The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian - By Lawrence Block Page 0,30
I walked down a few flights of stairs and here I am.”
“Didn’t you steal anything in the penthouse?”
“They didn’t have anything. I guess they were house-poor, you know? Spent all their money on the apartment.”
“I suppose that happens all the time.”
“You’d be surprised. How did you get past the desk?”
“Me?”
“Uh-huh. You don’t officially live here. Why would they let you up when Onderdonk was out?”
“He was here when I came. Then he went out.”
“And left you here in the dark.”
“I told you I—”
“Right. You turned the light off when you got drowsy.”
“Didn’t that ever happen to you?”
“I never get drowsy. What’s the capital of New Jersey?”
“New Jersey? The capital of New Jersey?”
“Right.”
“Is this some kind of a trick question? The capital of New Jersey. It’s Trenton, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Not a thing,” I admitted. “I just wanted to see if your face changed when you told the truth. The last honest thing you said was ‘Gosh.’ You cut the lights when you heard me coming and you tried to melt into the wall. You were scared to death when you saw me but you’d have been scared clear into the next world if it had been Onderdonk. Why don’t you tell me what you came to steal and whether or not you found it yet? Maybe I can help you look.”
She just looked at me for a moment and her face went through some interesting changes. Then she sighed and rummaged around in the heap of clothing.
“I’d better get dressed,” she said.
“If you feel you must.”
“He’ll be back soon. Or at least he might. Sometimes he stays the night but he’ll probably be back around two. What time is it?”
“Almost one.”
We sorted out our clothes and began getting into them. She said, “I haven’t stolen anything. You’re welcome to search me if you don’t believe me.”
“Good idea. Strip.”
“But I just—for a second I thought you were serious.”
“Just my little joke.”
“Well, you had me going there.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe I should just tell you why I’m here.”
“Maybe you should.”
“I’m married.”
“Not to Onderdonk.”
“God, no. But Gordon and I—let’s say I was indiscreet.”
“On this very rug?”
“No, this was a first for me. You were my first burglar and my first romp on a carpet.” She grinned suddenly. “I always had fantasies of being taken passionately and abruptly by a stranger. Not of being raped, exactly, but of being, oh, carried away. Transported by desire.”
“I hope I didn’t ruin your fantasies for you.”
“Au contraire, darling. You brought them to life.”
“Shall we get back to Onderdonk? You were indiscreet.”
“Very, I’m afraid. I wrote him some letters.”
“Love letters?”
“Lust letters is more like it. ‘I wish I had your this in my that. I’d like to verb your noun until you verb.’ That sort of thing.”
“I bet you write a terrific letter.”
“Gordon thought so. After we stopped seeing each other—we broke it off weeks ago—I asked for my letters back.”
“And he refused?”
“‘They were written to me,’ he said. ‘That makes them my property.’ He wouldn’t give them back.”
“And he was using them to blackmail you?”
Her eyes widened. “Why would he do that? Gordon’s rich, and I don’t have any money of my own.”
“He could have blackmailed you for something besides money.”
“Oh, you mean sex? I suppose he could have but he didn’t. The affair ended by mutual consent. No, he simply wanted to retain the letters as a way of keeping the affair’s memory fresh. He said once that he intended to save them for his old age. Something to read when reading was the only thing left for him.”
“I suppose it beats Louis Auchincloss.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. So he kept your letters.”
“And the photographs.”
“Photographs?”
“He took pictures a couple of times.”
“Pictures of you?”
“Some of me and some of both of us. He has a Polaroid with a cable shutter release.”
“So he could get some good shots of you verbing his noun.”
“He could and did.”
I straightened up. “Well, we’ve still got a few minutes,” I said, “and I’m pretty good at search-and-destroy missions. If the letters and photos are in this apartment, I bet I can find them.”
“I already found them.”
“Oh?”
“They were in his dresser and it was almost the first place I looked.”
“And where are they now?”
“Down the incinerator.”
“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.”
“You have a way with words.”
“Thank you. Mission accomplished, eh? You found the letters and pictures, sent them down to be burned or compacted or whatever they do at the Charlemagne, and then you were