The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart - By Lawrence Block Page 0,49

need to talk to you,” I said. “I wonder if you could give me perhaps fifteen minutes of your time.” He hesitated, and said he hoped I wasn’t selling anything, or soliciting for some fund-raising effort, however worthwhile it might be. “I’m not,” I assured him. “I’m in a pickle, Mr. Weeks, and you may be able to help me. I’ll come to your apartment, if that’s all right. Good. In half an hour, say, or forty-five minutes at the outside? Very good. And it’s Bill Thompson.”

I hung up. Carolyn said, “Bill Thompson?”

“I’ll explain later. I’ve got to get going. Do I look all right to go over there?”

“You look fine.”

I brushed a hand across my cheek. “It wouldn’t hurt me to shave,” I said.

“It will if you use my razor. You look fine, Bern, and you’re not going to ask the guy for a job, are you? Anyway, you haven’t got time to shave. Let’s go.”

“You’re not coming, are you?”

“I’m not staying home,” she said. “Remember what you said? When your partner gets killed, you’re supposed to do something about it. Well, when your best friend’s up a creek, you’re supposed to help.”

“I guess it won’t hurt anything,” I said. “I told Weeks I was coming. I didn’t mention that anybody would be with me.”

We were in the hallway, and she turned to lock up. “Relax, Bern,” she said. “I’m not coming to the Boccaccio with you. That wouldn’t be any help. I’d just get in the way.”

“Then where are you going?”

“To your store,” she said. “Remember Raffles? Somebody’s got to feed him.”

CHAPTER

Thirteen

“Mr. Thompson,” Charles Weeks said. “I remember you now. I didn’t get more than a glimpse of you the other night, and I couldn’t picture you in my mind. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize you, but of course I do. Come right in, won’t you? And tell me how you know Cap Hoberman, and why you think I can be of help to you.”

I’d had a clear picture of him in my mind, but I don’t know if I’d have recognized him if I’d passed him in the street. The other night he’d been in shirtsleeves and suspenders and wearing a homburg, and this morning he’d left the hat on the shelf and was wearing a Hawaiian shirt over white cotton trousers and espadrilles. He was bald now except for a gray fringe. I suppose he’d been every bit as bald the other night, but the hat had concealed it.

“If you’d called five minutes earlier,” he said, “you would have missed me. I have a cup of coffee upon rising, and then I walk for an hour, or close to it. On the way home I pick up my newspaper, and I read it with my breakfast. I used to have it delivered and read it with my coffee, but I found I’d never get out the door for my walk. This morning I was just breaking an egg when you called.”

His eyes were on me as he nattered away, and I sensed he was watching me carefully. “So your timing was excellent,” he went on, “but for all I know you called more than once, because I don’t have an answering machine. I’m retired, you see, and I don’t get that many calls, and few of them are terribly urgent. A disheartening percentage of the ones I do get are to advise me that someone of my acquaintance has died, and you can’t leave that sort of news on an answering machine, can you?” He smiled gently. “At least I couldn’t, although I’m sure there are people who can. There’s coffee, but I’m afraid it’s the sort with the caffeine left in it, and I must warn you it’s rather strong.”

“That’s the way I like it.”

“I’ll just be a moment.”

He went off to the kitchen and left me in a room comfortably outfitted with traditional furniture, everything showing wear but nothing shabby. It could have been a room in the house I grew up in. There were books in a revolving oak bookcase, the titles running to history and biography. The only art on the walls was an impressionistic landscape in oils in a simple gallery frame.

The coffee was as advertised, almost strong enough to walk on. I expressed approval and he nodded with satisfaction.

“My doctor told me he doesn’t want me to drink strong coffee,” he said, “and I told him he could go to hell. I’m a widower, I’ve no children, and my life’s