Lawrence Block - The Burglar who thought he was Bogart

I asked if he could describe it.

“A sort of leather envelope stamped in gold,” he said.

“And its contents?”

“Diverse contents.”

“And the amount of the reward?”

“Ah, did I not say, sir? Substantial. Unquestionably substantial.”

“Sir,” I said, “I must say I like your style. Were I in possession of the article you seek, I’ve no doubt we could come to terms.”

There was a pause, but not a very long one. “The subjunctive mode,” he said, “would seem to imply, sir, that you are not.”

“The implication was deliberate,” I said, “and the inference sound.”

“Yet one has the sense that there is more to the story.”

It was a pleasure having this sort of conversation, but it was also a strain. “It is my earnest hope, sir, to be able to report altered circumstances, and indeed to have it in my power to claim your generous reward.”

“Your hope, sir?”

“My hope and expectation.”

“I am gladdened, sir, for expectation promises ever so much more than hope alone. When might this hope be fulfilled, if I might ask?”

“Anon,” I said.

“Anon,” he echoed. “A word that makes up in charm what it sacrifices in precision.”

“It does at that. ‘Shortly’ might be more precise.”

“I’m not sure that it is, but I daresay it’s a shade more encouraging.”

“It is my intention,” I said, “to call you later today, or perhaps tomorrow, to suggest a meeting. Will I be able to reach you at this number?”

“Indeed you will, sir. If I am not at home myself, you may leave word with the lad who answers the telephone.”

“You’ll hear from me,” I said, and rang off.

My next call was to my partner, Charlie Weeks. I told him I’d held off calling until he returned from his morning walk.

“You had an ample margin for error,” he said. “I’m a creature of habit in my old age, I’m afraid. I wake up at the same time every day without setting a clock. I’ve got halfway through the Sunday Times already.”

“The plot thickens,” I said. “I think you’re right about what happened to Hoberman. I think Candlemas killed him.”

“It seems the likeliest explanation,” he said, “but leaves us high and dry for the time being, since Candlemas himself seems to have disappeared.”

“I have some ideas about that.”

“Oh?”

“But this is no time to go into them,” I said, “and I wouldn’t want to do it over the phone.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.”

“I wonder if I could come to your apartment. This evening, say? On the late side, if it’s all right with you. Eleven o’clock?”

“I’ll have the coffee made,” he said. “Or will you want decaf at that hour?”

I told him I could handle the hard stuff.

There was nothing for it. I spent another quarter and called Ray Kirschmann’s home number in Queens. When a woman answered I said, “Hi, Mrs. Kirschmann. It’s Bernie Rhodenbarr. Is Ray in? I hate to disturb him on a Sunday morning, but I’m calling from up in New Hampshire.”

“I’ll see if he’s in,” she said, a phrase I’ve always found puzzling no matter who uses it, a secretary or a spouse. I mean, who are they kidding? Don’t they already know if he’s in or not, and don’t they think I know?

Her reconnaissance mission took a few minutes, and I wished she would shake a leg. I had plenty of quarters left, but I didn’t want a recorded operator to cut in and ask me for one. It wouldn’t do wonders for my credibility.

But that commodity turned out to be thin on the ground anyway, as it turned out. “ New Hampshire,” were the first words Ray said, and he invested them with a full measure of contempt. “In a pig’s eye, Bernie.”

“I was going to stay in Pig’s Eye,” I told him, “but all the motels were full, so I wound up in Hanover. How’d you happen to know that, Ray?”

“The only thing I know for sure,” he said, “is you’re no more in New Hampshire than you are in New Zealand.”

“What makes you so sure of that, Ray?”

“You sayin’ so right off the bat, tellin’ my wife so’s she can pass it on to me. If you was really in New Hampshire, Bernie, that’s the last thing you’d do. No, I take that back. It’s the second-last thing.”

“What’s the last?”

“Placin’ the call altogether. You’d wait until you got back. You ask me, you spent the night with that sawed-off morphodyke buddy of yours, for all the good either of you could have got out of the experience. An’ then you figured you better call me, an’ you went someplace out of the way in case I trace the call, which how am I gonna do anyway from my home phone?”

“How you do go on,” I said.

“I had to guess,” he said, “I’d say you’re across the bridge in Brooklyn Heights. Can you see the Promenade from where you’re standin’, Bernie?”

“Yes,” I said. “And it looks lovely in the morning mist.”

“It’s a beautiful day, an’ if there was any mist you missed it, ’cause it burned off hours ago. Anyway, I take it back. There ain’t enough background noise for Brooklyn. It’s Sunday mornin’, right? Be my guess you’re down in Wall Street. You can’t see the Promenade, but I bet you a dollar you can see the Stock Exchange.”

“You’re amazing, Ray. I swear I don’t know how you do it.”

“An’ that’s to make me think I’m wrong, but I think I’m right, for all the good it does me. You really want to know how I done it, Bernie, it’s just a case of us knowin’ each other a long time. Not surprisin’ I know you pretty good by now, thinkin’ of all we been through.”

“The mist hasn’t all burned off, Ray. Some of it’s in my eyes, to go with the lump in my throat.”

“Got you all choked up, huh, Bernie? Maybe this’ll unchoke you. Couple of uniforms are walkin’ a beat the other day on the Lower East Side, an’ one of the neighborhood kids takes ’em to this boarded-up buildin’ at the corner of Pitt and Madison. That’s Madison Street, not Madison Avenue, by the way.”

“That explains what it was doing on the Lower East Side.”

“Yeah, but does it explain what they found when the kid showed ’em which board was loose an’ how to get in? Three guesses, Bernie.”

“Even if I don’t guess,” I said, “you’ll probably tell me.”

“A dead body.”

“Not mine, thank God,” I said, “but it’s good of you to voice concern, Ray. I didn’t think you cared.”

“You want to guess who?”

“If it’s not Judge Crater,” I said, “it would pretty much have to be Jimmy Hoffa, wouldn’t it?”

“The watch an’ wallet was gone,” he went on, “which you’d expect, seein’ as kids an’ God knows who else was in an’ out of the buildin’ all along. But under his clothes the guy was wearin’ a money belt, although there wasn’t a whole lot of money in it.”

“Unless the uniforms helped themselves.”

He made that sound with his tongue and his teeth, but I don’t think he was trying to say “Tsarnoff.” “Bernie,” he said, “you got a low opinion of the NYPD, which you oughta be ashamed of yourself. If they took a dime off the stiff, I got no way of knowin’ about it, so I’ll just tell you what they didn’t take. How’s that?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fascinating.”

“First thing was a passport. Had the guy’s picture on it, so you could tell right off he didn’t lift it off of somebody else. Had his name right there, too.”

“Passports usually do.”

“They’d have to, wouldn’t they? Accordin’ to the passport, his name was Jean-Claude Marmotte.”

“Sounds French.”

“Belgian,” he said. “Least he was carryin’ a Belgian passport, only it don’t hardly matter what country gave it to him, on account of they didn’t.”