She had the first section and she was pointing to something. “You’d better read this,” she said.
I took it and read it. A few inches of copy on one of the back pages, out of place among the scraps of international news but for its faintly international flavor. Bernard Rhodenbarr, I read, the convicted burglar currently sought by police investigating the slaying Thursday of Madeleine Porlock in her East Side apartment, had narrowly escaped apprehension the previous night. Surprised by an alert police officer while attempting to break into Barnegat Books on East Eleventh Street, Rhodenbarr whipped out a pistol and exchanged shots with the policeman. The officer, I read, suffered a flesh wound in the foot and was treated at St. Vincent ’s Hospital and released. The burglar-turned-gunman, owner of the store in question, had escaped on foot, apparently uninjured.
As an afterthought, the last paragraph mentioned that Rhodenbarr had disguised himself for the occasion by donning a turban and false beard. “But he didn’t fool me,” Patrolman Francis Rockland was quoted as saying. “We’re trained to see past obvious disguises. I recognized him right away from his photograph.”
“The Sikh,” I told Carolyn. “Well, that’s one person who hasn’t got the book, or he wouldn’t have been trying to break into the store to search for it. I wonder if it was him you spotted watching the store yesterday.”
“Maybe.”
“The tabloids’ll probably give this more of a play. They like irony, and what’s more ironic than a burglar caught breaking into his own place? They should only know how ironic it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the cop could have arrested the Sikh. That wouldn’t have cleared me on the murder rap but at least they wouldn’t be after me for this, too. Or the Sikh could have been a worse shot, so I wouldn’t be charged with shooting a cop. Wounding a police officer is a more serious crime than murdering a civilian, at least as far as the cops are concerned. Or, if he had to shoot him, the Sikh could have killed young Mr. Rockland. Then he wouldn’t have been able to tell them I was the one who did it.”
“You wouldn’t really want the policeman dead, Bernie.”
“No. With my luck he’d live long enough to tell a brother officer who shot him. Then I’d be a cop killer. What if Randy sees this? She must have missed the first story, or at least she never connected it with me, because she didn’t seem concerned last night about your harboring a fugitive. She was too busy feeling betrayed.”
“She never looks at the Times. ”
“It’ll be in the other papers, too.”
“She probably won’t read them, either. I don’t even know if she knows your last name.”
“She must.”
“Maybe.”
“Would she call the cops?”
“She’s a good person, Bernie. She’s not a fink.”
“She’s also jealous. She thinks-”
“I know what she thinks. She must be a lunatic to think it, but I know what she thinks.”
“She could decide to give the cops an anonymous tip. She could tell herself it was for your own good, Carolyn.”
“Shit.” She gnawed a thumbnail. “You figure it’s not safe here anymore?”
“I don’t know.”
“But the phone’s here. And the number’s in the paper, and how are we going to answer it from a distance?”
“Who’s going to call, anyway?”
“Rudyard Whelkin.”
“He killed Madeleine Porlock Thursday night. I’ll bet he took a cab straight to Kennedy and was out of the country by midnight.”
“Without the book?”
I shrugged.
“And the Sikh might call. What happened to his five hundred dollars?”
“You figure he’ll call so he can ask me that question?”
“No, I’m asking it, Bern. You had the money on you when Madeleine Porlock drugged you, right?”
“Right.”
“And it was gone when you came to.”
“Right again.”
“So what happened to it?”
“She took it. Oh. What happened to it after she took it?”
“Yeah. Where did it go? You went through her things last night. It wasn’t stashed with the book, was it?”
“It wasn’t stashed anywhere. Nowhere that I looked, that is. I suppose the killer took it along with him.”
“Wouldn’t he leave it?”
“Why leave money? Money’s money, Carolyn.”
“There’s always stories about killings in the paper, and they say the police ruled out robbery as a motive because the victim had a large sum of cash on his person.”
“That’s organized crime. They want people to know why they killed somebody. They’ll even plant money on a person so the police will rule out robbery. Either the killer took the money this time or Porlock found a hiding place that didn’t occur to me. Or some cop picked it up when no one was looking. That’s been known to happen.”
“Really?”
“Oh, sure. I could tell you no end of stories. But what’s the point? I’d be interrupted by the insistent ringing of the telephone.”
And I turned to the instrument, figuring it would recognize a cue when it heard one. It stayed silent, though, for upwards of half an hour.
But once it started ringing, I didn’t think it was ever going to stop.
Rrrring!
“Hello?”
“Ah, hello. I’ve just read your notice in the Times. I’m only wondering if I’m interpreting it correctly.”
“How are you interpreting it?”
“You would appear to have something to sell.”
“That’s correct.”
“Passage to, ah, Fort Bucklow.”
“Yes.”
“Would it be possible for me to know to whom I am speaking?”
“I was going to ask you that very question.”
“Ah. An impasse. Let me consider this.”
An English inflection, an undertone of Asia or Africa. A slightly sibilant s. Educated, soft-spoken. A pleasant voice, all in all.
“Very well, sir. I believe you may already have encountered an emissary of mine. If my guess is right, you overcharged him in a transaction recently. He paid five hundred dollars for a book priced at a dollar ninety-five.”
“Not my fault. He ran off without his change.”
An appreciative chuckle. “Then you are the man I assumed you to be. Very good. You have pluck, sir. The police seek you in connection with a woman’s death and you persist in your efforts to sell a book. Business as usual, eh?”
“I need money right now.”
“To quit the country, I would suppose. You have the book at hand? It is actually in your possession as we talk?”
“Yes. I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“I don’t believe I’ve given it. Before we go further, sir, perhaps you could prove to me that you have the volume.”
“I suppose I could hold it to the phone, but unless you have extraordinary powers…”
“Open it to page forty-two, sir, and read the first stanza on the page.”
“Oh. Hold on a minute. ‘Now if you should go to Fort Bucklow / When the moon is on the wane, / And the jackal growls while the monkey howls / Like a woman struck insane… Is that the one you mean?”
A pause. “I want that volume, sir. I want to buy it.”
“Good. I want to sell it.”
“And your price?”
“I haven’t set it yet.”
“If you will do so…”
“This is tricky business. I have to protect myself. I’m a fugitive, as you said, and that makes me vulnerable. I don’t even know whom I’m dealing with.”
“A visitor in your land, sir. A passionate devotee of Mr. Kipling. My name is of little importance.”
“How can I get in touch with you?”
“It’s of less importance than my name. I can get in touch with you, sir, by calling this number.”
“No. I won’t be here. It’s not safe. Give me a number where I can reach you at five o’clock this afternoon.”