The Burglar in the Closet - By Lawrence Block Page 0,50

jewels. No dental instruments from Celniker Dental and Optical Supply. No objects of enormous value. It had occurred to me earlier that even if Knobby had no connection with the killing, I could at least make expenses out of the visit. After all, the way things were going it looked as though I’d need money for a lawyer, or for a plane to Tierra del Fuego, or something, and when I open a door without a key I expect to get something tangible for my troubles. I’m no amateur, for God’s sake. I don’t do it for love.

Hopeless. He had a portable TV, a radio on the dresser top, an Instamatic camera, all items that might have gladdened the heart of a junkie who’d kicked the door in looking for the price of a bag of smack, but nothing I’d lower myself to take. There was a little cash in the top right-hand dresser drawer, accumulated tips I suppose, and I reimbursed myself for what I’d spent at the bar—and his tip was part of it, as far as that goes. Actually I did a little better than get even. There was somewhere between one and two hundred dollars in ones and fives and tens, and I scooped it all up and shook the bills down into a neat stack and found them a home on my hip. No big deal, certainly, but when I find cash around I make it mine. There was change, too, lots of it, but I left it right there and closed the drawer. You’ve got to have standards or where the hell are you?

Enough. I could inventory every piece of debris in the lad’s apartment, but why bother? I opened his closet, I burrowed among his jackets and coats, and on the overhead shelf I saw something that made my heart turn over, or skip a beat, or stand still, or—you get the idea.

An attaché case.

Not mine. Not Ultrasuede but Naugahyde, black, shiny Naugahyde. The Nauga and the Ultra are two altogether different animals. My disappointment at this second discovery was greater than you can possibly imagine. For one moment I’d had the jewels at hand and the murder of Crystal Sheldrake all solved, and now that moment was over and I was back where I’d started.

Naturally I took the case down and opened it anyway.

Naturally I was somewhat surprised to find it absolutely jam-packed with money.

CHAPTER

Sixteen

The bills were arranged in inch-thick stacks with buff-colored paper bands around their middles. The stacks rested on their edges so that I couldn’t tell whether the bills were singles or hundreds. For a moment I just stared and wondered. Then I dug out one of the little stacks and riffled through it. The bills were twenties, and I had perhaps fifty of them in my hand. Say a thousand dollars in that stack alone.

I sampled a few other stacks. They also consisted of twenty-dollar bills, all fresh and crisp. I was looking at—what? A hundred thousand dollars? A quarter of a million?

Ransom money? A drug payoff? Transactions of that sort usually called for old bills. An under-the-table stock deal? A real-estate transaction, all cash and off the books?

And how did any of these notions mesh with Knobby Corcoran, a bartender who lived in one disorderly room, owned hardly any furniture, and couldn’t be bothered to double-lock his door?

I gave the money itself some further study. Then I took ten fresh twenties from the stack and added them to the bills in my wallet. I tucked the rest back in place, closed the case, fastened the hasps.

I put his tip money back. I’d incorporated his funds with my own and hadn’t kept a close count on what I’d taken, but I didn’t figure he knew, either. I returned around a hundred dollars in assorted bills to his top left-hand dresser drawer, thought about it, and added one of the twenties to the collection. I dropped another bill behind the drawer so that it could only be found by someone who was searching for it. I placed a third bill out of sight at the rear of the closet shelf and wedged a fourth into one of a pair of worn cowboy boots that stood at the back of the closet.

Neat.

I turned out the light, let myself out, closed the door behind me. The elevator took me down to the lobby and the doorman wished me good evening. I gave him a curt nod; the soles of my feet