The Burglar Who Studied Spinoza

by Lawrence Block

  “What I can’t get over,” she said, “is that you went to Abel’s without me.”

  “We couldn’t have both gotten in. And it was risky, and there was nothing two people could do better than one.”

  “And then you got home from Abel’s and didn’t say anything.”

  “I tried, dammit. I kept calling you.”

  “Bern, I kept calling you. Either you were out or the line was busy.”

  “I know. I kept calling everybody and everybody kept calling me. These things happen. It doesn’t matter. We finally reached each other, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah, last night. And you didn’t tell me zip until just now.”

  “It was too late last night.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And there wasn’t that much to tell.”

  “No, not much at all. Just that you got into Abel’s apartment and came home and some beautician held a gun on you and accused you of framing her brother for murder.”

  “That’s not exactly what she said.”

  “I don’t really care what she said exactly.”

  “You’re pissed.”

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  “Would it help if I apologized?”

  “Try it and let’s see.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m sorry, Carolyn. We’re partners, and I certainly meant to keep you in the picture, but things got out of control for a little while there. I didn’t know if I’d be able to get into Abel’s apartment and I just went ahead and did things on my own, figuring I’d catch up with you later. And I’m sorry.”

  She sat in silence for a moment. Then she said, “Quit it, Ubi,” to the Russian Blue, who was scratching the side of the couch. From my lap, Archie purred with unmistakable moral superiority.

  “Nope,” Carolyn said. “It doesn’t help.”

  “My apology, you mean?”

  “Uh-huh. Doesn’t do a thing for me. I’m still pissed. But I’ll get over it. Who killed Wanda?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How about Abel?”

  “I’m not sure of that, either.”

  “Well—”

  The phone rang. I moved Archie and answered it, and it was Mr. Arnott calling from Stillwater, Oklahoma. He hadn’t reversed the charges, either. I guess people who can pay $130,000 for a nickel don’t worry about their phone bills.

  “The fellow who bought my nickel wants to remain anonymous,” he said. “I couldn’t say whether it’s burglars or the tax collector he’s scared of. Coin’s not for sale, though. He’s still got it, and he figures to keep it.”

  “The hell with him,” I said. “I think I’d rather buy a painting anyway.”

  “That way you’ll have something you can hang on the wall.”

  “That’s what I decided.”

  I reported the conversation to Carolyn. “Arnott’s coin is still with the mysterious purchaser,” I explained. “Anyway, it was a lightly circulated specimen, so it couldn’t have been the one we carried from Eighteenth Street to Riverside Drive.”

  She frowned. “There were five of the nickels altogether.”

  “Right.”

  “Now there’s one in Washington, one in Boston, one in Cincinnati, one in—Philadelphia?”

  “Right.”

  “And one that your friend in Oklahoma sold to some mystery man. So the mystery man is Colcannon. Except he can’t be, because that coin’s circulated and Colcannon’s was a perfect proof.”

  “Right.”

  “So there are five nickels plus the Colcannon nickel.”

  “Right.”

  “Which Colcannon doesn’t have anymore, and which wasn’t at Abel’s, so we don’t know where it is.”

  “Right.”

  “Which means the nickel we stole was a counterfeit.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “No. I’m positive it’s genuine.”

  “Then there are actually six nickels.”

  “No. Only five.”

  She sat for a moment, puzzling, then threw her hands in the air. “Bern,” she said, “would you for chrissake quit cocking around? My whole head hurts except for the part I normally think with, which is numb. Just explain, will you? Simply, so I can understand it.”

  I explained. Simply. So she could understand it.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Does it make sense? Stand up? Hold water?”

  “I think so. What about the questions I asked you earlier? There was a Third Burglar who killed Wanda. Do you know who he was?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “And do you have an idea who killed Abel?”

  “Sort of. But I can’t be sure of it, and I certainly can’t prove it, and—”

  “Tell me anyway, Bernie.”

