The Burglar on the Prowl Read online

  Then Creeley, Ms. or Mr., would tell me Feldmaus was a flight below, and I’d excuse myself, using the same English accent that had served me so well thus far. And then I’d go downstairs, not one flight but two, and then I’d go out of the building and, please God, catch the first cab I saw and go home.

  But I didn’t hear any footsteps.

  I rang again, and got the same non-response. I put my ear to the door and listened to the silence.

  There were three locks on the door. I unlocked all three of them, or at least I thought I did, but the one in the middle was unlocked to begin with, so picking it only served to lock it, as I found out when I went to open the door. I picked it again, retracting the bolt I’d unwittingly extended, and now the door opened.

  And in I went.

  Eight

  What a feeling!

  I don’t know that I can possibly convey what it felt like. I can tell you that my senses were keener than normal, that the blood sang in my veins, that there was a tingling in the tips of my fingers, but the more precisely I record such phenomena the more pathological the whole thing sounds. What I’m hard put to get across is the sheer exhilaration that possessed me, combined with an all-encompassing sense of well-being, and even of appropriateness. I was, it seemed to me, precisely where I ought to be, doing precisely what I was supposed to do.

  Which, when you stop and think about it, is palpable nonsense. I was in point of fact where I was manifestly not supposed to be, where the law of the land told me in no uncertain terms I was not allowed to be. And I was doing what I was unquestionably not supposed to do.

  But I can only tell you how it felt.

  And it felt terrific.

  For a few minutes I just stood there, monitoring my own response, enjoying every particle of it. The apartment was dark, and I let my eyes grow accustomed to the dimness. When they were equal to the task, I took a moment to lock all three locks. Then I had a look around.

  The room the door opened on was the middle room of the apartment, and it was a combination kitchen and dining room. To the left, fronting on 36th Street, was a very large living room; in back, with windows looking across a courtyard at the buildings on 35th Street, was a bedroom almost as large as the living room. Any one of the three rooms would have served as a perfectly decent studio apartment, so Creeley, whoever he or she was, had an abundance of living space by New York standards. (To keep things in proportion, it’s worth noting that a welfare mother holed up in a broken-down trailer on the outskirts of Moline, Illinois, would have at least as much square footage, and a front lawn and back yard in the bargain.)

  There were blackout shades on the bedroom windows, which I lowered, and curtains as well, which I drew. I wondered if perhaps Creeley worked nights and slept days, which would account both for the blackout shades and the tenant’s absence. It would also give me all the time in the world to finish my work.

  I turned on a bedside lamp and had a look around. The bed—queen size, of Danish teak—was made, the pillows plumped. That alone suggested Creeley was a woman or lived with one, because what man living alone bothers to make the bed? Oh, I suppose military service gets some men in the habit, but my immediate thought was that Creeley was of the female persuasion, and a glance at the mahogany dresser, topped with little jars and bottles of makeup and scent and such, cinched it. Creeley was a lady, and a reasonably girly girl at that, with dresses sharing her closet with the suits she wore to work, and the jeans she wore for play.

  I left the bedroom, closing the door far enough to block most but not all of the light, and with what leaked out I made my way through the kitchen to the living room, where some light came through the front windows from the street. The living room windows had floor-to-ceiling drapes, heavy velvet things that must have been hanging there since the Korean War. I drew them shut and turned on a lamp or two and made myself at home.

  Sometimes I think that’s the best part, when you can just take a few moments to slip into another person’s life as effortlessly as you’ve slipped into their abode. I stretched out on the sofa, sat in the matching armchair, browsed the small bookcase (mostly trade paperbacks, proclaiming their owner as hip and sophisticated but cost-conscious, pretentiously lacking in pretension). I ambled into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Eggs, bacon, a few kinds of sausage, and an array of cheeses from Murray’s on Bleecker Street. No milk, but a half-pint of heavy cream. No beer, no bread, no bagels. No carbs, I noted, and recalled that one of the books in the bookcase was the latest work of the late Dr. Atkins. Ms. Creeley’s refrigerator suggested that she practiced what he preached.

