The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian (13 page)

“Y
ou can rent ’em for only fifty bucks a month,” she said. “That’s a pretty good deal, isn’t it? Comes to less than two dollars a day. What else can you get for less than two dollars a day?”

“Breakfast,” I said, “if you’re a careful shopper.”

“And a lousy tipper. The only thing is they got a one-month minimum. Even if we bring the thing back in an hour and a half, it’s the same fifty bucks.”

“We might not bring it back at all. How much of a deposit did you have to leave?”

“A hundred. Plus the first month’s rental, so I’m out a hundred and a half. But the hundred comes back when we return the thing.
If
we return the thing.”

We paused at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twelfth Street, waiting for the light to change. It changed and we headed across. At the opposite side Carolyn said, “Didn’t they pass a law? Aren’t there supposed to be access ramps at all corners?”

“That sounds familiar.”

“Well, do you call this a ramp? Look at this curb, will you? You could hang-glide off of it.”

“You push down on the handles,” I said, “and I’ll lift. Here we go.”

“Shit.”

“Easy does it.”

“Shit with chocolate sauce. I mean we can manage it, even a steep curb, but what’s a genuinely handicapped person out on his own supposed to do, will you tell me that?”

“You’ve been asking that question once a block.”

“Well, my consciousness is being raised every time we have to shlep this damned thing up another curb. It’s the kind of cause I could get worked up about. Show me a petition and I’ll sign it. Show me a parade and I’ll march. What’s so funny?”

“I was picturing the parade.”

“You’ve got a sick sense of humor, Bernie. Anyone ever tell you that? Help me push—I’m giving our friend here a bumpy ride.”

Not that our friend was apt to complain. He was the late Mr. Turnquist, of course, and the thing we were pushing, as you’ve probably figured out, was a wheelchair, leased from Pitterman Hospital and Surgical Supply on First Avenue between Fifteenth and Sixteenth Streets. Carolyn had gone there, rented the contraption, and brought it back in the trunk of a cab. I’d helped her get it into the bookstore, where we’d unfolded it and wrestled Turnquist into it.

By the time we left the store he looked natural enough sitting there, and a lot better than he’d looked on the throne in my john. There was a leather strap that fastened around his waist, and I’d added a couple of lengths of old lamp cord to secure his wrists to the chair’s arms and his ankles to an appropriately positioned rail. A lap robe—an old blanket, really, slightly mildewed—covered him from the neck down. A pair of Foster Grants hid his staring blue eyes. A peaked tweed cap that had been hanging on a nail in my back room since March, waiting for its owner to reclaim it, now sat on Turnquist’s head, doing its best to make him a shade less identifiable. And in that fashion we made our way westward, trying to figure out what the hell was happening, and getting distracted once a block when Carolyn started bitching about the curbs.

“What we’re doing,” she said. “Transporting a dead body. Is it a felony or a misdemeanor?”

“I don’t remember. It’s a no-no, that’s for sure. The law takes a dim view of it.”

“In the movies, you’re not supposed to touch anything.”

“I never touch anything in the movies. What you’re supposed to do is report dead bodies immediately to the police. You could have done that. You could have come right out of the john and told Ray there was a corpse sitting on the pot. You wouldn’t have even had to make a phone call.”

She shrugged. “I figured he’d want an explanation.”

“It’s likely.”

“I also figured we didn’t have one.”

“Right again.”

“How’d he get there, Bernie?”

“I don’t know. He felt fairly warm to the touch but I haven’t touched a whole lot of dead people in my time and I don’t know how long it takes them to cool off. He could have been in the store yesterday when I locked up. I closed the place in a hurry, remember, because I’d just been arrested and that kept me from concentrating fully upon my usual routine. He could have been browsing in the stacks, or he could have slipped into the back room and hidden out on purpose.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Beats me. Then he could have been there and sometime in the course of the night or morning he could have gone to the john, sat down on it without dropping his pants, and died.”

“Of a heart attack or something?”

“Or something,” I agreed, and the wheelchair hit a bump in the sidewalk. Our passenger’s head flopped forward, almost dislodging cap and sunglasses. Carolyn straightened things out.

“He’ll sue us,” she said. “Whiplash.”

“Carolyn, the man’s dead. Don’t make jokes.”

“I can’t help it. It’s a nervous reaction. You think he just died of natural causes?”

“This is New York. Murder’s a natural cause in this city.”