  “I sort of hate to say anything at this stage.”

  “Why? Because you don’t want to spoil the surprise? Bern, if you were really sincere with that apology you gave me a few minutes ago, why don’t you prove it?”

  I shifted a little on the chair. There are those who might have said I squirmed. “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. “It may have been a mistake giving out your number. If the man who wants to buy the coin could find out my name and how to reach me, he might have a connection in the Police Department or access to one of the phone company’s reverse directories. I don’t want us to be where he can get at us. He knows I’m going to be at this phone at two, so—”

  “There’s time, Bern. You can tell me your theories and we’ll still have plenty of time.”

  Archie extended his forepaws and stretched. “Archie’s no name for a cat,” I said. “The cat’s Mehitabel, remember?”

  “He’s a boy cat, dum-dum. He’s Rex Stout’s Archie, not Don Marquis’s Archy.”

  “Oh.”

  “I could always get a pet cockroach and name her Mehitabel. If I knew it was a girl cockroach. Why am I sitting here talking about cockroaches? You changed the subject, dammit.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “Well, change it back again. Who killed Wanda and Abel?”

  I gave up and told her.

  Afterward we set up the answering machine with a simple message that I recorded, telling whoever called to ring me at Denise’s number. I got my attaché case from Carolyn’s closet, where it was still keeping the Chagall company. We got out of there and took a cab to the Poodle Factory. We went inside, and when we emerged a couple of minutes later my attaché case was the slightest bit heavier. Carolyn locked up and we caught another cab to the Narrowback Gallery.

  On the way there she wanted to know why we had to go to Denise’s place. I said I’d already told her, and expressed the wish that the two of them got along better.

  “You might as well wish for wings,” she said. “Oh, she’s all right for a scarecrow, but don’t you have better taste than that? There must be an attractive straight woman somewhere in New York. How about Angela?”

  “Who?”

  “The waitress at the Bum Rap.”

  “I thought you decided she was gay.”

  “I decided the question calls for research. Monday I’m gonna ask her a question that’ll let me know if she’s gay without tipping her off if she isn’t.”

  “What’s the question?”

  “Something like, ‘Angela, how about you and me getting married?’”

  “You don’t think that’s overly subtle?”

  “Well, I might work on the phrasing a little.”

  Any pleasure Denise might have felt at seeing me was completely obliterated by her reaction to the sight of Carolyn. The dismay showed clearly on her face. “Oh, the dog lady,” she said, “I don’t seem to remember your name.”

  “It’s Carolyn,” I was saying, even as Carolyn was saying, “You can call me Ms. Kaiser.” It was going to be a long afternoon, I realized, and I was glad I wasn’t going to be on hand for very much more of it.

  “I didn’t recognize you at first,”
Denise said. “I didn’t remember you as being quite so short as you are, and at first glance I thought you were a child.”

  “It’s my air of innocence that does it,” Carolyn said. She stationed herself in front of one of the more striking paintings on display, tilting her head to one side and planting herself with her hands on her hips. “Painting must really be fun when you don’t have to make it look like anything,” she said. “You can just sort of smear the paint on any old way, can’t you?”

  “I’ll make some coffee,” Denise said. “And I’m sure Ms. Kaiser must want something to eat.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Carolyn said. “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately. Maybe I’m getting anorexia. I understand it strikes some women late in life.”

  It went on like this, and I might have been able to sit back and enjoy it if they hadn’t both been favorite people of mine. God knows there was nothing else for me to do. They didn’t need a referee; they were doing fine all by themselves, and nobody was bothering to keep score. Jared, I learned, was out for the afternoon. I thought that showed sound judgment on his part.

  The phone rang at two o’clock. I picked it up, held the receiver to my ear, and waited until I heard a familiar voice. Then I nodded shortly and passed the receiver to Carolyn.

  “The gentleman you’re calling hasn’t arrived yet,” she said. “Please call again in precisely fifteen minutes.”

