The Burglar in the Closet - By Lawrence Block Page 0,27
write down my aunt’s name, but he wound up shrugging his great shoulders and putting the book away. “Must be it,” he said. “A name like that, it’s distinctive, you know? Sticks in the mind and rings a bell. Maybe I wasn’t in her class myself but I just have a recollection of the name.”
“That’s probably it.”
“It woulda come to me,” he said, holding the door for Nyswander. “Memory’s a funny thing. You just let it find its own path and things come to you sooner or later.”
CHAPTER
Seven
Jillian and I left the office together ten or fifteen minutes after Todras and Nyswander. We joined the lunch crowd at a coffee shop around the corner on Seventh Avenue. We had coffee and grilled-cheese sandwiches, and I wound up eating half of her sandwich along with my own.
“Crystal Sheldrake,” I said between bites. “What do we know about her?”
“She’s dead.”
“Beside that. She was Craig’s ex-wife and somebody killed her, but what else do we know about her?”
“What difference does it make, Bernie?”
“Well, she was killed for a reason,” I said. “If we knew the reason we might have a shot at figuring out who did it.”
“Are we going to solve the murder?”
I shrugged. “It’s something to do.”
But Jillian insisted it was exciting, and her blue eyes danced at the prospect. She decided we would be Nick and Nora Charles, or possibly Mr. and Mrs. North, two pairs of sleuths she had a tendency to confuse. She wanted to know how we would get started and I turned the conversation back to Crystal.
“She was a tramp, Bernie. Anybody could have killed her.”
“We only have Craig’s word that she was a tramp. Men tend to have strict standards when it comes to their ex-wives.”
“She hung out in bars and picked up men. Maybe one of them turned out to be a homicidal maniac.”
“And he just happened to have a dental scalpel in his pocket?”
“Oh.” She picked up her cup, took a delicate sip of coffee. “Maybe the guy she picked up was a dentist and—but I guess most dentists don’t carry scalpels around in their pockets.”
“Only the ones who are homicidal maniacs in their off hours. And even if she was killed by a dentist, he wouldn’t have left the scalpel sticking in her. No, somebody swiped a scalpel from the office deliberately to frame Craig for the killing. And that means the murderer wasn’t a stranger and the murder wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. It was planned, and the killer was someone with a motive, someone who was involved in Crystal Sheldrake’s life. Which means we ought to learn something about that life.”
“How?”
“Good question. Do you want some more coffee?”
“No. Bernie, maybe she kept a diary. Do women still keep diaries?”
“How would I know?”
“Or a stack of love letters. Something incriminating that would let us know who she was seeing. If you could break into her apartment—What’s the matter?”
“The horse has already been stolen.”
“Huh?”
“The time to break into an apartment,” I said, “is before someone gets killed in it. Once a murder takes place the police become very efficient. They put seals on the doors and windows and even stake the place out now and then. And they also search whatever the killer left behind, so if there was a diary or a pile of letters, and if the killer didn’t have the presence of mind to carry it away with him”—like a caseful of jewels, I thought with some rancor—“then the cops already have it. Anyway, I don’t think there was a diary or a love letter in the first place.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think Crystal was the type.”
“But how would you know what type she was? You never even met her, did you?”
I avoided the question by catching the waitress’s eye and making the usual gesture of scribbling in midair. I wondered, not for the first time, what diner had invented that bit of pantomime and how it had gone over with the first waiter who was exposed to it. Monsieur desires the pen of my aunt? Eh bien?
I said, “She had a family somewhere, didn’t she? You could get in touch with them, pass yourself off as a friend from college.”
“What college?”
“I don’t remember, but you can get that from the newspaper article, too.”
“I’m younger than she was. I couldn’t have been at college the same year.”
“Well, nobody’s going to ask your age. They’ll be too overcome with grief. Anyway, you can probably do this over the phone. I just thought you