Lawrence Block: The Burglar In The Closet

I breathed in. I breathed out. Maybe, I thought, just maybe, I could get away with this one. Maybe Crystal and her gentleman friend would be sufficiently involved in one another so as not to notice the absence of jewelry. Maybe they’d do whatever they’d come to do, and having done it perhaps they’d leave, or lapse into coma, and then maybe I could let myself out of the closet and the apartment. Then, swag in hand, I could return to my own neighborhood and-

Hell!

Swag in hand indeed. My swag, all of it neatly packed in the Ultrasuede attaché case, was not by any means in hand, not in hand and not at hand either. It was resting on the opposite side of the bedroom from me, propped against the wall under the pastel portrait of the disappointed mademoiselle. So even if Crystal didn’t notice the absence of her jewelry she seemed more than likely to notice the presence of the case, and that would indicate not merely that she had been burgled but that the burglar had been interrupted while at work, and that would mean she would put in an urgent phone call to 911, and cop cars would descend upon the scene of the crime, and some minion of the law would be bright enough to open the closet, and I, Bernard Grimes Rhodenbarr, would be instantly up the creek, and in no time at all, up the river as well.

Hell!

“Something more comfortable,” the woman said. I could hear them better now because they were en route to the bedroom, which I can’t say astonished me. And then they were in the bedroom, and then they did what they’d come to the bedroom to do, and that’s all you’re going to hear from me on that subject. It was no fun listening to it and I’m certainly not going to try to re-create the experience for you.

As a matter of fact, I paid them the absolute minimum of attention myself. I let my mind return to the question of the perfect wine as accompaniment to the sweetbreads. Not a French white, I decided, for all that the sweetbreads were a French dish. A German white might have a little more oomph. A Rhine? That would do, certainly, but I decided after some thought that a choice Moselle might carry a wee bit more authority. I thought about a Piesporter Goldtröpfchen I’d had not long ago, a bottle shared with a young woman with whom, as it turned out, that was all that was to be shared. That would be acceptable with the sweetbreads, certainly. One wouldn’t want anything too dry. And yet the dish did call for a wine with a slight lingering sweetness, a fruity nose-

Of course! My mind summoned up memories of a ’75 Ockfener Bockstein Kabinett, with a full, lovely flowery scent, a tart freshness of flavor like a bite out of a perfect Granny Smith apple, the merest hint of spice, just a trace of tongue-tickling spritz. There was no guarantee that the restaurant I’d chosen would have that particular wine, but neither was there any guarantee that I’d be having dinner there instead of doing five-to-fifteen at Attica, so I might as well give my imagination free rein. And what was that nonsense about a half bottle of wine? Any wine worth drinking was worth having a full bottle of, surely.

I rounded out my meal somewhat by guessing what the vegetable du jour might chance to be. Broccoli, I decided, steamed al dente, uncomplicated with Hollandaise-just dotted lightly with sweet butter. Or, failing that, some undercooked zucchini sauced very lightly with tomato and basil and dusted with grated Parmesan.

My thoughts then jumped sensibly enough to the after-dinner brandy. A good Cognac, I thought. Any good Cognac. And I let myself dwell on various good Cognacs I’d had at one time or another and the ever-more-comfortable circumstances than the present in which I’d relished them.

A drink, I thought, would help. It might not really help, but it would seem to help and I’d settle for that just now. A well-equipped burglar, I told myself, really ought to be supplied with a hip flask. Or even a square flask. A thermos, perhaps, to keep the martinis properly chilled…

Nothing lasts forever. The lovemaking of Crystal Sheldrake and her latest friend, which certainly seemed eternal to me if not to them, lasted by actual measurement twenty-three minutes. I can’t say when Crystal ’s key turned in her lock, having had more urgent matters on my mind at the time. But I did glance at my watch not too long after and noted that it was 9:38. I glanced again when the two of them entered the bedroom. 10:02. I checked again from time to time while the performance was in progress, and when the finale descended with a crash my glow-in-the-dark watch told me it was 10:25.

There was a spate of silence, a chorus of Gee, you were terrific and You’re sensational and We’ve got to do this more often, all the things good up-to-date people say instead of I love you. Then the man said, “Christ, it’s later than I thought. Half-past ten already. I better get going.”

“Running back home to what’s-her-name?”

“As if you didn’t remember her name.”

“I prefer to forget it. There are moments, my sweet, when I actually manage to forget her existence altogether.”

“You sound jealous.”

“Of course I’m jealous, baby. Does that come as a surprise to you?”

“Oh, come on, Crystal, you aren’t really jealous.”

“No?”

“Not a chance.”

“Think it’s just a role I play? Maybe you’re right. I couldn’t say. Your tie’s crooked.”

“Mmm, thanks.”

They went on like this, not saying anything I had any enormous need to hear. I had trouble keeping all of my mind on their conversation, not only because it was duller than a Swedish film but because I kept waiting for one or the other of them to stub a toe on the attaché case and wonder aloud how it happened to be there. This, however, did not happen. There was more chitchat, and then she walked him to the door and let him out and locked up after him, and I think I heard the sound of her snicking the sliding bolt shut. Fine precaution to take, lady, I thought, with the burglar already tucked away in your clothes closet.

Then I heard nothing at all for a while, and then the phone rang twice and was answered, and there was a conversation which I couldn’t make out. More silence, this time followed by a temper tantrum of brief duration. “Stinking sonofabitch bastard,” Crystal roared, out of the blue. I had no way of knowing whether she was referring to her recent bedmate, her ex-husband, her telephone caller, or someone else altogether. Nor did I too much care. She yelled out just once, and then there was a thudding sound, perhaps of her heaving something at a wall. Then calm returned.

And so did Crystal, retracing her steps from living room to bedroom. I guess she had replenished her drink somewhere along the way, because I heard ice cubes clinking. By now, however, I no longer actively wanted something wet. I just wanted to go home.

The next thing I heard was water running. There was a lavatory in the hallway off the living room, a full bathroom off the bedroom. The bathroom had a stall shower and that’s what I was hearing. Crystal was going to erase the patina of love-making. The man had left and Crystal was going to take a shower and all I had to do was pop out of the closet and scoop up my jewel-laden attaché case and be gone.

I was just about to do this when the shower became suddenly more audible than it had been. I shrank back behind the rack of dresses and sundry garments, and footsteps approached me, and a key turned, neatly locking me in the closet.

Which of course was not her intent. She wanted to unlock the door, and she had left it locked and assumed it was still locked, so she’d turned the key, and-

“Funny,” she said aloud. And paused, and then turned the key in the opposite direction, this time unlocking the closet, and reached in to take a hooded lime-green terry-cloth robe from a hanger.