Free The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart by Lawrence Block Page A

times in the chest and then ate the knife to throw us off.”
    “That’s what killed him? Stab wounds?”
    “That’s what the doc tells us. A lot of internal bleedin’, he said. Plenty of external bleedin’, too. Made a mess of the rug.”
    I winced, feeling sorry at once for Hugo Candlemas and his Aubusson. I told Ray I hoped he hadn’t suffered much.
    “He must of,” he said, “unless he was some kind of a massy-kissed. Somebody sticks a knife into you two or three times, naturally you’re gonna suffer.” He frowned, considering. “They say you go into shock the first time you get stabbed and don’t feel the others, an’ I guess I’ll have totake their word for it. I wouldn’t want to test it out for myself.”
    “Neither would I. The murder weapon didn’t turn up?”
    He shook his head. “Killer took it away with him. Time the lab’s done, they’ll be able to tell you the size an’ shape of the blade, along with the name an’ home phone number of the guy who made it. Right now all I can say for sure is it was some kind of a knife. Long an’ thin’d be my guess, but all I’d be is guessin’.”
    “How did you get the case, Ray?”
    “Somebody called it in around one in the morning. Couple of blues responded, found the door locked, went next door an’ got the super to open up for ’em. Except there were three locks on the door an’ the super only had keys for two of ’em. That’s your fault, Bernie.”
    “How is it my fault?”
    “Wasn’t for guys like you, people wouldn’t hang three locks on a goddam door. The whole city’s walkin’ around with more keys in their pockets than a person oughta have to carry, and it’s the burglars of New York who are the cause of it. I ran into this woman one time, she had six locks on her front door. Six of ’em! Time she got out of her house in the morning, it was pretty near time for her to go back in again.” He shook his head at the very idea.
    I said, “So what did they do? Kick the door in?”
    “No reason to. All they got is an anonymous tip, sounds of a struggle up on the fourth floor. This was on the Lower East Side you’d maybe think about kicking it in, but not in a good neighborhood. They called a locksmith.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “What’s wrong with that? There’s plenty of ’em offer twenty-four-hour service, an’ they’re not like doctors. They still make house calls.”
    “It’s a good thing. It’d be tough to bring the door to them.”
    “Or squirt aspirin in the lock and call ’em in the mornin’. Guy they called, though, either he wasn’t so good or the lock was a pip. It took him half an hour to open it.”
    “Half an hour? You should have called me, Ray.”
    “Been up to me, I mighta done just that. But I wasn’t in the picture until they got inside and found the body. Then I got called an’ went over, an’ I was takin’ a good look at the late laminated when the phone rang. That was you, wasn’t it?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Yeah, tell me another. Two calls, maybe five minutes apart. Both times I answered an’ both times the other party didn’t say a word. Don’t tell me it wasn’t you, Bern. Be a waste of time. I recognized your voice.”
    “How? You just said the caller didn’t say anything.”
    “Yeah, an’ there’s plenty ways of not sayin’nothin’, an’ this was you. Don’t try an’ tell me different.”
    “Whatever you say, Ray.”
    “I knew it was you right away. Of course, I got to admit I had you on my mind. You know where the body was layin’?”
    “Of course not. I wasn’t there.”
    “Well, you know the little round table, has a lamp on it looks like a bowl of flowers?”
    It was a Tiffany lily lamp, almost certainly a reproduction, resting atop a drumhead table with cabriolet legs. “I don’t know it at all,” I said. “I’ve never been to his apartment. I know he was on the Upper East Side, and I’ve probably got his address