By the time I was done, I had some calls to make. I sat down in the leather club chair, swung my feet up onto the ottoman, held the receiver to my ear and decided against it. How did I know who had one of those doohickeys on his phone that displays the caller’s number? And how could I be sure that none of the folks I wanted to call would recognize Hugo Candlemas’s telephone number?
No point taking chances. I’d left NYPD seals intact, I’d steered clear of tainted General Tso’s Chicken. After all that, I didn’t want to be hoist on the petard of modern communications technology.
I left the Candlemas residence neat and clean, with no evidence of my visit aside from the peanut butter and jelly I’d scarfed and the fingerprints I’d left behind. (I’d wiped up some after myself, but hadn’t been a fanatic about it; they already had all the prints they were ever going to lift from the crime scene.) To protect the place from the elements, I cut a rectangle of cardboard from a corrugated carton, shrouded it in plastic wrap from a drawer in the kitchen, and carried it and a roll of tape out onto the fire escape with me. There I drew the casement window shut, reached in and latched it, then withdrew my arm and taped the cardboard in place of the missing pane. Then I scuttled quickly and quietly past the Gearhardts’ window and into the Lehrmans’ apartment a flight below.
This would have been rendered more complicated if their houseguest had returned in the interim, but he hadn’t. I closed their window after me, repositioned the jade plant and the bookcase—the planter was definitely Rockwood, I decided—and chose a telephone in the front room, where I could keep an eye and ear on the door.
I made my phone calls.
When I was done I treated myself to a tour of the apartment. Aside from a massive Chippendale highboy and a closet they’d cleared out for him, the Lehrman possessions remained essentially undisturbed during their absence. I window-shopped, leaving everything where I found it, and being much more careful about fingerprints than I’d been two flights up.
I left the refrigerator unopened.
And, when I let myself out at last, I locked up after myself and left the little brownstone house without incident. The blind woman on the first floor might have heard my footfall on the stairs, the neighbors across the street might have seen me emerge from the entranceway, even as they might have seen me go in some hours earlier. But I’d given them no cause to note my passage. I’d come and gone, leaving no trace.
In King of the Underworld, Bogart plays the title role of Joe Gurney. Kay Francis and John Eldredge play a husband-and-wife team of doctors, Eldredge with a mustache almost as unfortunate as Bogie’s in Virginia City. Eldredge saves a wounded henchman of Bogart, who enlists him as the gang’s doctor. When their hideout is raided, Bogart decides Eldredge must have ratted, and shoots him. Bogart and his men get away, but the cops arrest Kay Francis.
Then, in what I thought was a terrific touch, Bogart kidnaps a writer and forces him to ghost his autobiography, planning to kill him when he’s done. First, though, he busts two captured gang members out of jail, gets wounded in the process, and manages to find Kay Francis, who’s been trying to dig up evidence that will clear her at the trial. A big help she turns out to be; she tips off the cops, infects Bogart’s wound, and blinds him with tainted eyedrops. He’s stumbling around the hideout after her and the writer, trying to kill them even if he can’t see them, when the cops burst in and gun him down.
I watched this from my usual seat, with my usual barrel of popcorn on my lap, and what was becoming my usual second ticket in the hands of the ticket-taker. While I was on line to buy the popcorn I’d caught the eye of the tall guy with the goatee and the glasses. He smiled and looked away quickly, not wanting to stare at the poor loser who was all by himself once again. Reflexively he slipped an arm around the barely perceptible waist of his girlfriend, the Pillsbury doughgirl. I guess he wanted to make sure she couldn’t get away, lest he wind up like me.
A lesser man than I might have felt sorry for himself.
During the intermission I stayed right where I was. I had plenty of popcorn left, and I didn’t need to use the john or duck out for a quick smoke. I stayed put, and after a decent interval the lights went down again and the second feature began.
Beat the Devil. Directed by John Huston, who shared the screenplay credit with Truman Capote. The cast included Gina Lollobrigida as Bogart’s wife and Jennifer Jones as a compulsive liar married to a fake English nobleman. Peter Lorre’s in it as well, along with Robert Morley and a bunch of great character actors whose names I can never remember.
I settled into my seat, thinking that maybe this time I’d be able to understand what was going on on the screen. I must have seen the movie three or four times over the years and was never able to make head or tail out of it. Everybody was trying to hoodwink everybody else, and when Jennifer Jones prefaced a statement with “in point of fact” you knew for certain she was about to come up with a whopper, but beyond that I could never quite manage to follow the plot. Maybe this time would be different.
Five or ten minutes in, I sensed a presence in the aisle. Without averting my eyes from the screen, where Morley and Lorre had their heads together, I listened hard for approaching footsteps. But I don’t know that I actually heard her draw near. It was more a matter of simply knowing, some extrasensory awareness that quickened the pulse and made it hard to breathe.
Then she was settling into the seat beside me. I still couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. A leg bumped mine momentarily, then drew away. A hand dipped into the vat of popcorn and brushed my hand before closing around a fistful of popped kernels.
I watched the movie and listened to chewing sounds.
Then came an urgent whisper. “You were right, Bern. This is really dynamite popcorn.”
