The Burglar in the Rye

CHAPTER Eleven

“Kessler’s Maryland Rye Whiskey,” Martin Gilmartin pronounced, holding his glass to the light. “Sounds like something a bellhop would bring you.” He took a sip, considered it. “Sweet, but not cloying. Still, I don’t think it will win me away from scotch.”

“No.”

“But it has a distinctive taste. Got some body to it. And some authority, I’d say.” He took another sip. “Very American drink, isn’t it? Though I don’t know of anyone who drinks it, American or otherwise. Still, people must. The bottle wasn’t covered with dust.”

I’d asked if the club had rye, not a blend but a straight rye whiskey, and the waiter had brought the bottle of Kessler’s to the table. I’d studied it like an oenophile peering at a wine bottle, trying to make out if it was chateau-bottled. I said it looked all right to me, and he took it away and brought back a couple of drinks, and we were doing our part and drinking them.

“I could imagine John Wayne ordering this,” he said. “In a film, that is to say. Shoving his way through the bat-wing doors of a saloon. The room goes dead silent. He bellies up to the bar. ‘ Rye whiskey,’ he says, putting that take-it-or-leave-it tone of his in each syllable.” He took another sip. “It grows on you,” he said.

We were in the downstairs lounge at his club on Gramercy Park. We were both wearing blue blazers and striped ties, but Marty managed to look a good deal more elegant than I. He always does. He’s tall and slender and silver-haired, with the kind of looks and bearing that belong in a Man of Distinction ad-or in a club like The Pretenders, where the portraits on the walls were mostly of great actors of the past, Drew and Barrymore and Booth. They all looked at once dashing and distinguished, and so did my host.

Marty’s a businessman and an investor and not an actor at all, except insofar as he plays his part in the drama of life. But there are non-actors among The Pretenders-a pulse and a checkbook seem to be the principal qualifications for membership. Marty’s listed on the club’s rolls as a patron of the theater, which generally means no more than that the member so designated goes to a play once in a while. But Marty’s connection is deeper than that. He’s an occasional angel for off-Broadway productions, and he’s made a habit over the years of one-on-one interactions with individual members of the acting profession.

Individual female members, that is to say.

“It said in today’s Daily News that she’s an actress,” I said, and hefted my glass of rye. “I suppose I should have guessed as much.”

“ Isis, you mean.”

“Isis Gauthier. She’s a beauty, Marty. I’ll say that for her.”

“It’s not what you think,” he said, and then looked aghast at his own words. “I can’t believe I said that. ‘It’s not what you think.’ Of course it is, it’s very much what you think, so let me amend my statement. It’s not just what you think.”

“All right.”

He raised his glass, found it empty, and motioned for the waiter. When both our glasses had been refilled, he took a sip and heaved a sigh. He said, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever met my friend John Considine.”

“I don’t believe I have.”

“And why would you? John’s a bond trader. Sails, plays a lot of golf.”

“Is he a member here?”

“No, though I’ve offered to put him up. In a manner of speaking, he’s a patron of the theater.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Quite. John’s a happily married man, a father and grandfather, but sailing a boat and hitting a golf ball can only go so far. Over the years, John has had a series of friendships with some charming and talented young women.”

“Actresses.”

“For the most part. A little over a year ago, John and his wife attended a Psoriasis Foundation benefit here in the city. It was well past midnight by the time they returned to their home in Sands Point, and in their absence they’d had visitors.”

“Burglars.”

“Yes. They’d come and gone by the time the Considines returned.”

“That’s just as well,” I said, “for the good of all concerned. Some burglars are capable of violence when provoked, and so are some of the people they visit.”

“John was on the wrestling team at Colgate,” he said. “Of course, that was a while ago. Since then he’s had his share of good dinners, not to mention an angioplasty. So it was as well that he and his uninvited guests never met, especially since their visit struck him as less a violation than an opportunity.”

I made the leap. “Insurance.”

“You’re very quick, but then so was John. He saw at a glance that he’d been…burgled? Or burglarized?”

“Either,” I said. “Or eye-ther. Whichever.”

He considered the matter. “Burgled,” he said decisively. “A robber robs, a mugger mugs, and, I suppose, a forger forges on. So a burglar burgles, and these burglars left a mess-chair cushions tossed around, furniture overturned. Bernie, you look appalled.”

“Believe me, I am.”

“So was Cynthia.”

“Mrs. Considine.”

He nodded. “John took her outside and made her wait in the car while he assessed the damage and alerted the authorities.”

“Dangerous. Suppose they were still in the house?”

