Free The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart by Lawrence Block

don’t,” I said. “Don’t ask me where he bought them. All I sold him was a book of poems for five bucks plus tax.”
    “And you threw in this here? Very generous of you.”
    “I lent it to him, Ray. He’s a decent old gent and a good customer. I can’t pay the rent on guys like him, but he’s pleasant company and he usually buys something before he leaves. Why? What’s this all about, anyway?”
    He popped the locks, opened the case.
    “Why, it seems to be empty,” I said. “Niceshowmanship, Ray, but a little bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?”
    “It looks empty,” he said. “Don’t it? But it ain’t.”
    “Because it contains air? What is this, physics class?”
    “I got no need for physics,” he said, “bein’ as I’m regular as clockwork. What’s in here’s your prints, Bernie.”
    “The engravings?” I leaned forward, squinted. “They seem to have grown transparent. I don’t see them.”
    “Not that kind of prints. Your fingerprints.”
    “My fingerprints?”
    “A full set.”
    “Well, that’s nice,” I said, “but not terribly surprising. It’s my case. I already told you that.”
    “So you did, Bernie, and what’s surprisin’ is for you to admit it.”
    “Why shouldn’t I admit it? What have I got to be ashamed of? It’s not Louis Vuitton, but it’s a perfectly respectable piece of luggage. And if you’re going to tell me it’s stolen, the statute of limitations ran out a long time ago. I must have owned the thing for eight or ten years.”
    He struck a pose not unlike Rodin’s Thinker and took a long searching look at me. “You’re slicker than ice on the sidewalk,” he said. “I thought you’d twitch a little when I showed you the case, but no, it was like you expected it. That was you on the phone, right?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Let it go. I’ll tell you, soon as we ran the prints on this thing and they turned out to be yours, I couldn’t wait to hear you explain how your prints wound up all over this guy Candlemas’s case. I figured it’d be a good story. But you went one better and got the nerve to claim it’s your case. I like that, Bernie. It’s real imaginary.”
    “It happens to be the truth.”
    “Truth,” he said sourly. “What the hell’s truth?”
    “You’re not the first officer of the law to ask that question,” I told him. “What happened to Candlemas?”
    “Who said anything happened to him?”
    “Oh, please,” I said. “Why would you dust an empty attaché case for prints? You found it in his apartment, and he could have told you how it got there, so I can only conclude he wasn’t doing any talking. Either the place was empty or he was in no shape to talk. Which was it?”
    He measured me with a long look. “I guess there’s no reason not to tell you,” he said. “Anyway, another couple of hours an’ you’ll be readin’ about it in the papers.”
    “He’s dead?”
    “If he’s not,” he said, “then it’s a hell of an act he’s puttin’ on.”
    “Who killed him?”
    “I don’t know, Bern. I was kind of hopin’ it’d turn out to be you.”
    “Get a grip, Ray. It never turns out to be me, remember? I’m not a killer. It’s not my style.”
    “I know that,” he said. “All the years I known you, you never been a violent fellow. But who’s to say what might happen one of these days if somebody surprises you while you’re burglarizin’ their premises? And don’t give me any of that crap about how you’re spendin’ all your time sellin’ books these days. You’re a burglar through an’ through, Bernie. You’ll still be breakin’ an’ enterin’ when you’re six feet under.”
    There was a cheering thought. “Tell me about Candlemas,” I said. “How was he killed?”
    “What’s the difference? Dead is dead.”
    “How do you even know it was murder? He wasn’t a kid. Maybe he died of natural causes.”
    “Naw, it was suicide, Bernie. He stabbed himself a couple of