Free 1 - Artscape: Ike Schwartz Mystery 1 by Frederick Ramsay Page B

the lock; the bad news was he had no idea why it was plastic. There was only one way to find out—open it. He guessed that it must work on a plastic key and be wired so that any metal inserted into it would close an electrical circuit and trip an alarm. He decided it could not work any other way. He put his picks away and rummaged in his pockets until he found the toothpicks he carried to make wedges to jam trip switches. They did not work as well as his lock picks, but they did work, and he was able to pick the lock and swing the door open.
    Harry gaped at the interior. He shook his head in disbelief. There must be forty different alarms in this building. Donati would have been better off stealing the alarm system than the paintings. It was worth more.
    There were two rows of lights, each marking the location of the trip in the building. To the right was the master switch. Throw it and the whole lot was killed. Harry reached for the switch, paused, and then squinted at it. Too easy, he thought. There has got to be one more trip here somewhere behind the switch. Throw the switch and they know up at the main building that the system is deactivated. He would have to remove the whole plate from the recessed box and get at each trip separately. It was bolted at the corners.
    Harry removed a palette knife from his bag and slipped it behind the plate at the top. It slid freely across the width of the plate, bolt to bolt. On the right side, it caught halfway down. He tilted the blade and worked it past the obstacle, heard the light click as the trip switch snapped back when the blade passed by. He worked it back over the switch and taped the knife to the wall. With another blade, he repeated the maneuver at the bottom—no switch—and left side—one more.
    With the two knives taped in place, he backed out the bolts, removed the plate, taped the knives more securely, and turned his attention to the dozens of cables coiled spaghetti-like in the box.
    Harry’s hands moved like spiders through the delicate, complicated electronic web, capturing each alarm system like a fly, immobilizing and rendering it useless. His concentration was absolute as his mind sifted through his options. Options developed in equal part from his years of experience and his intuitive grasp of the system. Even in the bad days, when he would often work in an alcoholic haze, his instincts never failed him, had in fact often saved him where someone else, even someone with complete faculties, might have failed. His old boss had once admitted that Harry Grafton drunk operated better than almost anyone else sober. But that was a long time ago—a life that belonged to another Harry Grafton, the one with a wife and family and a job on the right side of the law.
    He saved the lasers for last. He watched the beams wink out in the last wisps of water vapor. He was done. He glanced at his watch and then looked again. He had done the job in an hour and fifteen minutes. He guessed there was something to be said for sobriety.
    He packed his bag and walked to the door. It had been cool in the building. The designers had included a constant temperature and humidity ventilating system. In spite of its sixty-eight degrees, Harry was soaking wet. He stepped outside, nodded to Donati, and walked to the edge of the woods where he gave in to the nausea. He retched, caught his breath, and retched again.
    Red backed one trailer to the main door. He climbed out of the cab and gave Harry a thumbs-up sign, which he changed to a single finger salute. He swung the rear doors open and went into the building. Harry caught his breath and let the sweat cool his forehead. The two kids, now blindfolded, sat handcuffed together, right wrists to the other’s left, encircling the bole of an oak tree. A little late for that, he thought.
    Donati appeared at the door and motioned to Grafton. “We got work to do, pal, and we don’t have no union men here, so help haul these pictures up and into