The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling - By Lawrence Block Page 0,28
true up to a point. I don’t make a profit on the store, or maybe I do. I’m not much of an accountant. I buy and I sell, and I probably come out ahead, even allowing for rent and light bills and the phone and all. If I worked harder at it I could probably make enough to live on that way. If I hustled, and if I shelved paperbacks instead of wholesaling them, and if I read the want ads in AB every week and sent out price quotes all over the place.”
“Instead you go out and knock off houses.”
“Just once in a while.”
“Special occasions.”
“That’s right.”
“To make ends meet.”
“Uh-huh.”
She frowned in thought, scratched her head, sipped a little brandy. “Let’s see,” she said. “You came here because it’s a safe place for you to be, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, that’s cool. We’re friends, aren’t we? I know it means I’m harboring a fugitive, and I don’t particularly give a shit. What are friends for?”
“You’re one in a million, Carolyn.”
“You bet your ass. Listen, you can stay as long as you like and no questions asked, but the thing is I do have some questions, but I won’t ask them if you don’t want.”
“Ask me anything.”
“What’s the capital of South Dakota? No, seriously, folks. Why’d you wait until the Arkwrights came home? Why not just duck in and out quick like a bunny? I always thought burglars preferred to avoid human contact.”
I nodded. “It was Whelkin’s idea. He wanted the book to be stolen without Arkwright even realizing it was gone. If I didn’t take anything else and didn’t disturb the house, and if the book was still there when Jesse Arkwright played his bedtime game of pocket billiards, it would be at least a day before he missed it. Whelkin was certain he’d be the prime suspect, because he wants the book so badly and he’s had this feud with Arkwright, and an alibi wouldn’t really help because Arkwright would just figure he hired someone to do it.”
“Which he did do.”
“Which he did do,” I agreed. “But the longer it takes for Arkwright to know the book’s missing, and the harder it is for him to dope out how or when it disappeared, and the more time Whelkin has to tuck it away where it will never be found—”
“And that’s why you just took the book and left everything else.”
“Right.”
“Okay. That part makes sense now, I guess. But what happened to Whelkin?”
“I don’t know.”
“You figure he killed her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not? He set up the meeting. He got her to drug you, and then when you were unconscious he killed her.”
“Why?”
“To frame you, I suppose. To get you out of the picture.”
“Why not just kill me?”
“I don’t know.” She gnawed at a knuckle. “She can’t just come out of the air, this Porlock babe. Whelkin sent you to her, she doped your coffee, and she must have been after the book because she was asking you for it before you had a chance to nod out. Then she frisked you and took it herself.”
“Or the killer did.”
“You never heard a gunshot?”
“I was really out cold. And maybe he used a silencer, but if he did he took it along with him. He also took the book, plus the five hundred dollars the Sikh gave me.” I shrugged. “I figured all along that was too much to charge for a reprint copy of Soldiers Three. Well, easy come, easy go.”
“That’s what they say. Maybe the Sikh killed her.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Maybe they were working together and he double-crossed her at the end.” She shrugged elaborately. “I don’t know, Bern. I’m just spinning my wheels a little. She must have been connected with Whelkin, though, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so. He did lead me straight to her apartment. But—”
“But what?”
“But why wouldn’t he just buy the book?”
“Maybe he couldn’t afford it. But you’re right that would have been the easiest thing for him to do. He already paid you some of it in advance, didn’t he? How much did he still owe you?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Bernie?”
I sighed. “Just yesterday,” I said, “I told a shoplifter he was too dumb to steal. He’s not the only one.”
“You didn’t—”
“I didn’t get any of the money in advance.”
“Oh.”
I shrugged, sighed, drank. “He was a member of the Martingale Club,” I said. “Had a sort of English accent. Dressed very tweedy.”
“So?”
“So his front snowed me, that’s all. He finessed the whole topic of advance payment. I