The Burglar Who Liked To Quote Kipling Part 19

By a quarter to five we were in a c.o.c.ktail lounge called Sangfroid. It was as elegant as the surrounding neighborhood, its floor deeply carpeted, its decor running to black wood and chrome. Our table was a black disc eighteen inches in diameter. Our chairs were black vinyl hemispheres with chrome bases. My drink was Perrier water with ice and lime. Carolyn's was a martini.

"I know you don't drink when you work," she said. "But this isn't drinking."

"What is it?"

"Therapy. And not a moment too soon, because I think I'm hallucinating. Do you see what I see?"

"I see a very tall gentleman with a beard and a turban walking south on Madison Avenue."

"Does that mean we're both hallucinating?"

I shook my head. "The chap's a Sikh," I said. "Unless he's a notorious homicidal burglar wearing a fiendishly clever disguise."

"What's he doing?"

He had entered the telephone booth. It was on our corner, a matter of yards from where we sat, and we could see him quite clearly through the window. I couldn't swear he was the same Sikh who'd held a gun on me, but the possibility certainly did suggest itself.

"Is he the man who called you?"

"I don't think so."

"Then why's he in the booth? He's ten minutes early, anyway."

"Maybe his watch is fast."

"Is he just going to sit there? Wait a minute. Who's he calling?"

"I don't know. If it's Dial-A-Prayer, you might get the number from him."

"It's not Dial-A-Prayer. He's saying something."

"Maybe it's Dial-A-Mantra and he's chanting along with the recording."

"He's hanging up."

"So he is," I said.

"And going away."

But not far. He crossed the street and took a position in the doorway of a boutique. He was about as inconspicuous as the World Trade Center.

"He's standing guard," I said. "I think he just checked to make sure the coast was clear. Then he called the man I spoke with earlier and told him as much. Those may have been his very words-The coast is clear-but somehow I doubt it. Here comes our man now, I think."

"Where did he come from?"

"The Carlyle, probably. It's just a block away, and where else would you stay if you were the sort to employ turbaned Sikhs? The Waldorf, perhaps, if you had a sense of history. The Sherry-Netherlands, possibly, if you were a film producer and the Sikh was Yul Brynner in drag. The Pierre maybe, just maybe, if-"

"It's definitely him. He's in the booth."

"So he is."

"Now what?"

I stood up, found a dime in my pocket, checked my watch. "It's about that time," I said.

"You'll excuse me, won't you? I have a call to make."

It was a longish call. A couple of times the operator cut in to ask for nickels, and it wasn't the sort of conversation where one welcomed the intrusion. I thought of setting the receiver down, walking a few dozen yards, tapping on the phone-booth door and hanging onto my nickels. I decided that would be pound foolish.

I hung up, finally, and the operator rang back almost immediately to ask for a final dime. I dropped it in, then stood there fingering my ring of picks and probes and having fantasies of opening the coin box and retrieving what I'd spent. I'd never tried to pick a telephone, the game clearly not being worth the candle, but how hard could it be? I studied the key slot for perhaps a full minute before coming sharply to my senses.

Carolyn would love that one, I thought, and hurried back to the table to fill her in. She wasn't there. I sat for a moment. The ice had melted in my Perrier and the natural carbonation, while remarkably persistent, was clearly flagging. I gazed out the window. The phone booth on the corner was empty, and I couldn't spot the Sikh in the doorway across the street.

Had she responded to a call of nature? If so, she'd toted the camera along with her. I gave her an extra minute to return from the ladies' room, then laid a five-dollar bill atop the little table, weighted it down with my gla.s.s, and got out of there.

I took another look for the Sikh and still couldn't find him. I crossed the street and walked north on Madison in the direction of the Carlyle. Bobby Short was back from his summer break, I seemed to recall reading, and Tommie Flanagan, Ella Fitzgerald's accompanist for years, was doing a solo act in the Bemelmans Lounge. It struck me that I couldn't think of a nicer way to spend a New York evening, and that I hadn't been getting out much of late, and once this mess was cleared up I'd have to pay another visit to this glittering neighborhood.

Unless, of course, this mess didn't get cleared up. In which case I wouldn't be getting out much for years on end.

I was entertaining this grim thought when a voice came at me from a doorway on my left. "Pssssst," I heard. "Hey, Mac, wanna buy a hot camera?"

And there she was, a c.o.c.ky grin on her face. "You found me," she said.

"I'm keen and resourceful."

"And harder to shake than a summer cold."

"That too. I figured you were in the john. When you failed to return, I took action."

"So did I. I tried taking his picture while you were talking to him. From our table. All I got was reflections. You couldn't even tell if there was anyone inside the telephone booth."

