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  Johnson, his mind relentlessly on the Brinks money, studied the diagram with interest. "I'd guess this smaller room at the back is where you'd find the safe. It's human nature, safes being as heavy as they are, to establish them on the first floor rather than to use pulleys and five or six men to haul them upstairs. At least we can hope that's where it is."

  This did not noticeably cheer up the chief, who said sardonically, "So all we need is a safecracker."

  Johnson nodded. "And a real pro. I know of a first-rate man for the job but unfortunately he's on assignment in San Francisco. I can think of one or two others but it needs a real gift, this job, and we can't take any chances. Have anyone in your police force?"

  The chief sighed. "Only gifted amateurs, but for a job like this ... Of course we have in Trafton the famous—or infamous—Amos Herzog. He did some lecturing for you some years back, didn't he?"

  Johnson said dryly, "A relic from the days when jewel thieves were actually considered heroes if they outwitted the police and didn't carry guns. Yes, I believe he gave a lecture or two some time ago, and then I gather he felt he'd done enough to amuse us and retired. Really retired."

  Pruden heard this with fresh interest, still reeling from Madame Karitska's calm announcement that he was a friend of hers. He said politely, "I've read some of his books."

  "He'd be the one if we could get him," said the chief. "Would a little blackmail bring him out of retirement? or a few subtle threats?"

  "Maybe, just maybe," said Pruden, "how about a friend of his?"

  "Such as?" countered the chief.

  Pruden instead asked, "Would he still be good? Would he have lost his touch?"

  "What friend?" demanded the chief.

  Johnson said crossly, "Never mind who he is; I say try him. If he can persuade Herzog . . , you know this friend?" When Pruden nodded he said, "Good. There's one more contribution I can make. You worry about this Brother Robin blowing up the place? My men can put together a pocket-size fire alarm to be set off as soon as the job's done. That should get everyone out in a hurry. If Herzog can be persuaded." "If," said the chief pointedly.

  VV^ "So that," said Madame Karitska, "is the story I bring if* you of a blossoming cult in Trafton in which the Brinks robber is hiding."

  Amos Herzog looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "I wondered why you called to ask if I'd invite you for tea this afternoon."

  "Well, you did hobnob with the FBI at one time, didn't you? Teach a class or lecture on picking locks?"

  "Only because it amused me," he told her. "But I'm certainly curious as to why they sent you. Of course, you're far more attractive than the chief of police, but still—"

  "Because," she admitted, "I made the mistake of mentioning to Lieutenant Pruden that I know you."

  He nodded. "Ah yes, that mysterious policeman who consults you."

  "Yes, and they really need an experienced and professional safecracker, and the FBI apparently felt you were unapproachable and very retired."

  "So," he said, "you are proposing that I leave my bed in the middle of the night to dismantle an elaborately designed electric gate and intercom, then make my way to the rear of this mansion, climb through a window and break open a safe."

  She said with dignity, "I'm sure you're far too skillful to 'break' open a safe; surely you're more subtle."

  "My dear Marina—"

  "I thought it might amuse you," she said with a shrug.

  He threw up his hands. "Deliver me from devious and cunning women! And if I should agree to this mad undertaking just what would I get in return?"

  "Absolution?" she suggested with a smile.

  "Not enough." He shook his head.

  "Then what?" she asked.

  "I've heard your proposal; now you can hear mine. There is something you could do for me in return if I agree to this lamentable caper."

  "Such as?"

  "Consider a proposal of mine."

  "Such as what?"

  His eyes were twinkling again. "A proposal of marriage."

  "You? Me?" Utterly astonished she said, "My dear Amos, you're not treating this police matter at all seriously; you have tobe joking."

  "On the contrary," he told her, "I have been appalled to see you living in such . . , such penury. It offends me. You're a very handsome woman, and what's more a very interesting woman, and you don't belong on Eighth Street

  . . , but I see that I've startled you?"

