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Authors: Lawrence Block
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elegant.”
“Try sneaky and shifty while you’re at it.”
“ De mortuis, remember?”
“Oh, screw de mortuis. As my grandmother used to say, if you’ve got nothing good to say about someone, let’s hear it. I wonder how he really made his money, Bernie. What do you suppose he did for a living?”
“He was an entrepreneur, it says here.”
“That just means he made money. It doesn’t explain how.”
“He dabbled in real estate.”
“That’s something you do with money, like producing plays off-off-Broadway. The real estate may have made money for him and the plays must have lost it, they always do, but he must have done something for a living and I’ll bet it was faintly crooked.”
“You’re probably right.”
“So why isn’t it in the paper?”
“Because nobody cares. As far as everybody’s concerned, he only got killed because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A mad-dog burglar happened to pick his apartment at random and he happened to be in it, and that was when J. Francis kept his appointment in Samarra. If he’d been wearing ladies’ underwear at the time of his death he’d make better copy and the reporters would take a longer look at his life, but instead he was just wearing a perfectly ordinary Brooks Brothers dressing gown and that made him dull copy.”
“Where does it say he was wearing a Brooks Brothers robe?”
“I made that up. I don’t know where he bought his clothes. It just says he was wearing a dressing gown. The Times says dressing gown. The Post calls it a bathrobe.”
“I had the impression he was naked.”
“Not according to the working press.” I tried to remember if Loren had blurted out anything abouthis dress or lack of it. If he did, I didn’t remember it. “He’ll probably be naked in tomorrow morning’s Daily News, ” I said. “What difference does it make?”
“It doesn’t.”
We were sitting side by side on the Lawson couch. She folded the paper and put it on the seat beside her. “I just wish we had someplace to start,” she said. “But it’s like trying to untie a knot when both ends of the rope are out of sight. All we’ve got are the dead man and the man who got you mixed up in this in the first place.”
“And we don’t know who he is.”
“Mr. Shmoo. Mr. Chocolate Eyes. A man with narrow shoulders and a large waistline who avoids looking people right in the eye.”
“That’s our man.”
“And he looks vaguely familiar to you.”
“He looks specifically familiar to me. He even sounded familiar.”
“But you never met him before.”
“Never.”
“Damn.” She made fists of her hands, pressed them against her thighs. “Could you have known him in prison?”
“I don’t think so. That would be logical, wouldn’t it? Then of course he would have known I was a burglar. But I can’t think of any area of my life in or out of prison that he fits into. Maybe I’veseen him on subways, passed him in the street. That sort of thing.”
“Maybe.” She frowned. “He set you up. Either he killed Flaxford himself or he knows who did.”
“I don’t think he killed anybody.”
“But he must know who did.”
“Probably.”
“So if we could just find him. I know you don’t know his name, but did he give you a fake name at least?”
“No. Why?”
“We could try paging him at that bar. I forget the name.”
“Pandora’s. Why page him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you could tell him you had the blue leather box.”
“ What blue leather box?”
“The one you went to—oh.”
“There isn’t any blue leather box.”
“Of course not,” she said. “There never was one in the first place, was there? The blue leather box was nothing but a red herring.” She wrinkled up her forehead in concentration. “But then why did he arrange to meet you at Pandora’s?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure he didn’t bother to show up.”
“Then why arrange it?”
“Beats me. Unless he planned to tip the
“Try sneaky and shifty while you’re at it.”
“ De mortuis, remember?”
“Oh, screw de mortuis. As my grandmother used to say, if you’ve got nothing good to say about someone, let’s hear it. I wonder how he really made his money, Bernie. What do you suppose he did for a living?”
“He was an entrepreneur, it says here.”
“That just means he made money. It doesn’t explain how.”
“He dabbled in real estate.”
“That’s something you do with money, like producing plays off-off-Broadway. The real estate may have made money for him and the plays must have lost it, they always do, but he must have done something for a living and I’ll bet it was faintly crooked.”
“You’re probably right.”
“So why isn’t it in the paper?”
“Because nobody cares. As far as everybody’s concerned, he only got killed because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A mad-dog burglar happened to pick his apartment at random and he happened to be in it, and that was when J. Francis kept his appointment in Samarra. If he’d been wearing ladies’ underwear at the time of his death he’d make better copy and the reporters would take a longer look at his life, but instead he was just wearing a perfectly ordinary Brooks Brothers dressing gown and that made him dull copy.”
“Where does it say he was wearing a Brooks Brothers robe?”
“I made that up. I don’t know where he bought his clothes. It just says he was wearing a dressing gown. The Times says dressing gown. The Post calls it a bathrobe.”
“I had the impression he was naked.”
“Not according to the working press.” I tried to remember if Loren had blurted out anything abouthis dress or lack of it. If he did, I didn’t remember it. “He’ll probably be naked in tomorrow morning’s Daily News, ” I said. “What difference does it make?”
“It doesn’t.”
We were sitting side by side on the Lawson couch. She folded the paper and put it on the seat beside her. “I just wish we had someplace to start,” she said. “But it’s like trying to untie a knot when both ends of the rope are out of sight. All we’ve got are the dead man and the man who got you mixed up in this in the first place.”
“And we don’t know who he is.”
“Mr. Shmoo. Mr. Chocolate Eyes. A man with narrow shoulders and a large waistline who avoids looking people right in the eye.”
“That’s our man.”
“And he looks vaguely familiar to you.”
“He looks specifically familiar to me. He even sounded familiar.”
“But you never met him before.”
“Never.”
“Damn.” She made fists of her hands, pressed them against her thighs. “Could you have known him in prison?”
“I don’t think so. That would be logical, wouldn’t it? Then of course he would have known I was a burglar. But I can’t think of any area of my life in or out of prison that he fits into. Maybe I’veseen him on subways, passed him in the street. That sort of thing.”
“Maybe.” She frowned. “He set you up. Either he killed Flaxford himself or he knows who did.”
“I don’t think he killed anybody.”
“But he must know who did.”
“Probably.”
“So if we could just find him. I know you don’t know his name, but did he give you a fake name at least?”
“No. Why?”
“We could try paging him at that bar. I forget the name.”
“Pandora’s. Why page him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you could tell him you had the blue leather box.”
“ What blue leather box?”
“The one you went to—oh.”
“There isn’t any blue leather box.”
“Of course not,” she said. “There never was one in the first place, was there? The blue leather box was nothing but a red herring.” She wrinkled up her forehead in concentration. “But then why did he arrange to meet you at Pandora’s?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure he didn’t bother to show up.”
“Then why arrange it?”
“Beats me. Unless he planned to tip the
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