  And to good effect, judging from the sizes of the clothes in her closet. If she’d ever been a chubbette, she’d long since banished her fat clothes to the Salvation Army.

  Her first name, I learned from the Con Ed bill in her desk, was Barbara, and other bills and payment stubs confirmed this. I didn’t find a checkbook, and assumed she kept it in her purse. Barbara Creeley lived alone, I knew, and generally slept alone, I could tell, though she evidently had High Hopes.

  And how did I know all this? Well, the wardrobe told me she lived alone. If she had a boyfriend who stayed over with any degree of regularity, there’d be a few garments of his left at her place for convenience, and there weren’t. The queen-size bed had surely been purchased with the intention of sharing it at least occasionally, and the mattress, with its shallow depression on one side and no evidence of wear whatsoever on the other, told me that she slept alone, and always on the right-hand side of the bed.

  Yes, I checked. Yes, I pulled back the covers and felt each side of the mattress for firmness. Not out of prurient interest, I assure you, but out of a fierce curiosity that may well be every bit as shameful. I disturbed her bedclothing, I thrust my gloved hands into her linen. Of course I made the bed again afterward, but that didn’t erase the psychic stain, did it?

  Some years ago a friend of Carolyn’s was burglarized. Whoever it was who did it didn’t take much—he couldn’t, she didn’t have much—but she told us that what she’d lost was the least of it. “He was in my place,” she said, shuddering. “He was touching my things. I feel like burning all my clothes and having the place tented and fumigated. I feel like moving out, I feel like going back to Nebraska, and you know how I feel about Nebraska. God, I feel so utterly violated.”

  I understood completely. I’d had the same feeling myself, when my own apartment had been inexpertly tossed. Tossed, I might say, was the operative word; the swine had taken all the books off my shelves and scattered them in a heap on the floor. I’d realized in a rush just what I inflicted upon the people I visited. I told myself it wasn’t the same, that I never made a mess or damaged anything I left behind, but so what? The violation was the same.

  Ah, well. Someday I’ll reform. In the meantime, I might as well enjoy it.

  I got to work.

  There’s a line that originated in the Army Corps of Engineers and has since had widespread circulation on T-shirts and bumper stickers and such. The wording varies, but the gist of it is that, when you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember that your original purpose was to drain the swamp.

  Similarly, when I’m immersed in another person’s life, or at least the glimpse of it I get by rummaging through their furnishings and worldly goods, I’m in danger of forgetting what brought me there in the first place. Which, pure and simple, is greed.

  Crooks are greedy. It’s not nice to admit it, but there’s no way around it. Otherwise we’d be content to live on what came to us honestly, but we’re not. We want more, and what I wanted—what had brought me here—was whatever Barbara Creeley had that was worth taking.

  She made a decent living, that was clear from her address and from the clothes in her drawers and closet, but that didn’t necessarily tell me she had anything I wanted. Maybe she saved her money, or spent it on travel and high living. Maybe she kept all her money in the bank and anything valuable in a safe-dep
osit box.

  I gave her three rooms a systematic search. By the time I was ready to call it a night, I had turned up the following: a pair of earrings, with what looked to be rubies and diamonds, set in what was definitely gold; a watch for evening wear, a Graubunden, with a platinum case and band; a gold charm bracelet with eight or ten charms in the shape of different animals, along with fifteen gold coins attached as charms, none of them of any particular numismatic value but all of them, like the bracelet itself, worth their weight in gold; and, in the freezer compartment of her refrigerator, in among enough steaks and chops and roasts to comfort Dr. Atkins in the hereafter, a brown manila bank envelope containing $1240 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

  That wasn’t the only jewelry she had, of course. There was a high school class ring, gold and onyx, that was not without value, and a whole array of earrings and bracelets. There was a gold locket on a gold chain, and in it were pictures of a man and woman whom I took to be Barbara Creeley’s parents.