Throats were cleared and programs rustled in the row immediately behind ours. I put a finger to my lips and glanced at Carolyn, who mimed a wordless apology.
And, side by side, we ate the popcorn and watched the movie.
On the way out, the ticket-taker gave me a big smile and the guy with the goatee flashed me a thumbs-up. “They’re happy for me,” I told Carolyn. “Isn’t that nice?”
“It’s wonderful,” she said. “One of those heartwarming little New York vignettes. Imagine if they knew you spent the past two nights at my apartment.”
“Please,” I said. “They’d start wondering when I’m going to make an honest woman of you.”
Across the street they had tables set up on the sidewalk, and it was a nice enough night to sit at one of them. I ordered cappuccino and Carolyn asked for Caffè Lucrezia Borgia, which sounded as though it might be poisoned but turned out to be the house special, a production number consisting of espresso with a slug of Strega in it and a topping of whipped cream and shaved chocolate. She pronounced it excellent and offered me a taste, but I passed.
“Not even a taste? It’s not going to get you drunk.”
“Without principles,” I said, “where are we?”
“I’ve got to give you credit,” she said. “Of course you’re going to be way out of shape by the time all this is over. Anyway, I’m starting to wonder if I’m in better shape than I ought to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I kept the store open until I finished ‘A’ Is for Train, and I only had one drink at the Bum Rap after I closed up, and I swear I didn’t even feel it, and afterward I ate a full meal at the Indian place, but even so I’ve got to admit I had trouble following the movie tonight.”
“No one can follow it,” I said. “It’s Beat the Devil. I think they must have been making it up as they went along, and I’m positive they didn’t have any prissy little rule about not having a drink when they had work to do. No worries about getting out of shape, not on that set.”
We talked some about the film, and I gave her a rundown on the first feature, King of the Underworld, which she was sorry to have missed. “Except I like it better when he doesn’t get killed at the en
d,” she said. “You know me, I’m a sucker for a happy ending.”
“In King of the Underworld,” I said, “the ending’s not happy until he dies. But I know what you mean. Maybe that’s why they usually show the older picture first. He tended to be alive at the end of the later ones, when he was a bigger star.”
“Makes sense. What’s the point in being a star if you’re just going to get killed the same as always?” She sipped her fancy coffee. “I brought your flight bag.”
“So I see.”
“Ray came to the store. He was actually pleasant to me, which made me a little nervous. It was him sitting in your lobby, but I suppose he told you that himself.”
I shook my head. “I never asked.”
“Well, he won’t be sitting there anymore, so I thought you might want to sleep at home. There’s stuff in there you might need if you do. But I’m not trying to get rid of you, Bern. If you want to stay downtown, I’ll just take the bag home with me. Or we’ll go together.”
“I’ve got a late appointment.”
“Oh.”
“And if Ray was sitting in my lobby, who was in the car outside?”
“I didn’t ask about that.”
“Maybe it was a couple of other cops. And maybe it was somebody with no interest in me whatsoever.” I frowned. “And maybe not.”
“So you’ll sleep at my place. Why be silly about it?”
I hefted the flight bag, put it on the ground next to me. “It was a good idea to bring this,” I said. “I’ll hang on to it.”
“But you’ll sleep at my place, right?”
“Who knows where I’ll sleep?”
“Bern…”
“There’s always a little furnished room on East Twenty-fifth Street,” I said. “The accommodations are on the Spartan side, but I know for a fact that the bed’s comfortable. Or there’s the subway. Or a bench in the park, on a beautiful night like this.”
“What are you talking about?”
I tilted my head to one side, took hold of my chin with my thumb and forefinger, and let the words come out of the side of my mouth. “It’s like this, sweetheart,” I said. “I’ll find a place to sleep. You don’t have to worry about me.”
After I’d settled the check she said, “Caphob, caphob. Ohmigod.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Is it conceivable? Could it possibly be?”
“Could what possibly be?”
She took my arm. “Don’t you think maybe…no, you’ll just tell me I’m out of my mind.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“Okay, here’s what I was thinking. Maybe Caphob is the sled.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I know, but at least I got a laugh out of you. Bern, the only thing I really have to worry about is that you’ve seen too many movies. At any moment you’re liable to slip into character. Or do I mean out of character? Out of your own character and into his, that’s what I mean.”
“Not to worry,” I said. “You want a cab?”
“I think I’ll take the subway. It’s a nice night.”
“And you want to enjoy it way down below the pavement?”
“I mean I won’t mind the walk from the subway stop. You knew what I meant.”
“True. I want a cab, though. I have to go across town, and I don’t want to be late.” I held up a hand and a cab pulled up almost immediately. I asked Carolyn if she was sure she didn’t want it, and she said she was. I opened the door and the driver gave me a big smile, his eyes bright with recognition.
“Great to see you,” I told him. To Carolyn I said, “Get in. This cab’s for you.”
“But…”
“Come on,” I said. “How often do you get a chance to ride with a man who knows where Arbor Court is?” I held the door for her, leaned in, and urged Max to tell her about herbs. “But not about the woman and the monkey,” I added.