  "You certainly have," she told him. "You wretch, you know very well that I'm perfectly happy living on Eighth Street

  ."

  He nodded. "That's what particularly pleases me, since I've no interest in rescuing anyone out of charity. I'll agree to this if you in turn agree to consider my proposal. Note the word consider."

  "You're quite mad," she told him amiably, "and I don't for a moment believe that you're serious. I'm quite fond of you, I enjoy your company and our occasional chats on the phone evenings, but I've thought of you only as an interesting friend."

  "And what better basis for a marriage?" he inquired.

  "Amos," she told him, "you've never in your entire life been married."

  "Call me a late bloomer."

  She smiled. "I'd call you a blackmailer."

  "Not at all," he assured her blandly. "I simply asked you to consider my suggestion, to let it simmer for a while in that busy head of yours. As for your proposal, I admit that I'd find it gloriously ironic to work for the police. A new experience . .. I'll do it. Is that settled?"

  "Yes," she said, and wondered why she suddenly blushed. "They'll be happy to hear this, and you'll probably be having more visitors inside of an hour."

  "I hope not in uniform," he said tartly. "After all, I have my reputation to consider."

  There were always pedestrians on Amber Avenue

  , and on the following afternoon a man wearing a baseball cap and shabby trousers gave the fence and the gate a lingering and interested glance. Later a man in a business suit and hat strolled past and stopped to look admiringly at the Governor Stuyvesant house; after a moment he drew out a camera and took several pictures of it.

  An hour later a man with a cane, all in black, passed the mansion, stumbled, clung to the gate for a minute and then, drawing himself up slowly, limped away until a block later he entered Pruden's parked car.

  "Need any more trips?" asked Pruden.

  Herzog shook his head. "They definitely operate the gates from inside the house. What I need now are the photos I took of the wires connecting both intercom and gate. Have the photos been blown up—enlarged—yet?"

  "Working on them now; we'll go and see," Pruden told him, and glanced at the man beside him, still intrigued by his sheer audacity. It was an interesting face: white hair and black brows, and those vivid blue eyes. A suave and sophisticated man. He supposed this was how he'd been able to scout prospects in the most expensive shops in Paris, London, New York .., a glance at a credit card, a moment next to a woman in furs giving her address to a clerk. . . . That at least was what he'd heard of his technique, and always daylight robberies and without a weapon. A risk taker. And damn skillful, too; at headquarters the FBI had already tried him on the most complicated of locks; it had been incredible the speed with which he'd dissembled them. He was a man who applied his obviously keen intelligence to crime, and Pruden wondered what he'd have become if he'd been anything but a jewel thief.

  A lot was riding on this man next to him, he reflected, but he was still wondering how on earth he and Madame Karitska had ever met.

  By midnight they were all in position. They'd taken over the house across the street from the mansion, putting the family up in a hotel for the night and using the two front rooms as a stakeout. It was a time of shadows on a dark night.., a shadowy figure clipping wires at the gate, the gate quietly opening, and Herzog, followed by Pruden, slipping through it, closing it, and in crouch position the two making their way around the house to the rear .., a shadow at the window as it was
pried open—Herzog slipping through . . , the thin beam of a flashlight shining on a safe—Johnson had guessed right about its location—and the astonishing moment when a carton labeled CHAMPAGNE, still heavy with money, was slipped though the window to Pruden, followed by the safe's being emptied of bags of money and documents.

  And then Herzog vanished, leaving Pruden to guard the contents of the safe outside, with only the sound of crickets and from the woods the shrill of locusts. Pruden waited nervously for the fire alarm, hoping it worked, and then came the triumph of a shout from Herzog, "Fire! Out! Out!" and the shriek of the alarm . . , and as policemen poured through the unlocked gate to surround the mansion they were accompanied by the sound of screams, doors opening . . , shadowy figures rushing out of the mansion's doors .., a sudden movement at the top of the house, where someone had rushed to the widow's walk high above him, and as Pruden watched in horror a man threw himself from the top of the house to the ground . . , lights suddenly were on everywhere, showing the mansion's inhabitants in clusters on the lawn, shivering in the night air, all of them relieved to be ushered to safety from what they thought was a mansion on fire.

