Lawrence Block - The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian

“Well, if it wasn’t a heart attack or suicide-”

“Or herpes,” I said. “I understand there’s a lot of it going around.”

“If it wasn’t one of those things, and if somebody killed him, how did they do it? You think you locked two people in the store last night?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“He could have slipped in when I opened up this morning. I might not have noticed. Then, while I was picking up coffee and taking it to your place-”

“That rotten coffee.”

“-he could have gone into the john and died. Or if there was someone with him that person could have killed him. Or if he came alone, and then someone else came along, he could have opened the door for that person, and then the person could have killed him.”

“Or the murderer managed to get locked in the store either last night or this morning, and when Turnquist showed up the murderer let him in and murdered him. Could either one of them let the other in without a key?”

“No problem,” I said. “I didn’t do much of a job of locking up when I went for coffee. I left the bargain table outside and just pressed the button so the springlock would work. I don’t even remember double-locking the door with the key.” I frowned, remembering. “Except I must have, because it was bolted when I came back. I had to turn the key in the lock twice to turn both the bolt and the springlock. Shit.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, that screws it up,” I said. “Say Turnquist let the killer in, which he could have done from inside just by turning the knob. Then the killer left Turnquist dead on the potty and went out, but how did he lock the door?”

“Don’t you have extra keys around somewhere? Maybe he found them.”

“You’d really have to look for them, and why would he bother? Especially when I didn’t have the door double-locked in the first place.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Hardly anything does. Watch the curb.”

“Shit.”

“Watch that, too. People seem to have stopped picking up after their dogs. Walking’s becoming an adventure again.”

We managed another curb, crossed another street, scaled the curb at the far side. We kept heading west, and once we got across Abingdon Square, the traffic, both automotive and pedestrian, thinned out considerably. At the corner of Twelfth and Hudson we passed the Village Nursing Home, where an old gentleman in a similar chair gave Turnquist the thumbs-up sign. “Don’t let these young people push you around,” he counseled our passenger. “Learn to work the controls yourself.” When he got no response, his eyes flicked to me and Carolyn. “The old boy a little bit past it?” he demanded.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, at least you’re not dumping the poor bastard in a home,” he said, with not a little bitterness. “He ever comes around, you tell him I said he’s damn lucky to have such decent children.”

We walked on across Greenwich Street, took a left at Washington. A block and a half down, between Bank and Bethune, a warehouse was being transmuted into co-op living lofts. The crew charged with performing this alchemy was gone for the day.

I braked the wheelchair.

Carolyn said, “Here?”

“As good a place as any. They angled a plank over the steps for the wheelbarrows. Make a good ramp for the chair.”

“I thought we could keep on going down to the Morton Street Pier. Send him into the Hudson, chair and all.”

“Carolyn-”

“It’s an old tradition, burial at sea. Davy Jones’s Locker. ‘Full fathom five my father lies-’”

“Want to give me a hand?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing I’d rather do. ‘Well, at least you’re not dumping the poor bastard in a home.’ Hell no, old timer. We’re dumping the old bastard in a seemingly abandoned warehouse where he’ll be cared for by the Green Hornet and Pluto.”

“Kato.”

“Whatever. Why do I feel like Burke and Hare?”

“They stole bodies and sold them. We’re just moving one around.”

“Terrific.”

“I told you I’d do this myself, Carolyn.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’m your henchperson, aren’t I?”

“It looks that way.”

“And we’re in this together. It’s my cat that got us in this mess. Bern, why can’t we leave him here, chair and all? I honest to God don’t care a rat’s ass about the hundred dollars.”

“It’s not the money.”

“What is it, the principle of the thing?”

“If we leave the chair,” I said, “they’ll trace it.”

“To Pitterman Hospital and Surgical Supply? Big hairy deal. I paid in cash and gave a phony name.”

“I don’t know who Turnquist was or how he fits into this Mondrian business, but there has to be a connection. When the cops tie him to it they’ll go to Pitterman and get the description of the person who rented the chair. Then they’ll take the clerk downtown and stick you in front of him in a lineup, you and four of the Harlem Globetrotters, and who do you figure he’ll point to?”

“I expect short jokes from Ray, Bernie. I don’t expect them from you.”

“I was just trying to make a point.”

“You made it. I thought it would be more decent to leave him in the chair, that’s all. Forget I said anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

I got the wire off his wrists and ankles, unstrapped the belt from around his waist, and managed to stretch him out on his back on a reasonably uncluttered expanse of floor. I retrieved the cap and sunglasses and blanket.

Back on the street I said, “Hop on, Carolyn. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Huh?”

“Two people pushing an empty wheelchair are conspicuous. C’mon, get in the chair.”

“You get in it.”

“You weigh less than I do, and-”

“The hell with that noise. You’re taller than I am and you’re a man, so if one of us has to play Turnquist you’re a natural choice for the role. Get in the chair, Bern, and put on the cap and the glasses.” She tucked the blanket around me and the mildew smell wafted to my nostrils. With a sly grin, my henchperson released the handbrake. “Hang on,” she said. “And fasten your seat belt. Short jokes, huh? We may hit a few air pockets along the way.”

Back at the store, I checked the premises for bodies, living or dead, before I did anything else. I didn’t find any, nor did I happen on any clues as to how Turnquist had gotten into my store or how he’d happened to join his ancestors in that great atelier on high. Carolyn wheeled the chair into the back room and I helped her fold it. “I’ll take it back in a cab,” she said, “but first I want some coffee.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Not from the felafel joint.”

“Don’t worry.”

When I got back with two coffees she said the phone had rung in my absence. “I was gonna answer it,” she said, “and then I didn’t.”

“Probably wise.”

“This coffee’s much better. You know what we oughta do? In either your place or my place we oughta have one of those machines, nice fresh coffee all day long. One of those electric drip things.”

“Or even a hotplate and a Chemex pot.”

“Yeah. Of course you’d be pouring coffee for customers all day long, and you’d never get rid of Kirschmann. He’d be a permanent guest. I really grossed him out, didn’t I?”

“He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

“Well, that was the idea. I figured the more disgusting I made it, the faster he’d split. I was trying to wait him out, you know, figuring he might leave if I stayed out of the room long enough, but it looked as though he wasn’t gonna cave without peeing, so-”