The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian

  “Really?”

  “Ask any obstetrician. Oh, I don’t suppose it works with really fat people.”

  “Or with pinheads.”

  “Well, yeah, right. But it’s a good general rule. Nobody got in this window, though, because the bars are what? Three, four inches apart?”

  “You can leave the window open, Bern. It’s stuffy in here. They didn’t get in through the window and they didn’t pick the locks, so what does that leave? Black magic?”

  “I don’t suppose we can rule it out.”

  “The flue’s blocked on my fireplace, in case you figured Santa Claus pulled the job. How else could they get in? Up from the basement through the floor? Down through the ceiling?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely. Carolyn, what did the place look like when you came in?”

  “Same as it always looks.”

  “They didn’t go through the drawers or anything?”

  “They could have opened drawers and closed them again and I wouldn’t have noticed. They didn’t mess anything up, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t even know I’d had anybody here until I couldn’t find the cat. I still didn’t know somebody’d been in here, not until I got the phone call and realized somebody stole the cat. He didn’t just disappear on his own, Bernie. What difference does it make?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe somebody hooked my keys out of my purse. It wouldn’t be that hard to do. Somebody could have come in while I was at the Poodle Factory, got ahold of my key ring, had a locksmith copy everything, then dropped the keys back in my bag.”

  “All without your noticing?”

  “Why not? Say they swipe the keys while they’re inquiring about getting a dog groomed, and then they come back to make an appointment and return the keys. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “You leave your bag where anybody can get at it?”

  “Not as a general rule, but who knows? Anyway, what the hell difference does it make? We’re not just locking the barn after the horse has been stolen. We’re checking the locks and dusting the bolt for fingerprints.” She frowned. “Maybe we should have done that.”

  “Dusted for prints? Even if there’d been any, what good would they have done us? We’re not the cops, Carolyn.”

  “Couldn’t you get Ray Kirschmann to run a check on a set of fingerprints?”

  “Not out of the goodness of his heart, and you can’t really run a check on a single print unless you’ve already got a suspect in hand. You need a whole set of prints, which we wouldn’t have even if whoever it was left prints, which they probably didn’t. And they’d have to have been fingerprinted anyway for a check to reveal them, and—”

  “Forget I mentioned it, okay?”

  “Forget you mentioned what?”

  “Can’t remember. Well, let’s just—shit,” she said, and moved to answer the phone. “Hello? Huh? Hold on, I just—shit, they hung up.”

  “Who?”

  “The Nazi. I’m supposed to look in the mailbox. I looked, remember? All I got was my Con Ed bill and that was enough bad news for one day. And there was nothing in the slot at the Poodle Factory except a catalog of grooming supplies and a flier from one of the animal cruelty organizations. There won’t be another delivery today, will there?”

  “Maybe they put something in the box without sending it through the mail, Carolyn. I know it’s a federal offense but I think we’re dealing with people who’ll stop at nothing.”

  She gave me a look, then went out to the hall. She came back with a small envelope. It had been folded lengthwise for insertion through the small slot in the mailbox. She unfolded it.

  “No name,” she said. “And no stamp.”

  “And no return address either, and isn’t that a surprise? Why don’t you open it?”

  She held it to the light, squinted at it. “Empty,” she said.

  “Open it and make sure.”

  “Okay, but what’s the point? For that matter, what’s the point of stuffing an empty envelope into somebody’s mailbox? Is it really a federal offense?”

  “Yeah, but they’ll be tough to prosecute. What’s the matter?”

  “Look!”

  “Hairs,” I said, picking one up. “Now why in—”

  “Oh, God, Bernie. Don’t you see what they are?” She gripped my elbows in her hands, stared up at me. “They’re the cat’s whiskers,” she said.

  “And you’re the cat’s pajamas. I’m sorry. That just came out. Are they really? Why would anybody do that?”

  “To convince us that they mean business.”

  “Well, I’m convinced. I was convinced earlier when they managed to get the cat out of a locked room. They’ve got to be crazy, cutting off a cat’s whiskers.”

