Lawrence Block: The Burglar in the Rye

“Not at all,” I said, “but while we’re on the subject of ruses, suppose you show me the money.”

“First show me yours, Bernie.”

I shook my head. “Carl didn’t get the money first, and look what happened to him. All I’m getting is the same two grand you promised him, and until I have it in hand I’m not showing you a thing.”

“I suppose I deserve that,” she said, and took a sheaf of bills from her purse. They were hundreds, and there were twenty of them. I know because I counted.

I found a home for them in my wallet and drew a manila envelope from under the counter. It was not unlike the one that had been at various times in Karen Kassenmeier’s purse, in the closet of Room 303 at the Paddington, and in Alice ’s own East Side apartment. I opened it and drew out a stack of papers similar to that original envelope’s contents. These were plain white paper, however, like the balls I’d been throwing for Raffles.

She grabbed the stack, paged through it. “Here’s the last one you burned,” she said. “‘In high dudgeon, Gully.’ It sounds like a London suburb, doesn’t it? ‘Where do you live?’ ‘In High Dudgeon, just a stone’s throw from…’ from where?”

“Boardham,” I suggested.

“Perfect. You could say Gully Fairborn spends a lot of time in High Dudgeon. Bernie, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You paid me.”

“You went through a lot for two thousand dollars. You know, that’s not all I promised Carl.”

“I know.”

“Did you really recognize my voice when you were hiding in the bathroom? I spoke very quietly, and I barely said a word.”

“What I recognized didn’t involve a lot of words.”

“You could probably hear those sounds again, you know.”

“Oh?”

“If you played your cards right.”

“I’ll call you,” I said.

“Have you got my number?”

“You could say that,” I said.

Within the hour the door opened again, and this time it was a gawky guy wearing a tweed jacket over a plaid shirt. It was Lester Eddington, and I didn’t ask him for cash in advance. I handed him an envelope a lot like the one I’d handed Alice Cottrell, and he smiled apologetically as he withdrew its contents and had a careful look at them.

“One can’t be too careful,” he said. “I’d only had a look at one letter, and it was clearly authentic, but…” He frowned, nodded, clucked, and muttered to himself, looking up owlishly at last. “This is a gold mine,” he said. “It would have been absolutely tragic to have lost these.”

“That’s why I made a copy first.”

“And thank God you did,” he said fervently. “I shouldn’t say it, but I’m just as glad the originals are gone. I don’t need to worry about someone else using this material before I do.”

“And you won’t use it in Fairborn ’s lifetime.”

“Absolutely not. I won’t publish a word until he’s not around to object. Or to bring suit.”

This time he was the one who counted the money, and there was a little more of it-a mixture of fifties and hundreds running to a total of three thousand dollars. I thought how hard he must have worked for that money, and it made me consider giving it back to him. And I did what I always do with thoughts like that. I squelched it mercilessly.

“You’ll be listed in the acknowledgments,” he said, “but I won’t specify what assistance you provided.”

“Well,” I said, “you can’t be too careful.”

Victor Harkness turned up in a suit and tie, and carrying a great-looking briefcase. It looked as though it cost the better part of a grand, but for all I knew it was a knockoff like the ones the Senegalese had tried to get me to carry. I mean, how can you tell?

I had a customer-an older fellow with a beret and a silver beard-so I led Harkness to the back room and got a nine-by-twelve manila envelope from the file cabinet. He took a seat and opened the envelope, drawing out a few dozen sheets of purple paper.

“Excellent,” he said.

“There’s one missing,” I said. “The one I had to burn to convince the others that I’d destroyed the lot.”

“The one about bocce and cappuccino?”

“And high dudgeon,” I said. “Everything else is here.”

“The firm is deeply grateful,” he said, “as am I. Our commission is the least of it. We’d announced that we were going to be offering these letters, and we’d look a little foolish if we were unable to do so.”

“We wouldn’t want that.”

“Certainly not. But there’s also the incalculable loss to literary history, and the dollars-and-cents loss to the worthy charities who are the beneficiaries of Anthea Landau’s estate. I’m only sorry they won’t know how much they owe a certain antiquarian bookseller.”

“I’ll let the credit go,” I said.

“And take the cash, eh?” He opened the briefcase, drew out a bank envelope. “Five thousand dollars, as agreed. I trust you’ll find this satisfactory.”

A little after twelve I picked up lunch at the deli and took it over to the Poodle Factory, and a little after one I walked out the door and turned left instead of right. I took another left at the corner of Broadway and walked to a coffee shop two blocks uptown. Hilliard Moffett was waiting for me in a booth at the back. I slid in opposite him and laid-surprise-a manila envelope on the table.

He’d already eaten, and all I wanted was a cup of coffee. While I waited for it to cool he examined the envelope’s contents with the care one would expect. He used a pocket magnifier and he took his time, and when he had concluded his examination he sat up straight in his seat and damn well glowed. He was a collector, and right in front of him was something to collect, and that was all it took to turn him positively radiant.

“When you burned that letter,” he said, “my heart sank. And when you drew the screen aside and showed all the other letters, letters that had turned to ash while you were establishing that one miserable woman had murdered two equally miserable women, I thought I was going to die of heartbreak.”

“I knew I was going to cause you some anguish,” I said, “but I didn’t know it would be that bad.”

“But you didn’t burn them after all.”

“I had to make it look that way,” I said, “or I’d never have been able to turn them over to you. Sotheby’s had a legitimate claim, and Victor Harkness wasn’t going to lie down and roll over just because you offered to scratch his stomach. But now that he’s convinced the letters are gone…”

“He’ll never know otherwise,” Moffett vowed. “No one will know about these, no scholars will ever secure access to them. I’ll cherish them in private.”

“You’ll have to.” I leaned forward, lowered my voice. “I heard a rumor,” I said, “that Sotheby’s will be offering a group of letters, allegedly from Fairborn to Landau.”

His eyes bulged slightly. “These letters?”

“Hardly. The same number, give or take a few, but different contents. Also on purple paper, and authentic-looking, but…”

“You’re saying they’re fakes, Rhodenbarr?”

“They’d have to be, wouldn’t they? I can’t say what I heard or where I heard it, but I gather they’re damned good fakes. You’ll want to look at them when they go on view, I would think.”

“Absolutely.”

“You might even want to buy them,” I said. “Even if you’re sure they’re fakes, if the price is right. Because-”

“Because then my ownership of the Fairborn-Landau correspondence becomes a matter of record, and I can display what I want when and where I want. Good thinking, Rhodenbarr. Good thinking indeed. I’m paying you a lot of money, but I have to say you earned it.”