the hundred dollars.”
“It’s not the money.”
“What is it, the principle of the thing?”
“If we leave the chair,” I said, “they’ll trace it.”
“To Pitterman Hospital and Surgical Supply? Big hairy deal. I paid in cash and gave a phony name.”
“I don’t know who Turnquist was or how he fits into this Mondrian business, but there has to be a connection. When the cops tie him to it they’ll go to Pitterman and get the description of the person who rented the chair. Then they’ll take the clerk downtown and stick you in front of him in a lineup, you and four of the Harlem Globetrotters, and who do you figure he’ll point to?”
“I expect short jokes from Ray, Bernie. I don’t expect them from you.”
“I was just trying to make a point.”
“You made it. I thought it would be more decent to leave him in the chair, that’s all. Forget I said anything, okay?”
“Okay.”
I got the wire off his wrists and ankles, unstrapped the belt from around his waist, and managed to stretch him out on his back on a reasonably uncluttered expanse of floor. I retrieved the cap and sunglasses and blanket.
Back on the street I said, “Hop on, Carolyn. I’ll give you a ride.”
“Huh?”
“Two people pushing an empty wheelchair are conspicuous. C’mon, get in the chair.”
“You get in it.”
“You weigh less than I do, and—”
“The hell with that noise. You’re taller than I am and you’re a man, so if one of us has to play Turnquist you’re a natural choice for the role. Get in the chair, Bern, and put on the cap and the glasses.” She tucked the blanket around me and the mildew smell wafted to my nostrils. With a sly grin, my henchperson released the handbrake. “Hang on,” she said. “And fasten your seat belt. Short jokes, huh? We may hit a few air pockets along the way.”
Chapter Sixteen
Back at the store, I checked the premises for bodies, living or dead, before I did anything else. I didn’t find any, nor did I happen on any clues as to how Turnquist had gotten into my store or how he’d happened to join his ancestors in that great atelier on high. Carolyn wheeled the chair into the back room and I helped her fold it. “I’ll take it back in a cab,” she said, “but first I want some coffee.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Not from the felafel joint.”
“Don’t worry.”
When I got back with two coffees she said the phone had rung in my absence. “I was gonna answer it,” she said, “and then I didn’t.”
“Probably wise.”
“This coffee’s much better. You know what we oughta do? In either your place or my place we oughta have one of those machines, nice fresh coffee all day long. One of those electric drip things.”
“Or even a hotplate and a Chemex pot.”
“Yeah. Of course you’d be pouring coffee for customers all day long, and you’d never get rid of Kirschmann. He’d be a permanent guest. I really grossed him out, didn’t I?”
“He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”
“Well, that was the idea. I figured the more disgusting I made it, the faster he’d split. I was trying to wait him out, you know, figuring he might leave if I stayed out of the room long enough, but it looked as though he wasn’t gonna cave without peeing, so—”
“I almost left myself. He’s not the only one you grossed out.”
“Oh, right. You didn’t know I was faking it.”
“Of course not. I didn’t know there was a dead man in there.”
“Maybe I went into too much detail.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, and the phone rang.
I picked it up and Wally Hemphill said, “You’re a hard man to get hold of, Bernie. I was thinking you’d jumped bail.”
“I wouldn’t do that. I don’t know anybody in Costa Rica.”
“Oh, a guy like you would make friends anywhere. Listen, what do you know about this Mondrian?”
“I know he was Dutch,” I said. “Born in 1872 in Amberfoot or something like that. He began, you may recall, as a painter of naturalistic landscapes. As he found his own style he grew artistically and his work became increasingly abstract. By 1917—”
“What’s this, a museum lecture? There’s a painting missing from Onderdonk’s apartment worth close to half a million dollars.”
“I know.”
“You get it?”
“No.”
“It might be useful if you could come up with it. Give us a bargaining chip.”
“Suppose I gave them Judge Crater,” I said, “or a cure for cancer.”
“You really haven’t got the painting?”
“No.”
“Who got it?”
“Probably the