Lawrence Block - The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian

“I never hurt anyone,” I told her. “I don’t even kill cockroaches. Oh, I put boric acid around, and I guess that’s the same thing from a moral standpoint, but as far as hauling off and swatting ’em, that’s something I never do. And not just because it makes a spot. See, I’m basically nonviolent, and-”

And why was I running off at the mouth like this? Nerves, I suppose, and the premise that she’d be polite enough not to scream while I was talking.

“Oh, God,” she said. “I’m so frightened.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Look at me. I’m shaking.”

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I can’t help it. I’m scared.”

“So am I.”

“You are?”

“You bet.”

“But you’re a burglar,” she said, frowning. “Aren’t you?”

“Well-”

“Of course you are. You’ve got gloves on.”

“I was doing the dishes.”

She started to laugh, and the laughter slipped away from her and climbed toward hysteria. She said, “Oh, God, why am I laughing? I’m in danger.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am, I am. It happens all the time, a woman surprises a burglar and she gets raped and killed. Stabbed to death.”

“I don’t even have a penknife.”

“Strangled.”

“I don’t have any strength in my hands.”

“You’re making jokes.”

“You’re sweet to say so.”

“You’re-you seem nice.”

“That’s exactly it,” I said. “You hit it. What I am, I’m your basic nice guy.”

“But look at me. I mean don’t look at me. I mean-I don’t know what I mean.”

“Easy. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“I believe you.”

“Of course you do.”

“But I’m still frightened.”

“I know you are.”

“And I can’t help it. I can’t stop trembling. On the inside it feels like I’m going to shake myself to pieces.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“Could you-”

“What?”

“This is crazy.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, you’re going to think I’m crazy. I mean, you’re the one I’m afraid of, but-”

“Go ahead.”

“Could you just hold me? Please?”

“Hold you?”

“In your arms.”

“Well, uh, if you think it’ll help-”

“I just want to be held.”

“Well, sure.”

I took her in my arms and she buried her face in my chest. Our polo shirts pressed together and became as one. I felt the warmth and fullness of her breasts through the two layers of fabric. I stood there in the dark-my penlight was back in my pocket-and I held her close, stroking her silky hair with one hand, patting her back and shoulder with the other, and saying “There, there,” in a tone that was meant to be reassuring.

The awful tension went out of her. I kept holding her and went on murmuring to her, breathing in her scent and absorbing her warmth, and-

“Oh,” she said.

She lifted up her head and our eyes met. There was enough light for me to stare into them and they were deep enough to drown a man. I held her and looked at her and Something Happened.

“This is-”

“I know.”

“Crazy.”

“I know.”

I let go of her. She took her shirt off. I took my shirt off. She came back into my arms. I was still wearing those idiot gloves, and I tore them off and felt her skin under my fingers and against my chest.

“Gosh,” she said.

“Gosh,” she said again some minutes later. Our clothing was on the floor in a heap and so, in another heap, were we. Given a choice, I suppose I’d have gone for, say, a platform bed with an innerspring mattress and Porthault sheets, but we’d done remarkably well on an Aubusson carpet. The sense of dreamlike unreality that had begun with the mysterious disappearance of the Mondrian was getting stronger every minute, but I’ll tell you, I was beginning to like it.

I ran a lingering hand over an absolutely marvelous curved surface, then got to my feet and groped around in the dimness until I found a table lamp and switched it on. She instinctively covered herself, one hand at her loins, the other across her breasts, then caught herself and laughed.

She said, “What did I tell you? I knew you were going to rape me.”

“Some rape.”

“I’m just grateful you took those gloves off. I’d have felt as if I’d dropped in for a Pap smear.”

“Speaking of which, why did you?”

“Why did I what?”

“Drop in.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

“You already know why I’m here,” I said. “I’m a burglar. I came here to steal something. What about you?”

“I live here.”

“Uh-uh. Onderdonk’s been alone since his wife died.”

“He’s been alone,” she said, “but he hasn’t been alone. ”

“I see. You and he have been-”

“Are you shocked? I just did it with you on the living room rug so you must have figured out I wasn’t a virgin. Why shouldn’t Gordon and I be lovers?”

“Where is he?”

“He’s out.”

“And you were waiting for him to come back.”

“That’s right.”

“Why didn’t you answer the phone a few minutes ago?”

“Was that you? I didn’t answer it because I never answer Gordon’s phone. After all, I don’t officially live here. I just stay over sometimes.”

“Don’t you answer the bell, either?”

“Gordon always uses his key.”

“So when he used it this time you turned off the lights and stood with your back against the wall.”

“I didn’t turn off the lights. They were already off.”

“You were just sitting here in the dark.”

“I was lying on the couch, actually. I was reading and I dozed off.”

“ Reading in the dark and you dozed off.”

“I felt drowsy so I switched off the light, and then I dozed off in the darkness. And because I was half asleep I reacted slowly and perhaps illogically when you rang the bell and then opened the door. Satisfied?”

“Deeply satisfied. Where’s the book?”

“The book?”

“The one you were reading?”

“Maybe it dropped to the floor and wound up under the couch. Or maybe I put it back on the shelf when I turned the light off. What difference does it make, anyway?”

“No difference.”

“I mean, you’re a burglar, right? You’re not Mr. District Attorney, asking me where I was on the night of March twenty-third. I should be asking the questions. How did you get past the front desk? There’s a good question.”

“It’s a great one,” I agreed. “I landed on the roof with a helicopter and let myself down by rope and got into a penthouse apartment through the door from the terrace. Then I walked down a few flights of stairs and here I am.”

“Didn’t you steal anything in the penthouse?”

“They didn’t have anything. I guess they were house-poor, you know? Spent all their money on the apartment.”

“I suppose that happens all the time.”

“You’d be surprised. How did you get past the desk?”

“Me?”

“Uh-huh. You don’t officially live here. Why would they let you up when Onderdonk was out?”

“He was here when I came. Then he went out.”

“And left you here in the dark.”

“I told you I-”

“Right. You turned the light off when you got drowsy.”

“Didn’t that ever happen to you?”

“I never get drowsy. What’s the capital of New Jersey?”

“ New Jersey? The capital of New Jersey?”

“Right.”

“Is this some kind of a trick question? The capital of New Jersey. It’s Trenton, isn’t it?”