I breathed in. I breathed out. Maybe, I thought, just maybe, I could get away with this one. Maybe Crystal and her gentleman friend would be sufficiently involved in one another so as not to notice the absence of jewelry. Maybe they'd do whatever they'd come to do, and having done it perhaps they'd leave, or lapse into coma, and then maybe I could let myself out of the closet and the apartment. Then, swag in hand, I could return to my own neighborhood and-
Hell!
Swag in hand indeed. My swag, all of it neatly packed in the Ultrasuede attache case, was not by any means in hand, not in hand and not at hand either. It was resting on the opposite side of the bedroom from me, propped against the wall under the pastel portrait of the disappointed mademoiselle. So even if Crystal didn't notice the absence of her jewelry she seemed more than likely to notice the presence of the case, and that would indicate not merely that she had been burgled but that the burglar had been interrupted while at work, and that would mean she would put in an urgent phone call to 911, and cop cars would descend upon the scene of the crime, and some minion of the law would be bright enough to open the closet, and I, Bernard Grimes Rhodenbarr, would be instantly up the creek, and in no time at all, up the river as well.
Hell!
"Something more comfortable," the woman said. I could hear them better now because they were en route to the bedroom, which I can't say astonished me. And then they were in the bedroom, and then they did what they'd come to the bedroom to do, and that's all you're going to hear from me on that subject. It was no fun listening to it and I'm certainly not going to try to re-create the experience for you.
As a matter of fact, I paid them the absolute minimum of attention myself. I let my mind return to the question of the perfect wine as accompaniment to the sweetbreads. Not a French white, I decided, for all that the sweetbreads were a French dish. A German white might have a little more oomph. A Rhine? That would do, certainly, but I decided after some thought that a choice Moselle might carry a wee bit more authority. I thought about a Piesporter Goldtropfchen I'd had not long ago, a bottle shared with a young woman with whom, as it turned out, that was all that was to be shared. That would be acceptable with the sweetbreads, certainly. One wouldn't want anything too dry. And yet the dish did call for a wine with a slight lingering sweetness, a fruity nose-
Of course! My mind summoned up memories of a '75 Ockfener Bockstein Kabinett, with a full, lovely flowery scent, a tart freshness of flavor like a bite out of a perfect Granny Smith apple, the merest hint of spice, just a trace of tongue-tickling spritz. There was no guarantee that the restaurant I'd chosen would have that particular wine, but neither was there any guarantee that I'd be having dinner there instead of doing five-to-fifteen at Attica, so I might as well give my imagination free rein. And what was that nonsense about a half bottle of wine? Any wine worth drinking was worth having a full bottle of, surely.
I rounded out my meal somewhat by guessing what the vegetable
du jour
might chance to be. Broccoli, I decided, steamed
al dente,
uncomplicated with Hollandaise-just dotted lightly with sweet butter. Or, failing that, some undercooked zucchini sauced very lightly with tomato and basil and dusted with grated Parmesan.
My thoughts then jumped sensibly enough to the after-dinner brandy. A good Cognac, I thought. Any good Cognac. And I let myself dwell on various good Cognacs I'd had at one time or another and the ever-more-comfortable circumstances than the present in which I'd relished them.
A drink, I thought, would help. It might not
really
help, but it would seem to help and I'd settle for that just now. A well-equipped burglar, I told myself, really ought to be supplied with a hip flask. Or even a square flask. A thermos, perhaps, to keep the martinis properly chilled...
Nothing lasts forever. The lovemaking of Crystal Sheldrake and her latest friend, which certainly seemed eternal to me if not to them, lasted by actual measurement twenty-three minutes. I can't say when Crystal 's key turned in her lock, having had more urgent matters on my mind at the time. But I did glance at my watch not too long after and noted that it was 9:38. I glanced again when the two of them entered the bedroom. 10:02. I checked again from time to time while the performance was in progress, and when the finale descended with a crash my glow-in-the-dark watch told me it was 10:25.
There was a spate of silence, a chorus of
Gee, you were terrific
and
You're sensational
and
We've got to do this more often,
all the things good up-to-date people say instead of
I love you.
Then the man said, "Christ, it's later than I thought. Half-past ten already. I better get going."
"Running back home to what's-her-name?"
"As if you didn't remember her name."
"I prefer to forget it. There are moments, my sweet, when I actually manage to forget her existence altogether."
"You sound jealous."
"Of course I'm jealous, baby. Does that come as a surprise to you?"
"Oh, come on, Crystal, you aren't really jealous."
"No?"
"Not a chance."
"Think it's just a role I play? Maybe you're right. I couldn't say. Your tie's crooked."
"Mmm, thanks."
They went on like this, not saying anything I had any enormous need to hear. I had trouble keeping all of my mind on their conversation, not only because it was duller than a Swedish film but because I kept waiting for one or the other of them to stub a toe on the attache case and wonder aloud how it happened to be there. This, however, did not happen. There was more chitchat, and then she walked him to the door and let him out and locked up after him, and I think I heard the sound of her snicking the sliding bolt shut. Fine precaution to take, lady, I thought, with the burglar already tucked away in your clothes closet.
Then I heard nothing at all for a while, and then the phone rang twice and was answered, and there was a conversation which I couldn't make out. More silence, this time followed by a temper tantrum of brief duration. "Stinking sonofabitch bastard," Crystal roared, out of the blue. I had no way of knowing whether she was referring to her recent bedmate, her ex-husband, her telephone caller, or someone else altogether. Nor did I too much care. She yelled out just once, and then there was a thudding sound, perhaps of her heaving something at a wall. Then calm returned.