“Either he was blind to the risk or he was prepared to run it. He dashed upstairs to the master bedroom, where the evidence of a crime was unmistakable. Night tables upended, drawers dumped out on the floor.”

“Barbarians.”

“John did not linger. He phoned 911, then hurried downstairs to his wife. ‘They left the safe wide open,’ he told her. ‘They cleaned it out. They got everything.’”

“But they hadn’t?”

“It was a wall safe,” he said, “concealed behind a print hanging in the bedroom. The print was worth a few dollars itself, but the burglars didn’t recognize it, or didn’t care. If they’d known to take it they’d have found the safe, and who knows? They might have been able to open it.”

“If they didn’t know enough to find it,” I said, “they wouldn’t have been able to open it. Unless your friend taped the combination to the back of the picture frame, like a fellow I paid a call on some years back.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I guess he found it a useful aid to memory,” I said, “and I guess he figured nobody would notice. And he was right, damn him. I didn’t spot it until I was replacing the picture on my way out. I’d managed to get into the safe on sheer talent, but I’d have been in and out a lot faster if I’d seen what he left for me.” I shook my head at the memory. “Never mind. John Considine cleaned out his own safe.”

“He had some cash there,” he said, “which wasn’t covered by insurance, and which the IRS certainly didn’t need to know about. He found another place to stash it. He also had some papers in the safe-the deed to the house, some bonds and stock certificates, a couple of promissory notes and mortgages he held. He added these to the litter on the floor, so that it would look as though the burglars had deemed them not worth the taking.”

“They took the cash,” I said, “and let the credit go.”

“That’s how he made it look. They took the jewelry, too. They had in fact walked off with Cynthia’s jewel box, plus everything in the top dresser drawer, but she kept her best ten or twelve pieces in the safe. Those were the ones important enough to be listed specifically on John’s homeowner policy. His pockets were bulging with them even as he was telling her he feared they were gone forever.”

“Some would call him resourceful,” I mused, “while others would label him a cad.”

“The diem presented itself,” he said, “and John carped it. In a sense, though, it slipped through his fingers. The police came and investigated, told him it looked like the work of a ring of burglars who’d been operating in the area, and held out little hope that the stolen articles would be recovered. John put in a claim for the full value of everything that had been stolen, excepting the unreported cash, of course, but including the several pieces of jewelry he’d stolen himself. The company paid. They’re all terrible weasels, but in this instance they had no choice. There was no question that John owned the pieces, and that his policy covered them, nor was there any doubt in anyone’s mind that a burglary had occurred. The claim was approved and the check issued.”

“I thought you said something slipped through his fingers.”

“And indeed it did.” He picked up his glass. “This rye grows on one, doesn’t it? Do you suppose we have time for another?”

“Time’s not a problem. But I might need to drive or operate machinery.”

“You’ll want a clear head,” he said, and put his glass down. “Back to John Considine. The company paid, and no sooner did John deposit the check than Cynthia went on a shopping spree. She had to replace everything that had been taken, and who could fault her for improving a bit on the original? By the time she was done, she’d spent every penny of the insurance company’s payment, and some thousands of dollars more.”

“So John was out of pocket on the deal,” I said. “Still, in terms of net worth, he was ahead of the game, wasn’t he? He was out a few thousand in cash, but he still had all the jewels.”

“And what could he do with them?”

“Oh.”

“Precisely. It would have been a different matter if he’d made his wife a party to the fraud. But such a course might have had unfortunate consequences of its own. John kept his own counsel. And he rented a safety deposit box and stashed the jewels in it.”

“And there they remain.”

“Not quite all of them.”

“Oh?”

“At the time of the burglary, John had a special friendship with a young woman named…well, it hardly matters, as she’s no longer a part of his life. He was quite taken with her at the time, and he gave her a bracelet, which had formerly reposed in his safe. It wasn’t that distinctive in design, and it was worth a few thousand at the most. A substantial gift, but not wildly inappropriate. When they bade each other good-bye some months later, she did not offer to return the bracelet, nor did he feel he had the right to ask for it.”

“And she’s not a part of the story now.”

“No.”

“But another woman is.”

He nodded. “Shortly after their breakup,” he said, “or it may even have been shortly before that event, John met another young woman.”

“An actress.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“I don’t suppose she was living at the Hotel Paddington.”

“She was,” he said, “and that meant having to go through the lobby whenever he visited her, which John didn’t much care for. On the other hand, the place has a certain artistic tradition, and an air of romance. And John was smitten with this girl.”

“So much so that he gave her…”

“He says it was a loan.”

“A loan?”

