But he didn’t say anything to me, or look twice at me, and neither did the concierge. The doorman glanced my way only long enough to assure himself that I didn’t want him to call me a cab. I walked over to Lex and headed uptown, and the Wexford Castle was right where I’d left it, looking every bit as dingy and smelling no better than it looked. There were half a dozen old soaks at the bar, and they weren’t any more interested in me than the concierge or the elevator man, and who could blame them?
“I was in here an hour or so ago,” I told the bartender. “I didn’t happen to leave my attaché case here, did I?”
“You mean like a briefcase?”
“Right.”
“About so wide and so high? Brass locks here and here?”
“You haven’t seen it, have you?”
“’Fraid not,” he said. “I couldn’t swear to it, but I don’t think you had it with you. I remember you, on account of you were with a guy knocked off a double like he had a train to catch, and you didn’t have nothing yourself.”
“Well, that was then and this is now,” I said.
“What’ll you have?”
“What my friend had. Double vodka.”
I won’t drink anything when I go out housebreaking, not a drop, not so much as a sip of beer. But I’d done my work for the night, if you wanted to call it work. I called it a waste of time, and not a whole lot of fun.
He poured from the same bottle, the one with the guy sporting the astrakhan hat and the savage grin. The brand name was Ludomir, and it was a new one on me. I picked up my glass and tossed off the shot and thought I was going to die.
“Jesus,” I said.
“Something the matter?”
“People drink this stuff?”
“What’s wrong with it? If you’re gonna tell me it’s watered, save your breath, okay? Because it’s not.”
“Watered?” I said. “If it’s diluted with anything, my guess would be formaldehyde. Ludomir, huh? I never heard of it.”
“We just started pouring it a month or so ago,” he said. “I don’t do the ordering, but when the boss tells me to make it the house vodka, you know what that tells me?”
“It’s cheap.”
“Bingo,” 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 of netsuke, so easy to wrap up and chuck in the attaché case? Or, most appealing of all, some sweet untraceable cash? I could probably hold off, but I was embittered and the job had gone sour and I was not going to pass Go or collect five thousand dollars, and I’d had a couple Ludomirs, and-
Oh.
I couldn’t go in, could I? I’d been drinking, and I don’t work when I drink or drink when I work.
So that settled that.
I rang his bell one more time, and don’t ask me which finger I used. I didn’t expect a response and I didn’t get one. Out on the street, I walked a block or so to clear my head, and when a cab came along I grabbed it.
It almost figured I’d get Max Fiddler for the third time, but nobody’s that lucky. This time my driver was a young fellow who ate pistachio nuts as he drove, spitting the shells all over the front of the cab. He got me home in one piece, but not for lack of trying.
Back in my own apartment, I stowed my tools and flashlight, got out of my clothes and under the shower. I stayed there for a long time, trying to wash the night away, but it was still there when I emerged. I put on a robe and poured myself a nightcap, wondering how Scotch would sit on top of Ludomir.
I drank half of it, then searched my wallet for the slip of paper with Hugo Candlemas’s phone number on it. Was it too late to call? Probably, but I picked up the phone and dialed the number anyway, and after two rings someone picked up and said, “Hello?”
It didn’t sound like Hugo.
I didn’t say anything. There was a silence, and the same voice said the same thing again, sounding a little peevish this time around.
Definitely not Hugo.
I put the receiver in the cradle.
I took another small sip of Scotch and made a mental list. Item: My visit to Apartment 8 – B at the Boccaccio had turned out badly. Item: Hugo Candlemas, who was supposed to be home waiting for me to show up with the portfolio, had been absent when I went to see him. Item: An hour later, someone else was answering his phone. Someone who was definitely not Hugo Candlemas, but whose voice was curiously familiar.