"Isn't it just? She used to keep marijuana in the tea canister. If she lived where people have lawns she'd probably store it with the grass seed."
I didn't look in the tea canister so I don't know what kind of tea it contained. I put the cash in my wallet and returned to the living room to have a shot at the desk. There was more money in the top right-hand drawer, maybe two hundred dollars at most in fives and tens and twenties. It wasn't enough to get excited about but I was getting excited anyway, the automatic tickle of excitement that starts working the instant I let myself into someone else's abode, the excitement that builds every time I lay hands on someone else's property and make it my own. I know this is all morally reprehensible and there are days when it bothers me, but there's no getting around it. My name is Bernie Rhodenbarr and I'm a thief and I love to steal. I just plain love it.
The money went in my pocket and became my money, and I started slamming through the other drawers in the little kneehole desk, and several in a row contained nothing noteworthy and then I opened another and right on top were three cases of the sort that good watches come in. The first one was empty. The second and third were not. One of them was an Omega and the other was a Patek Philippe and they were both gorgeous. I closed the cases and placed them in my attache case where they belonged.
The watches were choice but that was it for the living room and it was actually more than I'd expected. Because the living room like the kitchen was just a warm-up. Crystal Sheldrake lived alone, although she often had overnight guests, and she was a woman with a lot of valuable jewelry, and women keep their jewelry in the bedroom. I'm sure they think they do it so it's handy when they're getting dressed, but I think the real reason is that they sleep better surrounded by gold and diamonds. It makes them feel secure.
"It used to drive me crazy," Craig had said. "Sometimes she left things lying out in plain sight. Or she'd just toss a bracelet and a necklace in the top drawer of the bedside table. She had the bedside table on the left-hand side, but I suppose they're both hers now so check ' em both." No kidding. "I useta beg her to keep some of that stuff in a safe-deposit box. She said it's too much trouble. She wouldn't listen to me."
"Let's hope she didn't start listening recently."
"Not Crystal. She never listened to anybody."
I took my attache case into the bedroom with me and had a look for myself. Earrings, finger rings, bracelets, necklaces. Brooches, pendants, watches. Modern jewelry and antique jewelry. Fair stuff, good stuff, and a couple things that looked, to my reasonably professional eye, to be very good indeed. Dentists take in a certain amount of cash along with the checks, and hard as it may be to believe this, some of that cash doesn't get reported to the Internal Revenue people. Some of it gets turned quietly into jewelry, and that jewelry could now get turned just as quietly right back into cash again. It wouldn't bring in what it had cost in the first place, since your average fence is a rather more careful customer than your average dentist, but it would still amount to a fairly impressive sum when you consider that it all started out with nothing but a whole lot of toothaches and root-canal work.
I searched very carefully, not wanting to miss anything. Crystal Sheldrake kept a very neat apartment on the surface, but the interiors of her drawers were a scandal, with baubles and beads forced to keep company with rumpled panty hose and half-full make-up jars. So I took my time, and my attache case grew heavier as my fingers grew lighter. There was plenty of time. She had left the house at seven-fifteen and would probably not return until after midnight, if indeed she returned before dawn. Her standard operating procedure, according to Craig, called for a drink or two at each of several neighborhood watering holes, a bite of dinner somewhere along the way, and then a few hours devoted to a combination of serious drinking and even more serious cruising. Of course there were nights that got planned in advance, dinner engagements and theater dates, but she'd left the house dressed for a casual night's entertainment.
That meant she'd either bring home a stranger or go to a stranger's home, and either way I'd be long gone before she recrossed her own threshold. If they settled on his place, the jewels might be fenced before she knew they were missing. If she brought the guy home and they were both too sloshed to notice anything was missing, and if he in turn let himself out before she woke up, she might just tag the crime on him. Either way I looked to be in the clear, and enough thousands of dollars ahead so that I could coast for the next eight or ten months, even after I gave Craig his share. Of course it was hard to tell just what the attache case contained, and it's a long, long way from jewelry to cash, but things were looking good for Mrs. Rhodenbarr's boy Bernard, no question about it.
I remember having that thought. I can't begin to tell you what a comfort it was a little later when Crystal Sheldrake locked me in the bedroom closet.
Chapter Two
The problem, of course, derived from an offshoot of Parkinson's Law. A person, be he bureaucrat or burglar, tends to take for a task as much time as is available for it. Because I knew Crystal Sheldrake would be absent from her apartment for hours on end, I was inclined to spend several of those hours divesting her of her possessions. I've always known that burglars should observe the old
Playboy
Philosophy-i.e., Get In and Get Out-but there's something to be said for making use of the available time. You can miss things if your work is rushed. You can leave incriminating evidence behind. And it's a kick, going through another person's things, participating vicariously (and perhaps neurotically) in that person's life. The kicks involved are one of the attractions of burglary for me. I can admit that, even if I can't do anything much about it.
So I lingered. I could have tossed the Sheldrake
pied-a-terre
in twenty efficient minutes if I put my mind to it. Instead I took my precious time.
I'd finished picking the second Sheldrake lock at 7:57-I happened to note the time before easing the door open. At 9:14 I closed my attache case and fastened the snaps. I picked it up and noted its increased weight with approval, trying to think of the avoir-dupois more in terms of carats than ounces.
Then I set the case down again and gave the premises another careful contemplative toss. I don't even know if I was really looking for anything at this point. A person younger than I might have said I was trying to pick up vibrations. Come to think of it, I might have said that myself, but not aloud. What I was probably trying to do, in truth, was prolong the delicious feeling of being where I wasn't supposed to be and where no one knew I was. Not even Craig knew I was there. I'd told him I would go in a night or two later, but it was such a pleasant evening, such a propitious night for breaking and entering...
