The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian

CHAPTER Fifteen

“You can rent ’em for only fifty bucks a month,” she said. “That’s a pretty good deal, isn’t it? Comes to less than two dollars a day. What else can you get for less than two dollars a day?”

“Breakfast,” I said, “if you’re a careful shopper.”

“And a lousy tipper. The only thing is they got a one-month minimum. Even if we bring the thing back in an hour and a half, it’s the same fifty bucks.”

“We might not bring it back at all. How much of a deposit did you have to leave?”

“A hundred. Plus the first month’s rental, so I’m out a hundred and a half. But the hundred comes back when we return the thing. If we return the thing.”

We paused at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twelfth Street, waiting for the light to change. It changed and we headed across. At the opposite side Carolyn said, “Didn’t they pass a law? Aren’t there supposed to be access ramps at all corners?”

“That sounds familiar.”

“Well, do you call this a ramp? Look at this curb, will you? You could hang-glide off of it.”

“You push down on the handles,” I said, “and I’ll lift. Here we go.”

“Shit.”

“Easy does it.”

“Shit with chocolate sauce. I mean we can manage it, even a steep curb, but what’s a genuinely handicapped person out on his own supposed to do, will you tell me that?”

“You’ve been asking that question once a block.”

“Well, my consciousness is being raised every time we have to shlep this damned thing up another curb. It’s the kind of cause I could get worked up about. Show me a petition and I’ll sign it. Show me a parade and I’ll march. What’s so funny?”

“I was picturing the parade.”

“You’ve got a sick sense of humor, Bernie. Anyone ever tell you that? Help me push-I’m giving our friend here a bumpy ride.”

Not that our friend was apt to complain. He was the late Mr. Turnquist, of course, and the thing we were pushing, as you’ve probably figured out, was a wheelchair, leased from Pitterman Hospital and Surgical Supply on First Avenue between Fifteenth and Sixteenth Streets. Carolyn had gone there, rented the contraption, and brought it back in the trunk of a cab. I’d helped her get it into the bookstore, where we’d unfolded it and wrestled Turnquist into it.

By the time we left the store he looked natural enough sitting there, and a lot better than he’d looked on the throne in my john. There was a leather strap that fastened around his waist, and I’d added a couple of lengths of old lamp cord to secure his wrists to the chair’s arms and his ankles to an appropriately positioned rail. A lap robe-an old blanket, really, slightly mildewed-covered him from the neck down. A pair of Foster Grants hid his staring blue eyes. A peaked tweed cap that had been hanging on a nail in my back room since March, waiting for its owner to reclaim it, now sat on Turnquist’s head, doing its best to make him a shade less identifiable. And in that fashion we made our way westward, trying to figure out what the hell was happening, and getting distracted once a block when Carolyn started bitching about the curbs.

“What we’re doing,” she said. “Transporting a dead body. Is it a felony or a misdemeanor?”

“I don’t remember. It’s a no-no, that’s for sure. The law takes a dim view of it.”

“In the movies, you’re not supposed to touch anything.”

“I never touch anything in the movies. What you’re supposed to do is report dead bodies immediately to the police. You could have done that. You could have come right out of the john and told Ray there was a corpse sitting on the pot. You wouldn’t have even had to make a phone call.”

She shrugged. “I figured he’d want an explanation.”

“It’s likely.”

“I also figured we didn’t have one.”

“Right again.”

“How’d he get there, Bernie?”

“I don’t know. He felt fairly warm to the touch but I haven’t touched a whole lot of dead people in my time and I don’t know how long it takes them to cool off. He could have been in the store yesterday when I locked up. I closed the place in a hurry, remember, because I’d just been arrested and that kept me from concentrating fully upon my usual routine. He could have been browsing in the stacks, or he could have slipped into the back room and hidden out on purpose.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Beats me. Then he could have been there and sometime in the course of the night or morning he could have gone to the john, sat down on it without dropping his pants, and died.”

“Of a heart attack or something?”

“Or something,” I agreed, and the wheelchair hit a bump in the sidewalk. Our passenger’s head flopped forward, almost dislodging cap and sunglasses. Carolyn straightened things out.

“He’ll sue us,” she said. “Whiplash.”

“Carolyn, the man’s dead. Don’t make jokes.”

“I can’t help it. It’s a nervous reaction. You think he just died of natural causes?”

“This is New York. Murder’s a natural cause in this city.”

“You think he was murdered? Who could have murdered him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think somebody else was in the store with him? How did they get out?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he committed suicide.”

“Why not? He was a Russian agent, he had a cyanide capsule in a hollow tooth, and he knew the jig was up, so he let himself into my store and bit down on the old bicuspid. It’s natural enough that he’d want to die in the presence of first editions and fine bindings.”

“Well, if it wasn’t a heart attack or suicide-”

“Or herpes,” I said. “I understand there’s a lot of it going around.”

