The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart - By Lawrence Block Page 0,24
they do? Kick the door in?”
“No reason to. All they got is an anonymous tip, sounds of a struggle up on the fourth floor. This was on the Lower East Side you’d maybe think about kicking it in, but not in a good neighborhood. They called a locksmith.”
“You’re kidding.”
“What’s wrong with that? There’s plenty of ’em offer twenty-four-hour service, an’ they’re not like doctors. They still make house calls.”
“It’s a good thing. It’d be tough to bring the door to them.”
“Or squirt aspirin in the lock and call ’em in the mornin’. Guy they called, though, either he wasn’t so good or the lock was a pip. It took him half an hour to open it.”
“Half an hour? You should have called me, Ray.”
“Been up to me, I mighta done just that. But I wasn’t in the picture until they got inside and found the body. Then I got called an’ went over, an’ I was takin’ a good look at the late laminated when the phone rang. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, tell me another. Two calls, maybe five minutes apart. Both times I answered an’ both times the other party didn’t say a word. Don’t tell me it wasn’t you, Bern. Be a waste of time. I recognized your voice.”
“How? You just said the caller didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, an’ there’s plenty ways of not sayin’ nothin’, an’ this was you. Don’t try an’ tell me different.”
“Whatever you say, Ray.”
“I knew it was you right away. Of course, I got to admit I had you on my mind. You know where the body was layin’?”
“Of course not. I wasn’t there.”
“Well, you know the little round table, has a lamp on it looks like a bowl of flowers?”
It was a Tiffany lily lamp, almost certainly a reproduction, resting atop a drumhead table with cabriolet legs. “I don’t know it at all,” I said. “I’ve never been to his apartment. I know he was on the Upper East Side, and I’ve probably got his address written down somewhere, but I can’t recall it offhand. And I’ve certainly never been there.”
“Right,” he said. “You were never there but your case here”—he gave the surface a tap—“was. I don’t buy that for a minute, Bernie. I think you were there, and probably last night. Time you called, I didn’t know this was your case. But I already seen a receipt for five bucks an’ change sittin’ on top of that little round table. Barnegat Books, it said, an’ the date on it was the day before yesterday.”
“I told you about that, Ray. He bought a book of poems.”
“It said”—he consulted a pocket notebook—“Praed.”
“That’s the name of the poet. Winthrop Mackworth Praed.”
He waved a hand dismissively to show what he thought of anybody with a name like that. “This Praed’s dead, right?”
“Long dead.”
“Like most poets. So the hell with him. He didn’t do it, an’ much as I like yankin’ on your chain, I know you didn’t do it either. Why would you want to kill him?”
“I wouldn’t,” I said. “He was a customer, and I can use all the ones I’ve got. And he was a nice man. At least I think he was.”
“What do you know about him, Bernie?”
“Not much. He was a snappy dresser. Does that help?”
“It didn’t help him. He shoulda been wearing a Kevlar vest under his shirt. Maybe that woulda helped. Snappy dresser? Yeah, I guess so, but what kind of man wears a suit around the house? You get home, you want to rip off your tie, hang your jacket over the back of a chair. That’s what I always do.”
“I can believe it.”
“Yeah? I didn’t know better, I’d think that was a crack. I’ll tell you this much, Bernie. It’s a good thing for you your name ain’t Kay Fobb.”
“Well, it’s not,” I said, “and it never has been. What are you talking about?”
“Kay Fobb. Ring a bell?”
“Not even a tinkle. Who is she?”
“You figure it’s a woman? I don’t even know if I’m sayin’ it right, Bernie. Here—whyn’tcha take a squint at it yourself an’ tell me what you make of it.”
He flipped the case over and showed it to me. There, in block capitals of a rusty brown that stood out sharply against the beige Ultrasuede attaché case, someone had printed CAPHOB.
CHAPTER
Seven
In Dead End, Bogart plays Baby Face Martin, a gangster making a sentimental visit to his boyhood home on the Lower East Side. By the time it’s