The Burglar Who Liked To Quote Kipling Part 11

I was standing behind the door when she opened it. She moved into the room saying my name.

"Behind you," I said, as gently as possible. She clapped her hand to her chest as if to keep her heart where it belonged.

"Jesus," she said. "Don't do do that." that."

"Sorry. I wasn't sure it was you."

"Who else would it be?"

"It could have been Randy."

"Randy," she said heavily. Cats appeared and threaded figure eights around her ankles. "Randy. I don't suppose she called, did she?"

"She might have. It rang a lot but I wasn't answering it."

"I know you weren't. I called twice myself, and when you didn't answer I figured you weren't picking up the phone, but I also figured maybe you got cabin fever and went out, and then I came home and you weren't here and all of a sudden you were behind me. Don't do that again, huh?"

"I won't."

"I had a busy day. What time is it? Almost two? I've been running all over the place. I found out some stuff. What's this?"

"I want you to make a phone call for me."

She took the sheet of paper I handed her but looked at me instead. "Don't you want to hear what I found out?"

"In a minute. I want you to call the Times Times and insert the ad before they close." and insert the ad before they close."

"What ad?"

"The one I just handed you. In the Personal column."

"You got some handwriting. You should have been a doctor, did anyone ever tell you that? 's.p.a.ce available on Kipling Society charter excursion to Fort Bucklow. Interested parties call 989-5440.' That's my number."

"No kidding."

"You're going to put my number in the paper?"

"Why not?"

"Somebody'll read it and come here."

"How? By crawling through the wires? The phone's unlisted."

"No, it's not. This place is a sublet, Bernie, so I kept the phone listed under Nathan Aranow. He's the guy I sublet from. It's like having an unlisted number except there's no extra charge for the privilege, and whenever I get a call for a Nathan Aranow I know it's some pest trying to sell me a subscription to something I don't want. But it's a listed number."

"So?"

"So the address is in the book. Nathan Aranow, 64 Arbor Court, and the telephone number."

"So somebody could read the ad and then just go all the way through the phone book reading numbers until they came to this one, right, Carolyn?"

"Oh. You can't get the address from the number?"

"No."

"Oh. I hope n.o.body does go through the book, because Aranow's right in the front."

"Maybe they'll start in the back."

"I hope so. This ad-"

"A lot of people seem to be anxious to get their hands on this book," I explained. "All different people, the way it looks to me. And only one of them knows I don't have it. So if I give the impression that I do have it, maybe one or more of them will get in touch and I'll be able to figure out what's going on."

"Makes sense. Why didn't you just place the ad yourself? Afraid somebody in the Times Times cla.s.sified department would recognize your voice?" cla.s.sified department would recognize your voice?"

"No."

"And they'd say, 'Aha, it's Bernard G. Rhodenbarr the burglar, and let's go through the telephone wires and take him into custody.' My G.o.d, Bernie, you thought I was being paranoid about the number, and you're afraid to make a phone call."

"They call back," I said.

"Huh?"

"When you place an ad with a phone number. To make sure it's not a practical joke. And the phone was ringing constantly, and I wasn't answering it, and I figured the Times Times would call to confirm the ad and how would I know it was them? Paranoia, I suppose, but it seemed easier to wait and let would call to confirm the ad and how would I know it was them? Paranoia, I suppose, but it seemed easier to wait and let you you make the call, although I'm beginning to wonder. You'll place the ad for me, won't you?" make the call, although I'm beginning to wonder. You'll place the ad for me, won't you?"

"Sure," she said, and the phone rang as she was reaching for it.

She picked it up, said, "h.e.l.lo?" Then she said, "Listen, I can't talk to you right now. Where are you and I'll call you back." Pause. "Company? No, of course not." Pause. "I was at the shop. Oh. Well, I was in and out all day. One thing after another." Pause. "Dammit, I can't can't talk now, and-" She took the receiver from her ear and looked beseechingly at me. "She hung up," she said. talk now, and-" She took the receiver from her ear and looked beseechingly at me. "She hung up," she said.

"Randy?"

"Who else? She thought I had company."

"You do."

"Yeah, but she thought you were a woman."

"Must be my high-pitched voice."

"What do you mean? You didn't say anything. Oh, I see. It's a joke."

"It was trying to be one."

"Yeah, right." She looked at the telephone receiver, shook her head at it, hung it up. "She called here all morning," she said. "And called the store, too, and I was out, obviously, and now she thinks-" The corners of her mouth curled slowly into a wide grin. "How about that?" she said. "The b.i.t.c.h is jealous."

"Is that good?"

"It's terrific." The phone rang again, and it was Randy. I tried not to pay too much attention to the conversation. It ended with Carolyn saying, "Oh, you demand to know who I've got over here? All right, I'll tell you who I've got over here. I've got my aunt from Bath Beach over here. You think you're the only woman in Manhattan with a mythical aunt in Bath Beach?"

She hung up, positively radiant. "Gimme the ad," she said. "Quick, before she calls back. You wouldn't believe how jealous she is."