  There were two surprising discoveries from their raid: the appearance of Herzog escorting Brother Robin down the stairs and saying, "Darned if Brother Robin isn't Charley Schumacher, we shared a cell in jail once."

  The other discovery, much sadder, was the one casualty of the night, the man who had leaped suicidally from the roof, and they would never know why. His name was Alpha Oliver.

  12

  Pruden knew that, as usual, Madame Karitska would probably have heard nothing of the raid on the Guardians of Eden, since she rejected television and newspapers. As he understood it, this was akin to "keeping her arteries clear," and Jan, who had been born with the sixth sense, too, laughed at him for describing it so meanly. "You know very well how she explained it," she told him. "She has a gift that she uses five or six days a week now, and even you complain about all the crime news and violent programs. She can't afford the clutter."

  To which Pruden had said, somewhat worried, "Is this going to happen to you, too?"

  With a laugh she had assured him that she intended to live a very normal life. "As I'm sure Marina did until—how can I describe it?—until she was given a sign that she was to use her clairvoyance; go public, so to speak. '

  "And what was the sign?" Pruden asked, curious.

  "Well—or so she told me once, after you all rescued me— she dreamed for two or three nights of a brownstone house with a bright yellow door, and several days later when she went for a walk during one of her free hours she found herself on Eighth Street passing a brownstone with a bright yellow door. In fact, Kristan had just finished painting the door and was very startled to find a tenant so fast." She laughed. "When she told him that she gave readings he actually thought she was a Christian Scientist."

  Now they had been invited to dinner that evening, Madame Karitska had promised them a quiche if they would tell her everything that had happened the night before. When they arrived she had set up a table by the window, on which there was room for a small bouquet of flowers and for Pruden and Jan Cooper Hyer to dine comfortably with her.

  "I've already had a phone call from Faber-Jones," she told them, "but only to tell me he has Laurie with him, and she's all right, but nothing more. How did your raid go; what happened and what did you find? I'm eager to hear."

  "I'm still in a rage," Pruden said.

  Jan nodded. "I guess we all thought Brother Robin might be someone such as Roger Gillespie talked about, a cult ready to blow up the world."

  Pruden said grimly, "Well, he's blown up the world for a lot of people. He was nothing but a fraud, a damn clever con man. Nothing saintly about him at all. We know now that he came to Trafton six years ago with money from who knows what or whom, rented the Stuyvesant mansion, had a book printed, gave a few lectures—"

  "And a radio interview," put in Jan. 'At least one that I happened to hear on our local station, and he was certainly persuasive."

  Pruden nodded. "Persuasive enough so that having achieved sixty-three followers who lived there, fifty-two of them had turned over their life savings to him—and some were wealthy— all of them prepared to live and die there with him, or so they believed."

  "Persuasive indeed," murmured Madame Karitska.

  "Unfortunately there was not the slightest hint or breath of the spiritual about Guardians of Eden," said Pruden. "Somewhere he'd acquired the vocabulary of a guru and he was selling love, belonging and community like a salesman, but what he was after—like any thief—was money. And," he added, "from what we've found in his safe we figure he'd netted roughly twelve million."

  "Twelve million!" Jan gasped. "You didn't tell me that."

  "We've only known it for a few hours. "

  "And were there drugs, as you suspected?" asked Madame Karitska.

  "Oh yes, I was right about that; we found quantities of the drug Ecstasy, very illegal. It's how he kept the rebellious ones under control. But here's the crudest part: he made sure that no one could leave the Guardians of Eden, but under intense questioning at headquarters overnight he's admitted that he planned to leave in another year. Just walk out—leave, abandoning all of his sixty-three followers with nothing but disillusionment, heartbreak and no money . . , sixty-three personal tragedies."

