The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian by Lawrence Block Read Free Book Online

locked and I had to unlock it.”
    “That rules out Randy.”
    “She wouldn’t have done it.”
    “No, but somebody could have copied her keys. Do I still have my set?” I went and checked, and I still had them. I turned, saw my attaché case propped up against the sofa. If I sold its contents for their full market value, I might have two-fifths of the price of a secondhand Burmese cat.
    Oh, I thought.
    “Take a couple of aspirin,” I said. “And if you want another drink, have it with hot water and sugar. You’ll sleep better.”
    “Sleep?”
    “Uh-huh, and the sooner the better. You take the bed, I’ll take the couch.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’ll take the couch. Except I won’t because I don’t want to go to sleep and I can’t stay here anyway. They said they would call me in the morning.”
    “That’s why I want you to get to sleep. So you’ll be clearheaded when they call.”
    “Bernie, I got news for you. I’m not gonna be clearheaded in the morning. I’m gonna have a head like a soccer ball that Pelé got pissed at.”
    “Well, I’ll be clearheaded,” I said, “and one head is better than none. The aspirin’s in the medicine cabinet.”
    “What a clever place for it. I bet you’re the kind of guy who keeps milk in the fridge and soap in the soap dish.”
    “I’ll fix you a hot toddy.”
    “Didn’t you hear what I said? I have to be at my place for when they call.”
    “They’ll call here.”
    “Why would they do that?”
    “Because you don’t have a quarter of a million dollars,” I said, “and who could mistake you for David Rockefeller? So if they want a hefty ransom for Archie they must expect you to steal it, and that means they must know you’ve got a friend in the stealing business, and that means they’ll call here. Drink this and take your aspirin and get ready for bed.”
    “I didn’t bring pajamas. Have you got a shirt or something that I can sleep in?”
    “Sure.”
    “And I’m not sleepy. I’ll just toss and turn, but I guess that’s all right.”
    Five minutes later she was snoring.

Chapter Five
    A sign on the counter said the suggested contribution was $2.50. “Contribute more or less if you prefer,” it counseled, “but you must contribute something. ” The chap immediately in front of us plunked down a dime. The attendant started to tell him about the suggested contribution, but our lad wasn’t open to suggestion.
    “Read your own sign, sonny,” he said sourly. “How many times do I have to go through this with you vermin? You’d think it was coming out of your own pockets. They haven’t got you on commission, have they?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Well, I’m an artist. The dime’s my widow’s mite. Take it in good grace or in the future I’ll reduce my contribution to a penny.”
    “Oh, you can’t do that, Mr. Turnquist,” the attendant said archly. “It would throw our whole budget out of whack.”
    “You know me, eh?”
    “Everybody knows you, Mr. Turnquist.” A heavy sigh. “Everybody.”
    He took Turnquist’s dime and gave him a little yellow lapel pin for it. Turnquist faced us as he fastened the pin to the breast pocket of his thrift shop suit jacket. It was a sort of gray, and came reasonably close to matching his thrift shop trousers. He smiled, showing misaligned tobacco-stained teeth. He had a beard, a ragged goatee a little redder than his rusty brown hair and a little more infiltrated with gray, and the rest of his face was two or three days away from a shave.
    “Little tin gods on wheels,” he advised us. “That’s all these people are. Don’t take any crap from them. If Art can be intimidated, it ain’t Art.”
    He moved on and I laid a five-dollar bill on the counter and accepted two lapel pins in return. “An artist,” the attendant said meaningfully. He tapped another sign, which announced that children under the age of sixteen were not admitted, whether or not accompanied by an adult.