"So you went out and waylaid him."

"Yeah. I figured when he was done he'd probably go back where he came from, so I found this spot and waited for him. Either he made more calls or you were talking a long time."

"We were talking a long time."

"Then he showed up, finally, and he never even noticed me. He pa.s.sed close by, too. Look at this."

"A stunning likeness."

"That's nothing. The film popped out the way it does, and I watched it develop, and it's really amazing the way it does that, and then I tore it off and put it in my pocket, and I popped out of the doorway, ready to go back and look for you, and who do you think I b.u.mped into?"

"Rudyard Whelkin."

"Is he around here? Did you see him?"

"No."

"Then why did you say that?"

"Just a guess. Let's see. Prescott Demarest?"

"No. What's the matter with you, Bern? It was the Sikh."

"That would have been my third guess."

"Well, you would have been right. I popped out with my camera in my hot little hands and I almost smacked right into him. He looked down at me and I looked up at him, and I'll tell you, Bernie, I could have used a stepstool."

"What happened?"

"What happened is I was incredibly brilliant. A mind like quicksilver. I went all saucer-eyed and I said, 'Oh, wow, a turban! Are you from India, sir? Are you with the United Nations? Gosh, will you pose for me so I can take your picture?' "

"How did this go over?"

"Smas.h.i.+ngly. Look for yourself."

"You're getting pretty handy with that camera."

"You're no more impressed than he was. He's going to buy himself a Polaroid first thing Monday morning. I had to take two pictures, incidentally, because he wanted one for a souvenir. Turn it over, Bernie. Read the back."

An elegant inscription, with lots of curlicues and nonfunctional loops and whorls. To my tiny princess / With devotion and esteem / Your loyal servant / Atman Singh. To my tiny princess / With devotion and esteem / Your loyal servant / Atman Singh.

"That's his name," she explained. "Atman Singh."

"I figured that."

"Clever of you. The guy you were on the phone with is Atman Singh's boss, which you also probably figured. The boss's name is-Well, come to think of it, I don't know his name, but his t.i.tle is the Maharajah of Ranchipur. But I suppose you knew that too, huh?"

"No," I said softly. "I didn't know that."

"They're at the Carlyle, you were right about that. The Maharajah likes to take people with him when he travels. Especially women. I had the feeling I could have joined the party if I played my cards right."

"I wonder how you'd look with a ruby in your navel."

"A little too femme, don't you think? Anyway, Atman Singh likes me just the way I am."

"So do I." I put a hand on her shoulder. "You did beautifully, Carolyn. I'm impressed."

"So am I," she said, "if I say so myself. But it wasn't just me alone. I could never have done it without the martini."

Driving south and east, she said, "It was exciting, doing that number with Atman Singh. At first I was scared and then I didn't even notice I was scared because I was so completely into it. Do you know what I mean?"

"Of course I know what you mean. I get the same feeling in other people's houses."

"Yeah, that was a kick. In Randy's place. I never realized burglary could be thrilling like that. Now I can see how people might do it primarily for the kick, with the money secondary."

"When you're a pro," I said, "the money's never secondary."

"I guess not. She was really jealous, wasn't she?"

"Randy?"

"Yeah. Hey, when this is all over, maybe you could teach me a few things."

"Like what?"

"Like opening locks without keys. If you think I could learn."

"Well, there's a certain amount a person can learn. I think there's a knack for lockpick work that you either have or you don't, but beyond that there are things I could teach you."

"How about starting a car without a key?"

"Jumping the ignition? That's a cinch. You could learn that in ten minutes."

"I don't drive, though."

"That does make it a pointless skill to acquire."

"Yeah, but I'd sort of like to be able to do it. Just for the h.e.l.l of it. Hey, Bern?"

"What?"

She made a fist, punched me lightly on the upper arm. "I know this is like life and death," she said, "but I'm having a good time. I just wanted to tell you that."

By five-fifty we were parked-legally, for a change-about half a block from the Gresham Hotel on West Twenty-third Street. The daylight was fading fast now. Carolyn rolled down her window and snapped a quick picture of a pa.s.sing stranger. The result wasn't too bad from an aesthetic standpoint, but the dim light resulted in a loss of detail.

"I was afraid of that," I told her. "I booked the Maharajah at five and Whelkin at six, and then when I spoke to Demarest, I was going to set up the call for seven. I made it four instead when I remembered we'd need light."

"There's flashcubes in the carrying case."

"They're a little obvious, don't you think? Anyway, I'm glad we caught Demarest when it was still light enough out to see him. With Whelkin it may not matter. We may not be able to coax him out of the hotel."

"You think he's staying there?"

"It's certainly possible. I'd have called, but what name would I ask for?"