  All of these things were worth taking from a pure dollars-and-cents standpoint, but I’ve found that I tend to balance the cash value of an artifact against its likely sentimental value to its owner. Why deprive this woman of her class ring and her locket for the few dollars they would bring me? I’d be hurting her far more than I’d be helping myself, and it didn’t seem right.

  Now if my unwitting hostess had been not Barbara Creeley but Elizabeth Taylor, say, and the object in question had been not a high school ring but a diamond necklace, I wouldn’t care if Richard Burton gave it to her and she couldn’t look at it without getting tears in her violet eyes. Sentimental value only goes so far. But I didn’t notice a pearl richer than all my tribe in the Creeley jewel box, so I took what I’ve told you about and left the rest. It’s not conscience, not inherent decency, just a sense of proportion.

  I tidied up as I went along, and when I was finished I went through the whole apartment, making sure I left everything as I’d found it, except of course for having removed the few items I’ve mentioned. I took a last look around, turned off the lights in the living room, opened the velvet drapes, and had just turned from that task when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

  Hell.

  I moved quickly through the apartment, killed a light in the kitchen, switched off the bedside lamp. The footsteps paused at the second-floor landing, and I had a moment where I hoped, all logic notwithstanding, that this was not Barbara Creeley on the stairs but someone planning a late visit to J. Feldmaus.

  No such luck. The footsteps resumed, and I heard human speech (What other kind is there? Parrot?) but could not make out what was being said. Either Barbara had company or she was talking to herself. Well, the locks would delay her, and by the time she got past them I’d be down the fire escape.

  I opened the curtains, raised one of the blackout shades, and took hold of the window.

  And the damned thing wouldn’t budge.

  I checked to see if it was locked, and learned it was worse than that. The damned thing was nailed shut. Evidently Barbara (or some previous tenant) had been paranoid about an intruder coming in off the fire escape, and had taken up hammer and nails to safeguard herself. Cross-ventilation wasn’t a problem, you could still open the window from the top, but you couldn’t get out that way. What was she going to do if she had a fire?

  More to the point, what was I going to do?

  They’d reached the top of the stairs now, and it was clear there were two of them, because I could hear two voices, one basso and one soprano, or perhaps mezzo. So Barbara, who typically slept alone on the right side of the bed, had found someone to bring home with her. That made it her lucky night, but it certainly wasn’t mine.

  She had trouble with the locks, and I gave thanks for that. It sounded as though she and her companion had had a few drinks, not infrequently the case before two people decide to go home together, and her dexterity had gone the way of her inhibitions. Sooner or later she’d get it right, however, and then where would I be?

  I raised the shades, opened the curtains. And now what? The closet? Twice in my career I’ve hidden in closets, and both times I went undetected, but somehow I knew the third time would be the charm. I couldn’t hope to get away with it again.

  “Jesus, gimme the fucking keys,” said young Lochinvar, and I knew my time was running out.

  I hit the floor and dove under the bed.

  Nine

  I tried not to listen.

  I’d been willing enough to snoop around in Barbara Creeley’s private life earlier, but that was different. She wasn’t around at the time, and all I was doing was going through her things and getting what sense I could of the person who owned them. Now, though, she was in the apartment with me, and so was he. It wasn’t hard to guess what they were going to do now that they’d managed to get through the door, and unless an excess of passion made them rip off their clothes and do it in the kitchen, they were going to do it right on top of me.

  I’d been home, for God’s sake. I’d put away my burglar’s tools, I’d stowed them in my hidden compartment. I was all settled in for the night. Why couldn’t I have gone to bed?

  But no, that would have been too easy. So instead of lying comfortably in my own bed I was wedged underneath Barbara Creeley’s. There was no room to spare, and there’d be even less when a pair of bodies piled on top of the mattress.

  And if anybody looked under the bed, well, then I was sunk. It was not a refuge I could leave in a hurry. All I could do was stay there and wait for the cops to drag me out.

  “Kinda sleepy,” the woman said.

