The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian

by Lawrence Block

  “The Charlemagne,” I said.

  “Right.”

  “An apartment house.”

  “Right.”

  “Around the corner. And you live there.”

  “Right you are, Donald Brown.”

  “Well,” I said, setting my glass down unfinished. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

  I recognized the doorman and the concierge and Eduardo, the kindly elevator operator. None of them recognized me. They didn’t even take a second glance at me, perhaps because they didn’t take a first glance at me, either. I could have been wearing a gorilla suit and they’d have been just as careful to avert their eyes. Ms. DeGrasse was, after all, a tenant, and I don’t suppose I was the first young man she’d ever pulled out of Big Charlie’s and brought on home, and the staff was no doubt well tipped to keep their eyes in their sockets where they belonged.

  We rode the elevator clear to the fifteenth floor. I’d gulped air furiously as we walked from the bar to the building, but it takes more than a few lungfuls of New York’s polluted atmosphere to counteract the effects of three and a half large whiskeys, and I felt a little woozy in the elevator. The light in there, unkind as it was to my companion, didn’t help either. We walked to her door, and she had more trouble opening it with the key than I generally have without one, but I let her do the honors and she got it open.

  Inside, she said, “Oh, Donald!” and swept me in her arms. She was almost my height, and there was quite a bit of her. She wasn’t fat or blowsy or anything. There was just a lot of her, that’s all.

  I said, “You know what? I think we could both use a drink.”

  We used three. She drank hers and I dumped mine in an areca palm that looked as though it was going to die soon anyway.

  Perhaps it was just intimidated by its surroundings. The apartment looked like a spread in Architectural Digest, with not much furniture and a lot of carpeted platforms and such. The only picture on the wall was a mural and it was all loops and swirls without a single right angle to be found in it. Mondrian would have hated it, and you’d have had to take the whole wall to steal it.

  “Ah, Donald—”

  I’d hoped she might dim out with all that whiskey, but it didn’t seem to be affecting her at all. And I wasn’t getting a whole lot more sober with the passage of time. I thought, Oh, what the hell, and I said, “Eve!” and we went into a clinch.

  There was no bed in her bedroom, just another carpeted platform with a mattress on it. It did the job. And so, much to my surprise, did I.

  It was odd. At first I just concentrated on not thinking about my mother’s younger sister, which should have been a cinch in view of the fact that she’d never had one. Then I tried to build a fantasy incorporating our age differences, imagining myself as an eager youth of seventeen and Eve as a ripe, knowing woman of thirty-six. That didn’t work too well because I imagined myself right back into a state of coltish clumsiness and embarrassment.

  Finally I just gave up and forgot who either of us was, and that worked. I don’t know if the whiskey helped or hindered, but one way or another I stopped thinking about what was going on and just let it happen, and damned if it didn’t.

  Go figure.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Afterward, the hardest part was staying awake long enough for her to fall asleep. I kept catching myself just as my mind was starting to drift, following some abstruse line of thought along one of those tangled paths that lead to Dreamland. Each time I yanked myself conscious, and each time it felt like a narrow escape.

  When her breathing changed I stayed put for a minute or two, then slipped off the mattress and dropped from the sleeping platform to the floor. The carpet was deep and I padded silently across it, reclaimed my clothes, and put them on in the living room. I was almost to the door when I remembered my five-foot tube and went back for it. “I’ll bet you’re an architect,” Eve had said, “and I’ll bet you’ve got blueprints in there.” I’d asked her how she’d guessed. “Those glasses,” she said, “and that hat. And those sensible sensible shoes. Hell, Donald, you look like an architect.”

  I squinted through the judas, unlocked the door, cracked it and checked the hallway. Outside, I thought of using my picks to lock the door behind me and decided against it. Eve’s lifestyle was such that she probably slept behind unlocked doors as a regular thing. For that matter, it wasn’t inconceivable that departing guests often went through her purse on the way out, or that she considered such actions not theft but a quid pro quo. A fair exchange, they say, is no robbery.

