Lawrence Block - The Burglar in the Rye

“I don’t believe I have.”

“And why would you? John’s a bond trader. Sails, plays a lot of golf.”

“Is he a member here?”

“No, though I’ve offered to put him up. In a manner of speaking, he’s a patron of the theater.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Quite. John’s a happily married man, a father and grandfather, but sailing a boat and hitting a golf ball can only go so far. Over the years, John has had a series of friendships with some charming and talented young women.”

“Actresses.”

“For the most part. A little over a year ago, John and his wife attended a Psoriasis Foundation benefit here in the city. It was well past midnight by the time they returned to their home in Sands Point, and in their absence they’d had visitors.”

“Burglars.”

“Yes. They’d come and gone by the time the Considines returned.”

“That’s just as well,” I said, “for the good of all concerned. Some burglars are capable of violence when provoked, and so are some of the people they visit.”

“John was on the wrestling team at Colgate,” he said. “Of course, that was a while ago. Since then he’s had his share of good dinners, not to mention an angioplasty. So it was as well that he and his uninvited guests never met, especially since their visit struck him as less a violation than an opportunity.”

I made the leap. “Insurance.”

“You’re very quick, but then so was John. He saw at a glance that he’d been…burgled? Or burglarized?”

“Either,” I said. “Or eye-ther. Whichever.”

He considered the matter. “Burgled,” he said decisively. “A robber robs, a mugger mugs, and, I suppose, a forger forges on. So a burglar burgles, and these burglars left a mess-chair cushions tossed around, furniture overturned. Bernie, you look appalled.”

“Believe me, I am.”

“So was Cynthia.”

“Mrs. Considine.”

He nodded. “John took her outside and made her wait in the car while he assessed the damage and alerted the authorities.”

“Dangerous. Suppose they were still in the house?”

“Either he was blind to the risk or he was prepared to run it. He dashed upstairs to the master bedroom, where the evidence of a crime was unmistakable. Night tables upended, drawers dumped out on the floor.”

“Barbarians.”

“John did not linger. He phoned 911, then hurried downstairs to his wife. ‘They left the safe wide open,’ he told her. ‘They cleaned it out. They got everything.’”

“But they hadn’t?”

“It was a wall safe,” he said, “concealed behind a print hanging in the bedroom. The print was worth a few dollars itself, but the burglars didn’t recognize it, or didn’t care. If they’d known to take it they’d have found the safe, and who knows? They might have been able to open it.”

“If they didn’t know enough to find it,” I said, “they wouldn’t have been able to open it. Unless your friend taped the combination to the back of the picture frame, like a fellow I paid a call on some years back.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I guess he found it a useful aid to memory,” I said, “and I guess he figured nobody would notice. And he was right, damn him. I didn’t spot it until I was replacing the picture on my way out. I’d managed to get into the safe on sheer talent, but I’d have been in and out a lot faster if I’d seen what he left for me.” I shook my head at the memory. “Never mind. John Considine cleaned out his own safe.”

“He had some cash there,” he said, “which wasn’t covered by insurance, and which the IRS certainly didn’t need to know about. He found another place to stash it. He also had some papers in the safe-the deed to the house, some bonds and stock certificates, a couple of promissory notes and mortgages he held. He added these to the litter on the floor, so that it would look as though the burglars had deemed them not worth the taking.”

“They took the cash,” I said, “and let the credit go.”

“That’s how he made it look. They took the jewelry, too. They had in fact walked off with Cynthia’s jewel box, plus everything in the top dresser drawer, but she kept her best ten or twelve pieces in the safe. Those were the ones important enough to be listed specifically on John’s homeowner policy. His pockets were bulging with them even as he was telling her he feared they were gone forever.”

“Some would call him resourceful,” I mused, “while others would label him a cad.”

“The diem presented itself,” he said, “and John carped it. In a sense, though, it slipped through his fingers. The police came and investigated, told him it looked like the work of a ring of burglars who’d been operating in the area, and held out little hope that the stolen articles would be recovered. John put in a claim for the full value of everything that had been stolen, excepting the unreported cash, of course, but including the several pieces of jewelry he’d stolen himself. The company paid. They’re all terrible weasels, but in this instance they had no choice. There was no question that John owned the pieces, and that his policy covered them, nor was there any doubt in anyone’s mind that a burglary had occurred. The claim was approved and the check issued.”

“I thought you said something slipped through his fingers.”

“And indeed it did.” He picked up his glass. “This rye grows on one, doesn’t it? Do you suppose we have time for another?”

“Time’s not a problem. But I might need to drive or operate machinery.”

“You’ll want a clear head,” he said, and put his glass down. “Back to John Considine. The company paid, and no sooner did John deposit the check than Cynthia went on a shopping spree. She had to replace everything that had been taken, and who could fault her for improving a bit on the original? By the time she was done, she’d spent every penny of the insurance company’s payment, and some thousands of dollars more.”

“So John was out of pocket on the deal,” I said. “Still, in terms of net worth, he was ahead of the game, wasn’t he? He was out a few thousand in cash, but he still had all the jewels.”

“And what could he do with them?”

“Oh.”

“Precisely. It would have been a different matter if he’d made his wife a party to the fraud. But such a course might have had unfortunate consequences of its own. John kept his own counsel. And he rented a safety deposit box and stashed the jewels in it.”

“And there they remain.”

“Not quite all of them.”

“Oh?”

“At the time of the burglary, John had a special friendship with a young woman named…well, it hardly matters, as she’s no longer a part of his life. He was quite taken with her at the time, and he gave her a bracelet, which had formerly reposed in his safe. It wasn’t that distinctive in design, and it was worth a few thousand at the most. A substantial gift, but not wildly inappropriate. When they bade each other good-bye some months later, she did not offer to return the bracelet, nor did he feel he had the right to ask for it.”

“And she’s not a part of the story now.”

“No.”

“But another woman is.”

He nodded. “Shortly after their breakup,” he said, “or it may even have been shortly before that event, John met another young woman.”

“An actress.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“I don’t suppose she was living at the Hotel Paddington.”

“She was,” he said, “and that meant having to go through the lobby whenever he visited her, which John didn’t much care for. On the other hand, the place has a certain artistic tradition, and an air of romance. And John was smitten with this girl.”