She got the ad in, then answered the phone when they called back to confirm it. Then she was getting lunch on the table, setting out bread and cheese and opening a couple bottles of Amstel, when the phone rang again. "Randy," she said. "I'm not getting it."

"Fine."

"You had this all morning, huh? The phone ringing like that?"

"Maybe eight, ten times. That's all."

"You find out anything about Madeleine Porlock?"

I told her about the calls I'd made.

"Not much," she said.

"Next to nothing."

"I learned a little about your friend Whelkin, but I don't know what good it does. He's not a member of the Martingale Club."

"Don't be silly. I ate there with him."

"Uh-huh. The Martingale Club of New York maintains what they call reciprocity with a London club called Poindexter's. Ever hear of it?"

"No."

"Me neither. The dude at the Martingale said it as though it was a household word. The Martingale has reciprocity with three London clubs, he told me. White's, Poindexter's, and the Dolphin. I never heard of any of them."

"I think I heard of White's."

"Anyhow, that's how Whelkin got guest privileges. But I thought he was an American."

"I think he is. He has an accent that could be English, but I figured it was an affectation. Something he picked up at prep school, maybe." I thought back to conversations we'd had. "No," I said, "he's American. He talked about making a trip to London to attend that auction, and he referred to the English once as 'our cousins across the pond.' "

"Honestly?"

"Honestly. I suppose he could be an American and belong to a London club, and use that London members.h.i.+p to claim guest privileges at the Martingale. I suppose it's possible."

"Lots of things are possible."

"Uh-huh. You know what I think?"

"He's a phony."

"He's a phony who faked me out of my socks, that's what he is. G.o.d, the more I think about it the phonier he sounds, and I let him con me into stealing the book with no money in front. All of a sudden his whole story is starting to come apart in my hands. All that happy horses.h.i.+t about Haggard and Kipling, all that verse he quoted at me."

"You think he just made it all up?"

"No, but-"

"Leave me alone, Ubi. You don't even like Jarlsberg." Ubi was short for Ubiquitous, which was the Russian Blue's name. Jarlsberg was the cheese we were munching. (Not the Burmese, in case you were wondering. The Burmese was named Archie.) To me she said, "Maybe the book doesn't exist, Bernie."

"I had it in my hands, Carolyn."

"Oh, right."

"I was thinking that myself earlier, just spinning all sorts of mental wheels. Like it wasn't a real book, it was hollowed out and all full of heroin or something like that."

"Yeah, that's an idea."

"Except it's a dumb idea, because I actually flipped through that book and read bits and pieces of it, and it's real. It's a genuine old printed book in less than sensational condition. I was even wondering if it could be a fake."

"A fake?"

"Sure. Suppose Kipling destroyed every last copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow. The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow. Suppose there never was such a thing as a Rider Haggard copy to survive, or suppose there was but it disappeared forever." She was nodding encouragingly. "Well," I went on, "suppose someone sat down and faked a text. It'd be a job, writing that long a ballad, but Kipling's not the hardest writer in the world to imitate. Some poet could knock it out between greeting-card a.s.signments." Suppose there never was such a thing as a Rider Haggard copy to survive, or suppose there was but it disappeared forever." She was nodding encouragingly. "Well," I went on, "suppose someone sat down and faked a text. It'd be a job, writing that long a ballad, but Kipling's not the hardest writer in the world to imitate. Some poet could knock it out between greeting-card a.s.signments."

"Then what?"

"Well, you couldn't sell it as an original ma.n.u.script because it would be too easily discredited. But if you had a printer set type-" I shook my head. "That's where it breaks down. You could set type and run off one copy, and you could bind it and then distress it one way or another to give it some age, and you could even fake the inscription to H. Rider Haggard in a way that might pa.s.s inspection. But do you see the problem?"

"It sounds complicated."

"Right. It's too d.a.m.ned complicated and far too expensive. It's like those caper movies where the crooks would have had to spend a million dollars to steal a hundred thousand, with all the elaborate preparations they go through and the equipment they use. Any crook who went through everything I described in order to produce a book you could sell for fifteen thousand dollars would have to be crazy."

"Maybe it's worth a lot more than that. Fifteen thousand is just the price you and Whelkin worked out."

"That's true. The fifteen-thousand figure doesn't really mean anything, since I didn't even get a smell of it, did I?" I sighed. Wistfully, I imagine. "No," I said. "I know an old book when I look at it. I look at a few thousand of them every day, and old books are different from new ones, dammit. Paper's different when it's been around for fifty years. Sure, they could have used old paper, but it keeps not being worth the trouble. It's a real book, Carolyn. I'm sure of it."

"Speaking of the old books you look at every day."

"What about them?"

"Somebody's watching your store. I was at my shop part of the time, I had to wash a dog and I couldn't reach the owner to cancel. And there was somebody in a car across the street from your shop, and he was still there when I walked past a second time."

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"No. I didn't get the license number, either. I suppose I should have, huh?"

"What for?"

"I don't know."

"It was probably the police," I said. "A stake-out."

"Oh."

"They've probably got my apartment staked out, too."