“Wait a minute,” Carolyn said. “What’s this about a woman and a monkey? I want to hear this.”
I closed the door and the cab pulled away. I hailed another, and asked the Vietnamese driver if he knew how to get to Seventy-fourth and Park.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to find it,” he said dryly. His name was Nguyen Trang, and he spoke good English and knew the city cold. As we rode across town he told me what a great city it was. “But the fucking Cambodians are ruining it,” he said.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
Charlie Weeks was waiting in his doorway when the elevator let me out on the twelfth floor. “Ah, Mr. Thompson,” he said. “I’m so glad you could make it.” The elevator operator took this for a sign that I was welcome, and closed his door and descended.
Charlie held the door for me, followed me inside. “I thought I’d give them the same name as last time,” I told him. “It’s less confusing that way.”
“Less confusing for me as well,” he said. “I met you as Bill Thompson, and it’s hard to think of you as anyone else. What do they call you, anyway? Bernard? Bernie? Barney?”
“I’ll answer to almost anything. Bill, if you’d rather.”
“Oh, I can’t call you Bill, now that I know it’s not your name.” He looked me over carefully. “What’s your favorite animal?” he demanded.
“My favorite animal? Gee, I don’t know. I never really thought about it.”
“Never?”
He made me feel I’d wasted a lifetime thinking about relativity and quantum theory and dialectical materialism when I should have been selecting a favorite animal. “Well, I guess I must have given it a little thought,” I admitted.
“What’s your favorite?”
“It depends. For eating I’d go with cows, I guess, or sheep. Tofu’s not an animal, is it? No, of course not. It’s not even a bird. Uh…”
“Not to eat.”
“Right. Well, let’s see. Different animals for different things, I’d have to say. I have a cat working for me in the store, fine mouser. If you’re going to have an animal around a bookshop I don’t see how you could do better than a cat. Rabbits are cute, but a rabbit in a bookstore would be a disaster. They, uh, gnaw things. Books, for instance. Now, for swimming in figure eights, well, you can’t beat the polar bear I was watching the other day. Eight eight eight eight eight, just like a repeating decimal, you’d have sworn he thought he was the square root of minus something-or-other.”
His face held an expression of long-suffering. “The animal you identify with,” he said. “The animal you see yourself as.”
“Oh.” I thought it over. “I guess I’ve always seen myself as a person,” I said.
“If you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be?”
“I guess that would depend on what kind of animal I was. I know, I’m supposed to think hypothetically, but I seem to be having trouble. I’m sorry. Is this important?”
“No, of course not. Let’s just forget it.”
“No, dammit,” I said, “that’s not right. I ought to be able to figure this out.”
“I was the mouse,” he said patiently. “Wood was the woodchuck. Cappy Hoberman was the ram.”
“And Bateman was the rabbit and Renwick was the cat.”
“Rennick.”
“Right, Rennick. So you think I ought to have an animal code name?”
“It’s really not important,” he said. “I was just making conversation.”
“No, I’d be glad to have one,” I said, “but maybe it’s not the sort of thing a person should pick for himself. If you wanted to pick a name for me…”
“Hmmm,” he said, and stroked his chin with his fingertips. “Something in the weasel family, I think.”
“Something in the weasel family?”
“I would think so. An otter?”
“An otter?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t think so. Not an otter. The playful quality is there, to be sure, but the otter’s altogether too straightforward. I’d say not an otter.”
/> “Good,” I said. “Tastes of dog, anyway.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“Something furtive,” he said. He put his palms together in front of his chest and made a sort of side-to-side motion. “Something nocturnal, something devious, something predatory. Something, oh, burglarous.”
“Burglarous,” I said.
“Not a wolverine, that’s altogether too rapacious. Nor a mink, I don’t believe. A badger?” He looked at me. “Not a badger. Perhaps a ferret.”
“A ferret?”
“Not a ferret. You know what? I think a weasel, a plain old garden-variety weasel.”
“Oh,” I said.
“You’re the weasel,” he said. He clapped me on the back. “Come on, weasel. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. There’s coffee made.”
“Thank God,” I said.
The weasel was in the kitchen for a little over a half hour, passing on some facts and guesses to the mouse, drinking coffee, and listening to some reminiscences of skulduggery in the Balkans, circa 1950. It was absorbing and entertaining, and if not everything he told me was a hundred percent factual, well, that made us even.
It was close to midnight when I put down my coffee cup, got to my feet, and grabbed up my Braniff bag. “I’d better be going,” I said. “I have a feeling we’re getting somewhere, but maybe we shouldn’t bother. If Candlemas killed Hoberman, we don’t have to worry that he got away with it. He’s dead himself. He wasn’t my partner, and he forfeited any claim on my loyalties when he became a murderer. It might be interesting to know who killed him, but I can’t say it’s vitally important to me.”
“That’s a point.”
“Well, we can just take it a day at a time,” I said, “and see what happens. But I’m beat. I want to get on home.”
“I’ll see you out.”
I told him he didn’t have to go to the trouble, and he assured me it was no trouble. The next thing I knew we were out in the hall, waiting for the elevator I’d been careful not to ring for.
Hell.
The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart Page 19