"The McGuffin."
"Thank you. The perps came looking for the McGuffin, just on the off chance that I had it, since my name had been dragged into the affair. And they looked, and they didn't find it, and-you know what? It's a good thing they found my hidey-hole. Because they saw right away that that's where I keep stuff, and the McGuffin-the McGuffin?"
"That's the word for it, Bern."
"They saw that the McGuffinwasn't there, and that's where I would have stashed it if I had it, so obviously I don't have it. Which means that they can leave me the hell alone."
"And you think they will?"
"I don't see why not."
"And you don't think you ought to go to the cops?"
"What for? Look, I promised Edgar I'd keep the INS away from him, and all I know that they don't is that one of the perps-the perps?"
" Bern…"
"That one of the perps is taller and heavier than Edgar, which doesn't narrow things down much. Oh, and either he likes the Mets or he beat up some Mets fan and took his cap. If I don't share that with them, do you figure I'm withholding valuable information?"
"I guess not. Bern, you know what's a good thing? That you weren't home when they showed."
I thought of the Rogovins, and gave a nod and a shudder.
"If you had been-"
"But I wasn't," I said, and figured it was a good time to change the subject. "No drinks at the Bum Rap tonight, right? Because you've got a first date with GurlyGurl, and after that you've got a date with me."
"It's still on?"
"Now more than ever," I said. "After last night, I've got the best possible reason to run up to Riverdale. I need the money."
Seventeen
I took less than an hour for lunch, and was behind the counter and ready for business a few minutes before one. When I thought about it later, I decided that the fat man must have been perched in a doorway down the block or across the street, waiting for me to come back and open up, because I'd no sooner reached for the John Sandford novel and found my place in it than the bell tinkled to proclaim his arrival.
That didn't mean I had to stop reading. I gave him a welcoming smile and a little nod and left him to browse my shelves, which is what just about everybody does upon arrival, unless they've got books to sell me, or they want directions to Grace Church. His hands were empty, so any books he wanted to sell were still on his shelves, and I didn't get the feeling he had the urge to seek out a moment of peace and quiet among the Episcopalians around the corner, so I closed my book and waited to find out what he wanted.
I'm sure it's politically incorrect to call him a fat man, on the general PC principle that the last thing you should do is call a spade a spade. There's probably an acceptable euphemism for it, but I've thus far been spared knowing what it is, so I'll go on calling him fat in the hope that you won't object, and the certain knowledge that he won't.
And he was fat, all right. You see people who are uncomfortable in their fatness, as though all this extra weight just happened to them while they were thinking of something else, and now that they've got it they don't know what to do with it. Well, he wasn't like that. One look at him, the way he held himself, the way he moved, and you somehow knew he'd been fat all his life, a fat baby who'd blossomed into a fat little boy, gone through the awkward years as a fat teenager, and emerged at last as a fat grownup. He didn't have one of those pot bellies that look as though you're trying to smuggle a beach ball through Customs, didn't have skinny arms and legs sticking out of a fat torso like a potato imbedded with toothpicks. No, he was fat all over, and I got the feeling it was fine with him.
He was wearing a blue suit, and if it hadn't been made to measure then it had at the very least been tailored to fit him, and by a tailor who knew what he was doing. It didn't make him look thin, nothing could have, but it did make him look fit and natty and prosperous, and what more can you ask of a few yards of wool?
His shirt was white, with a spread collar, and his tie was this year's width, with regimental stripes of navy and scarlet. I can't tell you about his shoes because I didn't notice them when he walked in, and by the time I looked him over he was standing too close to the counter for his feet to show. But I'll bet they were good shoes. I've never yet known a fat man who didn't spend good money on shoes, and put a lot of care into their selection.
"Mr. Rhodenbarr," he said, making it not a statement but not quite a question, either. When I nodded, confirming his identification, he gave me a smile that showed a lot of teeth. They were perfectly white and perfectly even, so much so that one could hardly avoid the suspicion that they were not perfectly real. But then you could have said much the same thing about the smile.
"A pleasure," he said firmly, and stuck out his hand, which, it will not surprise you to learn, was fleshy. I shook his hand. If there's a way to avoid shaking a hand that's thrust at me, I've yet to figure it out, and I always wind up taking the proffered hand before I have time to wonder whether or not it's something I really want to do. In this case, though, I was perfectly willing to shake hands with the man. He was probably a customer, and even if he wasn't he was cheerful and pleased to see me, so why would I want to leave him standing there with his arm hanging out?
While we were shaking hands, Raffles seized the moment to leap down from his spot in my sunny window and come over to the counter, where he began circling the fat man's feet, rubbing against his ankles in the process. He goes through this routine with me when I open up in the morning, it's his way of letting me know he wants to be fed, as though it would never occur to me without this daily reminder. But he'd been fed already today, and couldn't logically expect a stranger, however well-fed himself, to do the honors.
This would have been a good time for me to check out his shoes, while I was looking down to watch Raffles polish them, but I was too busy noting the cat's uncharacteristic behavior to notice what he was rubbing up against. Anyway, I'll bet they were expensive shoes, and that he had a dozen pairs every bit as good in his closet.
He released my hand and looked down at Raffles. "A pussy cat!" he cried, with evident delight. "I love pussy cats. But what happened to his tail?"
"He was born without it," I said, wondering if I was telling the truth. "He's a Manx."
"Ah, of course. From the Isle of Man. "
"Well, not personally-or do I mean cattily? His forebears were from Man, but Raffles was born right here in New York."
"I love pussy cats," he said once more, and demonstrated his affection by reaching down to give Raffles a little scratch behind the ear. The little devil purred, and the fat man scratched him some more, and Raffles purred some more, and then trotted off and leapt onto an open spot in the cookbooks section, on the fourth shelf from the bottom. From there he gazed at us, and if he'd had a grandparent from Cheshire instead of the Isle of Man, I do believe he'd have been smiling.
"It would be nice to be able to have a cat," the fat man reflected. "If I ever had a bookstore, I would definitely keep a cat in it. I think it was a very wise choice you made."
"Thank you."
"And now," he said, "I believe you have something for me, Mr. Rhodenbarr."
"I do?"
"I believe so."
He smiled again, same as before, and I decided that maybe those were his teeth after all. I was sure he would choose his dentist with as much care as his tailor, and dentistry has come a long ways in recent years. With regular visits to a first-rate dentist, you can have a mouthful of teeth so perfect that anyone would guess they were false.
But what could I have for him?
Oh.
"The Secret Agent,"I said, and he beamed. I reached behind me, picked Conrad's novel off the shelf. I started to hand it to him, and he started to reach for it, and I drew it back a few inches. "But that wasn't you on the phone before, was it?" He hesitated, and I answered my own question. "He sent you to pick up the book for him."