“According to him, he made that quite clear to her. She’d been cast in an off-Broadway show, a revival of The Play’s the Thing, and the necklace they’d given her to wear was what you’d expect, something from the dime store. She thought it looked garish and tacky, and not at all what the role called for. She was an African-American actress playing a traditionally white role, and the last thing she wanted was to wear something tawdry. And John, in the grip of early passion, told her he had just the thing.”

“A ruby necklace.”

“With earrings to match,” he said. “His instincts were good, at least for the short term. Because she absolutely loved the necklace. And why not? Burmese rubies set in twenty-two-karat gold are not that difficult to like. She thought it was the perfect thing for her character to wear, and she was as fond of it offstage as on. During the run of the play, she wore it onstage all by itself. Afterward, when she met him for a drink, she’d add the earrings.”

“And he’d told her it was just a loan.”

“So he says. Her recollection is somewhat different.”

“The play’s not still running, is it?”

“Its run ended some months ago.”

“But I don’t suppose she returned the jewels.”

“No, and John was reluctant to press her. Why introduce a note of discord just when things were going so well between them?”

“If things were going that well,” I said, “he could have let her keep them. Unless they were very valuable.”

“The set of three pieces-necklace and earrings-was listed on John’s insurance policy at sixty-five thousand dollars. That’s what he’d paid for it, that’s what he insured it for, and that’s what they paid him.”

“No wonder he wanted it back.”

“Exactly.”

“But he didn’t press the point.”

“No, he didn’t. And then Cynthia began talking about the jewels.”

“All the ones she’d lost? Or these pieces specifically?”

“The ruby necklace and earrings. She’d bought other jewelry, but she hadn’t literally replaced what she’d lost. The rubies were her favorites. John had bought them for her on the occasion of a great financial triumph, so there was some sentimental value as well, for both of them. Now he began to regret ever having separated them from her, but he couldn’t just find them, could he? So he invented a private detective.”

“‘Invented?’ Don’t you mean…”

“Made him up,” he said, “out of the whole cloth. ‘I’ve consulted a chap,’ he told her. ‘A shady fellow, no better than he should be, but he’s got contacts throughout the criminal world.’ It would be this detective’s task to buy back the necklace and earrings.”

“I bet Mrs. Considine was impressed.”

“Overwhelmed, according to John, and her reaction made him realize how important she was to him, and what a rotter he’d been, and shortsighted in the bargain. ‘Actresses come and go,’ he said, ‘but a wife is forever.’ He went to the Paddington and asked for the jewels back.”

“And didn’t get them.”

“‘They’re mine,’ Isis said. ‘You gave them to me.’ It was a time for diplomacy, not strong emotion, but the latter gets in the way of the former. John said something regrettable about her acting ability, and she responded with some equally unfortunate remarks about his prowess as a lover. By the time the dust had settled, their affair was over. And she still had the necklace and earrings.” He sighed. “It was then that he called me. I met him here and gave him lunch upstairs, and he told me everything I’ve just told you.”

“He was recruiting you,” I guessed, “to be the private detective.”

“Do you think I’m the type, Bernie? A shady character? You’re my sole contact in the criminal demimonde, and John doesn’t even know about you. No, he just wanted a confidant, someone who knew the participants. Edna and I are friendly with him and Cynthia, you see, and at the same time I’d seen Isis onstage. I must say John’s heat-of-the-moment comment was unwarranted. She’s a perfectly adequate actress, and she lights up the theater.”

“When was your lunch with John?”

“Friday.”

“And his blowup with Isis was-”

“A few days before. I told John I’d see what I could do. He couldn’t talk to her, they’d parted on bad terms, but perhaps a third party could get somewhere on his behalf. He thought I might offer her a decent sum for the rubies. He suggested five thousand dollars, which would be less than a tenth of their value, but a not insignificant sum. Coming from him, such an offer would be an unpardonable insult, essentially setting a price on her favors after the fact. Coming from a dispassionate friend, however, it might be another matter.”

“So you came to the hotel, and-”

He shook his head. “I called her on Monday,” he said, “and made a date for lunch on Wednesday. I met her at Le Chien Bizarre on East Thirty-ninth. You met her, so you must have noticed those blue eyes.”

“They’d have been hard to miss.”

“If she were a blonde from Sweden,” he said, “I don’t suppose those eyes of hers would be anything special. Context is everything, isn’t it?” He pursed his lips, whistled soundlessly. “We had salads and omelets and shared a very decent bottle of wine.”

“And went back to the Paddington.”

“We were coming in,” he said, “even as you were going out.”

“I guess she’d agreed to return the jewels.”

“Not exactly. We were going to continue our discussion.”

