“Why would I be after you?”
“How did I know? But why else would you be coming into the building? I locked all my locks and I stood at the door shaking like a leaf and listening to you come up the stairs. When you reached the fourth floor I nearly died, and when you went on up to the fifth floor I thought you’d made a mistake and you’d be back down in a minute. When you didn’t come back down I couldn’t figure out what had happened. Finally I went upstairs and listened at the two doors up here, and when I heard sounds in this apartment I knew you must be in here because Rod was out of town and the apartment was empty. I couldn’t figure out what you were doing here but I went back to my own apartment and knocked myself out with a Seconal, and in the morning I bought the papers and found out what had happened and who you were.”
“And then you called Rod and arranged to pick up his keys.”
“I also found out that he knew you. I said I’d run across a fellow named Bernie Rhodenbarr and hadn’t he mentioned that name to me once? And he said he might have, though he didn’t recall, but that the two of you had played poker together a few times. So I figured that was why you’d picked this apartment.” She took a deep breath. “Then I decided to come up here. I didn’t know whether you had killed Fran or not. I figured he must have been dead before you got there, that he died because he didn’t receive prompt medical attention and it was my fault. But then there was all that business about the ashtray and I wondered if maybe you had killed him after all. And then you and I met, and I guess it’s obvious I was drawn to you and fascinated by you, and I got involved more deeply than I probably should have. And at the same time I had to play a part. I couldn’t give you my real name or address at the beginning because if you really were the killer and I wanted to bail out, then I was better off if you didn’t know who I was or where to get hold of me. And if the police caught you, you wouldn’t be able to drag me into it.”
“And then you told me your right name because you were afraid I’d catch you in the lie.”
She shook her head. “That’s not it. I just couldn’t stand it when you called me Ruth. I hated it, and when we went to bed and you kept saying my name at critical moments it was absolutely horrible. And I figured you’d find out my real name anyway. By then I knew you hadn’t killed anybody, I was really fairly sure of that from the beginning-”
“Your famous intuition. I knew you had to be involved to some degree, Ellie. Nobody trusts her intuition that much. You had to have something else to go on.”
“Anyway, you’d find out my name sooner or later. Unless I just disappeared one day. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to. And everything happened so quickly.”
“Right.”
“So now you know the truth. I did a fair job of blowing the whole thing when I almost let us into the wrong apartment, didn’t I?”
“I’d have put it all together anyway.”
“I suppose so.” She looked off into the middle distance, and I guess I did, too. A silence descended and hung around for quite a while. Finally she broke it.
“Well,” she said, “things worked out pretty well after all, didn’t they?”
“In every way but financially, yes. You’re clear, Darla’s clear, and I am no longer wanted for homicide. I’d say things worked out beautifully.”
“Except that you must hate me.”
“Hate you?” I was genuinely surprised at the thought. “Why on earth should I hate you? You may have come up here originally out of curiosity and to make sure you weren’t in danger, but after that you helped me a lot. Not as much as if you had told me all the truth at the beginning, but what kind of fool goes through life expecting honesty in interpersonal relationships?”
“Bernie-”
“No, seriously, I don’t blame you. Why should you have opened up to somebody who might turn out be a murderer after all and who was certainly a convicted felon to begin with? And you did help me a great deal. I couldn’t have straightened things out without your help and I probably wouldn’t have tried. I’d have gotten in touch with a lawyer and tried to work some kind of a deal through Ray. So I’d have to be a complete moron to hate you.”
“Oh.”
“To tell the truth,” I said, “I’m kind of fond of you. I think you’re a little bit nuts, but who the hell isn’t?”
“You know I was involved with Flaxford.”
“So?”
“And you saw that picture.”
“So?”
“It didn’t bother you?”
“Not in the way you mean.”
“How else could it have bothered you?”
“In the sense of hot and bothered,” I said.
“Oh. I see.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
I tipped up her chin and kissed her, and that lasted for a time, and then she sighed and nestled in my arms and said it was funny how things turned out. “And now what happens?” she wanted to know.
“Things keep on keeping on, baby. You go on being an actress and I go on being a burglar. People don’t change. Both of our careers may be slightly disreputable but I think we’re stuck with them. And we’ll see each other, and we’ll see how it goes.”
“I’d like that.”
And I’d see Darla Sandoval, and I’d try to figure out a way to knock off her husband’s coin collection without Darla guessing who did it. And I’d probably try to put my apartment back together again, and maybe the neighbors would overlook my alleged occupation in view of the fact that I confined my operations to the East Side where the momsers had it coming. And I’d probably go on playing poker and watching an occasional baseball game and pulling jobs when I had to. It wouldn’t be perfect, but who leads a perfect life? We’re all imperfect creatures leading imperfect lives in an imperfect world, and all we can do is the best we can.
I said some of this to Ellie, if not all of it, and we cuddled together, and at first it was just nice and comfy and gentle, and then it got to be a little more than that.
“Let’s go to bed,” she said.
I thought that was a great idea. But first I went and made sure the doors were locked.
Burglar’s Choice
In January of 1976 I was in a motel on the outskirts of Mobile, Alabama, trying to write a book. Six months earlier I’d left New York in a rusted-out Ford wagon, bound for California and in no rush to get there. I was going through what the British call a bad patch. I kept starting books and abandoning them after thirty or forty or fifty pages, unable to think of a reason for the characters to Go On.
In Mobile I wrote about a burglar who gets in touch with the detective who arrested him years ago. The burglar’s out now, and up to his old tricks, and has had the ill fortune to happen on a murder scene, at once becoming its leading suspect and a fugitive from justice. He wants the detective to clear him. I wrote the opening chapter, took a good look at what I’d written, tore it up and threw it out and drove to Sardis, Mississippi. Don’t ask why.
Two months later I was in LA, finally, living in a place called the Magic Hotel. I couldn’t figure out what the hell to do. For over fifteen years I’d made my living writing, and now I seemed unable to do that.
Don’t rule out crime, a little voice said.
Crime had much to recommend it. You didn’t have to cobble up a resumé or provide references. There were no forms to fill out, no taxes and Social Security withheld from your pay. You just took money and ran.