The Burglar in the Closet Read online

  Now my dentist evidently knew I was a burglar. The fact that my cover was blown wasn’t horrible—there were people in my apartment building who knew, and a few other folks around town. But the whole thing was startling, so was the manner in which it had all been brought to my attention.

  “Couldn’t resist that,” Craig Sheldrake was saying. “Damn if you didn’t just about drop your lower incisors on my linoleum. Didn’t mean to shake you up but I couldn’t help myself. Hell, Bern, it don’t make no never mind to me. You had your name in the paper when they were trying to hang a murder charge on you a year or so ago and I happened to notice it. Rhodenbarr’s not the most common name in the world, and they even gave your address, which I of course have in the files, so it looked to be you all right. You’ve been in a few times since then and I never said anything because there was never any need.”

  “Urg.”

  “Right—but there is now. Bernie, how’d you like to rack up a really nice score? I guess different burglars like to steal different things but I never heard of a one who doesn’t like to steal jewelry. I’m not talking about crap from the costume counter at J. C. Penney. I’m talking about the real stuff. Diamonds and emeralds and rubies and lots of fourteen- and eighteen-carat golderoo. Stuff any burglar would be proud to stash in his swag bag.”

  I wanted to tell him not to use what he evidently thought was thieves’ argot. But what I said was “Urg.”

  “You betcha, Bern. But open a little wider, huh? That’s the ticket. Let me get to the point. You remember Crystal, don’t you? She worked for me, but that was before your time. Then I made the mistake of marrying her and lost a great dental hygienist who put out and gained in return a slovenly wife who also put out—for half the world. But I know I’ve told you my troubles with that bitch. I poured that tale into any ear that would stand still for it.”

  How could any ear escape it when it shared a head with a mouth with Mr. Thirsty slurping up the saliva?

  “Bought her all the jewelry in the world,” he went on. “Sold myself on the idea that it was a good investment. I couldn’t just hold onto money, Bern. Not built that way. And she gave me this song and dance about investing in jewelry, and I had all this undeclared cash I couldn’t invest in stocks and bonds, it had to go into something where you can pay cash and keep the whole thing off the books. And you can get good bargains in the jewelry line if you’ll do business that way, believe me.”

  “Urg.”

  “Thing is, then we went and got divorced. And she got all the pretties, and I couldn’t even pitch a bitch in court or the IRS might stand up and start wondering where the cash for those pretties came from in the first place. And I’m not hurting, Bern. I make a good living. But here’s this bitch sitting on a couple hundred thousand dollars in jewelry, plus she got the house and everything in it, the co-op apartment on Gramercy Park with a key to the fucking park and everything, and I got my clothes and my dental equipment, and on top of that I pay her a healthy chunk of alimony every month, which I have to pay until she dies or remarries, whichever comes first, and personally I wish that what comes first is her death and that it comes yesterday. But she’s healthy, and she’s smart enough not to remarry, and unless she drinks and screws herself to death I’m on the hook forever.”

  I’m not divorced, never having gotten married in the first place, but it seems to me that everyone I know is either divorced or separated or thinking of moving out. Sometimes, when they all carp about alimony and child-support payments, I feel vaguely out of it. But most of the time what I feel is grateful.

  “You could knock her off easy,” he went on, and then he began explaining just how I could go about it and when she was apt to be off the premises and all the rest. He went into greater detail than you have to know about, with me supplying the urgs whenever he stopped for air or zeroed in for some serious work on the old molar. When the drilling was done he had me rinse and then he set about putting in a filling, and throughout the whole process I heard just what an easy score it would be and how profitable I would find it, and more than anything else, what a bitch she was and how she had it coming. I suppose a lot of this last part was rationalization. Evidently he figured I would be happier stealing from a bad person than a good one. In point of fact I’ve found that it doesn’t make much difference to me, and that what I really prefer is to burgle a victim about whom I know absolutely nothing. This business works best when you keep it as impersonal as you can.

  He went on, did Craig Sheldrake, World’s Greatest Dentist, and so did the elaborate process of filling my tooth. And finally his conversation was finished and so was my tooth, and Mr. Thirsty made his exit and so did all the now-sodden wads of cotton, and there was a spate of rinsing and spitting, a bit of opening wide a final time while the great man checked the results of his handiwork, and then I sat back in the chair while he stood beside me, I examining my remodeled tooth with the inquisitive tip of my tongue, he holding one hand with another and waiting to ask the urgent question.

  “Well, Bern? Have we got a deal?”

  “No,” I said. “Absolutely not. Out of the question.”

  I wasn’t just fencing. I damn well meant it.

  See, I like to find my own jobs. There are a lot of burglars who love to work on the basis of inside information, and God knows there’s a lot of such information to be had. Fences are a prime source of this sort of data. A fence will oftentimes contact a thief, not merely with a request for a particular item but with the specs and location of the item all written out for him. This is an easy way to work and a lot of burglars are crazy about it.

  And the jails are full of them.

