The Burglar in the Closet

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, King Street is in SoHo, but just barely. It’s one block So of Ho.” She laughed mechanically, as if she used this little play on words frequently and was getting sick of it. “South of Houston, that is.”

  “Oh,” I said. I now remembered where King Street was, but she went on to explain just what subways I should take to get there, all that crap, none of which I needed to hear.

  “This is the most recent address I have for him,” she said. “I couldn’t swear that he’s still there, but we’ve kept him on our mailing list for invitations to gallery openings and the mail doesn’t come back, so if you write to him the Post Office’ll forward it, but—”

  She went on and on. She didn’t have a telephone number listed, but I could look in the phone book, unless of course I’d already done so, and maybe he had an unlisted number, and of course if I went to the King Street address and he wasn’t there I could always check with the super, that was occasionally helpful, and all of this stupid advice that any fourth-grader could have figured out by himself.

  The operator cut in again to ask for more money. They’re never satisfied. I started to drop yet another dime in the slot, then came abruptly to my senses. And hung up.

  I still had the dime in my hand. I started to put it in my pocket. Then, without any real thought involved, I began making a phone call instead. I dialed Jillian’s apartment, and when a male voice answered I said, “Sorry, wrong number,” and hung up. I frowned, checked the number on the card in my wallet, frowned again, fished out another dime—I still had an ample supply—and dialed once more.

  “Hello?”

  The same voice. A voice I’d heard often over the years, saying not Hello but Open wider, please.

  Craig Sheldrake’s voice.

  “Hello? Anybody there?”

  Nobody here but us burglars, I thought. And what are you doing there?

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  King Street lies just below the southern edge of Greenwich Village, running west from Macdougal Street toward the Hudson. SoHo’s a commercial district that’s been turned into artists’ housing, but the stretch of King where Grabow lived had always been primarily residential. Most of the block was given over to spruced-up brownstones four and five stories tall. Here and there an old commercial building newly converted to artists’ lofts reminded me I was south of Houston Street.

  Grabow’s building was one of these. It stood a few doors off Sixth Avenue, a square structure of dull-red brick. It was four stories tall but the height of its ceilings put its roofline even with the five-story brownstones on either side. On all four floors the building sported floor-to-ceiling industrial windows extending the full width of the building, an unarguable boon to artists and exhibitionists.

  A boon, too, to the veritable jungle of plants on the second floor, a tropical wall of greenery that was positively dazzling. They were soaking up the afternoon sun. The building was on the uptown side of the street so the windows faced south, which was probably terrific for the plants but less desirable for artists, who prefer a north light. On the first and third and top floors, drapes prevented the south light from screwing up masterpieces. Or perhaps the tenants were sleeping, or out for the day, or watching home movies—

  I opened the door and stood in a small areaway facing another door, and this one was locked. The lock looked fairly decent. Through a window in the door—glass with steel mesh in it, they weren’t kidding around here—I could see a flight of stairs, a large self-service freight elevator, and a door that presumably led into the ground-floor apartment. This last was probably a safety requirement, as the ground-floor place had its own entrance in front from the days when it had been some sort of store. The downstairs tenant got his mail through a slot in his front door, because there were only three mailboxes in the hall where I stood, each with a buzzer beneath it, and the middle box was marked Grabow. Nothing fancy, just a scrap of masking tape with the name printed in soft pencil, but it did get the message across.

  So his loft figured to be the middle one of the three, which would put it two flights up. I reached for the buzzer and hesitated, wishing I had a phone number for him. After all, I had a whole pocket full of dimes. If I could call him I’d know whether or not to open his door. Hell, if I called him anything could happen. His wife could answer the phone. Craig Sheldrake could answer the phone. He was answering all sorts of phones these days—

  But I didn’t want to think about that. I’d cabbed downtown trying not to think at all about Craig and his surprising presence in Jillian’s apartment. If I started thinking about that I’d start wondering why he was there instead of in a cell, and just when they had started letting persons charged with homicide go dancing out on bail. I might even wonder what had led the cops to drop charges against Craig, and who they were looking for to take his place.

  God, why would anyone want to think about that?

  I pushed Grabow’s button. Nothing happened. I pushed it again. Nothing happened again. I gazed thoughtfully at the lock and touched the ring of cunning implements in my trouser pocket. The lock didn’t scare me, but how did I know there was nobody home upstairs? Grabow was an artist. They keep odd hours in the first place, and this guy didn’t have a listed phone, he might not have any phone at all, and maybe he was a temperamental bastard, and if he was sleeping or working he might just let the bell ring and say the hell with it, and then if I came hopping into his place he might be as tickled by the interruption as a hibernating bear.

  “Help you?”

  I hadn’t even heard the door open behind me. I made myself take a breath and I turned around, arranging my face in what was supposed to be a pleasant smile. “Just looking for someone,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “But he doesn’t seem to be home, so I’ll—”

  “Who you looking for?”

  Why hadn’t I noticed either of the other tenants’ names? Because I somehow knew who this man was. I had no logical reason for assuming the specter looming before me was Walter Ignatius himself, but I’d have bet all my dimes on it.