And so did Crystal, retracing her steps from living room to bedroom. I guess she had replenished her drink somewhere along the way, because I heard ice cubes clinking. By now, however, I no longer actively wanted something wet. I just wanted to go home.
The next thing I heard was water running. There was a lavatory in the hallway off the living room, a full bathroom off the bedroom. The bathroom had a stall shower and that's what I was hearing. Crystal was going to erase the patina of love-making. The man had left and Crystal was going to take a shower and all I had to do was pop out of the closet and scoop up my jewel-laden attache case and be gone.
I was just about to do this when the shower became suddenly more audible than it had been. I shrank back behind the rack of dresses and sundry garments, and footsteps approached me, and a key turned, neatly locking me in the closet.
Which of course was not her intent. She wanted to unlock the door, and she had left it locked and assumed it was still locked, so she'd turned the key, and-
"Funny," she said aloud. And paused, and then turned the key in the opposite direction, this time unlocking the closet, and reached in to take a hooded lime-green terry-cloth robe from a hanger.
I did not breathe while this was happening. Not specifically to escape detection but because breathing is impossible when your heart is lodged in your windpipe.
There was Crystal, ash-blond hair stuffed into a coral shower cap. I saw her but she didn't see me, and that was just fine, and in the wink of an eye (if anyone's eye winked) she was closing the door again.
And locking it.
Wonderful. She had a thing about closets. Some people can't leave a room for five minutes without turning off the lights. Crystal couldn't walk away from an unlocked closet. I listened as her footsteps carried her back to the bathroom, listened as the bathroom door closed, listened as she settled herself under her pulsating massagic shower head (no speculation; I'd looked in the bathroom and she had one of those jobbies).
Then I stopped listening and poked between the dresses and turned the doorknob and pushed, and when the door predictably refused to budge I could have wept.
What an incredible comedy of errors. What a massive farce.
I stroked the lock with my fingertips. It was laughable, of course. A good kick would have sent the door flying open, but that would involve more noise than I cared to create. So I'd have to find a gentler way out, and the first step was to get the damned key out of the lock.
Which is easy enough. I supplied myself with a scrap of paper by tearing one of the protective garment bags that was protecting one of Crystal 's garments. I scrunched down on hands and knees and slipped the paper under the door so that it was positioned beneath the keyhole. Then I used one of my little pieces of steel to poke around in the silly-ass lock until the key jiggled loose and fell to the floor.
Back on my hands and knees again, tugging at the paper. Tugging gently, because a swift tug would have the effect of a swift yank on a tablecloth, removing the cloth but leaving the dishes behind. I didn't just want the paper. I wanted the key that was on it as well. Why pick a lock if the key's just inches from your grasp? Easy does it, take your time, easy, that's right-
And then the door buzzer buzzed.
I swear I wanted to spit. The damned buzzer made a sound loud enough to make hens stop laying. I froze where I was, praying fervently that Crystal wouldn't hear it under the shower, but evidently my prayer wasn't quite fervent enough. Because the thing sounded again, a long horrible piercing blurt, and while it was so doing Crystal shut off the water.
I stayed where I was and I went on tugging at the scrap of paper. The last thing I wanted was for her to spot the key on the floor on her way to the door. The key cleared the door and came into view, and while this was happening the bathroom door opened and I heard her footsteps.
I stayed where I was, crouched on the floor as if in prayer. If she noticed that the key was missing, well, at least she wouldn't be able to open it because I had the key. That, I told myself, was something.
But she didn't even slow down as she passed the closet. She swept right on by, presumably in her lime-green terry-cloth robe. I suppose she poked the answering buzzer to unlatch the downstairs door. I waited, and I suppose she waited, and then the doorbell sounded its two-tone chime. Then she opened the door.
By this time I had gotten to my feet again and was standing behind the rack of dresses. I was also paying close attention to what was happening, but it was hard for me to get a clear picture of what was going on. The door opened. I heard Crystal saying something. Part of what she said was inaudible, but I could make out
"What is it? What do you want?"
and similar expressions. It seems to me that there was panic in her voice, or at the least a whole lot of apprehension, but I may have just filled that in after the fact.
Then she said "
No, no!
" very loud, and there was no missing the terror. And then she screamed, but it was a very brief scream, chopped off abruptly as if it were a recording and someone lifted the tone arm from the record.
Then a thudding sound.
Then nothing at all.
And there I was, standing snugly in my closet like the world's most cautious homosexual. After a moment or two I thought about using the key in my hand to unlock the door, but then once again I heard movement outside. Footsteps, but they sounded different from Crystal 's. I couldn't say that they were lighter or heavier. Just a different step. I'd grown used to Crystal 's footsteps, having spent so much time lately listening to them.
The footsteps approached, reached the bedroom. The source of the footsteps began moving around the bedroom, opening drawers, moving furniture around. At one point the doorknob turned but of course the door was still locked. Whoever had turned the knob was evidently not proficient at picking locks. The closet was abandoned and I was safe inside it.
More movement. Then, after what couldn't really have been an eternity, the footsteps passed me again and returned to the living room. The apartment's outer door opened and closed-I'd learned to recognize that sound.
I looked at my watch. It was eleven minutes to eleven, and thinking of it that way made it more memorable than 10:49. I looked at the key I was holding and I slipped it into the lock and turned it, and then I hesitated before opening the door. Because I had all too good an idea what I'd find there and it wasn't anything I was in a rush to look at.
On the other hand, I was really sick of that closet.
I let myself out. And found, in the living room, pretty much what I'd expected. Crystal Sheldrake, sprawled out on her back, one leg bent at the knee, the foot cramped beneath the opposite thigh. Blond hair in shower cap. Green robe open so that most of her rather spectacular body was exposed.