The Burglar in the Closet - By Lawrence Block Page 0,52

and hanging on that wall were a shield, a pair of crossed spears, and several primitive masks. The pieces looked to be Oceanic, New Guinea or New Ireland, and I wouldn’t have minded having them on my own wall. Nor would I have minded having what they’d be likely to bring at a Parke-Bernet auction.

The kitchen was a beauty—large stove, a fridge with an automatic ice-maker in the door, a separate freezer, a double stainless-steel sink, a dishwasher, a washer-drier. Copper and stainless-steel cookware hung from wrought-iron racks overhead.

The work area was just as good. Two long narrow tables, one chest height, the other standard. A couple of chairs and stools. Printmaking equipment. A ceramicist’s kiln. Floor-to-ceiling steel shelving filled with neatly arranged rows of paints and chemicals and tools and gadgets. A hand-cranked printing press. A few boxes of 100-percent rag-content bond paper.

It must have been around 10:15 when I opened his door, and I suppose I spent twenty minutes giving the apartment a general search.

Here are some of the things I did not find: A human being, living or dead. An attaché case, Ultrasuede or Naugahyde or otherwise. Any jewelry beyond some mismatched cufflinks and a couple of tie clips. Any money beyond a handful of change which I found—and left—on a bedside table. Any paintings by Grabow or anyone else. Any artwork except for the Oceanic pieces over the bed.

Here’s what I did find: Two pieces of meticulously engraved copper plate, roughly two and a half by six inches, mounted on blocks of three-quarter-inch pine. A key of the type likely to fit a safe-deposit box. A desk-top pencil holder, covered in richly embossed red leather, containing not pencils but various implements of the finest surgical steel, each fitted with a hexagonal handle.

When I left Walter Grabow’s loft I took nothing with me that had not been on my person when I came. I did move one or two of his possessions from their accustomed places to other parts of the loft, and I did place several crisp new twenty-dollar bills here and there.

But I didn’t steal anything. There was a moment, I’ll admit, when I had the urge to fit one of those masks over my face, snatch the shield and a spear from the wall, and race through the streets of SoHo emitting wild Oceanic war whoops. The impulse was easily mastered, and I left masks and spears and shield where they hung. They were nice, and undeniably valuable, but when you’ve just stolen somewhere in the neighborhood of a quarter of a mill in cash, lesser larceny does seem anticlimactic.

Just as my cab pulled up in front of Jillian’s building I spotted the blue-and-white cruiser next to the hydrant. “Keep going,” I said. “I’ll take the corner.”

“I already threw the flag,” my driver complained. “I’m risking a ticket.”

“What’s life without taking chances?”

“Yeah, you can say that, friend. You’re not the one who’s taking ’em.”

Indeed. His tip was not all it might have been and I watched him drive off grumbling. I walked back to Jillian’s, staying close to the buildings and keeping an eye open for other police vehicles, marked or unmarked. I didn’t see any, nor did I notice any coplike creatures lurking in the shadows. I lurked in the shadows myself, and after a ten-minute lurk a pair of familiar shapes emerged from Jillian’s doorway. They were Todras and Nyswander, not too surprisingly, and it was nice to see them still on the job after so many hours. I was happy to note that their schedule was as arduous as my own.

When they drove off I stayed right where I was for five full minutes in case they were going to be cute and circle the block. When this didn’t happen I considered calling from the booth on the corner to make sure the coast was clear. I didn’t feel like bothering. I buzzed Jillian from the vestibule.

All the distortion of the intercom couldn’t hide the anxiety in her voice. She said, “Yes? Who is it?”

“Bernie.”

“Oh. I don’t—”

“Are you alone, Jillian?”

“The police were just here.”

“I know. I waited until they left.”

“They say you killed Crystal. They say you’re dangerous. You never went to the boxing matches. You were in her apartment, you killed her—”

All this over the intercom, yet. “Can I come up, Jillian?”

“I don’t know.”

I’ll pick the fucking lock, I thought, and I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll kick your door in. But I said, “I’ve made a lot of