“You think he was murdered? Who could have murdered him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think somebody else was in the store with him? How did they get out?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he committed suicide.”

“Why not? He was a Russian agent, he had a cyanide capsule in a hollow tooth, and he knew the jig was up, so he let himself into my store and bit down on the old bicuspid. It’s natural enough that he’d want to die in the presence of first editions and fine bindings.”

“Well, if it wasn’t a heart attack or suicide—”

“Or herpes,” I said. “I understand there’s a lot of it going around.”

“If it wasn’t one of those things, and if somebody killed him, how did they do it? You think you locked two people in the store last night?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“He could have slipped in when I opened up this morning. I might not have noticed. Then, while I was picking up coffee and taking it to your place—”

“That rotten coffee.”

“—he could have gone into the john and died. Or if there was someone with him that person could have killed him. Or if he came alone, and then someone else came along, he could have opened the door for that person, and then the person could have killed him.”

“Or the murderer managed to get locked in the store either last night or this morning, and when Turnquist showed up the murderer let him in and murdered him. Could either one of them let the other in without a key?”

“No problem,” I said. “I didn’t do much of a job of locking up when I went for coffee. I left the bargain table outside and just pressed the button so the springlock would work. I don’t even remember double-locking the door with the key.” I frowned, remembering. “Except I must have, because it was bolted when I came back. I had to turn the key in the lock twice to turn both the bolt and the springlock. Shit.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, that screws it up,” I said. “Say Turnquist let the killer in, which he could have done from inside just by turning the knob. Then the killer left Turnquist dead on the potty and went out, but how did he lock the door?”

“Don’t you have extra keys around somewhere? Maybe he found them.”

“You’d really have to look for them, and why would he bother? Especially when I didn’t have the door double-locked in the first place.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Hardly anything does. Watch the curb.”

“Shit.”

“Watch that, too. People seem to have stopped picking up after their dogs. Walking’s becoming an adventure again.”

We managed another curb, crossed another street, scaled the curb at the far side. We kept heading west, and once we got across Abingdon Square, the traffic, both automotive and pedestrian, thinned out considerably. At the corner of Twelfth and Hudson we passed the Village Nursing Home, where an old gentleman in a similar chair gave Turnquist the thumbs-up sign. “Don’t let these young people push you around,” he counseled our passenger. “Learn to work the controls yourself.” When he got no response, his eyes flicked to me and Carolyn. “The old boy a little bit past it?” he demanded.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, at least you’re not dumping the poor bastard in a home,” he said, with not a little bitterness. “He ever comes around, you tell him I said he’s damn lucky to have such decent children.”

We walked on across Greenwich Street, took a left at Washington. A block and a half down, between Bank and Bethune, a warehouse was being transmuted into co-op living lofts. The crew charged with performing this alchemy was gone for the day.

I braked the wheelchair.

Carolyn said, “Here?”

“As good a place as any. They angled a plank over the steps for the wheelbarrows. Make a good ramp for the chair.”

“I thought we could keep on going down to the Morton Street Pier. Send him into the Hudson, chair and all.”

“Carolyn—”

“It’s an old tradition, burial at sea. Davy Jones’s Locker. ‘Full fathom five my father lies—’”

“Want to give me a hand?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing I’d rather do. ‘Well, at least you’re not dumping the poor bastard in a home.’ Hell no, old timer. We’re dumping the old bastard in a seemingly abandoned warehouse where he’ll be cared for by the Green Hornet and Pluto.”

“Kato.”

“Whatever. Why do I feel like Burke and Hare?”

“They stole bodies and sold them. We’re just moving one around.”

“Terrific.”

“I told you I’d do this myself, Carolyn.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’m your henchperson, aren’t I?”

“It looks that way.”

“And we’re in this together. It’s my cat that got us in this mess. Bern, why can’t we leave him here, chair and all? I honest to God don’t care a rat’s ass about the hundred dollars.”

“It’s not the money.”

“What is it, the principle of the thing?”

“If we leave the chair,” I said, “they’ll trace it.”

“To Pitterman Hospital and Surgical Supply? Big hairy deal. I paid in cash and gave a phony name.”

“I don’t know who Turnquist was or how he fits into this Mondrian business, but there has to be a connection. When the cops tie him to it they’ll go to Pitterman and get the description of the person who rented the chair. Then they’ll take the clerk downtown and stick you in front of him in a lineup, you and four of the Harlem Globetrotters, and who do you figure he’ll point to?”

