The Burglar Who Traded Ted Williams - By Lawrence Block Page 0,23
said solemnly, “it was meant to be.”
“Miaow,” said Raffles.
At noon the following day it was my turn to pick up lunch. I stopped at the falafel stand on the way to the Poodle Factory. Carolyn asked how Raffles was doing.
“He’s doing fine,” I said. “He drinks from his water bowl and eats out of his new blue cat dish, and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t use the toilet just the way you said he did. Of course I have to remember to leave the door ajar, but when I forget he reminds me by standing in front of it and yowling.”
“It sounds as though it’s working out.”
“Oh, it’s working out marvelously,” I said. “Tell me something. What was his name before it was Raffles?”
“I don’t follow you, Bern.”
“ ‘I don’t follow you, Bern.’ That was the crowning touch, wasn’t it? You waited until you had me pretty well softened up, and then you tossed in the name as a sort of coup de foie gras. ‘His name’s Raffles, but you can always change it.’ Where did the cat come from?”
“Didn’t I tell you? A customer of mine, he’s a fashion photographer, he has a really gorgeous Irish water spaniel, and he told me about a friend of his who developed asthma and was heartbroken because his allergist insisted he had to get rid of his cat.”
“And then what happened?”
“Then you developed a mouse problem, so I went and picked up the cat, and—”
“No.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “You’re leaving something out. All I had to do was mention the word ‘mouse’ and you were out of here like a cat out of hell. You didn’t even have to think about it. And it couldn’t have taken you more than twenty minutes to go and get the cat and stick it in a carrying case and come back with it. How did you spend those twenty minutes? Let’s see—first you went back to the Poodle Factory to look up the number of your customer the fashion photographer, and then you called him and asked for the name and number of his friend with the allergies. Then I guess you called the friend and introduced yourself and arranged to meet him at his apartment and take a look at the animal, and then—”
“Stop it.”
“Well?”
“The cat was at my apartment.”
“What was he doing there?”
“He was living there, Bern.”
I frowned. “I’ve met your cats,” I said. “I’ve known them for years. I’d recognize them, with or without tails. Archie’s a sable Burmese and Ubi’s a Russian blue. Neither one of them could pass for a gray tabby, except maybe in a dark alley.”
“He was living with Archie and Ubi,” she said.
“Since when?”
“Oh, just for a little while.”
I thought for a moment. “Not for just a little while,” I said, “because he was there long enough to learn the toilet trick. You don’t learn something like that overnight. Look how long it takes with human beings. That’s how he learned, right? He picked it up from your cats, didn’t he?”
“I suppose so.”
“And he didn’t pick it up overnight, either. Did he?”
“I feel like a suspect,” she said. “I feel as though I’m being grilled.”
“Grilled? You ought to be charbroiled. You set me up and euchred me, for heaven’s sake. How long has Raffles been living with you?”
“Two and a half months.”
“Two and a half months!”
“Well, maybe it’s more like three.”
“Three months! That’s unbelievable. How many times have I been over to your place in the past three months? It’s got to be eight or ten at the very least. Are you telling me I looked at the cat and didn’t even notice him?”
“When you came over,” she said, “I used to put him in the other room.”
“What other room? You live in one room.”
“I put him in the closet.”
“In the closet?”
“Uh-huh. So you wouldn’t see him.”
“But why?”
“The same reason I never mentioned him.”
“Why’s that? I don’t get it. Were you ashamed of him? What’s wrong with him, anyway?”
“There’s nothing wrong with him.”
“Because if there’s something shameful about the animal, I don’t know that I want him hanging around my store.”
“There’s nothing shameful about him,” she said. “He’s a perfectly fine cat. He’s trustworthy, he’s loyal, he’s helpful and friendly—”
“Courteous, kind,” I said. “Obedient, cheerful, thrifty. He’s a regular Boy Scout, isn’t he? So why the hell were you keeping him a secret from me?”
“It wasn’t just you, Bern. Honest. I was keeping him a secret from everybody.”