The Burglar Who Liked To Quote Kipling Part 18

"Huh?"

"Who needs keys?"

She looked at me, laughed, shook her head, "Far out," she said, and reached for the phone.

Randy lived in a tiny studio on the fifth floor of a squat brick apartment house on Morton Street between Seventh Avenue and Hudson. There's an article in the New York building code requiring an elevator in every structure of seven or more stories. This one was six stories tall, and up the stairs we went.

The locks were candy. They wouldn't have been much trouble if I'd been limited to my drugstore tools. Now that I had my pro gear, I went through them like the Wehrmacht through Luxembourg. When the penny dropped and the final lock snicked open, I looked up at Carolyn. Her mouth was wide open and her blue eyes were larger than I'd ever seen them.

"G.o.d," she said. "It takes me longer than that when I've got the keys."

"Well, they're cheap locks. And I was showing off a little. Trying to impress you."

"It worked. I'm impressed."

We were in and out quicker than Speedy Gonzales. The camera was where Carolyn thought it would be, in the bottom drawer of Randy's dresser. It nestled in a carrying case with a shoulder strap, and an ample supply of film reposed in the case's zippered film compartment. Carolyn hung the thing over her shoulder, I locked the locks, and we were on our way home.

I'd told Ray I would call him in half an hour and I didn't miss by more than a few minutes. He answered the phone himself this time. "Your friend moves around," he said.

"Huh?"

"The guy with the three phone numbers. He covers a lot of ground. The Rhinelander number's a sidewalk pay phone on the corner of Seventy-fifth and Madison. The Chelsea number's also a pay phone. It's located in the lobby of the Gresham Hotel. That's on Twenty-third between Fifth and Sixth."

"Hold on," I said, scribbling furiously. "All right. How about the Worth number?"

"Downtown. I mean way downtown, in the Wall Street area. Twelve Pine Street."

"Another lobby phone?"

"Nope. An office on the fourteenth floor. A firm called Tontine Trading Corp. Bern, let's get back to the coat, huh? You said ranch mink, didn't you?"

"That's right."

"What did you say the color was?"

"Silver-blue."

"And it's full-fashioned? You're sure of that?"

"Positive. You can't go wrong with this one, Ray. It's carrying an Arvin Tannenbaum label, and that's strictly carriage trade."

"When can I have it?"

"In plenty of time for Christmas, Ray. No problem."

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h. What are you givin' me? You haven't got the coat."

"Of course not. I retired, Ray. I gave up burglary. What would I be doing with a hot coat?"

"Then where'd the coat come from?"

"I'm going to get it for you, Ray. After I get myself out of the jam I'm in."

"Suppose you don't get out of it, Bern? Then what?"

"Well, you better hope I do," I said, "or else the coat's down the same chute as your twenty-buck bet on Wake Forest."

CHAPTER Sixteen.

I cabbed uptown for the Pontiac. By the time I brought it downtown again Carolyn had familiarized herself with the intricacies of the Polaroid camera. She proved this by clicking the shutter at me as I came through the door. The picture popped out and commenced developing before my eyes. I looked startled, and guilty of something or other. I told Carolyn I wasn't going to order any enlargements. cabbed uptown for the Pontiac. By the time I brought it downtown again Carolyn had familiarized herself with the intricacies of the Polaroid camera. She proved this by clicking the shutter at me as I came through the door. The picture popped out and commenced developing before my eyes. I looked startled, and guilty of something or other. I told Carolyn I wasn't going to order any enlargements.

"You're a better model than the cats," she said. "Ubi wouldn't sit still and Archie kept crossing his eyes."

"Archie always keeps crossing his eyes."

"It's part of being Burmese. Wanna take my picture?"

"Sure."

She was wearing a charcoal-gray turtleneck and slate-blue corduroy jeans. For the photo she slipped on a bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned blazer and topped things off with a rakish beret. So attired, she sat on the edge of a table, crossed her legs, and grinned at the camera like an endearing waif.

Randy's Polaroid captured all of this remarkably well. We studied the result together. "What's missing," Carolyn said, "is a cigar."

"You don't smoke cigars."

"To pose with. It'd make me look very Bonnie and Clyde. Bonnie and Clyde."

"Which of them do you figure you'd look like?"

"Oh, very funny. Nothing like a little s.e.xist humor to lighten the mood. Are we ready to go?"

"I think so. You've got the Blinns' bracelet?"

"In my pocket."

"And you're comfortable with the camera?"

"It's about as tricky to operate as a self-service elevator."

"Then let's go."

