Lawrence Block - The Burglar In The Closet

It must have been around ten when we woke up the next morning. There were a few churches on the block and it kept being some denomination’s turn to ring bells. We lay in bed for the next two hours, sometimes listening to the church bells and sometimes ignoring them. There are worse ways to spend a Sunday morning.

Finally she got up and put on a robe and made coffee while I set about getting into the same clothes I seemed to have been wearing forever. Then I got on the phone.

Ray Kirschmann’s wife said he was out. Working, she said. Did I want to leave a message? I didn’t.

I tried him at the precinct. He had the day off, somebody told me. Probably at home with his feet up and a cold beer in his fist and a ball game on television. Was there anybody else I would talk to? There wasn’t. Did I want to leave a message? I didn’t.

Did I dare go home? I wanted a shower but there wasn’t much point taking one if I had to put on the same clothes again. And it was Sunday, so I couldn’t go out and buy a shirt and socks and underwear.

I picked up the phone again and dialed my own number.

The line was busy.

Well, that doesn’t necessarily prove anything. Somebody else could have called me a few seconds before I did; he’d get an unanswered ring while I got a busy signal. So I hung up and gave him a minute to get tired of the game, and then I dialed my number again, and it was still busy.

Well, that didn’t prove anything either. Perhaps I’d had a visitor who knocked the phone off the hook. Perhaps phone lines were down on the West Side. Perhaps-

“Bernie? Something wrong?”

“Yes,” I said. “Where’s the phone book?”

I looked up Mrs. Hesch and dialed her number. When she answered I heard her television set in the background, then her dry cigarette-hardened voice. I said, “Mrs. Hesch, this is Bernard Rhodenbarr. Your neighbor? Across the hall?”

“The burglar.”

“Uh, yes. Mrs. Hesch-”

“Also the celebrity. I seen you on television maybe an hour ago. Not you personally, just a picture they had of you. It must have been from prison, your hair was so short.”

I knew the picture she meant.

“Now we got cops all over the building. They was here asking about you. Do I know you’re a burglar? they asked me. I said all I know is you’re a good neighbor. I should tell them anything? You’re a nice young man, clean cut, you dress decent, that’s all I know. You work hard, right? You make a living, right?”

“Right.”

“Not a bum on welfare. If you take from those rich momsers on the East Side, do I care? Did they ever do anything for me? You’re a good neighbor. You don’t rob from this building, am I right?”

“Right.”

“But now there’s cops in your apartment, cops in the halls. Taking pictures, ringing doorbells, this, that and the other thing.”

“Mrs. Hesch, the cops. Was there-”

“Just a minute, I got to light a cigarette. There.”

“Was there a cop named Kirschmann?”

“Cherry.”

“Jerry?”

“No, Cherry. That’s Kirsch in German. Kirschmann he told me, Cherry Man is what went through my mind. He could lose thirty pounds and he wouldn’t miss it.”

“He’s there?”

“First two of them came to my door, a million questions they had for me, and then this Kirschmann came with the same questions and a hundred others. Mr. Rhodenbarr, you ain’t a killer, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s what I told them and what I said to myself, that’s what I always said about you. You didn’t kill that nafkeh by Gramercy Park?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good. And you didn’t-”

“What did you call her?”

“A nafkeh. ”

“What does that mean?”

“A whore, you should pardon the expression. You didn’t kill the man either, did you?”

What man? “No, of course not,” I said. “Mrs. Hesch, could you do me a favor? Could you get Ray Kirschmann to come to the phone without letting anybody know that’s what you want? You could say you have something you just remembered about me, find some way to get him into your apartment without letting the other policemen know what’s happening.”

She could and did. It didn’t take her very long, either, and all at once I heard a familiar voice, careful, cagey, say, “Yeah?”

“Ray?”

“No names.”

“No names?”

“Where the hell are you?”

“On the phone.”

“You better tell me where. You and me, we better get together right away. You really stepped in it this time, Bernie.”

“I thought you said no names.”

“Forget what I said. You were pretty cute, hitting the dame’s apartment a second time and coming up with the loot. But you shoulda connected with me right away, Bern. I don’t know what I can do for you now.”

“You can lock up a killer, Ray.”

“That’s what I can do, all right, but I never figured you for a killer, Bern. It’s a surprise to me.”

“It would be a bigger surprise to me, Ray. As far as the jewels are concerned-”

“Yeah, well, we found ’em, Bern.”

“What?”

“Right where you left ’em. If it was just me it’s a different story, but I had to break my ass to get here along with Todras and Nyswander, let alone gettin’ here ahead of ’em, and it was Nyswander who found the stuff. A diamond bracelet and an emerald doodad and those pearls. Beautiful.”

“Just three pieces?”

“Yeah.” A pause, speculative in nature. “There was more? You got the rest stashed somewhere else, right, Bern?”

“Somebody planted those pieces, Ray.”

“Sure. Somebody’s givin’ away jewelry. Christmas is comin’ up in a few months and somebody’s got the spirit ahead of schedule.”

I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Ray, I never stole the jewels. They were planted on me. The man who stole them is the same man who killed Crystal, and he planted a handful of the jewels in my apartment, at least I guess that’s where you found them-”

“I didn’t find ’em. Nyswander found ’em and that tears it because the bastard’s incorruptible. And you bet your ass they were in your apartment, Bern, ’cause that’s where you left ’em.”

I let it pass. “The man who did it, the theft and the murders, is somebody you probably never heard of.”

“Try me.”

“He’s dangerous, Ray. He’s a killer.”

“You were gonna tell me his name.”

“Grabow.”

“Somebody I never heard of, you said.”

“Walter I. Grabow. The I stands for Ignatius, if that matters. I don’t suppose it does.”

“Funny.”

“It’s complicated, Ray. The plot’s pretty involved. I think we ought to meet somewhere, the two of us, and I could explain it to you.”

“I just bet you could.”

“Huh?”

“We better meet somewhere, that’s the truth. Bernie, you know what happened to you? Somewhere along the line you went bananas. I think it was the second murder that unhinged you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I never figured you for a killer,” he went on. “But I suppose you could do it, as cool as you are. The second killing, in your apartment and all, I guess it unhinged you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sayin’ I never heard of him. Grabow, for Christ’s sake. Sayin’ he’s dangerous. Here’s the poor sonofabitch lyin’ dead on the floor of your apartment with one of them dentist things in his heart and you’re tellin’ me he’s dangerous. Jesus, Bern. You’re the one who’s dangerous. Now how about if you tell me where you are and I’ll bring you in nice and safe so you don’t get shot by somebody who’s gun-happy? It’s the best way, believe me. You get yourself a good lawyer and you’re on the street in seven years, maybe twelve or fifteen at the outside. Is that so bad?”