  “That way they can prove they’ve actually got him.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. One set of whiskers looks a lot like another one. I figure you’ve seen one set, you’ve seen ’em all. Jesus Christ.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We can’t get the Mondrian out of the Hewlett.”

  “I know that.”

  “But I know where there’s a Mondrian that I could steal.”

  “Where, the Museum of Modern Art? They’ve got a couple. And there are a few in the Guggenheim too, aren’t there?”

  “I know one in a private collection.”

  “The Hewlett’s was in private hands, too. Now it’s in public hands, and unless it gets to be in our hands soon—”

  “Forget that one. The one I’m talking about is still in a private collection, because I saw it last night.”

  She looked at me. “I know you went out last night.”

  “Right.”

  “But you didn’t tell me what you did.”

  “Well, you can probably guess. But what I did first, what got me into the building, is I appraised a man’s library. A nice fellow named Onderdonk, he paid me two hundred dollars to tell him what his books were worth.”

  “Were they worth much?”

  “Not compared to what he had hanging on his wall. He had a Mondrian, among other things.”

  “Like the one in the Hewlett?”

  “Well, who knows? It was about the same size and shape and I think the colors were the same, but maybe they’d look completely different to an expert. The thing is, if I could get in there and steal his Mondrian—”

  “They’ll know it’s not the right one because it’ll still be on the wall at the Hewlett.”

  “Yeah, but will they want to argue the point? If we can hand them a genuine Mondrian worth whatever it is, a quarter of a million is the figure they came up with—”

  “Is it really worth that much?”

  “I have no idea. The art market’s down these days but that’s about as much as I know. If we can give them a Mondrian in exchange for a stolen cat, don’t you think they’d go for it? They’d have to be crazy to turn it down.”

  “We already know they’re crazy.”

  “Well, they’d also have to be stupid, and they couldn’t be too stupid if they managed to swipe the cat.” I grabbed her phone book, looked up Onderdonk’s number, dialed it. I let it ring a dozen times and nobody answered it. “He’s out,” I said. “Now let’s just hope he stays out for a while.”

  “What are you gonna do, Bern?”

  “I’m going home,” I said, “and I’m going to change my clothes and put some handy gadgets into my pockets—”

  “Burglar’s tools.”

  “And then I’m going to the Charlemagne, and I’d better get there before four or someone’ll recognize me, the doorman or the concierge or the elevator operator. But maybe they won’t. I was wearing a suit last night and I’ll dress down this time around, but even so I’d rather get there before four.”

  “How are you going to get in, Bern? Isn’t that one of those places that’s tighter than Fort Knox?”

  “Well, look,” I said, “I never told you it was going to be easy.”

&nb
sp; I hurried uptown and changed into chinos and a short-sleeved shirt that would have been an Alligator except that the embroidered device on the breast was not that reptile but a bird in flight. I guess it was supposed to be a swallow, either winging its way back to Capistrano or not quite making a summer, because the brand name was Swallowtail. It had never quite caught on and I can understand why.

  I added a pair of rundown running shoes, filled my pockets with burglar’s tools—an attaché case wouldn’t fit the image I was trying to project. I got out a clipboard and mounted a yellow pad on it, then set it aside.

  I dialed Onderdonk’s number again and let it ring. Nobody answered. I looked up another number and no one answered it, either. I tried a third number and a woman answered midway through the fourth ring. I asked if Mr. Hodpepper was in, and she said I had the wrong number, but that’s what she thought.

  I stopped at a florist on Seventy-second and picked up an assortment for $4.98. It struck me, as it has often struck me in the past, that flowers haven’t gone up much in price over the years, to the point where they’re one of the few things left that give you your money’s worth.

  I asked for a small blank card, wrote Leona Tremaine on the envelope, and inscribed the card Fondly, Donald Brown. (I thought of signing it Howard Hodpepper but sanity prevailed, as it now and then does.) I paid for the flowers, taped the card to the wrapping paper, and went outside to hail a cab.