  I used the fire stairs to reach the eleventh floor. For a moment I couldn’t remember which door led to the Appling apartment, and then I spied the telltale burglar alarm keyhole, the one to which no alarm system was attached. I had my ring of picks in hand and one slim piece of steel probing the innards of the Poulard lock when something stopped me.

  And a good thing, too, because there were people inside that apartment. I must have heard something that made me put my ear to the door, and when I did that I heard what must have been the laugh track of a television situation comedy. I put my eye where my pick had been, and, surprise! Light showed through the keyhole.

  The Applings were home. Even now, as I stood lemminglike on the brink of their apartment, Mr. A. might be paging idly through his plundered stamp collection. At any moment he might let out a great bellow, doubtless startling his wife and driving Mary Tyler Moore reruns clear out of her head. Whereupon he might reflexively dash to the door, yank it open, and find—what?

  An empty hallway, because by the time I’d reached this stage in my thoughts I was already through the fire door and on the stairs again. I climbed three flights, which put me back on Fifteen where I’d left Eve DeGrasse, hesitated for a moment in front of the fire door, then climbed another flight of stairs and opened the door with my picks.

  There was an argument going on behind a closed door, but it was another door than Onderdonk’s. His had a piece of paper taped to it proclaiming that the premises within were ordered sealed by the New York Police Department. The seal was symbolic rather than literal; Onderdonk’s lock provided the only tangible barrier to Onderdonk’s apartment. It was a Segal drop-bolt, a good enough lock, but I’d already picked it open once and it held no secrets for me.

  But I didn’t open it at once. First I listened, ear to door, and then I put my eye to the keyhole and stooped lower to see if any light issued forth from beneath the door. Nothing, no light, no sound, nothing.

  I let myself in.

  Other than mine, there were no bodies, living or otherwise, in the Onderdonk apartment. I checked everywhere, even the kitchen cupboards, to establish as much. Then I let the tapwater run until it was hot enough to make instant coffee. The resultant beverage wouldn’t have thrilled El Exigente, nor would it get me sober, but at least I’d be a wide-awake drunk instead of a falling-down one. I drank it, shuddering, and then I got on the phone.

  “Bernie, thank God. I was worried sick. I was afraid something happened. You’re not calling from jail, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Not in jail. I’m all right. You and Alison got out okay?”

  “Sure, no problem. What a scene! I think we coulda grabbed the Mona Lisa on the way out, except it’s in the Louvre. But I’ve gotta tell you the big news—the cat’s back!”

  “Archie?”

  “Archie. We went and had a drink, and then we had another drink, and then we came home and Ubi rushed over to be petted, which isn’t like him, and I was petting him and I looked up and there was Ubi on the other side of the room, so I looked down at the cat I was petting and damned if it wasn’t old Archie Goodwin himself. Whoever broke in to take him broke in again to return him, and left the locks just the way I left them, same as the other time.”

  “Amazing. The Nazi kept her word.”

  “Kept her word?”

  “I gave her the painting and she returned the cat.” />
  “How’d you find her?”

  “She found me. It’s too complicated to explain right now. The important thing is he’s back. How are his whiskers?”

  “Gone on one side. His balance is sort of weirded out, like he’s very unsure of himself when it comes to leaps and pounces. I can’t make up my mind whether to trim ’em on the other side or just wait for ’em to grow back in.”

  “Well, take your time deciding. You don’t have to do anything tonight.”

  “Right. Alison was amazed to see him. I think she was as amazed as I was.”

  “I can believe it.”

  “Bernie, what do you think you’re doin’, collectin’ Moondrains? Because I understand they got a couple at the Guggenheim and I wondered if that’s where you’re gonna strike next.”

  “Always a pleasure to talk to you, Ray.”

