100 Malicious Little Mysteries

Don’t I Know You? by Henry Slesar

The man was well-groomed, in a sleek, furry way midway in style between Broadway and Bond Street. His hands were buried in the deep pockets of his camel’s-hair coat, and he blew a frosty breath of winter past his mink mustache as he waited for the light to change.

The other man, smaller, not so well-groomed, his brown tweed overcoat threadbare in comparison, looked at him sharply, looked away, looked back, and was finally rewarded by an answering stare, equally puzzled and involved.

They crossed the street together, matching stride for stride, and then stopped at the opposite corner and looked at each other again. The mustached man cracked the silence first, with a smile and the words:

“Don’t I know you?”

It took the smaller man a longer time to thaw. He said, “I sure as heck think I know you. Only I can’t remember—”

“Carmody’s the name,” the mustached man said, in a manner suggesting the click of heels or the presentation of a card. Actually, he didn’t move his well-shined shoes or remove his hands from his pockets.

“My name’s Siegel,” the smaller man said. “Frank Siegel. And if we do know each other” — here he finally managed the smile — “must have been a heck of a long time ago. You don’t come from Michigan, by any chance?”

“Never been there,” Carmody said. “But I’ve traveled a lot. South mostly, Florida, the Caribbean, southern Europe. I like the sunshine — hate this beastly cold.” He said the adjective without a hint of English accent.

“No,” Siegel said, “Never been to any of those places.”

“School, maybe? No, I suppose not. I went to Washington and Lee.”

“City College.”

“Must have been some place,” Carmody said. “The more I look at you, the surer I am.”

“Same with me,” Siegel said.

“Look,” Carmody said, searching the east and west of the street, “I’m in no great hurry, are you? We could stop for a drink — nice warm bar — puzzle it all out.”

“Well,” Siegel said uncertainly. But he wasn’t in a hurry. “All right,” he finished. “One drink.”

They chose a small uncrowded cocktail lounge on 50th Street and took a booth in the rear. Carmody had a martini, and Siegel, who didn’t like liquor much, had a beer. He was content to let Carmody do the probing of the past.

“Mutual friends, maybe?” Carmody said. “Know anybody named Martin? My life is loaded with people named Martin. No? How about George LeRoy? Carl Kramer? Lillian Dietz?”

Siegel kept shaking his head. He began to feel tired, and even to lose interest, until Carmody said, “Well, I know one thing. We don’t have the same occupation.” He lifted his glass. The gin twinkled and so did his eyes. “I’m a thief,” he said.

Siegel’s eyebrows met. “How do you mean that?”

“Why, literally, my friend, literally,” Carmody said. “I’m a member of a vanishing species. A good thief. Society thief. Used to be the darling of the fiction writers and Sunday supplements — but no more.”

“You’re kidding me,” Siegel said, in an injured voice.

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” answered Carmody. “I steal for a living. Steal very nice, pretty things, with high price tags. Only from people who can afford it, of course — that’s my one principle.”

He took his left hand out of his pocket for the first time. There was a jeweled bracelet in the hand. Rows of neat diamonds made blue daggers of light in the darkened booth.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Belonged to a widow who hasn’t worn it in fifteen years. I’m doing everybody a favor by restoring it to circulation.”

“And you really stole this bracelet?”

“This morning,” Carmody smiled. “It was very easy, really. And of course, now I’ll sell it — to anybody who wants it. I’ll even sell it to you.”

“I couldn’t buy something like that,” Siegel said.

“Maybe you could. I’d guess that it’s worth, oh, five, six thousand dollars. You could have it for five, six hundred, whatever you could afford.”

“You really mean this?”

“Of course,” Carmody said. “It’s the least I can do for an old friend.” The smile broadened, showing most of his good teeth. “Even if I can’t remember who you are.”

Siegel sighed. It was a sigh of regret. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He opened it lengthways to show Carmody something else that glittered, even if dully. It was his police badge.

“I’m a detective,” he said, with genuine sadness. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carmody, but I’ll have to place you under arrest.”

Carmody’s facial muscles gave a twitch of surprise. He groaned slightly, and put the “diamond” bracelet into the ashtray. He was plainly distressed, but he forced himself to restore a shadow of his lost smile.

“Of course,” he said. “Now I remember where I know you from.”