And on the sidewalk I said, "Uh, Carolyn, you may not remind anybody of Faye Dunaway, but you look terrific today."

"What's all this about?"

"And you're not bad to have around, either."

"What is is this? A speech to the troops before going into battle?" this? A speech to the troops before going into battle?"

"Something like that, I guess."

"Well, watch it, will you? I could get misty-eyed and run my mascara. It's a good thing I don't wear any. Can't you drive this crate, Bern?"

On weekends, New York's financial district looks as though someone zapped it with one of those considerate bombs that kills people without damaging property. Narrow streets, tall buildings, and no discernible human activity whatsoever. All the shops were closed, all the people home watching football games.

I left the Pontiac in an unattended parking lot on Na.s.sau and we walked down to Pine. Number 12 was an office building that towered above those on either side of it. A guard sat at a desk in the lobby, logging the handful of workers who refused to let the weekend qualify their devotion to the pursuit of profit.

We stood on the far side of Pine for eight or ten minutes, during which time the attendant had nothing whatever to do. No one signed in or out. I looked up and counted nine lighted windows on the front of the building. I tried to determine if one of these might be on the fourteenth floor, a process made somewhat more difficult by the angle at which I had to gaze and the impossibility of determining which was the fourteenth floor, since I had no way of knowing if the building had a thirteenth floor.

I couldn't find a pay phone in line of sight of the building. I went around the corner and walked a block up William Street. At two minutes past four I dialed the number Prescott Demarest had given me. He picked it up after it had rung twice but didn't say anything until I'd said h.e.l.lo myself. If I'd shown similar restraint the night before we could have had Randy's Polaroid without breaking and entering to get it.

"I have the book," I told him. "And I need cash. I have to leave town. If you're ready to deal, I can offer you a bargain."

"I'll pay a fair price. If I'm convinced the item is genuine."

"Suppose I show it to you tonight? If you decide you want it, then we can work out a price."

"Tonight?"

"At Barnegat Books. That's a store on East Eleventh Street."

"I know where it is. There was a story in this morning's paper-"

"I know."

"You feel it's entirely safe? Meeting at this store?"

"I think so. There's no police surveillance, if that's worrying you. I checked earlier this afternoon." And so I had, driving past slowly in the Pontiac. "Eleven o'clock," I said. "I'll see you then."

I hung up and walked back to the corner of William and Pine. I could see the entrance of Number 12 from there, though not terribly well. I'd left Carolyn directly across the street in the doorway of a shop that offered old prints and custom framing. I couldn't tell if she was still there or not.

I stayed put for maybe five minutes. Then someone emerged from the building, walking off immediately toward Na.s.sau Street. He'd no sooner disappeared from view than Carolyn stepped out from the printshop's doorway and gave me a wave.

I sprinted back to the telephone, dialed WOrth 4-1114. I let it ring a full dozen times, hung up, retrieved my dime, and raced back to where Carolyn was waiting. "No answer," I told her. "He's left the office."

"Then we've got his picture."

"There was just the one man?"

"Uh-huh. Somebody else left earlier, but you hadn't even gotten to the phone by then, so I didn't bother taking his picture. Then one man came out, and I waved to you after I snapped him, and there hasn't been anybody since then. Here's somebody now. It's a woman. Should I take her picture?"

"Don't bother."

"She's signing out. Demarest didn't bother. He just waved to the guard and walked on by."

"Doesn't mean anything. I've done that myself, hitting doormen with the old nonchalance. If you act like they know you, they figure they must."

"Here's his picture. What we really need is one of those zoom lenses or whatever you call them. At least this is a narrow street or you wouldn't be able to see much."

I studied the picture. It didn't have the clarity of a Bachrach portrait but the lighting was good and Demarest's face showed up clearly. He was a big man, middle-aged, with the close-cropped gray hair of a retired Marine colonel.

The face was vaguely familiar but I couldn't think why. He was no one I'd ever seen before.

On the way uptown Carolyn used the rear-view mirror to check the angle of her beret. It took a few minutes before she was satisfied with it.

"That was really funny," she said.

"Taking Demarest's picture?"

"What's funny about taking somebody's picture? It wasn't even scary. I had visions of him coming straight across the street and braining me with the camera, but he never even noticed. Just a quiet little click from the shadows. No, I was talking about last night."

"Oh."

"When Randy turned up. The ultimate bedroom farce. I swear, if jumping weren't allowed she'd never get to a conclusion."

"Well, from her point of view-"

"Oh, the whole thing's ridiculous from anybody's point of view. But there's one thing you've got to admit."

"What's that?"

"She's really cute when she's mad."