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“That too. I figured you were in the john. When you failed to return, I took action.”
“So did I. I tried taking his picture while you were talking to him. From our table. All I got was reflections. You couldn’t even tell if there was anyone inside the telephone booth.”
“So you went out and waylaid him.”
“Yeah. I figured when he was done he’d probably go back where he came from, so I found this spot and waited for him. Either he made more calls or you were talking a long time.”
“We were talking a long time.”
“Then he showed up, finally, and he never even noticed me. He passed close by, too. Look at this.”
“A stu
“That’s nothing. The film popped out the way it does, and I watched it develop, and it’s really amazing the way it does that, and then I tore it off and put it in my pocket, and I popped out of the doorway, ready to go back and look for you, and who do you think I bumped into?”
“Rudyard Whelkin.”
“Is he around here? Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say that?”
“Just a guess. Let’s see. Prescott Demarest?”
“No. What’s the matter with you, Bern? It was the Sikh.”
“That would have been my third guess.”
“Well, you would have been right. I popped out with my camera in my hot little hands and I almost smacked right into him. He looked down at me and I looked up at him, and I’ll tell you, Bernie, I could have used a stepstool.”
“What happened?”
“What happened is I was incredibly brilliant. A mind like quicksilver. I went all saucer-eyed and I said, ‘Oh, wow, a turban! Are you from India, sir? Are you with the United Nations? Gosh, will you pose for me so I can take your picture?’ ”
“How did this go over?”
“Smashingly. Look for yourself.”
“You’re getting pretty handy with that camera.”
“You’re no more impressed than he was. He’s going to buy himself a Polaroid first thing Monday morning. I had to take two pictures, incidentally, because he wanted one for a souvenir. Turn it over, Bernie. Read the back.”
An elegant inscription, with lots of curlicues and nonfunctional loops and whorls. To my tiny princess / With devotion and esteem / Your loyal servant / Atman Singh.
“That’s his name,” she explained. “Atman Singh.”
“I figured that.”
“Clever of you. The guy you were on the phone with is Atman Singh’s boss, which you also probably figured. The boss’s name is-Well, come to think of it, I don’t know his name, but his title is the Maharajah of Ranchipur. But I suppose you knew that too, huh?”
“No,” I said softly. “I didn’t know that.”
“They’re at the Carlyle, you were right about that. The Maharajah likes to take people with him when he travels. Especially women. I had the feeling I could have joined the party if I played my cards right.”
“I wonder how you’d look with a ruby in your navel.”
“A little too femme, don’t you think? Anyway, Atman Singh likes me just the way I am.”
“So do I.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “You did beautifully, Carolyn. I’m impressed.”
“So am I,” she said, “if I say so myself. But it wasn’t just me alone. I could never have done it without the martini.”
Driving south and east, she said, “It was exciting, doing that number with Atman Singh. At first I was scared and then I didn’t even notice I was scared because I was so completely into it. Do you know what I mean?”
“Of course I know what you mean. I get the same feeling in other people’s houses.”
“Yeah, that was a kick. In Randy’s place. I never realized burglary could be thrilling like that. Now I can see how people might do it primarily for the kick, with the money secondary.”
“When you’re a pro,” I said, “the money’s never secondary.”
“I guess not. She was really jealous, wasn’t she?”
“Randy?”
“Yeah. Hey, when this is all over, maybe you could teach me a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Like opening locks without keys. If you think I could learn.”
“Well, there’s a certain amount a person can learn. I think there’s a knack for lockpick work that you either have or you don’t, but beyond that there are things I could teach you.”
“How about starting a car without a key?”
“Jumping the ignition? That’s a cinch. You could learn that in ten minutes.”
“I don’t drive, though.”
“That does make it a pointless skill to acquire.”
“Yeah, but I’d sort of like to be able to do it. Just for the hell of it. Hey, Bern?”
“What?”
She made a fist, punched me lightly on the upper arm. “I know this is like life and death,” she said, “but I’m having a good time. I just wanted to tell you that.”
By five-fifty we were parked-legally, for a change-about half a block from the Gresham Hotel on West Twenty-third Street. The daylight was fading fast now. Carolyn rolled down her window and snapped a quick picture of a passing stranger. The result wasn’t too bad from an aesthetic standpoint, but the dim light resulted in a loss of detail.
“I was afraid of that,” I told her. “I booked the Maharajah at five and Whelkin at six, and then when I spoke to Demarest, I was going to set up the call for seven. I made it four instead when I remembered we’d need light.”
“There’s flashcubes in the carrying case.”
“They’re a little obvious, don’t you think? Anyway, I’m glad we caught Demarest when it was still light enough out to see him. With Whelkin it may not matter. We may not be able to coax him out of the hotel.”
“You think he’s staying there?”
“It’s certainly possible. I’d have called, but what name would I ask for?”
“You don’t think he’s staying there under his own name?”
“In the first place, no. In the second place, I have no idea what his right name might be. I’m sure it’s not Rudyard Whelkin. That was a cute story, being named for Kipling and growing up to collect him, but I have the feeling I’m the only person he told it to.”
“His name’s not Rudyard Whelkin?”
“No. And he doesn’t collect books.”
“What does he do with them?”
“I think he sells them. I think”-I looked at my watch-“I think he’s sitting in a booth in the lobby of the Gresham,” I went on, “waiting for my call. I think I better call him.”
“And I think I better take his picture.”
“Be subtle about it, huh?”
“That’s my trademark.”
The first phone I tried was out of order. There was another one diagonally across the street but someone was using it. I wound up at a phone on the rear wall of a Blarney Rose bar that had less in common with Sangfroid than the Hotel Gresham did with the Carlyle. Hand-lettered signs over the back bar offered double shots of various brands of blended whiskey at resistibly low prices.
I dialed the number Whelkin had given me. He must have had his hand on the receiver because he had it off the hook the instant it started to ring.
The conversation was briefer than the one I’d had with the Maharajah. It took longer than it had to because I had trouble hearing at one point; the television a
I apologized for the interference.
“It’s nothing, my boy,” he assured me. “Things are every bit as confused where I am. A Eurasian chap’s sprawled on a bench in what looks to be a drug-induced coma, a wild-eyed old woman’s pawing through a shopping bag and nattering to herself, and another much younger woman’s flitting about taking everyone’s picture. Oh, dear. She’s headed this way.”
“She sounds harmless,” I said.
“One can only hope so. I shall give her a dazzling smile and let it go at that.”
A few minutes later I was back in the Pontiac studying a close-up of Rudyard Whelkin. He was showing all his teeth and they fairly gleamed.