The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart - By Lawrence Block Page 0,77

he thought he was the square root of minus something-or-other.”

His face held an expression of long-suffering. “The animal you identify with,” he said. “The animal you see yourself as.”

“Oh.” I thought it over. “I guess I’ve always seen myself as a person,” I said.

“If you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be?”

“I guess that would depend on what kind of animal I was. I know, I’m supposed to think hypothetically, but I seem to be having trouble. I’m sorry. Is this important?”

“No, of course not. Let’s just forget it.”

“No, dammit,” I said, “that’s not right. I ought to be able to figure this out.”

“I was the mouse,” he said patiently. “Wood was the woodchuck. Cappy Hoberman was the ram.”

“And Bateman was the rabbit and Renwick was the cat.”

“Rennick.”

“Right, Rennick. So you think I ought to have an animal code name?”

“It’s really not important,” he said. “I was just making conversation.”

“No, I’d be glad to have one,” I said, “but maybe it’s not the sort of thing a person should pick for himself. If you wanted to pick a name for me…”

“Hmmm,” he said, and stroked his chin with his fingertips. “Something in the weasel family, I think.”

“Something in the weasel family?”

“I would think so. An otter?”

“An otter?”

“No,” he said, “I don’t think so. Not an otter. The playful quality is there, to be sure, but the otter’s altogether too straightforward. I’d say not an otter.”

“Good,” I said. “Tastes of dog, anyway.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“Something furtive,” he said. He put his palms together in front of his chest and made a sort of side-to-side motion. “Something nocturnal, something devious, something predatory. Something, oh, burglarous.”

“Burglarous,” I said.

“Not a wolverine, that’s altogether too rapacious. Nor a mink, I don’t believe. A badger?” He looked at me. “Not a badger. Perhaps a ferret.”

“A ferret?”

“Not a ferret. You know what? I think a weasel, a plain old garden-variety weasel.”

“Oh,” I said.

“You’re the weasel,” he said. He clapped me on the back. “Come on, weasel. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable. There’s coffee made.”

“Thank God,” I said.

The weasel was in the kitchen for a little over a half hour, passing on some facts and guesses to the mouse, drinking coffee, and listening to some reminiscences of skulduggery in the Balkans, circa 1950. It was absorbing and entertaining, and if not everything he told me was a hundred percent factual, well, that made us even.

It was close to midnight when I put down my coffee cup, got to my feet, and grabbed up my Braniff bag. “I’d better be going,” I said. “I have a feeling we’re getting somewhere, but maybe we shouldn’t bother. If Candlemas killed Hoberman, we don’t have to worry that he got away with it. He’s dead himself. He wasn’t my partner, and he forfeited any claim on my loyalties when he became a murderer. It might be interesting to know who killed him, but I can’t say it’s vitally important to me.”

“That’s a point.”

“Well, we can just take it a day at a time,” I said, “and see what happens. But I’m beat. I want to get on home.”

“I’ll see you out.”

I told him he didn’t have to go to the trouble, and he assured me it was no trouble. The next thing I knew we were out in the hall, waiting for the elevator I’d been careful not to ring for.

Hell.

I’d thought of having Carolyn call his number at a predetermined time, then contriving to be out in the hall waiting for the elevator at just that moment. But I’d decided it wouldn’t work. For one thing, trying to synchronize something like that is just about impossible. If the phone call comes a minute too early or late, the whole scheme falls flat. For another, his apartment was all the way down the hall, and you probably couldn’t hear his phone if you were standing by the elevator shaft.

“Is that thing not coming?” he said, after we’d waited for a few minutes.

“It may be a while. Look, there’s no reason for you to stand out here in your robe.”

“I’m not going to abandon you,” he said firmly. “You know, the same damned thing happened last time you were here.” He chuckled. “Maybe you don’t know how to ring that thing,” he said, and reached to do it himself.

I caught hold of his wrist. “I’ll level with you,” I said.

“Oh?”

“This is a genuinely difficult building to get into,” I said, “and now that I’m inside it, I hate to