The Burglar Who Liked To Quote Kipling Part 8

"It's Jimmy Rowles, but that's not what I meant. After the record ends, Carolyn."

After the record ended we got a quickie commercial for a jazz cruise to the Bahamas, and I had to explain that that wasn't it either. Then they gave us the eleven o'clock news, and high time, too. The Turkish earthquake, the flaky Albanian, the probable presidential veto, and then the extraordinary news that a convicted burglar, Bernard Rhodenbarr by name, was sought in connection with the murder of one Madeleine Porlock, who had been shot to death in her own apartment on East Sixty-sixth Street.

The announcer moved on to other matters. Carolyn cut him off in the middle of a sentence, looked at me for a moment, then went over to the kitchen area and fed the cats. "Chicken and kidneys tonight," she told them. "One of your all-time favorites, guys."

She stood for a moment with her back to me, her little hands on her hips, watching the wee rascals eat. Then she came over and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I should have known it was Jimmy Rowles," she said. "I used to catch him at Bradley's all the time. I haven't been going there lately because Randy hates jazz, but if we break up, which I think we're in the process of doing, the h.e.l.l, I'll get to the jazz clubs more, so it's an ill wind, right?"

"Right."

"Madeleine Doorlock? Funny name."

"Porlock."

"Still unusual. Who was she, Bern?"

"Beats me. We were strangers until this afternoon."

"You kill her?"

"No."

She crossed her legs at the knee, planted an elbow on the upper knee, cupped her hand, rested her chin in it. "All set," she announced. "You talk and I'll listen."

"Well," I said, "it's a long story."

CHAPTER Nine.

It was was a long story, and she listened patiently through the whole thing, leaving the bed only to fetch the brandy bottle. When I finished she cracked the seal on a fresh bottle and poured us each a generous measure. I'd given up diluting mine with tea and she'd never started. a long story, and she listened patiently through the whole thing, leaving the bed only to fetch the brandy bottle. When I finished she cracked the seal on a fresh bottle and poured us each a generous measure. I'd given up diluting mine with tea and she'd never started.

"Well, here's to crime," she said, holding her gla.s.s on high. "No wonder you almost spilled your club soda last time I said that. You were all set to go out and commit one. That's why you weren't drinking, huh?"

"I never drink when I work."

"I never work when I drink. Same principle. This is all taking me a little time to get used to, Bernie. I really believed you were a guy who used to be a burglar, but now you'd put all of that behind you and you were selling used books. Everything you told that policeman-"

"It was all true up to a point. I don't make a profit on the store, or maybe I do. I'm not much of an accountant. I buy and I sell, and I probably come out ahead, even allowing for rent and light bills and the phone and all. If I worked harder at it I could probably make enough to live on that way. If I hustled, and if I shelved paperbacks instead of wholesaling them, and if I read the want ads in AB AB every week and sent out price quotes all over the place." every week and sent out price quotes all over the place."

"Instead you go out and knock off houses."

"Just once in a while."

"Special occasions."

"That's right."

"To make ends meet."

"Uh-huh."

She frowned in thought, scratched her head, sipped a little brandy. "Let's see," she said. "You came here because it's a safe place for you to be, right?"

"Right."

"Well, that's cool. We're friends, aren't we? I know it means I'm harboring a fugitive, and I don't particularly give a s.h.i.+t. What are friends for?"

"You're one in a million, Carolyn."

"You bet your a.s.s. Listen, you can stay as long as you like and no questions asked, but the thing is I do have some questions, but I won't ask them if you don't want."

"Ask me anything."

"What's the capital of South Dakota? No, seriously, folks. Why'd you wait until the Arkwrights came home? Why not just duck in and out quick like a bunny? I always thought burglars preferred to avoid human contact."

I nodded. "It was Whelkin's idea. He wanted the book to be stolen without Arkwright even realizing it was gone. If I didn't take anything else and didn't disturb the house, and if the book was still there when Jesse Arkwright played his bedtime game of pocket billiards, it would be at least a day before he missed it. Whelkin was certain he'd be the prime suspect, because he wants the book so badly and he's had this feud with Arkwright, and an alibi wouldn't really help because Arkwright would just figure he hired someone to do it."

"Which he did do."

"Which he did do," I agreed. "But the longer it takes for Arkwright to know the book's missing, and the harder it is for him to dope out how or when it disappeared, and the more time Whelkin has to tuck it away where it will never be found-"

"And that's why you just took the book and left everything else."

"Right."

"Okay. That part makes sense now, I guess. But what happened to Whelkin?"

"I don't know."

"You figure he killed her?"

"I don't think so."

"Why not? He set up the meeting. He got her to drug you, and then when you were unconscious he killed her."

"Why?"

"To frame you, I suppose. To get you out of the picture."

"Why not just kill me?"

