The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian - By Lawrence Block Page 0,24
to ask if there’s a reply,” I said.
“A reply? A reply? To whom am I supposed to address this reply? It’s quite clear to me that I’m not the intended recipient of these flowers, and yet how could such a mistake have been made? I no more know of another Leona Tremaine than I know any Donald Brown. Unless it’s someone I knew years ago whose name has apparently slipped my recollection.” Her hands, tipped with persimmon-colored nails, unwrapped the elusive Mr. Brown’s offering. “Lovely,” she said. “Lovelier than the last, but I don’t understand why they’ve been given to me. I don’t begin to understand it.”
“I could call the store.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I could call the flower shop,” I suggested. “Could I use your phone? If there’s a mistake I’ll get in trouble, and if there’s no mistake maybe they can tell you something about the person who sent you the flowers.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I really better call,” I said. “I don’t know if I should leave the flowers without calling in.”
“Well,” she said. “Well, yes, perhaps you’d better call.”
She led me inside, drew the door shut. I tried to hear the elevator going off on other business, but of course I couldn’t hear anything. I followed Leona Tremaine into a thickly carpeted living room filled with more furniture than it needed, the bulk of it French Provincial. The chairs and sofa were mostly tufted and the colors ran to a lot of pink and white. A cat displayed himself on what looked to be the most comfortable of the chairs. He was a snow-white Persian and his whiskers were intact.
“There’s a telephone,” she said, pointing to one of those old French-style instruments trimmed out in gold and white enamel. I lifted the receiver to my ear and dialed Onderdonk’s number. The line was busy.
“It’s busy,” I said. “People phone in orders all the time. You know how it is.” Why was I running off at the mouth like this? “I’ll try again in a minute.”
“Well.”
Why was Onderdonk’s line busy? He’d been out earlier. Why couldn’t he stay out, now that I’d finally gotten into his building? I couldn’t leave now, for God’s sake. I’d never get back in again.
I picked up the phone and called Carolyn Kaiser. When she answered I said, “Miz Kaiser, this is Jimmie. I’m up at Miz Tremaine’s at the Charlemagne.”
“You got the wrong number,” my quick-witted henchperson said. “Wait a minute. Did you say—Bernie? Is that you?”
“Right, the delivery,” I said. “Same as before. She says she don’t know any Donald Brown and she don’t think the flowers are for her. Right.”
“You’re calling from somebody’s apartment.”
“That’s the idea,” I said.
“Is she suspicious of you?”
“No, the thing is she doesn’t know who this guy is.”
“What’s it all about, Bern? Are you just killing time?”
“Right.”
“You want me to talk to her? I’ll tell her What’s-his-face paid cash and he gave her name and address. Gimme the names again.”
“Donald Brown. And she’s Leona Tremaine.”
“Gotcha.”
I handed the phone to Ms. Tremaine, who’d been hovering. She said, “Hello? to whom am I speaking, please?” and then she said things like “Yes” and “I see,” and “But I don’t—” and “It’s so mysterious.” And then she gave the phone back to me.
“Someday,” said Carolyn, “all of this will be crystal clear to me.”
“Sure thing, Miz Kaiser.”
“Same to you, Mr. Rhodenbarr. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I hung up. Leona Tremaine said, “‘Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice.’ Your Donald Brown is a tall, gray-haired gentleman, elegantly dressed, who carried a cane and paid for both deliveries with a pair of crisp twenty-dollar bills. He did not give his address.” Her face softened. “Perhaps it’s someone I knew years ago,” she said quietly. “Under another name, perhaps. And perhaps I’ll hear further from him. I’m sure to hear further from him, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, if he went to all this trouble—”
“Exactly. He would scarcely go to such lengths merely to remain forever mysterious. Oh, dear,” she said, and fluffed her auburn hair. “Such unaccustomed excitement.”
I edged toward the door. “Well,” I said. “I guess I’d better be going.”
“Yes, well, you’ve been very kind, making that phone call.” We walked together toward the door. “Oh,” she said, remembering. “Just let me get my bag and I’ll give you something for your trouble.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I said. “You took care of me before.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I did, didn’t I? It slipped my mind. It’s good of you to remind me.”