  “The pleasure’s mine. Are you crazy or somethin’? And don’t tell me it wasn’t you because I saw you on television. That’s about the dumbest lookin’ hat I ever saw in my life. I think I recognized the hat more’n I recognized you.”

  “Makes a good disguise, doesn’t it?”

  “But you weren’t carryin’ anythin’, Bern. What did you do with the Moondrain?”

  “Folded it very small and tucked it inside my hat.”

  “What I figured. Where are you?”

  “In the belly of the beast. Listen, I’ve got a job for you, Ray.”

  “I already got a job, remember? I’m a police officer.”

  “That’s not a job, it’s a license to steal. What’s that line in Casablanca?”

  “‘Play it again, Sam.’”

  “Actually he never says it exactly that way. It’s ‘Play it, Sam,’ or ‘Play the song, Sam,’ or some variation like that, but he never says, ‘Play it again, Sam.’”

  “That’s really fascinatin’, Bern.”

  “But that wasn’t the line I meant. ‘Round up the usual suspects.’ That’s the line I meant. And that’s what I want you to do.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You will when I explain.”

  “Bernie, it’s been a madhouse here. Things are just starting to settle down. How about that kid of mine, huh?”

  “He’s a trouper.”

  “His fathead of a father called up. How could I allow such a thing, and he’s thinking seriously of instituting a custody suit, unless of course I agree to a reduction in alimony and child support payments, blah blah blah. Jared says he’ll live at the Hewlett before he lives with his old man. You think he’s got a case?”

  “I don’t even think he thinks he’s got a case, but I’m not a lawyer. How’s Jared holding up under questioning?”

  “His answers turn into political speeches. Don’t worry. He hasn’t mentioned you.”

  “What about his buddies?”

  “You mean the other members of his cadre? They couldn’t mention you if they wanted to. Jared’s the only one who knows this afternoon’s incident was anything other than a political action of the Young Panthers.”

  “Is that what they’re calling themselves?”

  “I think it’s a media invention, but I also think it might stick. Jared’s friend Shaheen Vladewicz suggested Panther Cubs, but his other friend Adam informed them that panthers don’t have cubs, they have kittens, and Panther Kittens was rejected as insufficiently militant. Anyway, our secret’s safe. I think Jared’s beginning to believe he thought up the whole thing and you cashed in on it at the last minute.”

  “A quick-witted opportunist of a thief.”

  “Well, if the shoe fits. Incidentally, you left that case here. That cat carrier or whatever it is.”

  “Well, give it to someone with a cat. I won’t be needing it. Carolyn got her cat back.”

  “No shit?”

  “Only in the litter box.”

  “She really got the cat back?”

  “So she tells me.”

  “And the Hewlett? Are they going to get their Mondrian back?”

  “What Mondrian?”

  “Bernie—”

  “Don’t worry, Denise. Everything’s going to work out fine.”

  “Everything’s going to work out fine.”

  “Gee, I hope you’re right, Bernie. I don’t know, though. I went out this morning figuring to do fifteen miles, and after ten miles I started to get this funny feeling on the inside of my right knee. Not a pain exactly but a feeling, a sensitivity, you know what I mean? Now what they say is you run to pain but not through pain, but what do you do about sensitivity? I figured as soon as it became pain I’d stop, but it just stayed sensitive and got a little more sensitive, and I did my fifteen miles and then did three miles on top of it, eighteen miles altogether, and I came home and took a shower and lay down, and now my knee’s throbbing like a bastard.”

  “Can you walk on it?”

  “I could probably run another eighteen miles on it. It’s throbbing with sensitivity, not with pain. It’s crazy.”

  “Well, it’ll work out. Wally, there was an incident at a museum this afternoon—”

  “Jesus Christ, I almost forgot. I don’t even know if I should be talking to you. Were you involved in that?”

  “Of course not. But the leader of the kids’ protest is the son of a friend of mine, and—”

  “Oh, here we go.”