“In her room,” I said. “How long were you there?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Discussing the situation.”

“Quite,” Marty said, looking like the cat who has done something naughty to the canary.

“I guess there was a lot to discuss.”

“More than you might think. I had to take her side against John, and she was positively furious with him.”

“Because he’d insulted her?”

“He’d done more than that. He’d taken the rubies.”

“It’s good we didn’t have that third round of drinks,” I said, “because I think the last round hit me harder than I realized. If John already had the rubies, why did he send you after them?”

“He didn’t have them. But neither did she. She’d planned on wearing them to lunch, and when she looked for them they were gone.”

I lifted an eyebrow.

“You don’t believe her?”

Not for a minute. If her jewels were gone when Marty saw her at lunchtime, how did they magically reappear in her undies drawer that evening? But all I said was it seemed remarkably convenient.

“I had much the same thought,” he allowed. “Yet her words had the ring of truth.”

The necklace of falsehood and the ring of truth. “You said she was a good actress.”

“I had that thought as well. All in all, I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt.” He looked off into the middle distance. “She’s attractive and personable. We enjoyed our lunch, we enjoyed a good bottle of Pommard, and we enjoyed each other’s company. Did it occur to me that she might be lying about the disappearance of the jewels? Of course it did. Maybe they were in a dresser drawer, or tucked in one of the boots her teddy bear was wearing. I couldn’t be certain, and at the moment I didn’t care overly much.”

“And why should you? They weren’t your rubies.”

“But John’s my friend, and he’d entrusted me with a mission. Going to bed with his girlfriend didn’t lessen my obligation to him. So I took care to let Isis know that, should the gems reappear as magically as they’d vanished, I could see that she wound up ten thousand dollars to the good.”

“Didn’t you say five thousand?”

“That was John’s original idea, but he’d agreed I could go as high as ten if I had to. I barely mentioned the lower number, and then went right to the top. Why bargain with a woman you’ve just been to bed with, especially when it’s somebody else’s money?” He sighed. “The sum didn’t bowl her over. I sensed she’d had the pieces appraised, or at least had some notion of their value. Her position never changed-she couldn’t take the money because she didn’t have the rubies. They’d been stolen, and she hadn’t reported the theft because she’d taken it for granted it was John’s doing.”

“And she didn’t have title, so what good would it do her to report the loss?”

“Exactly,” he said. “When I saw you, Bernie, I didn’t think about you in connection with John and Isis and the rubies, because I didn’t as yet know they’d been stolen. Then afterward I remembered passing you in the lobby.”

“But they were gone when she was dressing for lunch, and you’d already had lunch when you ran into me.”

“Who’s to say when you arrived, or how many visits you might have paid to the hotel? But it might not have been you. It could have been anyone John commissioned to go after the necklace and earrings. So I called him, and he was astonished at her effrontery. He flatly denied having anything to do with the jewelry’s disappearance, and took it for granted she was lying, and was amazed she’d turned out to be such a devious bitch. The intensity of his reaction was convincing, and helped dispel any guilt I might have had about sharing a tender moment with the girl. I hadn’t been poaching on my friend’s preserve, because their relationship had clearly run its course.”

“So you believed them both. Somebody took the rubies, but it wasn’t him.”

“That’s correct. And then I thought of you once more, and I was going to call you today. But something made me call Isis last night, and she told me about the excitement at the Paddington. How she’d confronted a suspicious character in the hallway, and how he turned out to be a burglar and a murderer.”

“A burglar perhaps, but-”

“You don’t have to tell me, Bernie. I know the woman’s death wasn’t your doing.”

“Everybody seems to know I’m not capable of murder,” I said, “and all the same I keep getting arrested for it. You did me a big favor, bailing me out.”

“I’m only sorry you had to spend the night in a cell. But, if you’re inclined to return the favor…”

“How?”

“The rubies.”

“Ah, the rubies,” I said. “Who’ll you give them to, have you decided? Your old buddy or your new girlfriend?”

“That’s a question,” he acknowledged. “And merely one of many. What sent you after the rubies? Was it sheer coincidence? Or did John know a shady private detective after all?”

“I don’t know any private detectives,” I said, “shady or otherwise. And I’d never heard of John Considine, and I guess I missed that Molnár revival, because I’d never heard of Isis Gauthier, either. I didn’t go to the Paddington for the rubies. I went for Gulliver Fairborn’s letters.”

“And the woman who was murdered-”

“Was his agent, and she had the letters, and yes, I went looking for them. Somebody else found them first, and killed her, and the next thing I knew I was wearing handcuffs and hearing all about my constitutional rights.”