  "And the realization," said Madame Karitska softly, "of how gullible they'd been."

  "Which is probably the saddest of all," agreed Pruden. "We've charged him with larceny, fraud, and illegal possession of drugs."

  "Good," said Jan.

  "And the Brinks robber?" asked Madame Karitska.

  Pruden frowned. "Jail for him, too, of course, but he's the strangest of all, because he had a very clean record—had to, or Brinks would never have hired him. Not even a speeding ticket, nothing. We've no idea yet how or where he met Brother Robin; he's not talking—in fact they've had to put a suicide watch on him." He gave Madame Karitska a curious glance. "Your friend Amos Herzog was pretty incredible, but I must say he's shockingly frank about his prison background." He suddenly grinned. "I've saved the fun part for the last. Herzog took one look at Brother Robin and said he was Charley Schumacher; he'd shared a cell in jail with him once, long ago, except in those days he was 'Duct Tape Charley' "

  Madame Karitska smiled. "Yes, he's said he found it very educational, his two experiences in prison." She did not add that he remained in touch with some of his old prison friends lest Pruden look on him as a mine of information, which would be quite unfair.

  "But. . . Duct Tape Charley?" exclaimed Jan.

  Pruden smiled. "Apparently he was called that years ago, before he learned the more subtle forms of crime; he'd enter a house and silence its occupants by taping their mouths, ankles and wrists with duct tape while he proceeded in leisurely fashion to collect their money and jewelry."

  "Rather crude," said Jan, "considering what he must have learned since then, to present himself as Brother Robin of the Guardians of Eden. But what will happen to his victims, those poor followers, or disciples, or whatever? They must be in shock."

  "They are, I can assure you," said Pruden. "We've appealed to psychologists and psychiatrists in the city to help, and fortunately we found in the safe a surprisingly efficient list as to who contributed what, and how much, and so some of the money can be returned, and—"

  "—but not their self-esteem or emotional health," Jan interrupted him to say.

  "Or the nirvana they hoped for," added Pruden. "It's sad because apparently they were all so very sincere. All except Brother Robin."

  Jan sighed. "I'm afraid there will always be candidates for a Guardian of Eden, we see it at the Settlement House too frequently. Just what Roger Gillespie said about the attraction of cults at Faber-Jones's party, remember? At least Brother Robin didn't plan to manufacture sarin and loose it in the subways."

  Madame Karitska changed the subject by asking if Faber-J
ones's daughter had been drugged. "Because he didn't say, and I didn't ask."

  "Hadn't been there long enough, apparently, but she certainly seemed relieved to be out of it. Come to think of it," he added, "Faber-Jones, when he came for her, did tell me you'd given him the impression you had something to offer Laurie if she ever left the place."

  "We'll see," she said noncommittally.

  With a glance at his watch Pruden said, "Eight o'clock! We'll have to leave now; Jan's chaperoning a dance at the Settlement House and I'll have paperwork to do at headquarters. But," he said, "I have news for you."

  "Yes, tell her," Jan said, smiling.

  "The chief finds himself extremely grateful to you for persuading Amos Herzog to come out of retirement and help us—and I won't ask how," he added, although he longed to ask. "He's decided to swallow his stubborn pride and announce publicly that the Trafton City Police Department now has a psychic as consultant. Acknowledgment at last! How about that?"

  "I'm overwhelmed," she said dryly.

  She did not have long to wait for another call from Faber-Jones; the next morning, in a surprisingly meek voice, he asked if he could make an appointment for his daughter to see her. "Because," he added, "you did say— admit it—that you had an idea how Laurie could find—as you phrased it—what she's looking for."

  "Apparently I did, yes."

  "She hates me," Faber-Jones said helplessly. "She's here with me now but won't talk, and since she wasn't away long enough to forfeit her room in the college dormitory she insists on returning there—to get away from me, I suspect— but has no intention of attending any classes. I've agreed to her moving there tonight, and to continuing her allowance, but only if she agrees to see you."