Lawrence Block - The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian

“That’s right.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Not a thing,” I admitted. “I just wanted to see if your face changed when you told the truth. The last honest thing you said was ‘Gosh.’ You cut the lights when you heard me coming and you tried to melt into the wall. You were scared to death when you saw me but you’d have been scared clear into the next world if it had been Onderdonk. Why don’t you tell me what you came to steal and whether or not you found it yet? Maybe I can help you look.”

She just looked at me for a moment and her face went through some interesting changes. Then she sighed and rummaged around in the heap of clothing.

“I’d better get dressed,” she said.

“If you feel you must.”

“He’ll be back soon. Or at least he might. Sometimes he stays the night but he’ll probably be back around two. What time is it?”

“Almost one.”

We sorted out our clothes and began getting into them. She said, “I haven’t stolen anything. You’re welcome to search me if you don’t believe me.”

“Good idea. Strip.”

“But I just-for a second I thought you were serious.”

“Just my little joke.”

“Well, you had me going there.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe I should just tell you why I’m here.”

“Maybe you should.”

“I’m married.”

“Not to Onderdonk.”

“God, no. But Gordon and I-let’s say I was indiscreet.”

“On this very rug?”

“No, this was a first for me. You were my first burglar and my first romp on a carpet.” She grinned suddenly. “I always had fantasies of being taken passionately and abruptly by a stranger. Not of being raped, exactly, but of being, oh, carried away. Transported by desire.”

“I hope I didn’t ruin your fantasies for you.”

“ Au contraire, darling. You brought them to life.”

“Shall we get back to Onderdonk? You were indiscreet.”

“Very, I’m afraid. I wrote him some letters.”

“Love letters?”

“Lust letters is more like it. ‘I wish I had your this in my that. I’d like to verb your noun until you verb.’ That sort of thing.”

“I bet you write a terrific letter.”

“Gordon thought so. After we stopped seeing each other-we broke it off weeks ago-I asked for my letters back.”

“And he refused?”

“‘They were written to me,’ he said. ‘That makes them my property.’ He wouldn’t give them back.”

“And he was using them to blackmail you?”

Her eyes widened. “Why would he do that? Gordon’s rich, and I don’t have any money of my own.”

“He could have blackmailed you for something besides money.”

“Oh, you mean sex? I suppose he could have but he didn’t. The affair ended by mutual consent. No, he simply wanted to retain the letters as a way of keeping the affair’s memory fresh. He said once that he intended to save them for his old age. Something to read when reading was the only thing left for him.”

“I suppose it beats Louis Auchincloss.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. So he kept your letters.”

“And the photographs.”

“Photographs?”

“He took pictures a couple of times.”

“Pictures of you?”

“Some of me and some of both of us. He has a Polaroid with a cable shutter release.”

“So he could get some good shots of you verbing his noun.”

“He could and did.”

I straightened up. “Well, we’ve still got a few minutes,” I said, “and I’m pretty good at search-and-destroy missions. If the letters and photos are in this apartment, I bet I can find them.”

“I already found them.”

“Oh?”

“They were in his dresser and it was almost the first place I looked.”

“And where are they now?”

“Down the incinerator.”

“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.”

“You have a way with words.”

“Thank you. Mission accomplished, eh? You found the letters and pictures, sent them down to be burned or compacted or whatever they do at the Charlemagne, and then you were on your way.”

“That’s right.”

“So how come you were still here when I let myself in?”

“I was on my way out,” she said. “I was heading for the door. I had my hand on the knob when you rang the bell.”

“Suppose it had been Onderdonk.”

“I thought it was. Not when I heard the bell, because why would he ring his own door? Unless he knew I was in his apartment.”

“How’d you get in?”

“He never double-locks the door. I opened it with a credit card.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Doesn’t everybody? All you have to do is watch television and you see them doing it. It’s educational.”

“It must be. The door was double-locked when I tried it. I had to pick the tumblers.”

“I turned the bolt from inside.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Reflex, I guess. I should have put the chain on while I was at it. Then you’d have known somebody was here and you wouldn’t have come in, would you?”

“Probably not, and you wouldn’t have had a chance to bring your fantasy to life.”

“That’s a point.”

“But suppose instead of me it had been Onderdonk. Would you have verbed him on the carpet or hauled him off to the bedroom?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I would have told him what I’d done. I think he probably would have laughed about it. As I said, we parted on good terms. But he was a big man and he had a temper, and that’s why I was scrunched up against the wall hoping for a way to get out without being seen. And knowing it was impossible, but not knowing what else to do.”

“What happened to the painting?”

She blinked at me. “Huh?”

“There. Over the fireplace.”

She looked. “He had a painting hanging there, didn’t he? Of course he did. You can see the outline.”

“A Mondrian.”

“Of course, what am I thinking of? His Mondrian. Oh. You came here to steal his Mondrian!”

“I just wanted to look at it. The museums all close around six and I had a sudden urge to bask in the inner glow of great art.”

“And here I thought you just hit this apartment at random. But you were here for the Mondrian.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. You know, he said something about that painting. It was a while ago. I wonder if I can remember what it was.”

“Take your time.”

“Isn’t there an exhibition forming of Mondrian’s work? Either Mondrian or the whole De Stijl school of abstract painting. They wanted Gordon to lend them his Mondrian.”

“And they picked it up this afternoon?”

“Why, is that when it left its spot on the wall? If you knew it was gone this afternoon, why did you come for it tonight?”

“I don’t know when it left. I just know it was here yesterday.”

“How do you know that? Never mind, I don’t think you want to tell me that. I may not remember this correctly-I wasn’t paying too much attention-but I think Gordon was having the painting reframed for the exhibition. He had it framed in aluminum like the rest of the ones here and he wanted some other kind of frame that would enclose the canvas without covering up its edges. Mondrian was one of those painters who continue the design of the painting right around the sides of the canvas, and Gordon wanted that part to show because it was technically part of the work, but he didn’t want to display a completely unframed canvas. I don’t know how he was going to have it done, but, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what happened to the painting. What time is it?”

“Ten minutes past one.”

“I have to go. Whether he’s coming back or not, I have to go. Are you going to steal anything else? Other paintings or anything else you can find?”