“I expect short jokes from Ray, Bernie. I don’t expect them from you.”

“I was just trying to make a point.”

“You made it. I thought it would be more decent to leave him in the chair, that’s all. Forget I said anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

I got the wire off his wrists and ankles, unstrapped the belt from around his waist, and managed to stretch him out on his back on a reasonably uncluttered expanse of floor. I retrieved the cap and sunglasses and blanket.

Back on the street I said, “Hop on, Carolyn. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Huh?”

“Two people pushing an empty wheelchair are conspicuous. C’mon, get in the chair.”

“You get in it.”

“You weigh less than I do, and—”

“The hell with that noise. You’re taller than I am and you’re a man, so if one of us has to play Turnquist you’re a natural choice for the role. Get in the chair, Bern, and put on the cap and the glasses.” She tucked the blanket around me and the mildew smell wafted to my nostrils. With a sly grin, my henchperson released the handbrake. “Hang on,” she said. “And fasten your seat belt. Short jokes, huh? We may hit a few air pockets along the way.”

B
ack at the store, I checked the premises for bodies, living or dead, before I did anything else. I didn’t find any, nor did I happen on any clues as to how Turnquist had gotten into my store or how he’d happened to join his ancestors in that great atelier on high. Carolyn wheeled the chair into the back room and I helped her fold it. “I’ll take it back in a cab,” she said, “but first I want some coffee.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Not from the felafel joint.”

“Don’t worry.”

When I got back with two coffees she said the phone had rung in my absence. “I was gonna answer it,” she said, “and then I didn’t.”

“Probably wise.”

“This coffee’s much better. You know what we oughta do? In either your place or my place we oughta have one of those machines, nice fresh coffee all day long. One of those electric drip things.”

“Or even a hotplate and a Chemex pot.”

“Yeah. Of course you’d be pouring coffee for customers all day long, and you’d never get rid of Kirschmann. He’d be a permanent guest. I really grossed him out, didn’t I?”

“He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”

“Well, that was the idea. I figured the more disgusting I made it, the faster he’d split. I was trying to wait him out, you know, figuring he might leave if I stayed out of the room long enough, but it looked as though he wasn’t gonna cave without peeing, so—”

“I almost left myself. He’s not the only one you grossed out.”

“Oh, right. You didn’t know I was faking it.”

“Of course not. I didn’t know there was a dead man in there.”

“Maybe I went into too much detail.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, and the phone rang.

I picked it up and Wally Hemphill said, “You’re a hard man to get hold of, Bernie. I was thinking you’d jumped bail.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I don’t know anybody in Costa Rica.”

“Oh, a guy like you would make friends anywhere. Listen, what do you know about this Mondrian?”

“I know he was Dutch,” I said. “Born in 1872 in Amberfoot or something like that. He began, you may recall, as a painter of naturalistic landscapes. As he found his own style he grew artistically and his work became increasingly abstract. By 1917—”

“What’s this, a museum lecture? There’s a painting missing from Onderdonk’s apartment worth close to half a million dollars.”

“I know.”

“You get it?”

“No.”

“It might be useful if you could come up with it. Give us a bargaining chip.”

“Suppose I gave them Judge Crater,” I said, “or a cure for cancer.”

“You really haven’t got the painting?”

“No.”

“Who got it?”

“Probably the person who killed him.”

“You didn’t kill anybody and you didn’t take anything.”

“Right.”

“You were just there to leave fingerprints.”

“Evidently.”

“Nuts. Where do you go from here, Bernie?”

“Around in circles,” I said.

I got off the phone and went in back, with Carolyn trailing after me. There’s a sort of cupboard next to the desk, filled with things I haven’t gotten around to throwing out, and I keep a sweat shirt and some other running gear there. I opened it, took inventory, and removed my shirt.

“Hey,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Getting undressed,” I said, unbelting my pants. “What’s it look like?”

“Jesus,” she said, turning her back on me. “If this is a subtle pass, I pass on it. In the first place I’m gay and in the second place we’re best friends and in the third place—”

“I’m going for a run, Carolyn.”

“Oh. With Wally?”

“Without Wally. A nice lope around Washington Square until my mind clears up. There’s nothing in it now but false starts and loose ends. People keep coming out of the woodwork asking me for a painting I never even had my hands on. They all want me to have it. Kirschmann smells a reward and Wally smells a fat fee and I don’t know what all the other people smell. Oil paint, probably. I’ll run and work the kinks out of my mind and maybe all of this will start to make sense to me.”