“If it wasn’t one of those things, and if somebody killed him, how did they do it? You think you locked two people in the store last night?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“He could have slipped in when I opened up this morning. I might not have noticed. Then, while I was picking up coffee and taking it to your place-”

“That rotten coffee.”

“-he could have gone into the john and died. Or if there was someone with him that person could have killed him. Or if he came alone, and then someone else came along, he could have opened the door for that person, and then the person could have killed him.”

“Or the murderer managed to get locked in the store either last night or this morning, and when Turnquist showed up the murderer let him in and murdered him. Could either one of them let the other in without a key?”

“No problem,” I said. “I didn’t do much of a job of locking up when I went for coffee. I left the bargain table outside and just pressed the button so the springlock would work. I don’t even remember double-locking the door with the key.” I frowned, remembering. “Except I must have, because it was bolted when I came back. I had to turn the key in the lock twice to turn both the bolt and the springlock. Shit.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, that screws it up,” I said. “Say Turnquist let the killer in, which he could have done from inside just by turning the knob. Then the killer left Turnquist dead on the potty and went out, but how did he lock the door?”

“Don’t you have extra keys around somewhere? Maybe he found them.”

“You’d really have to look for them, and why would he bother? Especially when I didn’t have the door double-locked in the first place.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Hardly anything does. Watch the curb.”

“Shit.”

“Watch that, too. People seem to have stopped picking up after their dogs. Walking’s becoming an adventure again.”

We managed another curb, crossed another street, scaled the curb at the far side. We kept heading west, and once we got across Abingdon Square, the traffic, both automotive and pedestrian, thinned out considerably. At the corner of Twelfth and Hudson we passed the Village Nursing Home, where an old gentleman in a similar chair gave Turnquist the thumbs-up sign. “Don’t let these young people push you around,” he counseled our passenger. “Learn to work the controls yourself.” When he got no response, his eyes flicked to me and Carolyn. “The old boy a little bit past it?” he demanded.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, at least you’re not dumping the poor bastard in a home,” he said, with not a little bitterness. “He ever comes around, you tell him I said he’s damn lucky to have such decent children.”

We walked on across Greenwich Street, took a left at Washington. A block and a half down, between Bank and Bethune, a warehouse was being transmuted into co-op living lofts. The crew charged with performing this alchemy was gone for the day.

I braked the wheelchair.

Carolyn said, “Here?”

“As good a place as any. They angled a plank over the steps for the wheelbarrows. Make a good ramp for the chair.”

“I thought we could keep on going down to the Morton Street Pier. Send him into the Hudson, chair and all.”

“Carolyn-”

“It’s an old tradition, burial at sea. Davy Jones’s Locker. ‘Full fathom five my father lies-’”

“Want to give me a hand?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing I’d rather do. ‘Well, at least you’re not dumping the poor bastard in a home.’ Hell no, old timer. We’re dumping the old bastard in a seemingly abandoned warehouse where he’ll be cared for by the Green Hornet and Pluto.”

“Kato.”

“Whatever. Why do I feel like Burke and Hare?”

“They stole bodies and sold them. We’re just moving one around.”

“Terrific.”

“I told you I’d do this myself, Carolyn.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’m your henchperson, aren’t I?”

“It looks that way.”

“And we’re in this together. It’s my cat that got us in this mess. Bern, why can’t we leave him here, chair and all? I honest to God don’t care a rat’s ass about the hundred dollars.”

“It’s not the money.”

“What is it, the principle of the thing?”

“If we leave the chair,” I said, “they’ll trace it.”

“To Pitterman Hospital and Surgical Supply? Big hairy deal. I paid in cash and gave a phony name.”

“I don’t know who Turnquist was or how he fits into this Mondrian business, but there has to be a connection. When the cops tie him to it they’ll go to Pitterman and get the description of the person who rented the chair. Then they’ll take the clerk downtown and stick you in front of him in a lineup, you and four of the Harlem Globetrotters, and who do you figure he’ll point to?”

“I expect short jokes from Ray, Bernie. I don’t expect them from you.”

“I was just trying to make a point.”

“You made it. I thought it would be more decent to leave him in the chair, that’s all. Forget I said anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

I got the wire off his wrists and ankles, unstrapped the belt from around his waist, and managed to stretch him out on his back on a reasonably uncluttered expanse of floor. I retrieved the cap and sunglasses and blanket.

Back on the street I said, “Hop on, Carolyn. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Huh?”

“Two people pushing an empty wheelchair are conspicuous. C’mon, get in the chair.”

“You get in it.”

“You weigh less than I do, and-”

“The hell with that noise. You’re taller than I am and you’re a man, so if one of us has to play Turnquist you’re a natural choice for the role. Get in the chair, Bern, and put on the cap and the glasses.” She tucked the blanket around me and the mildew smell wafted to my nostrils. With a sly grin, my henchperson released the handbrake. “Hang on,” she said. “And fasten your seat belt. Short jokes, huh? We may hit a few air pockets along the way.”