"I don't know." She gnawed at a knuckle. "She can't just come out of the air, this Porlock babe. Whelkin sent you to her, she doped your coffee, and she must have been after the book because she was asking you for it before you had a chance to nod out. Then she frisked you and took it herself."

"Or the killer did."

"You never heard a gunshot?"

"I was really out cold. And maybe he used a silencer, but if he did he took it along with him. He also took the book, plus the five hundred dollars the Sikh gave me." I shrugged. "I figured all along that was too much to charge for a reprint copy of Soldiers Three. Soldiers Three. Well, easy come, easy go." Well, easy come, easy go."

"That's what they say. Maybe the Sikh killed her."

"How do you figure that?"

"Maybe they were working together and he double-crossed her at the end." She shrugged elaborately. "I don't know, Bern. I'm just spinning my wheels a little. She must have been connected with Whelkin, though, don't you think?"

"I suppose so. He did lead me straight to her apartment. But-"

"But what?"

"But why wouldn't he just buy buy the book?" the book?"

"Maybe he couldn't afford it. But you're right that would have been the easiest thing for him to do. He already paid you some of it in advance, didn't he? How much did he still owe you?"

I didn't say anything.

"Bernie?"

I sighed. "Just yesterday," I said, "I told a shoplifter he was too dumb to steal. He's not the only one."

"You didn't-"

"I didn't get any any of the money in advance." of the money in advance."

"Oh."

I shrugged, sighed, drank. "He was a member of the Martingale Club," I said. "Had a sort of English accent. Dressed very tweedy."

"So?"

"So his front snowed me, that's all. He finessed the whole topic of advance payment. I don't know how, but I walked into that house with nothing in my pocket but my hands. Jesus, Carolyn, I even dipped into my own funds for gasoline and bridge tolls. I'm beginning to feel really stupid."

"Whelkin conned you. He set you up and she polished you off, and then he shot her and left you in the frame."

I thought it over. "No," I said.

"No?"

"I don't think so. Why use her at all? He could slip me a mickey as easily as she could. And there's something else. That last telephone conversation I had with him, when he set up the meeting at her apartment. He sounded out of synch. I thought at the time he'd been drinking."

"So?"

"I bet they drugged him."

"The way they drugged you?"

"Not quite. Not the same drug, or the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d wouldn't have been able to talk at all. I wonder what she gave me. It must have been powerful stuff. It had me hallucinating."

"Like acid?"

"I never had any acid."

"Neither did I."

"And this wasn't that kind of hallucination, with animals materializing on the walls and things like that. My perceptions just got distorted there before I blacked out. The music was getting loud and soft alternately, for example. And her face seemed to melt when I stared at it, but that was just before I went under."

"And you said something about her hair."

"Right, it kept turning orange. She had really short hair, dark brown, and I kept flas.h.i.+ng that she had a head full of bright orange curls. Then I would blink and she'd have short dark hair again. Oh, for Christ's sake."

"What is it, Bernie?"

"I know where I saw her before. And she did did have curly orange hair. It must have been a wig." have curly orange hair. It must have been a wig."

"The dark hair?"

The orange hair. She came to the shop and she must have been wearing an orange wig. I'm positive it was the same woman. Squared shoulders, blocky figure, a kind of a stern square-jawed face-I'm positive it was her. She must have come to the shop three or four times."

"With Rudyard Whelkin?"

"No. He only came there once. Then we had lunch in the Martingale Club that same day, and I met him once more at the club for drinks and we talked several times over the phone. She came to the shop-well, I don't know when I first noticed her, but it must have been within the past week. Then yesterday she bought a book from me. Virgil's Eclogues, Eclogues, the Heritage Club edition. It was her. No question about it." the Heritage Club edition. It was her. No question about it."

"What was she doing?"

"Looking things over, I suppose. Same reason I went out to Forest Hills with a clipboard. Reconnaissance. Say, can I put the radio on?"

"What for?"

"Midnight news."

"It's that time already? Sure, put it on."

I moved a cat and switched on the radio. I sat down and the cat returned to my lap and resumed purring. The news broadcast was a repeat of the eleven o'clock summary, except that the Albanian had surrendered without harming any of his hostages. He'd evidently gone bananas when he learned that his common-law wife had another common-law husband, which made them common-law husbands-in-law, or something. Madeleine Porlock was still dead and the police were still looking for one Bernard Rhodenbarr.

I moved the cat again, switched off the news, and sat down again. Carolyn asked me how it felt to be wanted by the police. I told her it felt terrible.

"How'd they know it was you, Bernie? Fingerprints?"

"Or the wallet."

"What wallet?"

"My wallet. Whoever frisked me got it-Madeleine Porlock or her killer. The book, the five hundred bucks, and the wallet. Maybe somebody stashed it where the cops would be sure to find it."