache of paintings when the phone rang. He picked up the kitchen extension. He had already set out paper and pencil, ready to take notes.

"Edward X. Delaney here," he said. "Yes, Jason ... So I understand ... We've both been out ... Yes ... Good. Excellent. Where? ... Right ... Between what streets? ... You're sure she's in for the night? ... All right, hang on a moment ..."

He covered the receiver with his palm, turned to the others, smiling coldly.

"Got her," he said. "Orchard Street, just south of Grand. Top floor of a tenement. Apparently she's a hooker, but Jason says she's in for the night. If not, he'll tail her."

"I better get down there," Abner Boone worried. "He won't know what to do."

"Yes," Delaney nodded, "you better go. Send Jason home. If he wants to go. But he sounds excited. I'll join you in the morning, and we'll brace her then. Call here every hour on the hour."

He got back on the phone and asked Jason Two his exact location. He jotted down a few notes.

"Stay right there," he ordered. "Sergeant Boone is on his way. If she leaves the house, you follow and try to keep in touch with me here. Have you eaten tonight? ... All right, we'll take care of it. Good work, Jason."

He hung up, looked at his notes with grim satisfaction.

"You'll find him on the corner of Orchard and Grand," he told Boone. "He'll be watching for you. For God's sake, don't lose her. If you need more men, call me here."

"We won't lose her, sir," Boone promised.

"Has he eaten?" Monica asked. "Jason?"

"No. Not since yesterday afternoon."

"I'll make some sandwiches," she said.

"Good," the Chief said gratefully. "Big, thick sandwiches. He's a big man. And we have that quart thermos. Sergeant, take that with coffee. You'll never find any place open at this hour."

They equipped Boone with coffee, sandwiches, extra cigarettes, all the dimes they had in the house, for phone calls, and sent him on his way.

"Mrs. Delaney," he muttered, before he left, blushing, head lowered, "could you call Rebecca for me and explain? Why I can't-uh-see her?"

"I'll call, Abner," she promised.

"Call her where?" Delaney asked after Boone had departed.

"His apartment," Monica said shortly. "They're living together now."

"Oh?" the Chief said, and they took their coffee mugs into the study. He showed her the Polaroid color shots he had taken in the Maitland barn.

"I can't believe it," she said, shaking her head.

"I saw it, and I can't believe it," he told her. "Overwhelming. All that color. All those nudes. What a thing. It shook me."

"What will you do now, Edward?"

"Get photographs together of everyone connected with the case. I think I have most of them in the file. J. Julian Simon I don't have. And maybe Ted Maitland. I'm not sure; I'll have to check. Then tomorrow we'll show them to Mama Perez and ask her who she saw at Maitland's studio that Friday morning."

"You think she'll tell you?"

"Oh, she'll tell us," he said. "One way or another."

18.