  Because what do you really know when you’re dealing with a fence? Receivers of stolen goods are a curious breed, and there’s something unquestionably slimy about the greatest portion of them. If I had a daughter, I certainly wouldn’t want her to marry one. A fence does something manifestly illegal but he rarely does a single hour behind bars for his sins, partly because it’s hard to nail him with the evidence, partly because his crime is the sort there’s little public outcry against, and partly because he’s apt to be pretty clever at playing both sides against the middle. He may pay off cops, and if paying them off with cash and furs doesn’t work, he may turn to paying them off by setting up other criminals for them. I don’t say that you’re likely to get set up if you take jobs a fence hands you, but I’ve managed to dope out one thing in my time. If you’re the only one who knows you’re going to pull a particular job, then nobody’s in a position to rat on you. Any trouble you fall into is either your own damn fault or the luck of the draw.

  Now I certainly wasn’t worried about Craig setting me up. There was little chance of that. But he liked to talk, accustomed as he was to all those immobile ears, and who could say when it would seem like a good idea to talk about the clever job he and good old Bernie Rhodenbarr had pulled on sluttish Crystal?

  Ahem.

  Then how did I wind up in the very same Crystal’s apartment while someone was stopping her heart?

  Good question.

  Greed, I guess. And perhaps a portion of pride. Those were two of the seven deadly sins and between them they’d done me in. The Gramercy Park apartment sounded as though it would yield a sizable score with minimal risk and no special security equipment to overcome. There are no end of apartments every bit as easy to get into but most of them contain nothing more valuable or portable than a color TV. Crystal Sheldrake’s place was a prime grade-A target, the only drawback being that Craig would know about my role in the deal. With the state of my bankroll what it was, which is to say slim indeed, this objection gradually paled to the point of invisibility.

  Pride came into it in a curious way. Craig had gone to great lengths to talk about what a groovy thing it was to be a burglar, how it was adventurous and all, and while that may have been largely a buildup to that Like you, Bernie punch line, it still was not without effect. Because, damn it all, I guess I see what I do
as glamorous and adventurous and all the rest of it. That’s one reason I find it impossible to stop making surreptitious visits to other people’s residences, that plus the fact that the only job for which I have any training is making license plates, and you have to be behind bars to pursue that career.

  A thought occurred to me, although not until later. I may have known all along I was going to go for the deal. I may have acted reluctant in order to keep the World’s Greatest Dentist from expecting too much in the way of a finder’s fee. I don’t think I was aware of that aim, but aware or not it worked pretty well. I don’t know what Craig may have had in mind to ask, but in the course of talking me into changing my mind his percentage dropped to a fifth of whatever I netted when the take was fenced. Now that was eminently fair, considering that Craig got to sit home in front of the television set, never fearful of being shot or arrested in the name of justice. But he was an amateur, and amateurs rarely have a sense of proportion about these matters, and he could easily have wanted as much as half if I’d been eager from the start.

  No matter. When he got down to twenty percent I suppressed an urge to see just how far down he’d go—he obviously wanted her to lose the jewels more than he wanted his own share of the proceeds. And I caved in and told him I’d do the dirty deed.

  “Fantastic,” he said. “Super. You’ll never regret it, Bern.”

  Even then, I wished he hadn’t said that.

  I stayed in the dental chair. Craig went off, doubtless to boil his hands before facing another patient, and in no time at all Jillian took over. I was encouraged to lean back in my chair again while she picked and poked at my teeth and gums, liberating tartar, scaling, and doing all the unpleasant chores that come under the heading of dental cleaning.

  Jillian didn’t talk much, and that was really all right. Not that I had anything against her conversation, but my ears were due for a rest and my mind had thoughts to play with. At first the thoughts centered upon the Crystal Sheldrake apartment and how I would endeavor to knock it off. I was not entirely certain that I should have said yes, and so I did a certain amount of arm-twisting on myself, building up my resolve, telling myself it was like finding money in the street.

  These thoughts, while undoubtedly useful, ultimately gave way to thoughts about the comely young lady who was probing my oral cavities—which, come to think of it, sounds a damn sight more appealing than it actually was. I don’t know why one would be inclined to have reprehensible fantasies about a dental hygienist but I’ve never been able to avoid it. Maybe it’s the uniform. Nurses, stewardesses, usherettes, nuns—the male chauvinist mind will go on weaving its smarmy webs.

  But Jillian Paar could have been a laundress or a streetsweeper and she’d have had the same effect on me. She was a slender slip of a girl, with straight dark brown hair cut as if with a soup bowl over her head, but clearly by someone who knew what he was doing. She had that spectacular complexion associated with the British Isles—white porcelain illuminated with a rosy glow. Her hands, unlike her employer’s, were small, with narrow fingers. They did not taste boiled. Instead they smelled of spice.

  She tended to lean against one while working on one’s mouth. There was nothing objectionable in this. Quite the contrary, truth to tell.

  So the cleaning seemed to pass in no time at all. And when it was all done and my teeth had that wonderfully shiny feel to them that they only have the first few hours after they’ve been cleaned, and after we’d exchanged a few pleasantries and she’d shown me for what seemed like the thousandth time the proper way to brush my teeth (and every damned dental hygienist shows you a different way, and each swears it’s the only way) she batted an eyelash or two at me and said, “It’s always good to see you, Mr. Rhodenbarr.”

