The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling - By Lawrence Block Page 0,14

a family connection?”

He smiled broadly. “Because of the name, you mean? Natural guess, of course. But no, I’m no relative of Kipling’s. Rudyard’s not a family name, you see. It’s the name of a lake.”

“Oh?”

“In Staffordshire. Kipling’s parents first met on a picnic at Lake Rudyard. When in due course their son was born he was given the lake’s name as a middle name. His first name was Joseph, actually, although he never did use it and was known as Ruddy from earliest childhood.”

“And your first name—”

“Is James, as it happens, and I don’t use it either. James Rudyard Whelkin. I was eight years old when Kipling died and I remember the day very well. That was in 1936, just two days after George V preceded him to the grave. A day of mourning in our household, as you can well imagine. My father admired Kipling enormously. He’d have to have done, to name his only son after him, wouldn’t he? Because I was named for Kipling, of course, not for a lake in Staffordshire. ‘First the old king and now the Bard of Empire,’ my father said. ‘Mark my words, Ruddy. There’ll be war in Europe within the next two years.’ He was off by a year of course, and I don’t suppose Kipling’s demise had much to do with Hitler’s invading Poland, but it all linked up in the old fellow’s mind, you see.” He smiled fiercely and his great eyebrows shook. “Are you interested in Kipling, Mr. Rhodenbarr?”

“I read him when I was a kid.”

“You might try him again. He’s returning to fashion, you know, after altogether too many years of neglect. Have you had a look at Kim lately? Or The Light That Failed? Or—But reading must be a bit of a busman’s holiday for you, eh? Must grow sick and tired of the printed word by the end of a long day.”

“Oh, I still enjoy reading. And maybe I will try Kipling again.”

“Do. There’s books on your own shelves, for a starter.” An appraising glance from his alert brown eyes. “I say, sir. Do you suppose you could possibly lunch with me this afternoon? I might have something to say that would interest you.”

“I’d like that.”

“My club, then. Do you know the Martingale? And how’s half past twelve?”

I told him I knew where the club was, and that twelve-thirty was fine.

He’d already said something that interested me.

The Martingale Club was just right for him, a good match for his dress and his faintly pukka sahib manner. It stood at the corner of Madison Avenue and Thirtieth Street and was decorated largely with uncomfortable Jacobean oak furniture and the heads of innumerable dead animals.

We dined in a fair-sized room on the second floor under the glass-eyed stare of a bison allegedly shot by Theodore Roosevelt for reasons I could not begin to guess. Lunch was a leathery mixed grill with thawed green peas and spineless French fried potatoes. The waiter who brought this mess to the table was a rheumy-eyed chap who walked as though his feet were killing him. He looked almost as woebegone as the bison.

Whelkin and I talked books through the meal, then both turned down dessert. The sad waiter brought us a large silver coffeepot of the sort they used to serve you on trains. The coffee was even better than the old Pennsy dining car once supplied, rich and winy and aromatic.

Our table was next to a pair of casement windows. I sipped my coffee and looked out at Madison Avenue. The last of the Good Humor men was doing light business on the corner. In a matter of days he’d be gone, yielding place to a seller of hot pretzels and chestnuts as the seasons changed in their inexorable fashion. You couldn’t watch the leaves turn, not from this window, but you could mark time’s passage by keeping an eye on the street vendors.

Whelkin cleared his throat, interrupting this reverie. “H. Rider Haggard,” he said. “I told you I collect him as well?”

“I think you mentioned him.”

“Interesting man. Did for South Africa what Kipling did for India. She, King Solomon’s Mines—but of course you know his work.”

“In a general way.”

“He and Kipling became great friends, you know. Both of them were on the outs with the Bloomsbury crowd. Both lived long enough to see their own literary reputations fade dismally. The public came to think of them in the same breath as apologists for a discredited imperialism. Do you know