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“Just making conversation.”
“ Mi
“That’s right,” I said smoothly. “Well, I guess that gives us a good hometown angle on the story. All right to say you’re close to an arrest?”
“Oh, we’ll get him,” he assured me. “A crook like Rhodenbarr’s a creature of habit. He’ll be what they call frequenting his old haunts and we’ll pick him up. Just a question of time.”
I was standing behind the door when she opened it. She moved into the room saying my name.
“Behind you,” I said, as gently as possible. She clapped her hand to her chest as if to keep her heart where it belonged.
“Jesus,” she said. “Don’t do that.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t sure it was you.”
“Who else would it be?”
“It could have been Randy.”
“Randy,” she said heavily. Cats appeared and threaded figure eights around her ankles. “Randy. I don’t suppose she called, did she?”
“She might have. It rang a lot but I wasn’t answering it.”
“I know you weren’t. I called twice myself, and when you didn’t answer I figured you weren’t picking up the phone, but I also figured maybe you got cabin fever and went out, and then I came home and you weren’t here and all of a sudden you were behind me. Don’t do that again, huh?”
“I won’t.”
“I had a busy day. What time is it? Almost two? I’ve been ru
“I want you to make a phone call for me.”
She took the sheet of paper I handed her but looked at me instead. “Don’t you want to hear what I found out?”
“In a minute. I want you to call the Times and insert the ad before they close.”
“What ad?”
“The one I just handed you. In the Personal column.”
“You got some handwriting. You should have been a doctor, did anyone ever tell you that? ‘Space available on Kipling Society charter excursion to Fort Bucklow. Interested parties call 989- 5440.’ That’s my number.”
“No kidding.”
“You’re going to put my number in the paper?”
“Why not?”
“Somebody’ll read it and come here.”
“How? By crawling through the wires? The phone’s unlisted.”
“No, it’s not. This place is a sublet, Bernie, so I kept the phone listed under Nathan Aranow. He’s the guy I sublet from. It’s like having an unlisted number except there’s no extra charge for the privilege, and whenever I get a call for a Nathan Aranow I know it’s some pest trying to sell me a subscription to something I don’t want. But it’s a listed number.”
“So?”
“So the address is in the book. Nathan Aranow, 64 Arbor Court, and the telephone number.”
“So somebody could read the ad and then just go all the way through the phone book reading numbers until they came to this one, right, Carolyn?”
“Oh. You can’t get the address from the number?”
“No.”
“Oh. I hope nobody does go through the book, because Aranow’s right in the front.”
“Maybe they’ll start in the back.”
“I hope so. This ad-”
“A lot of people seem to be anxious to get their hands on this book,” I explained. “All different people, the way it looks to me. And only one of them knows I don’t have it. So if I give the impression that I do have it, maybe one or more of them will get in touch and I’ll be able to figure out what’s going on.”
“Makes sense. Why didn’t you just place the ad yourself? Afraid somebody in the Times classified department would recognize your voice?”
“No.”
“And they’d say, ‘Aha, it’s Bernard G. Rhodenbarr the burglar, and let’s go through the telephone wires and take him into custody.’ My God, Bernie, you thought I was being paranoid about the number, and you’re afraid to make a phone call.”
“They call back,” I said.
“Huh?”
“When you place an ad with a phone number. To make sure it’s not a practical joke. And the phone was ringing constantly, and I wasn’t answering it, and I figured the Times would call to confirm the ad and how would I know it was them? Paranoia, I suppose, but it seemed easier to wait and let you make the call, although I’m begi
“Sure,” she said, and the phone rang as she was reaching for it.
She picked it up, said, “Hello?” Then she said, “Listen, I can’t talk to you right now. Where are you and I’ll call you back.” Pause. “Company? No, of course not.” Pause. “I was at the shop. Oh. Well, I was in and out all day. One thing after another.” Pause. “Dammit, I can’t talk now, and-” She took the receiver from her ear and looked beseechingly at me. “She hung up,” she said.
“Randy?”
“Who else? She thought I had company.”
“You do.”
“Yeah, but she thought you were a woman.”
“Must be my high-pitched voice.”
“What do you mean? You didn’t say anything. Oh, I see. It’s a joke.”
“It was trying to be one.”
“Yeah, right.” She looked at the telephone receiver, shook her head at it, hung it up. “She called here all morning,” she said. “And called the store, too, and I was out, obviously, and now she thinks-” The corners of her mouth curled slowly into a wide grin. “How about that?” she said. “The bitch is jealous.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s terrific.” The phone rang again, and it was Randy. I tried not to pay too much attention to the conversation. It ended with Carolyn saying, “Oh, you demand to know who I’ve got over here? All right, I’ll tell you who I’ve got over here. I’ve got my aunt from Bath Beach over here. You think you’re the only woman in Manhattan with a mythical aunt in Bath Beach?”
She hung up, positively radiant. “Gimme the ad,” she said. “Quick, before she calls back. You wouldn’t believe how jealous she is.”
She got the ad in, then answered the phone when they called back to confirm it. Then she was getting lunch on the table, setting out bread and cheese and opening a couple bottles of Amstel, when the phone rang again. “Randy,” she said. “I’m not getting it.”
“Fine.”
“You had this all morning, huh? The phone ringing like that?”
“Maybe eight, ten times. That’s all.”
“You find out anything about Madeleine Porlock?”
I told her about the calls I’d made.
“Not much,” she said.
“Next to nothing.”
“I learned a little about your friend Whelkin, but I don’t know what good it does. He’s not a member of the Martingale Club.”
“Don’t be silly. I ate there with him.”
“Uh-huh. The Martingale Club of New York maintains what they call reciprocity with a London club called Poindexter’s. Ever hear of it?”
“No.”
“Me neither. The dude at the Martingale said it as though it was a household word. The Martingale has reciprocity with three London clubs, he told me. White’s, Poindexter’s, and the Dolphin. I never heard of any of them.”
“I think I heard of White’s.”
“Anyhow, that’s how Whelkin got guest privileges. But I thought he was an American.”
“I think he is. He has an accent that could be English, but I figured it was an affectation. Something he picked up at prep school, maybe.” I thought back to conversations we’d had. “No,” I said, “he’s American. He talked about making a trip to London to attend that auction, and he referred to the English once as ‘our cousins across the pond.’ ”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly. I suppose he could be an American and belong to a London club, and use that London membership to claim guest privileges at the Martingale. I suppose it’s possible.”
“Lots of things are possible.”
“Uh-huh. You know what I think?”
“He’s a phony.”
“He’s a phony who faked me out of my socks, that’s what he is. God, the more I think about it the phonier he sounds, and I let him con me into stealing the book with no money in front. All of a sudden his whole story is starting to come apart in my hands. All that happy horseshit about Haggard and Kipling, all that verse he quoted at me.”