“And what about me? What’ll I do while you’re doing your Alberto Salazar impression?”

“You could take the wheelchair back.”

“Yeah, I have to do that sooner or later, don’t I? Bern? I wonder if any of the people who saw you in the wheelchair will recognize you jogging around Washington Square.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“Listen,” she said, “anybody says anything, just tell ’em you’ve been to Lourdes.”

Washington Square Park is a rectangle, and the sidewalk around it measures just about five-eighths of a mile, which in turn is just about a kilometer. It’s flat if you’re walking, but when you run there’s a slight slope evident, and if you run counterclockwise, as almost everybody does, you feel the incline as you run east along the southern border of the park. I felt it a lot on the first lap, with my legs still a little achy from the previous day’s ordeal in Central Park, but after that it didn’t bother me.

I was wearing blue nylon shorts and a ribbed yellow tank top and burgundy running shoes, and there was a moment when I found myself wondering whether Mondrian would have liked my outfit. Scarlet shoes would have suited him better, I decided. Or vermillion, like the galleries.

I took it very slow and easy. A lot of people passed me, but I didn’t care if old ladies with aluminum walkers whizzed by me. I just put one wine-colored foot after the other, and somewhere around the fourth lap my mind started to float, and I suppose I ran three more laps after that but I wasn’t keeping score.

I didn’t think about Mondrian or his paintings or all the crazy people who wanted them. I didn’t really think about anything, and after my close to four miles I picked up the plastic bag of stuff I’d left with one of the chessplayers at the park’s southwest corner. I thanked him and trotted west to Arbor Court.

Carolyn wasn’t home, so I used the tools I’d brought along to let myself into her building and then her apartment. The vestibule lock was candy but the others were not, and I wondered what curious villain had picked those locks without leaving a hint of his presence, and why he couldn’t use the same talents to hook the Mondrian out of the Hewlett Collection all by his own self.

I got in, locked up, stripped and showered, the last-named act being the reason I’d come to Arbor Court. I dried off and put on the clothes I’d been wearing earlier and hung my sopping shorts and tank top over the shower curtain rod. Then I looked in the fridge for a beer, made a face when I failed to find one, and fixed some iced tea from a mix. It tasted like what you would expect.

I made a sandwich and ate it and made another sandwich and started eating it, and some clown outside slammed on his brakes and hit his horn, and Ubi hopped onto the window ledge to investigate. I watched him stick his head through the bars, the tips of his whiskers just brushing the bars on either side, and I thought of Archie’s whiskers and found myself feeling uncommonly sorry for the poor cat. There were two people dead already and I was charged with one murder and might very well be charged with the other, and all I could think of was how forlorn Carolyn’s cat must be.

I looked up a number, picked up the phone and dialed it. Denise Raphaelson answered on the third ring and I said, “This is Bernie, and we never had this conversation.”

“Funny, I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

“What do you know about an artist named Turnquist?”

“That’s why you called? To find out what I know about an artist named Turnquist?”

“That’s why. He’s probably crowding sixty, reddish hair and goatee, bad teeth, gets all his clothes from the Goodwill. Sort of a surly manner.”

“Where is he? I think I’ll marry him.”

Denise was a girlfriend of mine for a while, and then she rather abruptly became a girlfriend of Carolyn’s, and that didn’t last very long. She’s a painter, with a loft on West Broadway called the Narrowback Gallery where she lives and works. I said, “Actually, it’s a little late for that.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“You don’t want to know. Ever hear of him?”

“I don’t think so. Turnquist. He got a first name?”

“Probably. Most people do, except for Trevanian. Maybe Turnquist’s his first name and he doesn’t have a last name. There are a lot of people like that. Hildegarde. Twiggy.”

“Liberace.”

“That’s his last name.”

“Oh, right.”

“Does Turnquist ring a bell?”

“Doesn’t even knock softly. What kind of painter is he?”

“A dead one.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Well, he’s in good company. Rembrandt, El Greco, Giotto, Bosch—all those guys are dead.”

“We never had this conversation.”

“What conversation?”

I hung up and looked up Turnquist in the Manhattan book, and there was only one listing, a Michael Turnquist in the East Sixties. Things are never that easy, and he certainly hadn’t dressed to fit that address, but what the hell. I dialed the number and a man answered almost immediately.

