Lawrence Block - The Burglar on the Prowl

"Well, no," I said. "I didn't."

"Oh."

"I took a hundred and twenty bucks out of it," I said, "and that's what I put in her wallet. But I kept the rest."

"Oh."

"Chivalry only goes so far."

"I guess."

"You're surprised," I said.

"Yeah, kind of. I guess I was starting to see you as a knight in shining armor."

"I'm afraid the armor's a little tarnished. I went there to steal, Carolyn. I put back most of what I took, but I wanted to come out a few dollars ahead on the deal."

"So you made a profit of…"

"Eleven hundred and twenty dollars," I said. "Minus cab fare."

"Well, that's a better hourly rate than you make selling books."

"No kidding."

"But considering the risk…"

I shook my head. "I don't even want to go there. It was crazy, going on the prowl like that, and I just hope I got it out of my system, at least for a little while. The thing is, I knew how irrational it was, and how dangerous."

"But you did it anyway."

"I did it anyway. It's not much of an exaggeration to say I couldn't help myself, and I really couldn't keep from hanging on to the money in the brown envelope, either. I can tell myself that I'm a pretty literate guy and a decent fellow. I don't go out of my way to offend people, and I certainly wouldn't slip Rohypnol into a lady's drink. But there's no getting around it. When all is said and done, I'm a burglar through and through."

There's a bell hanging from the door of the bookstore, so arranged that it makes a not-unpleasant jingling sound when the door opens. I was already into my last sentence when I heard the bell, and I suppose I could have chopped the words off instantly, but I didn't.

"Now ain't that the truth," my visitor said. "Truer words were never spoken, not by Mrs. Rhodenbarr's son Bernard, at any rate. A burglar through an' through, that's what you are, all right, an' all you'll ever be if you live to be older'n Methuselah."

I felt, if not as old as Methuselah, as though I could easily pass for his younger brother. "Hello, Ray," I said. "How's crime?"

He sighed and shook his head, and when he spoke the jaunty banter was gone. "As if you didn't know," he said. "You really put your foot in it this time, Bernie. You screwed up big time. I don't know how the hell you're gonna get yourself out of this one."

That's a nice suit," I said. "Armani?"

"Close," he said, and held back the lapel to show me the label. "Canaletto. Another of your Eyetalians, an' you can't beat 'em for suits."

Whichever fine Italian hand had crafted his suit, the price tag would have been too high for a policeman's income, but then Ray Kirschmann had never attempted to live on what the city paid him. Fortunately no one would look at him and guess that his suit cost a bundle, because it had stopped looking expensive the minute he put it on. It was, as I'd said, a perfectly nice suit, but whatever suit he wore wound up looking as though it had been carefully tailored for another man, and a differently shaped one at that. The suit of the moment, navy with a subtle gray stripe, was too roomy in the shoulders and too tight at the waist, and the stain on the sleeve didn't help, either. It looked like spaghetti sauce, which was another thing the Italians were acknowledged to be good at.

"As for you," he said, "I have to say you look good in stripes." I was wearing a striped polo shirt, a red and blue number Lands' End had introduced a year ago with an excess of optimism; I'd picked it up last month from their catalog of overstocks. "It's a damn shame," he went on, "that the prisons quit issuing striped uniforms, because they'd look great on you."

"They still wear them in cartoons," I pointed out. "When a cartoonist wants you to know that somebody's a convict, he always puts him in stripes."

"Is that a fact? Well, I guess you'll be stayin' out of the funny papers, because what they're gonna put you in is one of them orange jumpsuits. I'm glad you think that's funny, Carolyn. Maybe you'd like to explain the joke to me."

"I was just trying to picture you in an orange jumpsuit," she told him. "I figure you'd look like the Great Pumpkin."

"You'd look like a beach ball," Ray told her, "but then you always do."

"Always a pleasure, Ray."

"Pleasure's mine," he said. "An' for a change you'll come in handy. You can lock up after I take your pal here downtown."

"Wait a minute," I said. "It's beginning to dawn on me. Ray, you're serious."

"Serious as a positive biopsy. You been gettin' away with it long enough, Bernie, but I don't see how you're gonna get out from under this one."

"Well, maybe you can help me," I said. "For starters, why don't you tell me what I'm supposed to have done?"

"I got a better idea. Why don't I ask the questions an' you tell me a few things?"

"Well, I suppose we could try it that way."

"For starters, where were you last night?"

"Home. I was watchingLaw amp; Order."

"I didn't watch it myself, but I can tell you what happened. The cops put a great case together and the rest of 'em screwed it up. That's what makes it a good show. It's always true to life. You were home, huh?"

"All night long." I decided to hedge a little. "Of course Law amp; Order doesn't come on until ten, and it had already started by the time I got home."

"Whatever you did before ten o'clock is your business, Bernie."

"Actually," I said, "you could say the same for whatever I did after ten o'clock, but it happens I was home, and I made it an early night. I must have been asleep well before midnight."

"And slept right through?"

"Except for getting up to pee, and I couldn't tell you when that was because I didn't look at the clock. I suppose I ought to keep track of that sort of thing, in case a minion of the law comes around asking questions, but-"

"The question's not when did you pee," he said. "It's where did you pee."

Carolyn said, "What, did you miss the toilet, Bern? That's disgusting, but I understand a lot of guys do it. It's a natural consequence of the biological flaw that makes you pee standing up. But I didn't know it was considered a police matter."

He was looking at me, waiting for my answer. "I went to the bathroom," I told him.

"The one in your apartment."

"Oddly enough," I said, "that's the very one I used."

"In that case," he said, "do you suppose maybe you can tell me what the hell you were doin' in the East Thirties?"

I'll admit it, the question shook me. Here's what I'd figured-someone had pulled some kind of break-in somewhere in Riverdale, and some eyewitness, presented with a book of mugshots of known offenders, had picked me out as someone who'd been seen lurking in the neighborhood. But any lurking I'd done had been in the early evening, and Ray said he was only interested in where I'd been afterLaw amp; Order.

It didn't seem like anything to worry about. One witness who thought he might have seen me in Riverdale a few hours before a break-in-well, I hadn't done anything, and wouldn't have left prints or trace evidence, so I couldn't believe Ray expected to get anywhere with this. Most likely he was just going through the motions.

And then he mentioned the East Thirties.

Where the hell did that come from? The only person who could have reported the break-in at the Creeley apartment was Barbara Creeley herself, and there was no way she'd think she was the victim of a burglar. The odds were she was still deep in the throes of a booze-and-Roofies hangover and hadn't yet discovered that her class ring was missing, not to mention the very cold cash from her refrigerator. When she did, she could only assume it had been taken by the miserable son of a bitch who'd brought her home. If she reported it-and I could see why she might not want to-and if she had any memory at all of the pickup, it would be Lover Boy's description she'd give the police. It certainly wouldn't be mine, as the woman had never laid eyes on me.