The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian - By Lawrence Block Page 0,61
you a peek. The attendant, a whey-faced little man who hadn’t seen the sun since he posed for Charles Addams, pulled a card from a file, led us across a large and silent room, and opened a drawer for us.
I took one look and said, “This isn’t the right one.”
“Gotta be,” the attendant said.
“Then why does the toe tag say Velez, Concepción?”
The attendant examined it himself and scratched his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “This is 228-B and right here on the card it says”—he looked at us accusingly—“it says 328-B.”
“So?”
“So,” he said.
He led the way and pulled out another drawer, and this time the toe tag said Onderdonk, Gordon K. Ray and I stood looking in companionable silence. Then he asked me if I’d seen enough, and I said I had, and he spoke to the attendant and told him to close the drawer.
On the way upstairs I said, “Can you find out if he was drugged?”
“Drugged?”
“Seconal or something. Wouldn’t it show in an autopsy?”
“Only if somebody went looking for it. You come across a guy with his head beaten in, you examine him and determine that’s what killed him, hell, you don’t go an’ check to see if he also had diabetes.”
“Have them check for drugs.”
“Why?”
“A hunch.”
“A hunch. I’d feel better about your hunches if you didn’t look like a racetrack tout. Seconal, huh?”
“Any kind of sedative.”
“I’ll have ’em check. Where do we go from here, Bernie?”
“Separate ways,” I said.
I called Carolyn and let her carry on for a few minutes until her panic played itself out. “I’m going to need your help,” I said. “You’re going to have to create a diversion.”
“That’s my specialty,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”
I told her and went over it a couple of times, and she said it sounded like something she could handle. “It would be better if you had help,” I said. “Would Alison help you?”
“She might. How much would I have to tell her?”
“As little as possible. If you have to, tell her I’m going to be trying to steal a painting from the museum.”
“I can tell her that?”
“If you have to. In the meantime—I wonder. Maybe you should close the Poodle Factory and go over to her house. Where does she live, anyway?”
“Brooklyn Heights. Why should I go there, Bern?”
“So you won’t be where the cops can hassle you. Is Alison with you now?”
“No.”
“Where is she, at home?”
“She’s at her office. Why?”
“No reason. You don’t happen to know her address in Brooklyn Heights, do you?”
“I don’t remember it, but I know the building. It’s on Pineapple Street.”
“But you don’t know the number.”
“What’s the difference? Oh, I bet you’re looking for a place to hole up, aren’t you?”
“Good thinking.”
“Well, her place is nice. I was there last night.”
“So that’s where you were. I tried you early this morning and I couldn’t reach you. Wait a minute. You were at Alison’s last night?”
“What’s the matter with that? What are you, the Mother Superior, Bern?”
“No, I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’d never been there before, had you?”
“No.”
“And it’s nice?”
“It’s very nice. What’s so surprising about that? Tax planners make a decent living. Their clients tend to have money or else they wouldn’t have to worry about taxes.”
“It seems to me everybody has to worry about taxes. You saw the whole apartment? The, uh, bedroom and everything?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? There’s no bedroom, what she’s got is a giant studio. It’s about eight hundred square feet but it’s all one room. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Is this a roundabout way of asking me if we slept together? Because that’s none of your business.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“Well, you’re right about it being none of my business,” I said, “but you’re my best friend and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m not in love with her, Bern.”
“Good.”
“And yes, we slept together. I figured she was used to men hassling her and conning her and trying to exploit her, so I picked my strategy accordingly.”
“What did you do?”
“I told her I’d only put the tip in.”
“And now you’re at the Poodle Factory.”
“Right.”
“And she’s at her office.”
“Right.”
“And I’m wasting my time worrying about you.”
“Listen,” she said, “I’m touched. I really am.”
I cabbed down to the Narrowback Gallery, wearing the sunglasses so that the driver wouldn’t see anything recognizable in his rear-view mirror. When I got out I switched to my other glasses so I’d be less conspicuous. I was still wearing the hat.