The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) (29 page)

“Right.”

“Four children,” he said.

“They all must have had keys.”

“They used to live there, Bernie. And why wouldn’t they have keys to their mother’s house?”

“It would be interesting to know more about them.”

There was a pause. “Well, I was gonna type up a report,” he said, “and it’s too nice a day for that. I already talked to all of ’em once. Maybe I’ll talk to ’em some more.”

A few minutes later the phone rang again. I’d thought it might be Chloe the first time, and I thought so again, and this time it was Mowgli. “Just wanted to make sure you’re open,” he said. “Okay if I come by in like five minutes?”

It was more like ten, and he didn’t spend much more time than that in the shop, scanning my shelves with a practiced eye, picking out ten books and paying the marked price without a murmur. Then he left, and the phone rang a third time, and it was Carolyn.

“Barnegat Books,” I said, and she asked me what was the matter.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was I snarling? I didn’t mean to. I keep expecting it to be Chloe, and it keeps being somebody else.”

“That’s why I was calling, Bern. To see if you’d heard from her, but I guess I know the answer.”

“She didn’t say she’d call,” I said. “She said she’d come by, and sometime in the afternoon.”

“But it’s on your mind.”

“It’s hard not to think of all the things that could go wrong.”

“I can imagine. Look, the other part of why I’m calling is I know it’s your turn to pick up lunch and bring it over here, but why don’t I switch with you? You want to be around if the phone rings.”

“Or if the door opens,” I said. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem. Uh, as far as what kind of food—”

“Surprise me,” I said.

“Juneau Lock,” I said, an hour or so later. “What a surprise.”

“You don’t look surprised,” she said, “but you don’t look disappointed, either. I was all set to go somewhere else, and I had this vision of Chloe turning up sometime this afternoon.”

“I hope it proves prophetic.”

“No you don’t, Bern, because in the vision she’s wearing handcuffs, and there’s a cop on either side of her.”

“Oh.”

“And they take you away,” she said, “and what did you have for your last meal as a free man? A soggy Reuben sandwich from the deli? Some vegan slop from Transcendental Tofu?”

“You did the right thing,” I said, “right up until the point where you told me about your vision.”

“Oh, it’s not really a vision, Bern. Just a fleeting thought. By the way, our girlfriend at Two Guys seemed surprised to see me. I think she keeps track of whose turn it is.”

Lunch was almost good enough to take my mind off Chloe and the silver spoon, which could turn up someday as the title of a children’s book, but probably won’t. If she did show up handcuffed to a cop, I’d have a lot of explaining to do, and how would I explain the $20,000 I was carrying?

“If everything works out,” I told Carolyn, “then it’s a good investment. I give her twenty thousand—”

“Plus the five you already gave her.”

“Right. And Barton pays me fifty thousand for the spoon.”

“So you double your money without having to do anything.”

“It seemed that way,” I said, “when I thought of it. I’d been to Leopold’s apartment, I knew I couldn’t possibly spirit the spoon out of there, and I was ready to give up. Then all of a sudden there was a way after all, and she’d do the work and run all the risk, and I’d split the money with her. But I forgot my number one rule.”

“Never have a partner.”

“Especially an amateur,” I said, “and particularly an amateur who’s never done this before. There’s only one thing that gives me hope.”

“What’s that?”

“Her attitude,” I said. “I think she just might be a natural-born thief.”

The phone rang once during lunch, and I moved more quickly than usual to get to it. A woman wanted to know how long I’d be open. I said five-thirty, and she rang off without another word.

I reported the conversation to Carolyn, and she asked if it could have been Chloe.

“It didn’t sound like her,” I said. “And why would she be so cryptic?”

“Maybe Leopold was standing next to her and she didn’t want to give anything away.”

“Well, she didn’t,” I said. “Not to him and not to me either. Anyway, her voice is deeper than the one I heard just now. That’s four calls today, which is more than I usually get in a week.”

