Lawrence Block: The Burglar in the Rye

Even so, the room seemed to be holding its collective breath while the door was open. When it swung closed and clicked shut, the energy in the room picked up.

“Well,” Hilliard Moffett said, running a hand through his mop of curls. “I’m glad that’s out of the way.”

“You said it,” Lester Eddington said.

“It took long enough,” Victor Harkness said, “but it’s done, and the wretched woman’s gone, and we can get on with it.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “A very complicated series of events just got sorted out, and a murderer exposed and brought to justice. And you think that was just something to get out of the way?”

“It’s not why we’re here,” Moffett said.

“It’s why I summoned you all here,” I said. “In case you were wondering.”

“But it’s not why we’re here,” Lester Eddington said. “It’s why you’re here, and it may be why that woman-Erica?”

“Erica,” Carolyn said.

“It may be why she was here, and quite clearly it’s why the police were here. But several of us are here because of the letters.”

“Ah,” I said. “The letters.”

“From Gulliver Fairborn to his agent, Anthea Landau.”

“ Those letters,” I said.

“The last we heard,” Moffett said, with a nod toward Alice, “ she had them.”

“But not for long,” Alice said.

“Now whose fault was that? You called to tell me you’d shredded and burned the letters. They were gone, you assured me, and you’d already notified Fairborn, and he was relieved. And you were on your way home to Virginia. In fact you had to cut our conversation short so you could catch a plane.” I gave her my best sidelong look. “Another fib, Alice?”

“You’d already put yourself in jeopardy on my account,” she said, “getting arrested and having to spend the night in jail. And I didn’t want you to keep on looking for something you wouldn’t be able to find. So I told, yes, another white lie to put you at ease and keep you out of harm’s way.”

“That was considerate,” I said. “And I have to say it worked. I haven’t been locked up since.”

“But then you stole the letters from me,” she said. “Didn’t you?”

“I had a phone number for you,” I said, “even if you never seemed to be there to answer it. Ray came up with an address to go with it, and I packed up my picks and probes and did what I do best.”

“And you have them?” Moffett demanded.

“He must,” Alice said, “because I’m sure I don’t.” She shook her head sadly. “If I’d just had a chance to copy them,” she said, “I wouldn’t care what happened to them. I was planning to do that right away, but I decided there was no hurry, and I might as well take time and read them through first. Then I could have them copied, and after that I could destroy the originals.”

“My God,” Victor Harkness said. “That’s…that’s vandalism!”

“You wouldn’t have done that,” I said. “You’d have found a way to sell them to one of these gentlemen.”

She was about to protest, then shrugged instead. “Maybe,” she said. “I don’t have them anymore, so what difference does it make?”

“Let’s get down to it.” Moffett looked more like a bulldog than ever, and one sensed his bite was as bad as his bark. “Who gets them?”

“All I need are copies,” Lester Eddington said. “As long as I’m given the opportunity to purchase a set of photocopies at a reasonable price, I don’t care which of the other two gentlemen winds up with the originals.”

“And the same goes for me,” Alice said, and everyone turned to stare at her. “Well, I still have a book to write,” she said, “and a story to tell, and the letters aren’t indispensable, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have them. And I’d pay a reasonable fee, too, the same as Mr. Eddington. In fact there’s no reason we couldn’t each have a set, without harming the originals or lessening their value in any way.”

“That’s up to the owner,” Moffett said. “And after I’ve acquired the letters I’ll decide who may receive copies.”

“I must have missed something,” Isis said. “When did you get to be the owner?”

“As soon as this formality is concluded,” he told her, “that’s precisely what I’ll be. I’m in a position to outbid anyone else here, and that’s what I intend to do. You’re running this little auction, Mr. Rhodenbarr, so why don’t we get on with it?”

“Just a moment,” Victor Harkness said. “You may have deep pockets, sir, but Sotheby’s has legal standing. Title to these letters remains with Miss Anthea Landau, and becomes a part of her estate upon her death. Our agreement with her is binding upon her estate. While we’ll happily pay a substantial finder’s fee to expedite matters, we’ll certainly not stand idly by while someone with no right, title, or interest in the property seeks to transfer it to somebody else.”

“Sue me,” Moffett suggested.

“We’re prepared to.”

“Or save us both some aggravation and come to terms with me here and now. There’s no reason I can’t write out two checks, one to Rhodenbarr and one to Sotheby’s. And when I say checks, it’s a manner of speaking. It could just as easily be cash, more than enough to cover the commission your firm could expect to make on the sale.”

“That’s most irregular. I don’t think my people would approve.”

“I won’t tell them if you don’t,” Moffett said. “In which case the cash could go wherever you wanted it to go, couldn’t it?”

Harkness managed to look shocked and attracted at the same time. It would have been interesting to see which way he jumped, but it had already been a long evening. I raised a hand and signaled, and I didn’t have to do it twice.

“I say,” Marty Gilmartin said, clearing his throat. “It’s not my place to say anything, as letters are out of my purview, but aren’t you fellows getting a little ahead of yourselves?”

Someone asked him what he meant.

“You’re fighting over some letters,” he said, “that may or may not exist, and may or may not be in our friend’s possession. Shouldn’t you check the hypothesis before leaping to the conclusion?”

“A good point,” Moffett said. “If you’ve got those letters with you, Rhodenbarr, now’s the time for you to give us a look at them.”

“And if you haven’t,” Harkness said, “this might be a good time to go get them.”

I reached into my breast pocket, drew out the sheet of purple paper I’d showed them earlier. This time I unfolded it and handed it to Marty. “I brought a sample,” I said. “Read this, why don’t you?”

He put on a pair of reading glasses and peered through them. “‘Dear Anthea,’” he read. “‘I still haven’t received the check for the sale of Italian rights. Tell them I was planning on stocking up on spaghetti, so the money’ll all come back to them. Meanwhile they’re sitting around playing bocce and sipping cappuccino with my money, and I don’t like it. In high dudgeon, Gully.’”

“Let me see that,” Moffett and Eddington said as one, and clustered around Marty.

“It’s his signature,” Moffett said. “I’d know it anywhere.”

“So would I,” said Eddington. “I should-I’ve seen it often enough. And I couldn’t swear to it, but that looks like the same Royal portable he was using during those years. The top of the small e is filled, and the g strikes a little high.”

“I’ll take that,” I said, and did.

“That’s a genuine letter,” Moffett said, “and I’m willing to believe you have the rest in a safe place. So let’s get down to cases. What do you want?”