The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart - By Lawrence Block Page 0,12
he said. He hefted the bottle, studied the label. “‘Product of Bulgaria,’” he read. “Imported, no less. Says right here it’s a hundred proof.”
“At least.”
“Guy on the label looks happy, don’t he? Like he’s about to do one of those dances where they fold their arms and it looks like they’re sitting down, but there’s no chair under ’em. You or I tried something like that, we’d fall on our ass.”
“I might anyway,” I said.
“It’s cheap shit,” he said, “but all the time I been pouring it, you’re the first person who didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” I said. “All I said was it must have been diluted with nail polish remover.”
“You said formaldehyde.”
“I did?” I thought for a moment. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you give me another?”
“You sure, buddy?”
“I’m not sure of anything,” I said, “but give me another all the same.”
The second drink was a little easier to take, and a third might have been easier still, but I had the sense not to find out. I walked out of the Wexford Castle feeling better than I had when I’d walked in, and what more can anybody ask from a bottle of vodka?
I pressed on to Hugo Candlemas’s brownstone, and in the vestibule I found his doorbell and tried to decide whether I would have had to switch my attaché case from one hand to the other in order to ring it. After some reflection I decided that it would depend on which hand I was holding the case in to begin with. If I had it in my left hand, it would have been child’s play to reach out and poke the button with my right forefinger. But if I’d been holding the case in my right hand, it would have been awkward in the extreme to reach all the way across my body and push the button with my left forefinger. Therefore—
Therefore nothing. The case was either upstairs or it wasn’t, and I’d know in a minute. I had both hands free at the moment—no attaché case, alas, and no tan leather portfolio with gold stamping, either. I picked out one of my ten fingers and rang the bell.
To no avail.
I gave him a minute, then rang again. When nothing happened, I found myself looking wistfully at the locked door. I knew the lock would be no problem, and I didn’t expect more of a challenge from the one upstairs on the fourth floor. I couldn’t think what had become of Candlemas, but suppose he’d tired of waiting for me and ducked around the corner for a plate of scrambled eggs? I could be in and out while he was waiting for the waitress to pour him a second cup of coffee.
The prospect of reclaiming my attaché case without having to endure any human contact was not without appeal. I’d have to talk to Candlemas sooner or later, to tell him what had happened and try to figure out why, but that could wait.
I put my hand in my pocket, let my fingers close around my little collection of burglar’s tools.
Wait a minute, I thought. Suppose he’s home, relaxing in the bathtub or entertaining a visitor. Or suppose he’s out and comes home in time to catch me in the act. Oh, hi, Hugo. I struck out at the Boccaccio, so I thought I’d take a few minutes to knock off your apartment.
For that matter, suppose I was overcome by an irresistible impulse to lift something. I’m neither a sociopath nor a kleptomaniac, I don’t plunder the digs of my friends, but was Hugo Candlemas a friend? He’d been Abel’s friend, or at least had so described himself, and I’d liked him and found him a congenial fellow, but that was before he sent me off to get locked in a closet and come home empty-handed. That might not have been his fault, and indeed it might have been at least partly mine for having taken my time about it, but whoever deserved the blame, it did tend to soften the glue in the bonds of friendship.
From the dispassionate vantage point of the vestibule, the last thing I wanted to do was loot Candlemas’s apartment. But how would I feel when I got upstairs and something special caught my eyes and tugged at my heartstrings? Not that gorgeous Aubusson, it was too big to steal, but what about the Tibetan tiger? Or his little display