Second Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “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 tel
l 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?”

  “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 si
gnificant,”

  “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.