So I was in the bedroom, examining a pastel portrait of a youngish woman elegantly coiffed and gowned, with an emerald at her throat that looked to be head and shoulders above anything I'd stolen from Crystal Sheldrake. The painting looked early nineteenth century and the woman looked French, but she might simply have cultivated the art of looking French. There was something fetching about her expression. I decided she'd been disappointed so many times in life, largely by men, that she'd reached a point where she expected disappointment and decided that she could live with it, but it still rather rankled. I was between women myself at the time and told her with my eyes that I could make her life a joy and a fulfillment, but her chalky blues met mine and she let me know that she was sure I'd be just as big a letdown as everybody else. I figured she was probably right.
Then I heard the key in the lock.
It was a good thing there were two locks, and it was another good thing I'd relocked them upon entering. (I could have bolted them as well, so that they couldn't be opened from outside, but I'd given up doing that a while ago, figuring that it just let citizens know there was a burglar inside and moved them to come back with a cop or two in tow.) I froze, and my heart ascended to within an inch or two of my tonsils, and my body got damp in all those spots the antiperspirant ads warn you about. The key turned in the lock, and the bolt drew back, and someone said something inaudible, to another person or to the empty air, and another key found its way into another lock, and I stopped being frozen and started moving.
There was a window in the bedroom, conventionally enough, but there was an air conditioner in it so there was no quick way to open it. There was another smaller window, large enough so that I could have gotten through it, but some spoilsport had installed bars on it to prevent some rotten burglar from climbing in through it. This also prevented rotten burglars from climbing out, although the installer had probably not had that specifically in mind.
I registered this, then looked at the bed with its lacy spread and thought about throwing myself under it. But there wasn't really a hell of a lot of room between the box spring and the carpet. I could have fit but I could not have been happy about it. And there's something so undignified about hiding under a bed. It's such a dreary cliche.
The bedroom closet was every bit as trite but rather more comfortable. Even as the key was turning in the second Rabson lock, I was darting into the closet. I'd opened it before to paw through garments and check hatboxes in the hope that they held more than hats. It had then been quaintly locked, the key stuck right there in the lock waiting for me to turn it. I don't know why people do this but they do it all the time. I guess if they keep the key somewhere else it's too much trouble hunting for it every time they want to change their shoes, and I guess locking a door provides some sort of emotional security even when you leave the key in the lock. I'd taken nothing from her closet earlier; if she had furs they were in storage, and I hate stealing furs anyway, and I certainly wasn't going to make off with her Capezios.
At any rate, I hadn't bothered relocking the closet and that saved unlocking it all over again. I popped inside and drew it shut after me, slipped between a couple of faintly perfumed gowns and adjusted them again in front of me, took a deep breath that didn't even begin to fill my aching lungs, and listened carefully as the door opened and two people entered.
It was not hard to know that there were two of them because I could hear them talking, even though I could not yet make out their conversation. From the pitch of their voices I could tell that one was female and one was male, and I assumed the female was Crystal Sheldrake, wheat jeans and paisley blouse and all. I had no idea who the man might be. All I knew was that he was a fast worker, having hustled her back here so swiftly. Maybe he was married. That would explain his hurry, and why they'd wound up here rather than at his place.
Sounds of ice clinking, sounds of liquid pouring. I breathed in the closet smells of Arpege and Shalimar and antique perspiration and thought wistfully of the two before-dinner martinis I'd neglected to have. I never drink before I work because it might impair my efficiency, and I thought about that policy, and I thought about my efficiency, and I felt rather stupider than usual.
I hadn't had the before-dinner drinks and I hadn't had the dinner either, preferring to postpone that pleasure until I could do it in style and in celebration. I'd been thinking in terms of a latish supper at a little hideaway I know on Cornelia Street in the Village. Those two marts first, of course, and then that cold asparagus soup they do such a good job with, and then the sweetbreads with mushrooms, God, those sweetbreads, and a salad of arugola and spinach with mandarin orange sections, ah yes, and perhaps a half bottle of something nice to go with the sweetbreads. A white wine, of course, but what white wine? It was something to ponder.
Then coffee, lots of coffee, all of it black. And of course a postprandial brandy with the coffee. No dessert, no point in overdoing it, got to watch the old waistline even if one's not quite obsessive enough to jog around Gramercy Park. No dessert, then, but perhaps a second snifter of that brandy just to take the edge off all that coffee and reward oneself for a job well done.
A job well done indeed.
In the living room, ice continued to clink in glasses. I heard laughter. The radio or the record player was pressed into service. More ice clinking. More laughter, a little more carefree now.
I stood there in the closet and found my thoughts turning inexorably in the direction of alcohol. I thought about the martinis, cold as the Klondike, three hearty ounces of crystal-clear Tanqueray gin with just the most fleeting kiss of Noilly Prat vermouth, a ribbon of twisted lemon peel afloat, the stemmed glass perfectly frosted. Then my mind moved to the wine. Just what white wine would be ideal?
"...beautiful, beautiful evening," the woman sang out. "Know something, though? I'm a little warmish, sweetie."
Warmish? I couldn't imagine why. There were two air conditioners in the apartment, one in the bedroom and one in the living room, and she'd left them both running in her absence. They'd kept the apartment more than comfortable. My hands are always warm and sweaty inside my rubber gloves, but the rest of me had been cool and dry.
Until now, that is. The bedroom air conditioner was having no discernible effect on the air in the closet, which was not what you'd call conditioned. My hands were getting the worst of it and I peeled my gloves off and stuck them in my pocket. At the moment fingerprints were my least pressing concern. Suffocation probably headed the list, or at least it seemed to, and close behind it came apprehension and arrest and prison, following one upon the other in a most unpleasant way.