  “Wally, how’d you like to make a name for yourself representing the Young Panthers? I don’t think anybody’s going to bring charges against them, but there’ll be reporters wanting interviews and there might even be a book or a movie in the thing, and Jared’s going to need someone to look out for his interests. And his father’s talking about a custody suit, so Jared’s mother’s going to need somebody looking out for her interests, and—”

  “You got an interest in the mother?”

  “We’re just good friends. As a matter of fact, Wally, I think you might like the mother. Denise, her name is.”

  “Oh?”

  “Got a pencil? Denise Raphaelson, 741-5374.”

  “And the kid’s name is Jason?”

  “Jared.”

  “Same difference. When should I call her?”

  “In the morning.”

  “It’s already morning, for Christ’s sake. Do you know what time it is?”

  “I don’t call my lawyer to find out the time. I call my lawyer when there’s something I want him to do for me.”

  “Is there something you want me to do for you?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  “Miss Petrosian? ‘I sing of sorrow / I sing of weeping / I have no sorrow. / I only borrow—’”

  “Who is this?”

  “‘I only borrow / From some tomorrow / Where it lies sleeping / Enough of sorrow / To sing of weeping.’ It’s Mary Carolyn Davies, Miss Petrosian. Your old favorite.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand? It’s a nice straightforward poem, it seems to me. The poet’s saying that she draws against a store of future miseries in order to write about a depth of emotion she hasn’t yet experienced.”

  “Mr. Rhodenbarr?”

  “The same. I have your painting, Miss Petrosian, and you have only to come and collect it.”

  “You have—”

  “The Mondrian. It’s yours for a thousand dollars. I know that’s no money, a ridiculous sum, but I have to get out of town fast and I need every cent I can raise.”

  “I can’t get to the bank until Monday and—”

  “Bring what cash you can and a check for the balance. Get a pencil and write down the address and time. And don’t be early or late, Miss Petrosian, or you can forget all about the painting.”

  “All right. Mr. Rhodenbarr? How did you find me?”

  “You wrote down your name and number for me. Don’t you remember?”

  “But the number—”

  “Turned out to be that of a Korean fruit store on Amsterdam Avenue. I was disappointed, Miss Petrosian, but n
ot surprised.”

  “But—”

  “But you’re listed in the book, Miss Petrosian. The Manhattan phone book, the white pages. I can’t be the first person to have called the fact to your attention.”

  “No, but—but I didn’t give you my name.”

  “You said Elspeth Peters.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, with all due respect, Miss Petrosian, I wasn’t fooled. The way you hesitated when you gave your name, and then the wrong number, well, it was a dead giveaway.”

  “But how on earth did you know my real name?”

  “A bit of deduction. When amateurs select an alias, they almost always keep the same initials. And they very frequently choose as a last name some form of modified first name. Jackson, Richards, Johnson. Or Peters. I guessed that your real name began with a P, and that it very likely had the same root as Peters. Something about your features suggested further that you might be of Armenian descent. I pulled out the phone book, turned to the P-e-t’s, and looked for an Armenian-sounding name with the initial E.”

  “But that’s extraordinary.”

  “The extraordinary is only the ordinary, Miss Petrosian, with the addition of a little extra. That’s not mine, by the way. A grade-school teacher of mine used to say that. Isabel Josephson was her name, and as far as I know it was not an alias.”

  “I’m only a quarter Armenian. And I’m said to take after my mother’s side of the family.”

  “I’d say there’s a distinct Armenian cast to your features. But perhaps I just had one of those psychic flashes people are subject to now and then. It hardly matters. You want that painting, don’t you?”

  “Of course I want it.”

  “Then write this down….”

  “Mr. Danforth? My name is Rhodenbarr, Bernard Grimes Rhodenbarr. I apologize for the lateness of the call, but I think you’ll excuse the intrusion when you’ve heard what I have to say. I have a couple of things to tell you, sir, and a question or two to ask you, and an invitation to extend….”