Read Online The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling by Lawrence Block - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Block
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whatsit, and it wasn’t until he called me at the bookstore that he knew for certain my trip to Queens had paid off. In all likelihood, Arkwright himself didn’t even know the book was missing yet.
Point Three: The Sikh had not been a bizarre coincidence, one of those phenomena that make life the ever-exciting proposition it indisputably is. No way. The Sikh had darkened my doorway because he knew I had stolen Arkwright’s copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow.
Hard work, thinking. I checked my watch, took another sip of my Rob Roy.
Assumption: The Sikh did not have mystical powers. He knew I had the book because the information had somehow reached him via Whelkin.
Hypothesis: J. Rudyard Whelkin was as reluctant as the next skinflint to part with fifteen grand. Once he’d established that I had the book in my possession, he simply dispatched his faithful native servant to fetch it for him, instructing him to slip me the ten fifties to smooth my ruffled feathers.
The hypothesis had me clenching my teeth and making a fist at the very thought. I had a little more of my Rob Roy and did some deep breathing.
Rebuttal: The hypothesis didn’t make sense. If Whelkin was going to rob me, why send someone to the store? He’d already taken pains to set up a meeting on East Sixty-sixth Street, where he could set up an elaborate ambush with ease.
Alternate Hypothesis: The Sikh was somebody else’s faithful native servant. Hadn’t Whelkin mentioned that several parties had intended to bid on the book at Trebizond’s London auction? Was it not possible that one of them had followed the book to New York, scheming to wrest it away from Arkwright’s possession, only to see it whisked out from under his nose by one B. G. Rhodenbarr?
That seemed to make more sense, but it still left a stone or two unturned. I found myself wondering what would happen when the Sikh’s employer took a look at Soldiers Three. The sooner I turned the book over to Whelkin and collected my fifteen thousand dollars, the better I’d be able to cope with him. The best way to cope, I felt, would be to take a quick vacation somewhere, spending a portion of the boodle and giving him time to cool off or leave town or, ideally, both.
I stood up.
And sat down again.
Did I have anything to fear from Whelkin? I was pretty sure he hadn’t sent the Sikh, but suppose I was wrong? Or suppose he had not sent the Sikh and indeed knew nothing about the Sikh, but suppose he had his own ideas about doing me out of my fee? Was it possible I’d let myself be snowed by the elegant manner and the Martingale Club membership? The rich, I’ve noted, are no more eager to part with a bundle than anyone else. And here I was, meeting him on his own turf, bringing him the book like a dutiful dog with the evening paper in his mouth. Lord, I couldn’t even testify that Whelkin had fifteen thousand dollars, let alone that he was prepared to hand it over to me.
I went to the men’s room, book in hand. When I returned I had both hands free. The book was wedged under my belt against the small of my back, out of sight beneath my suit jacket.
I finished the last of my drink. I’d have liked another, but that could wait until the completion of my business transaction.
First things first.
The house on Sixty-sixth Street was an elegant brownstone with a plant-filled bay window on the parlor floor. Taller buildings stood on either side of it, but the old brownstone held its own. I walked up a half flight of stairs and studied a row of bells in the vestibule.
M. Porlock. 3-D.
I rang twice. Nothing happened for a moment and I checked my watch again. It said 6:29 and it is a watch that rarely lies. I placed my finger on the bell again, tentatively, and at that instant the answering buzzer sounded and I pushed the door open.
There were two apartments on the parlor floor, four each on the three floors above it. (The basement had its own entrance.) I mounted two flights of
Point Three: The Sikh had not been a bizarre coincidence, one of those phenomena that make life the ever-exciting proposition it indisputably is. No way. The Sikh had darkened my doorway because he knew I had stolen Arkwright’s copy of The Deliverance of Fort Bucklow.
Hard work, thinking. I checked my watch, took another sip of my Rob Roy.
Assumption: The Sikh did not have mystical powers. He knew I had the book because the information had somehow reached him via Whelkin.
Hypothesis: J. Rudyard Whelkin was as reluctant as the next skinflint to part with fifteen grand. Once he’d established that I had the book in my possession, he simply dispatched his faithful native servant to fetch it for him, instructing him to slip me the ten fifties to smooth my ruffled feathers.
The hypothesis had me clenching my teeth and making a fist at the very thought. I had a little more of my Rob Roy and did some deep breathing.
Rebuttal: The hypothesis didn’t make sense. If Whelkin was going to rob me, why send someone to the store? He’d already taken pains to set up a meeting on East Sixty-sixth Street, where he could set up an elaborate ambush with ease.
Alternate Hypothesis: The Sikh was somebody else’s faithful native servant. Hadn’t Whelkin mentioned that several parties had intended to bid on the book at Trebizond’s London auction? Was it not possible that one of them had followed the book to New York, scheming to wrest it away from Arkwright’s possession, only to see it whisked out from under his nose by one B. G. Rhodenbarr?
That seemed to make more sense, but it still left a stone or two unturned. I found myself wondering what would happen when the Sikh’s employer took a look at Soldiers Three. The sooner I turned the book over to Whelkin and collected my fifteen thousand dollars, the better I’d be able to cope with him. The best way to cope, I felt, would be to take a quick vacation somewhere, spending a portion of the boodle and giving him time to cool off or leave town or, ideally, both.
I stood up.
And sat down again.
Did I have anything to fear from Whelkin? I was pretty sure he hadn’t sent the Sikh, but suppose I was wrong? Or suppose he had not sent the Sikh and indeed knew nothing about the Sikh, but suppose he had his own ideas about doing me out of my fee? Was it possible I’d let myself be snowed by the elegant manner and the Martingale Club membership? The rich, I’ve noted, are no more eager to part with a bundle than anyone else. And here I was, meeting him on his own turf, bringing him the book like a dutiful dog with the evening paper in his mouth. Lord, I couldn’t even testify that Whelkin had fifteen thousand dollars, let alone that he was prepared to hand it over to me.
I went to the men’s room, book in hand. When I returned I had both hands free. The book was wedged under my belt against the small of my back, out of sight beneath my suit jacket.
I finished the last of my drink. I’d have liked another, but that could wait until the completion of my business transaction.
First things first.
The house on Sixty-sixth Street was an elegant brownstone with a plant-filled bay window on the parlor floor. Taller buildings stood on either side of it, but the old brownstone held its own. I walked up a half flight of stairs and studied a row of bells in the vestibule.
M. Porlock. 3-D.
I rang twice. Nothing happened for a moment and I checked my watch again. It said 6:29 and it is a watch that rarely lies. I placed my finger on the bell again, tentatively, and at that instant the answering buzzer sounded and I pushed the door open.
There were two apartments on the parlor floor, four each on the three floors above it. (The basement had its own entrance.) I mounted two flights of
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