  And he certainly did loom. He was immensely tall, a good six-six, and while that might make him a backcourt man in pro basketball it certainly placed him squarely in the forecourt of life. He had a broad forehead beneath a mop of straight blondish hair cut soup-bowl style. His cheekbones were prominent and the cheeks sunken. His nose had been broken once and I felt sorry for the idiot who’d done it, because Grabow looked as though he’d known how to get even.

  “Uh, Mr. Grabow,” I said. “I’m looking for a Mr. Grabow.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s me.”

  I could see him attacking a canvas, dipping a three-inch brush in a quart can of porch paint. His hands were enormous—a little dental scalpel would have disappeared in them. If this man had wanted to kill Crystal, his bare hands would have been more lethal than any weapon they might have held.

  I said, “That’s odd, I expected an older man.”

  “I’m older’n I look. What’s the problem?”

  “You’re Mr. William C. Grabow?”

  A shake of the head. “Walter. Walter I. Grabow.”

  “That’s odd,” I said. I should have had a notebook to look in, a piece of paper, something. I got my wallet out and dug out Jillian’s hair appointment card, holding it so Grabow couldn’t see it. “William C. Grabow,” I said. “Maybe they made a mistake.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I’m sure they made a mistake,” I said, and referred again to the card. “Now you had a sister, Mr. Grabow. Is that right?”

  “I got a sister. Two sisters.”

  “You had a sister named Clara Grabow Ullrich who lived in Worcester, Massachusetts, and—”

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You got the wrong party after all. I got two sisters, Rita and Florence, Rita’s a nun, Flo’s out in California. What’s this Clara?”

/>   “Well, Clara Grabow Ullrich is deceased, she died several months ago, and—”

  He moved a large hand, dismissing Clara Grabow Ullrich forever. “I don’t have to know this,” he said. “You got the wrong party. I’m Walter I. and you’re looking for William.”

  “William C.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Grabow.” I moved toward the door. He stepped aside to let me pass, then dropped a hand on the doorknob, just resting it there.

  “Wait a minute,” he said.

  “Is something wrong?” Had the hulk suddenly remembered a long-lost sister? Oh, God, had he decided to try to glom onto some nonexistent legacy?

  “This address,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Where’d you get this address?”

  “My firm supplied it.”

  “Firm? What firm?”

  “Carson, Kidder and Diehl.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A law firm.”

  “You’re a lawyer? You’re not a lawyer.”

  “No, I’m a legal investigator. I work for lawyers.”

  “This address isn’t listed anywhere. How’d they get it?”

  “There are city directories, Mr. Grabow. Even if you don’t have a phone, all tenants are—”

  “I sublet this place. I’m not the tenant of record, I’m not in any directories.” His head jutted forward and his eyes burned down at me.

  “Gag,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Gotham Artists’ Guild.”

  “They gave you this address?”

  “That’s how my firm got it. I just remembered. You were listed with Gotham Artists’ Guild.”

  “That’s years back,” he said, wide eyed with wonder. “Back when I was painting. I was into color then, big canvases, I had scope, I had vision—” He broke off the reverie. “You’re with this law firm,” he said, “and you’re coming around here on a Saturday?”

  “I work my own hours, Mr. Grabow. I don’t follow a nine-to-five routine.”

  “Is that a fact.”

  “Now if you’ll just excuse me I’ll let you go on about your business.”

  I made to take a step toward the door. His hand stayed on the knob.

  “Mr. Grabow—”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  God, how had I gotten myself into this mess? And how was I going to get myself out? I started running the same tape again, babbling that I was a legal investigator, repeating the name of my firm, and it was all just hanging in the air like smog. I made up a name for myself, something like John Doe but not quite that original, and then I looked at that hair appointment card again as if something on it would inspire me, and he extended a hand.

  “Let’s see that,” he said.

  It didn’t have any of the information I’d been making up. All it had was Jillian’s address and number on one side and some crap about an appointment with Keith on the other. And there was his great paw, beckoning.

  I started to hand him the card. Then I stopped, and let out a horrible groan, and clapped my hand, card and all, to my chest.

  “What in—”

  “Air!” I croaked. “Air! I’m dying!”

  “What the hell is—”

  “My heart!”

  “Look—”

  “My pills!”

  “Pills? I don’t—”

  “Air!”

  He held the door open. I took a step outside, doubled over, coughing, and then I took another step, and then I straightened up and ran like a sonofabitch.

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  Happily, Walter Ignatius Grabow wasn’t in the habit of spending his evenings loping around Gramercy Park. If I’d had a long-distance runner chasing after me I wouldn’t have stood a chance. As it was, I don’t think he even made an effort. I had a few steps on him and took him utterly by surprise, and while I didn’t stop to see whether he was pounding the pavement after me, I did hear his yells of “Hey!” and “What the hell?” and “Where you going, damn it?” trailing off behind me. They trailed rather sharply, suggesting that he merely stood in place and hollered while I ran, appropriately enough, like a thief.