  She hung up, looked at me. I grabbed up my attaché case and got to my feet. “I’m on my way,” I said. “You know what you’re supposed to tell him when he calls?”

  “Uh-huh. He should go to the Squires coffee shop at the corner of Madison and Seventy-ninth. He should sit at the table farthest from the door and wait, and you’ll either join him at his table or have him paged under the name of Madison, as in Avenue.”

  “And if he asks about the coin—”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Right.”

  “You’ve got me involved in something,” Denise said. “You’re still a burglar, aren’t you, Bernie? Of course you are. The leopard doesn’t change his spots. Or the convict his stripes, apparently.”

  “They don’t wear stripes in prison anymore.”

  “Oh, but they should. They’re so slimming. But you’d know what they wear and don’t wear, wouldn’t you? You’ve been there. And you’re still a burglar. Are you a killer, too?” She looked at Carolyn. “And what are you, exactly? His henchperson?”

  “Carolyn will explain everything,” I said. And I didn’t envy her a bit.

  All of a sudden I was taking cabs a lot. I took the third of the day to the corner of Eighteenth Street and Ninth Avenue. We made good time, and by two-fifteen I was staked out across the street from the heavy iron gate marked 4421?2. At that very moment he was supposed to be on the phone, and perhaps he was, because ten minutes later the gate swung open and Herbert Franklin Colcannon emerged from it. I was in a shadowy doorway where he couldn’t have seen me, but he didn’t even look in my direction, turning to his left and striding purposefully toward Tenth Avenue, either to catch a cab or because he had a car parked there.

  I didn’t care which it was. I let him reach the corner, then jogged across the street—I was wearing my Pumas, their excessive width notwithstanding. It was a bright sunny afternoon and there were people on the street, but that didn’t bother me this time. I knew which of my skeleton keys would do for the lock on the iron gate, since I’d already determined that Tuesday night, so I had the key in hand as I crossed the street and I was through the gate and had it locked behind me in a matter of seconds.

  I wasn’t wearing rubber gloves, either. This time around I didn’t care about prints. If things went wrong they’d go wrong dramatically, and fingerprints would be the least of my worries. If things went right, nobody would give a damn where my fingers had been.

  Once I was through the gate and into the tunnel I unsnapped the locks on my attaché case and took the gun from it.

  Nasty things, guns. This one looked to have been made of blued steel, but its surface was warmer to the touch. The material was some sort of high-impact phenolic resin. I suppose I could have carried it onto an airplane. I let my hand accustom itself to the feel of the weapon, checked its load, and made my way through the tunnel.

  I wanted that gun in my hand in case Astrid was spending the afternoon in the garden. I didn’t expect that would be the case, but the bitch was attack-trained and I wasn’t, and I didn’t want to be unprepared for an encounter with her. At the mouth of the tunnel I paused with the gun at my side and scanned the garden carefully.

  No Astrid. No people, either. I slipped the gun beneath the waistband of my trousers where my jacket would screen it from view and then walked quickly across the flagstone patio with scarcely a glance at the tulips and daffodils, the little fishpond, the semicircular bench.

  With a garden like that, why would a man go chasing phantom coins all over the place? Of course it might not be his garden, it might indeed belong to the front house, but surely he could sit in it, couldn’t he?

  I mounted the stoop and rang the bell. I’d seen him leave, but how did I know he’d been alone there? I put my ear to the door and listened, and I heard some barking that I could have heard without putting my ear to the door, and then a rumbling sound as if something bulky had just fallen down a flight of stairs. A chest of drawers, say, or an excitable Bouvier des Flandres. The barking was repeated and got louder, and all I had between me and Astrid was a wooden door about two inches thick.

  Which I promptly set about opening.

  The locks had been easy the first time, and they’re always easier the second time around. My fingers remembered their inner workings, and I knocked them off one-two-three in not many more seconds than it takes to tell about it. If anyone had watched from a rear window of the front house, say, I don’t think he’d have had cause for suspicion.