  It dropped me on Madison Avenue around the corner from the Charlemagne. A florist’s delivery boy does not, after all, arrive by taxi. I walked to the building’s front entrance and moved past the doorman to the concierge.

  “Got a delivery,” I said, and read from the card. “Leona Tremaine, it says.”

  “I’ll see she gets them,” he said, reaching for the bouquet. I drew it back.

  “I’m supposed to deliver ’em in person.”

  “Don’t worry, she’ll get ’em.”

  “Case there’s a reply,” I said.

  “He wants his tip,” the doorman interposed. “That’s all he wants.”

  “From Tremaine?” the concierge said, and he and the doorman exchanged smiles. “Suit yourself,” he told me, and picked up the intercom phone. “Miz Tremaine? Delivery for you, looks like flowers. The delivery boy’s bringing them up. Yes, ma’am.” He hung up and shook his head. “Go on up,” he said. “Elevator’s over there. It’s apartment 9-C.”

  I glanced at my watch in the elevator. The timing, I thought, could not have been better. It was three-thirty. The doorman, the concierge and the elevator operator were not the crew who’d seen me enter last night, nor had they been around when I left with Appling’s stamps in my attaché case. And in half an hour they’d go off duty, before they’d had a chance to wonder why the kid with the flowers was spending so much time in Ms. Tremaine’s apartment. The crew that relieved them wouldn’t realize I’d come delivering flowers and would assume I’d had legitimate business with some other tenant. Anyway, they don’t hassle you as much on the way out, assuming you must have been okay to get past their security the first time around. It’s different if you try to carry out the furniture, of course, but generally speaking getting in’s the hard part.

  The elevator stopped on Nine and the operator pointed at the appropriate door. I thanked him and went and stood in front of it, waiting for the sound of the door closing. It didn’t close. Of course it didn’t. They waited until the tenant opened the door. Well, she was expecting the flowers anyway, so what was I waiting for?

  I poked the doorbell. Chimes sounded within, and after a moment the door opened. The woman who answered it had improbable auburn hair and a face that had fallen one more time than it had been lifted. She was wearing a sort of dressing gown with an oriental motif and she had a look about her of someone who had just smelled something unseemly.

  “Flowers,” she said. “Now are you quite sure those are for me?”

  “Ms. Leona Tremaine?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then they’re for you.”

  I was still listening for the sound of the elevator door, and I was beginning to realize I wasn’t going to hear it. And why should I? He wasn’t going anywhere, he’d wait right there until she’d taken the flowers and given me my tip, and then he’d whisk me downstairs again. Terrific. I’d found a way to get into the Charlemagne but I still needed a way to stay there.

  “I can’t think who’d send me flowers,” she said, taking the wrapped bouquet from me. “Unless it might be my sister’s boy Lewis, but why would he take a notion of sending me flowers? There must be some mistake.”

  “There’s a card,” I said.

  “Oh, there’s a card,” she said, discovering it for herself. “Just wait a moment. Let me see if there hasn’t been some mistake here. No, that’s my name, Leona Tremaine. Now let me open this.”

  Didn’t anyone else in the goddamned building want the elevator? Would nothing summon this putz out of his reverie and float him away to another floor?

  “‘Fondly, Donald Brown,’” she read aloud. “Donald Brown. Donald. Brown. Donald Brown. Now who could that be?”

  “Uh.”

  “Well, they’re perfectly lovely, aren’t they?” She sniffed industriously, as if determined to inhale not merely the bouquet but the petals as well. “And fragrant. Donald Brown. It’s a familiar name, but—well, I’m sure there’s been a mistake, but I’ll just enjoy them all the same. I’ll have to get down a vase, I’ll have to put them in water—” She broke off suddenly, remembering that I was there. “Is there something else, young man?”

  “Well, I just—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m forgetting you, aren’t I? Just one moment, let me get my bag. I’ll just put these down, here we are, here we are, and thank you very much, and my thanks to Donald Brown, whoever he may be.”