  Unhappily, I wasn’t a jogger either, and by the time I’d managed a couple of blocks on sheer adrenaline stimulated by rank cowardice, I was clutching my chest in earnest and holding onto a lamppost with my other hand. My heart was hammering in a distinctly unhealthy fashion and I couldn’t catch my breath, but the old master painter was nowhere to be seen, so that meant I was safe. Two cops wanted me for murder and another cop wanted half the jewels I hadn’t stolen, but at least I wasn’t going to get beaten to death by a crazy artist, and that was something.

  When I could breathe normally again I found my way to a bar on Spring Street. There was nothing artsy about the place or the old men in cloth caps who sat drinking shots and beers. It had been doing business long before SoHo got a face-lift, and the years had given it a cozy feel and a homey smell that was composed of equal parts of stale beer, imperfect plumbing, and wet dog. I ordered a glass of beer and spent a long time sipping it. Two gentlemen a few stools over were remembering how Bobby Thompson’s home run won the 1951 pennant for the Giants. They were the New York Giants then, and as far as my fellow drinkers were concerned it all happened the day before yesterday.

  “It was Ralph Branca threw that pitch. Bobby Thompson, he hit it a ton. What I always wondered is how Ralph Branca felt about it.”

  “Made himself immortal,” the other said. “You wouldn’t be remembering Ralph Branca but for that pitch he served up.”

  “Oh, go on.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Me forget Ralph Branca? Now go on.”

  When my beer was gone I went to the phone at the back and tried Jillian’s number. While it rang I thought of things to say to Craig when he answered, but he didn’t and neither did anybody else. After eight or ten rings I retrieved my dime and got Craig’s home number from Information. It rang three times and he picked it up.

  “Hi,” I said. “I got a toothache. Let me talk to Jillian, will you?”

  There was a long and thoughtful pause. Pensive, you might say. Then he said, “Sheesh, Bern, you’re really cool.”

  “Like a burpless cucumber.”

  “You’re something else, Bern. Where are you calling from? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  “You do not want de information?”

  “Who are you supposed to be?”

  “Peter Lorre. I know it’s not very good. I do a pretty good Bogart, shweetheart, but my Peter Lorre’s strictly Amateur Night. Let me talk to Jillian.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Home, I suppose. How should I know?”

  “You were over there before.”

  “How did you—oh, you were the wrong number. Listen, Bernie, I don’t think we should be having this conversation.”

  “You figure the line is tapped, eh, shweetheart?”

  “Jesus, cut it out.”

  “It’s not a bad Bogart impression.”

  “Just cut out the whole thing, will you? I’ve been in jail, I’ve been hassled by cops, my whole life’s been spread all over the fucking newspapers, and my ex-wife is dead, and—”

  “Well, it’s an ill wind, right?”

  “Huh?”

  “You were praying Crystal would die, and now—”

  “Jesus! How can you talk like that?”

  “I’ve got the guts of a burglar. When did they let you out, anyhow?”

  “Couple of hours ago.”

  “How did Blankenship manage that?”

  “Blankenship couldn’t manage the Bad News Bears. All Blankenship wanted was for me to sit tight. I kept sitting tight and I’d have gone on sitting tight while they shaved my head and attached the electrodes. Then they’d have thrown the switch and I’d have sat even tighter.”

/>   “They don’t do that anymore.”

  “With my luck it’ll come back into style. I got rid of Blankenship. The prick wouldn’t believe I was innocent. How could he do me any good if he thought I was guilty.”

  “My lawyer’s done me loads of good over the years,” I said, “and he always thought I was guilty.”

  “Well, you always were, weren’t you?”

  “So?”

  “Well, I was innocent, Bern. I dumped Blankenship and got my own lawyer in my corner. He’s not a criminal lawyer but he knows me, and he also knows his ass from a hole in the ground, and he heard me out and told me how to open up to the cops a little, and by ten o’clock this morning they were unlocking the cell door and treating me like a human being again. It made a nice change, let me tell you. Being locked up isn’t my idea of a good time.”

  “Tell me about it. What did you give them?”

  “Who?”

  “The cops. What did you say that made them let you off the hook?”

  “Nothing important. I just leveled a little, that’s all.”

  “Leveled about what?”

  Another pause, not as long as the first one. Not so much pensive this time as, well, evasive. Then, “Jillian says you’ve got an alibi anyway. You were at the fights.”

  “You bastard, Craig.”

  “I just told them about the jewels, that’s all. And about the conversation we had.”

  “You told them you talked me into going after her jewels?”

  “That’s not what happened, Bernie.” He spoke carefully, as if for the benefit of eavesdropping ears. “I was talking about Crystal’s jewelry, bitching about it more or less, and you seemed very interested, and of course at the time I had no idea you were a burglar, and—”

  “You’re a real son of a bitch, Craig.”

  “You’re really steamed, aren’t you? Sheesh, Bern, don’t you have an alibi? Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute.”

  “Craig—”

  “You actually did it,” he said. Maybe he believed it, maybe he was still talking to an electronic listener, maybe he was trying to rationalize blabbing my name to the law. “You went in Thursday night. She interrupted you and you panicked and stabbed her.”