  “Yeah, well, you’re gonna get the best night’s sleep you ever had,” the man said.

  “Ca’ keep m’eyes open…”

  “Roofies’ll do that.”

  “How’d I get here?”

  “You live here, you dizzy bitch. Jesus, you’re built nice, aren’t you? Hang on now, just let me get your clothes off.”

  “Sleeeeepy…”

  In spite of myself I listened, and somewhere along the way it dawned on me what I was listening to. One thing he’d said—“Roofies’ll do that”—was enough to clue me in, once I’d allowed it to register. Roofies is one of the names for Rohypnol, that miracle of modern medical science known as the date-rape drug. Barbara Creeley, who’d already been burglarized (even though she didn’t know it yet), was about to get raped (even though she didn’t know that, either).

  It struck me that I ought to do something, but what? If I tried to squirm out from under the bed, I’d alert him long before I was in a position to do anything. I’d gone in headfirst, more or less, so I’d be coming out feet first, and by the time my head cleared the bedframe he’d be in a position to break something over it. And even if I somehow got out before he reacted, well, then what? I never studied martial arts, never put on a pair of boxing gloves, and the last time I was in a fight was when I was eleven years old. My opponent was Kevin Vogelsang, and he gave me a bloody nose, which I probably deserved for chirping “Tweet, tweet, tweet” at him. (His last name means Birdsong. If it had been Feldmaus I’d very likely have gone “Squeak, squeak, squeak” at him, and gotten the same bloody nose. I was a real pain in the ass when I was eleven.)

  The point is I’ve never been much at physical combat, nor am I the hulking sort who can intimidate an opponent by his mere physical presence. In fact I had a feeling it might be the other way around. I hadn’t had a look at the Roofies guy, but he had heavy footsteps and a deep and resonant voice, and I’d formed the image of a large fellow who spent a lot of time at the gym lifting heavy metal objects. There was always the chance that my strength would be as the strength of ten because my heart was pure, but what good would that do me? His strength was very likely the strength of eleven, even if his heart was darker than the inside of a cow.

  My impulse was chivalrous, but you couldn’t have told as much from what I did, which was stay right where I was, as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean, while th
e scoundrel had his way with her.

  I’ll draw a veil over the next ten or fifteen minutes, if it’s all the same to you. I couldn’t shut out the sounds, nor could I stop my mind from inventing pictures to go with them, but I’m going to keep all that to myself. Barbara Creeley had to endure it, but at least she didn’t have to know about it, and neither should you.

  I said she didn’t know about it, but that’s not to say she was unconscious throughout. At one point her voice rang out clear as a bell: “Who are you? What are you doing?”

  “Shut up,” he explained.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’re getting laid,” he said, “but you won’t remember a thing in the morning. You’ll just wonder why you’re sore down there, and where the wet spot in the bed came from.”

  And he laughed savagely, but she didn’t say anything, and I guess she must have slipped back under the fuzzy blanket of Rohypnol. According to what I’d heard and read about the drug, he was right that she wouldn’t remember much, if anything. A couple of Roofies, ground up and stirred into a drink, made the drinker essentially comatose, albeit with occasional interludes of apparent lucidity. Sometimes the victim even participated in the lovemaking (if you want to call it that), making the usual moves and uttering the usual grunts and sighs, but not from a truly conscious plane, and without anything much imprinting itself on her memory.

  There you have it—Rohypnol, clearly a drug for our times. What beats me is why anyone would want to use it. Where’s the pleasure in having sex with someone who’s not even capable of knowing what’s going on, let alone matching your moves with moves of her own? Isn’t it a little like romancing an inflatable doll?

  Then again, they evidently sell quite a few of those dolls, enough to warrant mass-producing them. There would seem to be a substantial number of men who don’t care if their partner’s having a good time, or if she’s even there at all. And I can see where a woman all goofy on Roofies might have it all over a plastic lady. You wouldn’t get winded blowing her up, and you wouldn’t have the worry that she might suddenly deflate at le moment critique.