“You didn’t know about the rubies.”

“No.”

He looked at me, looked away, looked down at his hands. “I’m going to have another drink,” he said, and raised a hand for the waiter. “Perrier for you this time?”

“No, rye’s fine.”

“I thought you wanted to keep a clear head.”

“It’s too late for that, and I’m beginning to think clear heads are overrated. I had a clear head last night, and what did it get me?”

The drinks came and we went to work on them. Then he said, “This is difficult, but there’s no getting around it. You’ve just said you knew nothing about the rubies, and the last thing I want to do is call you a liar, and yet…”

“And yet you think I’m lying.”

“Bernie, how on earth did you know the jewels were rubies?”

“You said they were.”

“No.”

“Of course you did, Marty. Burmese rubies set in twenty-two-karat gold. Remember?”

He shook his head. “First I mentioned the necklace she’d worn in the play, and I said John offered her a replacement. ‘A ruby necklace,’ you said, and only then did I describe the necklace and earrings. But how did you know they were rubies?”

“I could say something about the whole world of psychic phenomena, of which we understand so little.”

“I suppose you could.”

“But I won’t,” I said, and drank some more of my rye, hoping it would do more than Milt or malt to make me feel blameless. “I was lying, but at the same time I was telling the truth.”

“Oh?”

“I never heard of Considine, or Isis, or the rubies. I went looking for some letters and found a dead body. All I wanted to do was get out of there.”

“And?”

“And on my way out I took a shortcut through another room, and guess what I found in the underwear drawer?”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I wasn’t looking for rubies, not specifically. I’d have preferred cash, to tell you the truth, but what I found was rubies, and to my not entirely untrained eye they looked pretty good. So I took them.”

“Because, after all, that’s what you do.”

“It seems to be. But she looked for the rubies that morning and couldn’t find them, isn’t that what she told you?”

“Yes.”

“I hadn’t even been to the hotel at that point. I didn’t check in until a few minutes before I saw you. Anyway, she must have been telling you a story, don’t you think? Unless she looked in the wrong drawer and honestly thought they’d been stolen.”

He thought that one over. “I don’t know,” he said. “That sounds a little far-fetched, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t she go through all the drawers and make sure?”

“Probably, but-”

“She could have been lying,” he said, “though it’s hard to know why. Still, the possibility had occurred to me.”

“You mentioned as much. You said maybe the rubies were stuffed in Paddington’s boots.”

“Paddington’s-oh, the bear. Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t even notice a bear in her room. It certainly wasn’t on top of the dresser.”

“She kept it on the bed. It, uh, got moved to the little chair.”

“I must have looked at the bed,” I said, “but if there was a bear on it I never noticed. I don’t remember a bear on the little chair, either.” I frowned. “Come to think of it, I don’t remember a little chair. Just a big Morris-type armchair.”

“Well, I don’t recall an armchair, but I can’t say I was paying much attention to the furnishings. I remember the little side chair because she moved the bear to it, but I should be hard put to describe it to you. The only decorative note that sticks in my mind is that godawful painting.”

“What painting was that?”

“Elvis on black velvet. I guess my horror showed. ‘It’s a black thing,’ she told me. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ I’m sure she was being ironic, but-”

“Elvis on black velvet.”

“You’ve seen them, haven’t you? In the same sort of shops that sell pictures of dogs playing poker. I always wondered who would buy something like that, and now I know.”

“I don’t know how I missed it. I was in a hurry to get out of there, but it’s not like me to be that oblivious to my surroundings. And it’s a dangerous trait in a burglar. But I’d just seen a corpse and escaped from a murder scene while the cops were knocking on the door, and maybe that threw me off. I was too grateful to be off the fire escape to pay attention to where I was.”

“But not too grateful to keep you from picking up some jewelry.”

“Never mind that,” I said. “I just realized something. I ran into Isis in the hallway outside Anthea Landau’s room.”

“So?”

“So what the hell was she doing there?”

“Didn’t you say she was waiting for the elevator?”

“So she said, and eventually it came and she got on it, though not a moment too soon. But forget the elevator. What was she doing on the sixth floor?”

“What do you mean?”

“I may not remember Elvis on black velvet,” I said, “but I remember that fire escape. I went out Landau’s bedroom window and climbed down three flights of rickety iron steps until I found a room with nobody home. That was on the third floor, and that’s where Isis lived, and-”

“No.”

“No?”

“I distinctly remember,” he said, “that her room was on the sixth floor. So she had every right to be waiting for an elevator in the sixth-floor hallway. But if her room was on Six, and if the room you broke into was three floors below…”

We looked at each other.