sidewalk,” he said. “I thought you’d twitch a little when I showed you the case, but no, it was like you expected it. That was you on the phone, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let it go. I’ll tell you, soon as we ran the prints on this thing and they turned out to be yours, I couldn’t wait to hear you explain how your prints wound up all over this guy Candlemas’s case. I figured it’d be a good story. But you went one better and got the nerve to claim it’s your case. I like that, Bernie. It’s real imaginary.”
“It happens to be the truth.”
“Truth,” he said sourly. “What the hell’s truth?”
“You’re not the first officer of the law to ask that question,” I told him. “What happened to Candlemas?”
“Who said anything happened to him?”
“Oh, please,” I said. “Why would you dust an empty attaché case for prints? You found it in his apartment, and he could have told you how it got there, so I can only conclude he wasn’t doing any talking. Either the place was empty or he was in no shape to talk. Which was it?”
He measured me with a long look. “I guess there’s no reason not to tell you,” he said. “Anyway, another couple of hours an’ you’ll be readin’ about it in the papers.”
“He’s dead?”
“If he’s not,” he said, “then it’s a hell of an act he’s puttin’ on.”
“Who killed him?”
“I don’t know, Bern. I was kind of hopin’ it’d turn out to be you.”
“Get a grip, Ray. It never turns out to be me, remember? I’m not a killer. It’s not my style.”
“I know that,” he said. “All the years I known you, you never been a violent fellow. But who’s to say what might happen one of these days if somebody surprises you while you’re burglarizin’ their premises? And don’t give me any of that crap about how you’re spendin’ all your time sellin’ books these days. You’re a burglar through an’ through, Bernie. You’ll still be breakin’ an’ enterin’ when you’re six feet under.”
There was a cheering thought. “Tell me about Candlemas,” I said. “How was he killed?”
“What’s the difference? Dead is dead.”
“How do you even know it was murder? He wasn’t a kid. Maybe he died of natural causes.”
“Naw, it was suicide, Bernie. He stabbed himself a couple of times in the chest and then ate the knife to throw us off.”
“That’s what killed him? Stab wounds?”
“That’s what the doc tells us. A lot of internal bleedin’, he said. Plenty of external bleedin’, too. Made a mess of the rug.”
I winced, feeling sorry at once for Hugo Candlemas and his Aubusson. I told Ray I hoped he hadn’t suffered much.
“He must of,” he said, “unless he was some kind of a massy-kissed. Somebody sticks a knife into you two or three times, naturally you’re gonna suffer.” He frowned, considering. “They say you go into shock the first time you get stabbed and don’t feel the others, an’ I guess I’ll have to take their word for it. I wouldn’t want to test it out for myself.”
“Neither would I. The murder weapon didn’t turn up?”
He shook his head. “Killer took it away with him. Time the lab’s done, they’ll be able to tell you the size an’ shape of the blade, along with the name an’ home phone number of the guy who made it. Right now all I can say for sure is it was some kind of a knife. Long an’ thin’d be my guess, but all I’d be is guessin’.”
“How did you get the case, Ray?”
“Somebody called it in around one in the morning. Couple of blues responded, found the door locked, went next door an’ got the super to open up for ’em. Except there were three locks on the door an’ the super only had keys for two of ’em. That’s your fault, Bernie.”
“How is it my fault?”
“Wasn’t for guys like you, people wouldn’t hang three locks on a goddam door. The whole city’s walkin’ around with more keys in their pockets than a person oughta have to carry, and it’s the burglars of New York who are the cause of it. I ran into this woman one time, she had six locks on her front door. Six of ’em! Time she got out of her house in the morning, it was pretty near time for her to go back in again.” He shook his head at the very idea.
I said, “So what did