"Sorry."

"The thing is, when she came in with the dog I figured they were a natural combination. She's a tall stern blonde out of a masochist's dream. Wears designer dresses. Cheekbones straight out of the Social Register. Yards of class, you know?"

"Uh-huh."

"And the Bouvier's a very classy dog. Very trendy these days. It's only been an AKC recognized breed for a couple of years now. They're expensive dogs, and they look pretty classy even if you don't happen to know how much they cost, and here's this leggy blonde in a leather coat with this jet-black Bouvier at her side, and they looked right for each other."

"So?"

"She picked the dog because of its name."

"What was his name?"

"Her name, not his name. The dog's a bitch."

"That's pretty trendy, too. Being a bitch."

"Oh, it never goes out of style. No, the dog's name is Astrid, as a matter of fact, but that's the name Wanda gave her. What made her pick the dog was the name of the breed."

"Why?"

"Because Wanda's maiden name is Flanders."

"Jackie Kennedy's maiden name is Bouvier," I said, "and I don't know what kind of a dog she has, and I'm not sure I care. You lost me somewhere. What does Flanders have to do with Bouvier?"

"Oh, I thought you knew. The Bouvier originated in Belgium. The full name of the breed is Bouvier des Flandres."

"Oh."

"So that's what got her interested in the breed, and she wound up buying a puppy a couple of years ago, and it turned out to be the perfect choice. She's crazy about Astrid, and the dog's incredibly devoted to her, and in addition to being a classy animal Astrid's also extremely intelligent and a great watchdog."

"I'm really happy for them," I said.

"I think you should be. I've been grooming her dog for about a year now. She'll bring her in for routine bathing and grooming every couple of months, and then she'll get the full treatment before shows. They don't show Astrid all that often but now and then they'll hit a show, and she's picked up a couple of ribbons along the way, including a blue or two."

"That's nice for her."

"For Wanda and Herb, too. Wanda loves to walk the dog. She feels safe in the streets when she's got Astrid with her. And she and her husband both feel safe with the dog guarding the house. They don't worry about burglars."

"I can understand that."

"Uh-huh. Astrid's their burglar insurance. She's due to go into heat in a couple of weeks and this time they're going to breed her. Wanda's concerned that the experience of motherhood might undercut her abilities as an attack dog, but she's going ahead with it anyway. The stud dog is a famous champion. He lives out in the country in Berks County, Pennsylvania. I think that's around Reading. They ship bitches to him from all over the country and he gets paid for it. The dog's owner gets paid, I mean."

"It's still a pretty good life for the dog."

"Isn't it? Wanda's not shipping Astrid. She and her husband are taking her out there. When you breed dogs you put the animals together two days in a row, to make sure you hit the peak ovulation period. So they'll drive out to Berks County with Astrid and stay overnight and have the second breeding the next day and drive back."

"Should make a nice trip for all three of them."

"Especially if the weather's nice."

"That's always a factor," I said. "I just know there's a reason you're telling me all this."

"Sharp of you. They'll be gone overnight, and so will Astrid, and Astrid's their burglar protection. They're rich enough to afford designer dresses and trendy purebred dogs. And for him to indulge his little hobby."

"What little hobby?"

"He collects coins."

"Oh," I said, and frowned. "You told me his name. Not Flanders, that was her maiden name, like the dog. Colcannon. But you didn't say his first name. Wait a minute. Yes, you did. His first name's Herb."

"You've got a great mind for details, Bern."

"Herb Colcannon. Herbert Colcannon. Herbert Franklin Colcannon. Is he that Herbert Colcannon?"

"How many do you figure there are?"

"He was buying proof pattern gold at a Bowers and Ruddy auction last fall and he picked up something a few months ago at a sale at Stack's. I forget what. I read something about it in Coin World. But the odds are he keeps the stuff in the bank."

"They've got a wall safe. What does that do to the odds?"

"Shaves them a little. How do you happen to know that?"

"She mentioned it once. How she'd wanted to wear a piece of jewelry one night and couldn't because it was locked up and she'd forgotten the combination and he was out of town. I almost told her I had a friend who could have helped her, but I decided it might be better if she didn't know about you."

"Wise decision. Maybe he doesn't keep everything in the bank. Maybe some of his coins keep her jewelry company." My mind was starting to race. Where did they live? What was the security like? How could I crack it? What was I likely to walk out with, and through whose good offices could I most expediently turn it into clean anonymous cash?

"They're in Chelsea," Carolyn went on. "Tucked away off the street in a carriage house. Not in the phone book, but I have the address. And the phone number."

"Good to have."

"Uh-huh. They have the whole house to themselves. No children. No servants living in."

"Interesting."

"I thought so. What I thought is this sounds like a job for the Dynamic Duo."

"Good thinking," I said. "I'll buy you a drink on the strength of that."

"It's about time."

Illegal entry is a good deal less suspicious beneath the warm benevolent gaze of the sun. Nosy neighbors who'd dial 911 if they spotted you after dark will simply assume you've showed up at last to tend to the leaky faucet. Give me a clipboard or a toolbox and an hour between noon and four and the staunchest citizen crime-fighter on the block will hold the door for me and tell me to have a nice day. All things being equal, the best time for a residential burglary is the middle of the afternoon.

But when are all things ever equal? The cloak of darkness is comforting garb to the burglar, if not to the householder, and when one operates a legitimate business one hesitates to close it abruptly in the middle of the day for no good reason. The Colcannons' schedule, too, favored a nocturnal visit. We knew they would be away overnight, and knew too that the premises would be unencumbered by handymen or cleaning women (handy persons? cleaning persons?) once the sun was over the yardarm.

The sun had long since crossed the yardarm and disappeared somewhere in New Jersey by the time we ventured forth. From the Bum Rap we'd taken a couple of subway trains and walked a block to my building at Seventy-first and West End, where I shucked the jeans and sweater I'd worn at the store and put on flannel slacks and a tie and jacket. I filled my pockets with useful odds and ends, packed another couple of articles into my Ultrasuede attaché case, and took a moment and manicure scissors to snip the palms out of a fresh pair of rubber gloves. With rubber gloves one leaves no tattletale fingerprints behind, and with the palms out one is less likely to feel that one has abandoned one's hands in a sauna. Sweaty palms are bad enough in Lover's Lane; one tries to avoid them when burgling. Of course there's always the chance of leaving a tattletale palm print, but it wouldn't be burglary without the occasional risk, would it now?

We were almost on our way again before I remembered to change my shoes. I'd been wearing Weejun penny loafers at the store, for both nostalgia and comfort, and I switched to a pair of capable-looking Puma running shoes. I certainly had no intention of moving faster than a brisk walk, but you never know what life has in store for you, and the Pumas with their rubber soles and springy insoles let me move as soundlessly as, well, as a panther, I suppose.