  “Always a pleasure for me, Jillian.”

  “And I’m so glad to hear you’re going to help Craig out and burglarize Crystal’s jewels.”

  “Urg,” I said.

  I suppose I should have bailed out there and then. It was the right time for it—the plane was still in the air and I had a parachute.

  But I didn’t.

  I wasn’t happy about things. My tight-lipped dentist had managed to break security within five minutes. Presumably Jillian was his trusted confidante, and quite likely she received a good number of his confidences while both parties were in a horizontal position, an hypothesis I’d entertained earlier in light of her obvious attractions and Craig’s historic predilection for diddling the help.

  This didn’t butter no parsnips, as my grandmother would never have dreamed of saying. (Granny was a strict grammarian who wouldn’t have said ain’t if she had a mouthful.) As far as I was concerned, if one person knew a burglar’s plan, that was awful. If two people knew, that was ten times as awful. It didn’t matter if the two people were sleeping together. Hell, maybe it was worse if they were sleeping together. They could have a falling-out and one of them could go about blabbing resentfully.

  I did take time to speak to Craig, assuring him that it would be in everybody’s interest for him to give his errant tongue a Novocaine hit. He apologized and promised to be properly silent in the future, and I decided to let it go at that. I wouldn’t bail out. I’d see if I couldn’t fly the damn plane to safety.

  Pride and greed. They’ll do you in every time.

  That was on a Thursday. I got out to the Hamptons for the weekend, spent half a day out on a bluefish boat, worked on my tan, sampled the bar scene, stayed at a fine old place called the Huntting Inn (spelling it with two T’s was their idea), agreed with everyone that the place was a damn sight better now that the season was over, and in the course of things struck out with an impressive number of otherwise charming young ladies. By the time I was back in Manhattan where I belong, I’d eaten up a little more of my case money and was almost glad I’d decided to hit the Sheldrake residence. Not wild about it but, oh, let’s say sanguine.

  I spent Tuesday and Wednesday casing the joint. Wednesday night I called Craig at his East Sixty-third Street bachelor digs to get another report on Crystal’s routine. I told him, not without purpose, that Saturday night sounded like the best time for me to make my move.

  I didn’t intend to wait until Saturday. The very next night, Thursday, I had my conversation with Miss Henrietta Tyler and cracked Crystal’s crib.

  And languished in her closet. And probed for a pulse in her lifeless wrist.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  Around ten the next morning I was spreading rhubarb preserves on a piece of whole-wheat toast. I’d bought the preserves, imported from Scotland at great expense, because I figured anything in an octagonal jar with a classy label had to be good. Now I felt an obligation to use them up even though my figuring seemed to be wrong. I had the piece of toast nicely covered and was about to cut it into triangles when the phone rang.

  When I answered it Jillian Parr said, “Mr. Rhodenbarr? This is Jillian. From Dr. Craig’s office?”

  “Oh, hi!” I said. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it? How are things in dental hygiene?”

  There was a funereal pause. Then, “You haven’t heard the news?”

  “News?”

  “I don’t even know if it was in the papers. I haven’t even seen the papers. I overslept, I just grabbed coffee and Danish on my way to the office. Craig had a nine-thirty appointment booked and he’s always at the office on time and he didn’t show up. I called his apartment and there was no answer, and I figured he must be on his way in, and then I had the radio on and there was a newscast.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “What happened, Jillian?”

  There was a pause and then the words came in a rush. “He was arrested, Bernie. I know it sounds crazy but it’s true. Last night someone killed Crystal. Stabbed her to death or something, and in the middle of the night the police came and arrested Craig for her murder. You didn’t know about this?”

  “I can’t even believe it,” I said. I wedged the phone between ear and shoulder so
that I could quarter the toast. I didn’t want it to get cold. If I have to eat rhubarb preserves I can damn well eat them on warm toast. “It wasn’t in the Times,” I added. I could have added that it wasn’t in the News either, but that it was all over the radio and television newscasts. But for some curious reason I didn’t mention this.

  “I don’t know what to do, Bernie. I just don’t know what I should do.”

  I took a bite of toast, chewed it thoughtfully. “I suppose the first step is to close the office and cancel his appointments for the day.”

  “Oh, I already did that. You know Marian, don’t you? The receptionist? She’s making telephone calls now. When she’s done I’ll send her home, and after that—”

  “After that you can go home yourself.”

  “I suppose so. But there has to be something I can do.”

  I ate more toast, sipped some coffee. I seemed to be developing a definite taste for the rhubarb jam. I wasn’t positive I’d go running out for another jar when this one was finally finished, but I was beginning to like it. Coffee, though, was not quite the right accompaniment. A pot of strong English breakfast tea, that would be more like it. I’d have to remember next time.

  “I can’t believe Craig would kill her,” she was saying. “She was a bitch and he hated her but I can’t believe he would kill anyone. Even a rotten tramp like Crystal.”

  I tried to remember that Latin phrase for speaking well of the dead, then gave it up. De mortuis ta-tum ta-tum bonum, something along those lines.