“The Universe knows you’re expecting a call,” she said, “and it’s doing all it can to fulfill your expectations.”

“Did you really say that? You know, if this food didn’t taste as good as it does, I’d think you picked it up at Transcendental Tofu.”

I would have liked to hear what else he had to say, but I wanted to keep the line open. And, sure enough, the phone rang again a few minutes later, and this time it was my client.

“I hope I’ll have some news soon,” I told him.

He would have liked a more informative answer, but that was all he was going to get.

I picked up a book, read two pages, put it down again. I walked over to a bank of shelves and rearranged some books. I crumpled a ball of paper and tossed it to Raffles, who ignored it utterly.

And then the door opened, and there she was.

“Hi,” she said.

“I was wondering if you’d come.”

“What time is it?” She glanced at her wrist and answered her own question. “I’m right on time. In fact it’s two twenty-eight, so I’m two minutes early.”

“So you are,” I said. “But you didn’t call.”

“Was I supposed to?”

She was wearing jeans, though lighter in color than the pair she’d worn to Three Guys, and she’d left the denim jacket home. Her top was a man’s dress shirt in French blue, and my client would have approved of the button-down collar. I’ve called it a man’s shirt, but it had clearly been cut for a woman, and I suppose it had the buttons on the other side.

And who do you suppose thought that one up? “
Now here’s my idea, Chuck. For guys, whether it’s a shirt or a coat, we’ll put the buttons on the right and the buttonholes on the left. And with women, see, we’ll do it the other way around. Why? Gee, I dunno. It just, like, feels somehow right to me, ya know?
”

“No,” I said. “But I thought you might, although I don’t suppose there was any reason why you should. I guess it’s just that I was concerned that something might have gone wrong. That you’d change your mind, or that you might, um, encounter some difficulty.”

“Like get caught in the act, you mean.”

“Or get away with it, only to have him notice the spoon’s absence.”

She nodded, thinking about it. “Well, first of all,” she said, “I didn’t change my mind. I knew I wasn’t going to, but there was no way for you to know that, so I can see why you might worry. But I didn’t. Didn’t change my mind, I mean, but what I also didn’t do was worry. I just went ahead and did what I said I was going to do.”

“And the spoon is—”

She patted her handbag. Somewhere within its confines was an eReader with a Frank Norris novel on it, and a spoon with a teardrop-shaped bowl.

“You brought it,” I said.

“Yeah, isn’t that what we said? I’d bring the spoon and you’d have the money for me?” Her brow clouded. “That didn’t change overnight, did it? The price?”

“No, no,” I said. “I have it. Here, with me.”

It was just too straightforward and simple, I thought. Too easy.

“What happens,” I wondered aloud, “when he notices that it’s missing? That there are only three spoons where there used to be four?”

“Oh, he knows,” she said.

“He knows?”

“Sure,” she said. “I told him.”

“You told him.”

“Yeah, I told him right away. That was the first thing I did. Well, not the first thing, but almost.”

Was this a set-up? Was she wearing a wire? Was there a white van parked across the street, bearing on its side panels the name and address of some nonexistent construction firm in Maspeth? And were its occupants even now listening to our conversation and laughing hysterically?

“I waited until I heard him on the treadmill,” she said, “and I got my key and unlocked the cupboard and took the spoon and locked up again and tucked the spoon away in my bag. Hey, I hope I got the right one. Gwinnett, the signer from Georgia? With the button on it?”

I just nodded. Let the cops in the truck make what they wanted out of a silent nod.

“So I was all set,” she went on, “and he was still getting his five miles in. Then when he got out of the shower and dried off I went in and gave him his massage. That always puts him in a good mood.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“And then I said, ‘Say, I was wondering. Did you loan out one of the Signer spoons? Because I looked in the log book and I couldn’t find a notation.’ See, sometimes he’ll lend a piece for a museum show, and there’ll be a note to that effect in the records of the collection, along with the letter from the institution, thanks for letting us display this exceptional specimen, di dah di dah di dah.