  I turned the knob, opened the door the merest fraction of an inch. The barking increased in volume and climbed in pitch. There was a manic intensity in it now—or perhaps it just sounded that way to me.

  I drew the gun, checked the load once more.

  Was there any way I could avoid doing this? Couldn’t I just close the door and lock up after myself and get the hell out? Maybe I could rush up to Madison and Seventy-ninth, maybe Colcannon and I could work something out, maybe—

  Quit stalling, Rhodenbarr.

  I leveled the gun in my right hand, held the doorknob in my left. In one motion I threw the door violently inward. The dog—a huge black beast, and utterly ferocious to look upon—recoiled reflexively, then gathered herself to spring at my throat.

  I pointed the gun and fired.

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  The dart went right where I’d aimed it, taking Astrid in the left shoulder. Bouviers have a dense curly coat and there was no way to be sure the dart wouldn’t get deflected en route, and for a moment I thought it had because she seemed unaffected by it.

  Then the tranquilizer hit. Astrid was about halfway into her spring, forepaws off the ground, when all at once her eyes glazed over and her jaw went slack. Her paws worked in the air like the feet of the coyote in the Roadrunner cartoons when he runs off a cliff and tries to keep going. Astrid couldn’t keep going. She settled back down again, her spring unsprung, and then she wobbled like a child in high heels, and finally she uttered a sort of whimpery sound and pitched over onto her side.

  How do you check a dog’s pulse? I actually tried, fumbling around with what I don’t suppose you call a wrist when you’re dealing with a dog, but I gave that up because I didn’t know what I was doing, and what difference did it make, anyway? If she was alive all I could do was let her sleep it off, and if she was dead there was nothing anybody could do for her, and my own course of action was the same in either case.

  And I didn’t have all the time in the world, either.

  I raced up the stairs. The bedroom was in good order now, I s
aw. Sheets of plywood had been secured over the broken skylight, and the pastoral landscape once again hung on the wall, hiding the safe. I took it from its hook, fluffy sheep and rose-cheeked shepherdess and all, and placed it on the bed.

  I wasn’t sure if I’d remember the safe’s combination or not. I’d thought about it in the cab on the way over, trying to put all the numbers together in the proper sequence, but once I was up there with my fingers on the dial I took the problem away from my mind and entrusted it to my hands, and they remembered. I opened the safe as if its combination were written out for me.

  Five minutes later—well, no more than ten, anyway—I was hanging Little Bo Peep back where she belonged. I did a couple of other things, and in the second-floor library I sat at a leather-topped kneehole desk and used a modern reproduction of an old brass telephone to call Narrowback Gallery. I gave a progress report and established that Colcannon had not called since Carolyn sent him to Madison and Seventy-ninth.

  I asked how long Astrid was likely to remain unconscious. “I don’t know,” Carolyn admitted. “I bought the dart gun because it’s supposed to be a good thing to have around, but I never used the thing. I didn’t think you would need it, to tell you the truth. She’s always a perfect lady when I give her a bath. She never even growls.”

  “Well, she was ready to kill a few minutes ago.”

  “It’s a territorial thing, I guess. If she hadn’t been on her own turf she’d have been gentle.”

  “If she hadn’t been on her own turf,” I said, “we wouldn’t have met. I just wish I knew how much time I’ve got.”

  “Maybe you’d better not take any longer than you have to. That stuff works longer on a small dog than a large one, and Astrid’s no Yorkie.”

  “No kidding. She’s the Hound of the goddamn Baskervilles, is what she is.”

  “Well, get done as quickly as you can, Bern. If you have to use a second dart it might kill her. Or it might not work at all, or I don’t know what.”

  I hung up and made another phone call, this one to the pay phone at Squires coffee shop at Madison and Seventy-ninth. I asked the woman who answered if she would summon Mr. Madison to the phone, and explained she’d be likely to find him at one of the rear booths. A moment later he said, “Well? Where are you?”