I said, “Michael Turnquist?”

“Speaking.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I must have the wrong number.”

The hell with it. I picked up the phone again and dialed 911. When a woman answered I said, “There’s a dead body at a construction site on Washington Street,” and gave the precise address. She started to ask me something but I didn’t let her finish her sentence. “Sorry,” I said, “but I’m one of those people who just don’t want to get involved.”

I was lost in something, possibly thought, when a key turned in one of the locks. The sound was repeated as someone opened the other two locks in turn, and I spent a couple of seconds trying to decide what I’d do if it wasn’t Carolyn. Suppose it was the Nazi, coming to swipe the other cat. I looked around for Ubi but didn’t see him, and then the door swung inward and I turned to look at Carolyn and Elspeth Peters.

Except it wasn’t Elspeth Peters, and all it took was a second glance to make that clear to me. But I could see why my henchperson had taken a second glance at the Peters woman, because the resemblance was pronounced.

I could also see why she’d taken more than a couple glances at this woman, who obviously had to be Alison the tax planner. She was at least as attractive as Elspeth Peters, and the airy quality of Ms. Peters that went so well with old-timey lady poets and secondhand books was replaced in Alison by an earthy intensity. Carolyn introduced us—“Alison, this is Bernie Rhodenbarr. Bernie, this is Alison Warren”—and Alison established her credentials as a political and economic lesbian with a firm no-nonsense handshake.

“I didn’t expect you,” Carolyn said.

“Well, I stopped in to use the shower.”

“Right, you were running.”

“Oh, you’re a runner?” Alison said.

We got a little mileage out of that, so to speak, and Carolyn put some coffee on, and Alison sat down on the couch and Ubi turned up and sat in her lap. I went over to the stove, where Carolyn was fussing with the coffee.

“Isn’t she nice?” she whispered.

“She’s terrific,” I whispered back. “Get rid of her.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Why, for Christ’s sake?”

“We’re going to the museum. The Hewlett.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“Look, I just got her here. She’s all settled in with a cat on her lap. The least I can do is give her a cup of coffee.”

“Okay,” I said, still whispering. “I’ll split now. Get away as soon as you can and meet me in front of the Hewlett.”

When I handed over my two singles and two quarters, the attendant at the Hewlett was nice enough to point out that the gallery would be closing in less than an hour. I told him that was all right and accepted my lapel pin in return. The whole exchange brought the late Mr. Turnquist to life for me, and I remembered the fierce animation with which he’d lectured to us about art. I suppose I’d depersonalized the man in order to drag his body across town and dump him, and I guess it had been necessary, but now I saw him again as a person—quirky and abrasive and vividly human—and I felt sorry he was dead and sorrier that I’d used him after death as a prop in a macabre farce.

The feeling was a dismal one and I shook it off as I made my way to the upstairs gallery where the Mondrian was on display. I entered with a perfunctory nod at the uniformed guard. I half expected to find a blank spot on the wall where
Composition with Color
had lately hung, or another painting altogether, but Mondrian was right where he belonged and I was glad to see him again.

Half an hour later a voice at my elbow said, “Well, it’s good, Bernie, but I don’t think it would fool many people. It’s hard to make a pencil sketch look like an oil painting. What are you doing?”

“Sketching the painting,” I said, without looking up from my notebook. “I’m guessing at the measurements.”

“What are the initials for? Oh, the colors, right?”

“Right.”

“What’s the point?”

“I don’t know.”

“The guy downstairs didn’t want to take my money. The place is gonna close any minute. What I did, I gave him a dollar. Are we gonna steal the painting, Bernie?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh. When?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t suppose you know how we’re gonna do it, either.”

“I’m working on it.”

“By drawing in your notebook?”

“Shit,” I said, and closed the notebook with a snap. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m sorry, Bern. I didn’t mean to hassle you.”

“It’s okay. Let’s get out of here.”

We found a bar called Gloryosky’s a couple of blocks up Madison. Soft lighting, deep carpet, chrome and black formica, and some Little Orphan Annie murals on the walls. About half the patrons were gulping their first après-work drinks while the rest looked as though they hadn’t made it back from lunch. Everybody was thanking God that it was Friday.

“This is nice,” Carolyn said as we settled into a booth. “Dim lights, gaiety, laughter, the clink of ice cubes and a Peggy Lee record on the jukebox. I could be happy here, Bernie.”