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CHAPTER Seven
I was early, of course. My appointment with Whelkin wasn’t until six-thirty and I’d locked up the shop just a few minutes after five, not wanting to stick around in case the Sikh realized his mistake. I had a sign on the wall emphasizing that all sales were final, but I had a feeling he’d expect me to make an exception in his case. So I took my time walking uptown, and I was still twenty minutes early when I reached the corner of Sixty-sixth and Second. A bar on the corner looked inviting, and I accepted the invitation.
I don’t drink when I’m working. But this wasn’t exactly work, and I’d felt the need for something after staring into the barrel of the Sikh’s automatic. As a matter of fact, I’d stopped for a quick bracer in a Third Avenue ginmill on my way uptown. Now I wanted something a little more civilized, a dry Rob Roy in a stemmed and frosted glass.
I sipped it and did a little thinking, ticking off points on my fingers.
Point One: Only J. Rudyard Whelkin had known I was going to steal the book from the Arkwright house in Forest Hills Gardens.
Point Two: It was four o’clock before Whelkin knew I had the book. He’d known I was going there, but there’s many a slip between the cup and the whatsit, and it wasn’t until he called me at the bookstore that he knew for certain my trip to Queens had paid off. In all likelihood, Arkwright himself didn’t even know the book was missing yet.
Point Three: The Sikh had not been a bizarre coincidence, one of those phenomena that make life the ever-exciting proposition it indisputably is. No way. The Sikh had darkened my doorway because he knew I had stolen Arkwright’s copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow.
Hard work, thinking. I checked my watch, took another sip of my Rob Roy.
Assumption: The Sikh did not have mystical powers. He knew I had the book because the information had somehow reached him via Whelkin.
Hypothesis: J. Rudyard Whelkin was as reluctant as the next skinflint to part with fifteen grand. Once he’d established that I had the book in my possession, he simply dispatched his faithful native servant to fetch it for him, instructing him to slip me the ten fifties to smooth my ruffled feathers.
The hypothesis had me clenching my teeth and making a fist at the very thought. I had a little more of my Rob Roy and did some deep breathing.
Rebuttal: The hypothesis didn’t make sense. If Whelkin was going to rob me, why send someone to the store? He’d already taken pains to set up a meeting on East Sixty-sixth Street, where he could set up an elaborate ambush with ease.
Alternate Hypothesis: The Sikh was somebody else’s faithful native servant. Hadn’t Whelkin mentioned that several parties had intended to bid on the book at Trebizond’s London auction? Was it not possible that one of them had followed the book to New York, scheming to wrest it away from Arkwright’s possession, only to see it whisked out from under his nose by one B. G. Rhodenbarr?
That seemed to make more sense, but it still left a stone or two unturned. I found myself wondering what would happen when the Sikh’s employer took a look at Soldiers Three. The sooner I turned the book over to Whelkin and collected my fifteen thousand dollars, the better I’d be able to cope with him. The best way to cope, I felt, would be to take a quick vacation somewhere, spending a portion of the boodle and giving him time to cool off or leave town or, ideally, both.
I stood up.
And sat down again.
Did I have anything to fear from Whelkin? I was pretty sure he hadn’t sent the Sikh, but suppose I was wrong? Or suppose he had not sent the Sikh and indeed knew nothing about the Sikh, but suppose he had his own ideas about doing me out of my fee? Was it possible I’d let myself be snowed by the elegant ma
I went to the men’s room, book in hand. When I returned I had both hands free. The book was wedged under my belt against the small of my back, out of sight beneath my suit jacket.
I finished the last of my drink. I’d have liked another, but that could wait until the completion of my business transaction.
First things first.
The house on Sixty-sixth Street was an elegant brownstone with a plant-filled bay window on the parlor floor. Taller buildings stood on either side of it, but the old brownstone held its own. I walked up a half flight of stairs and studied a row of bells in the vestibule.
M. Porlock. 3-D.
I rang twice. Nothing happened for a moment and I checked my watch again. It said 6:29 and it is a watch that rarely lies. I placed my finger on the bell again, tentatively, and at that instant the answering buzzer sounded and I pushed the door open.
There were two apartments on the parlor floor, four each on the three floors above it. (The basement had its own entrance.) I mounted two flights of carpeted stairs with an increasing feeling of mingled anticipation and dread. The D apartments were at the rear of the building. The door of 3-D was slightly ajar. I gave it a rap with my knuckles and it was almost immediately drawn open by a square-shouldered woman wearing a muted-plaid skirt and a brass-buttoned navy blazer. Her dark-brown hair was very short and irregularly cut, as if the barber had been either a drunken friend or a very trendy beautician.
She said, “Mr. Rhodenbarr? Do come in.”
“I was supposed to meet-”
“Ruddy Whelkin, I know. He’s expected at any moment. He rang up not ten minutes ago to say he’d been momentarily detained.” She smiled suddenly. “I’m to make you comfortable, you see. I’m Madeleine Porlock.”
I took the hand she extended. “Bernie Rhodenbarr,” I said. “But you already know that.”
“Your reputation precedes you. Won’t you have a seat? And may I get you a drink?”
“Not just now,” I said. To the drink, that is; I seated myself in a tub chair upholstered in glove-soft green Naugahyde. The living room was small but comfortable, with a Victorian rosewood love seat and a floral-slip-covered easy chair in addition to the tub chair. The bold abstract oil over the love seat somehow complemented the furnishings. It was a nice room, and I said as much.
“Thank you. You’re sure you won’t have a little sherry?”
“I’ll pass for now.”
There was classical music playing on the radio, a woodwind ensemble that sounded like Vivaldi. Madeleine Porlock crossed the room, adjusted the volume. There was something familiar about her but I couldn’t think what it was.
“Ruddy should be here any moment,” she said again.
“Have you known him long?”
“Ruddy? Seems like ages.”
I tried picturing them as a couple. They didn’t bear mentioning in the same breath with Steve and Eydie, or even Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice, but they weren’t utterly inconceivable. He was a good deal older than she, certainly. She looked to be in her early thirties, although I’m terrible at judging people’s ages.
Did I know her from somewhere?
I was on the verge of asking when she clapped her hands together as if she’d just hit on the principle of specific gravity. “Coffee,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ll have a cup of coffee. It’s freshly made. You will have some, won’t you?”
I’d turned down the drink because I wanted to remain alert. All the more reason to have the coffee. We agreed on cream and sugar and she went off to prepare it. I settled myself in the tub chair and listened to the music, thinking how nice it would be to be able to play the bassoon. I’d priced bassoons once and they cost a lot, and I understand the instrument’s exceedingly difficult to learn, and I don’t even remember how to read music, so I don’t suppose I’ll ever go so far as to acquire a bassoon and set about taking lessons, but whenever I hear the instrument in a concerto or a chamber work it occurs to me how nice it would be to go to sleep one night and wake up the following morning owning a bassoon and knowing how to play it.