  The door closed.

  I turned and there was the goddamned elevator, waiting for to carry me home. The attendant wasn’t exactly smiling but he did look amused. I rode down and walked through the lobby. The doorman grinned when he saw me coming.

  “Well,” he said. “How’d you make out, fella?”

  “Make out?”

  “She give you a good tip?”

  “She gave me a quarter,” I said.

  “Hey, cheer up, that’s not bad for Tremaine. She doesn’t part with a nickel all year round and then at Christmas she tips the building staff five bucks a man. That’s ten cents a week. Can you believe it?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I can believe it.”

  Chapter Seven

  I didn’t keep Leona Tremaine’s quarter for very long. I walked around the corner, passed a watering hole called Big Charlie’s, and had a cup of coffee at a lunch counter on Madison Avenue, where I left the quarter as a tip, hoping it would delight the waitress as much as it had delighted me. I got out of there and started walking uptown until I came to a florist.

  It was past four. The shift would have changed by now, unless someone was late. Still, it would probably be easier getting past a crew who’d seen me last night than convincing the doorman and concierge I wanted to make another in-person delivery.

  I went in and paid $7.98 for essentially the same assortment that had set me back $4.98 on the West Side. Ah, well. No doubt this chap had higher rent to pay. In any event, I might get another quarter from Ms. Tremaine, and that would offset some of my expenses.

  Leona Tremaine, I wrote once more on the outside of the envelope. And, on the card, Won’t you say I’m forgiven? Donald Brown.

  The staff had turned over at the Charlemagne. I recognized the concierge and the doorman from the night before, but if my face was familiar they didn’t remark on it. Last night I’d been a guest of a tenant, all decked out in suit and tie, while today I was a short-sleeved member of the working class. If either of them recognized me, he probably assumed he’d seen me delivering flowers another time.

  Again the concierge offered to see that the flowers were
delivered, and again I insisted on making the delivery in person, and again the doorman snickered, guessing that I wanted my tip. It was nice to see they all had their lines down pat. The concierge announced me on the intercom and Eduardo took me up to the ninth floor, where Ms. Tremaine was waiting in the doorway of her apartment.

  “Why, it’s you again,” she said. “I can’t understand this at all. Are you sure these flowers are for me?”

  “The card says—”

  “The card, the card, the card,” she said, and opened its envelope. “‘Won’t you say I’m forgiven? Donald Brown.’ What a curious sentiment. More specific than fondly, I daresay, but rather more baffling. Who is this Donald Brown and why am I to forgive him?”

  The elevator had not gone away.

  “I’m supposed to ask if there’s a reply,” I said.

  “A reply? A reply? To whom am I supposed to address this reply? It’s quite clear to me that I’m not the intended recipient of these flowers, and yet how could such a mistake have been made? I no more know of another Leona Tremaine than I know any Donald Brown. Unless it’s someone I knew years ago whose name has apparently slipped my recollection.” Her hands, tipped with persimmon-colored nails, unwrapped the elusive Mr. Brown’s offering. “Lovely,” she said. “Lovelier than the last, but I don’t understand why they’ve been given to me. I don’t begin to understand it.”

  “I could call the store.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I could call the flower shop,” I suggested. “Could I use your phone? If there’s a mistake I’ll get in trouble, and if there’s no mistake maybe they can tell you something about the person who sent you the flowers.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I really better call,” I said. “I don’t know if I should leave the flowers without calling in.”

  “Well,” she said. “Well, yes, perhaps you’d better call.”

  She led me inside, drew the door shut. I tried to hear the elevator going off on other business, but of course I couldn’t hear anything. I followed Leona Tremaine into a thickly carpeted living room filled with more furniture than it needed, the bulk of it French Provincial. The chairs and sofa were mostly tufted and the colors ran to a lot of pink and white. A cat displayed himself on what looked to be the most comfortable of the chairs. He was a snow-white Persian and his whiskers were intact.