So I’d keep this little venture to myself for the time being. If I came up with some important information, I could pick a convenient moment to tell him when and where I got it. And if I left 8-B as clueless as I entered it, nobody ever had to know I’d been there.
I moved quickly but quietly down the stairs, eased the door open at the eighth-floor landing, assured myself with a glance that the hallway was happily deserted, and walked along it to 8-B.
I didn’t have gloves, and I wasn’t much concerned about that. I wasn’t likely to leave prints, nor was anyone likely to go looking for them. I had my flashlight, although I couldn’t see what need I’d have of it in the middle of a bright sunshiny day. I had my picks, too, and I knew they’d open 8-B’s locks because they’d done so almost effortlessly the other night.
I didn’t need them, either, as it turned out.
But I didn’t know that, and I had them in hand as I stood before the door of the apartment in question. I remembered how I’d had the portfolio in hand, only to lose it, and I remembered the time I’d spent in the closet, and the musty smell of the coats. I didn’t figure I was going to get another crack at the portfolio, but maybe I could at least find out who lived there, and maybe get another look at the photo while I was there and make sure it was really King Vlados.
I had my hand on the doorknob and the tip of one of my picks a quarter-inch into the top lock when it occurred to me to ring the bell. I was sure no one was home, I just took that for granted, but I reminded myself that this was one of those little professional procedures I never neglected to perform, and I might as well play this one by the book.
So I rang, and I waited for a moment because that too is part of the way you do it, and you can just imagine my surprise when I heard the footsteps approaching the door.
I just had time to get the incriminating evidence out of the lock and back in my pocket when the door opened to reveal a young man standing about six-two, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist and a handsome, square-jawed, open countenance. He had a big smile on his face; he may not have had the faintest idea who I was, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t glad to see me.
“Hello,” he said heartily. “A beautiful day, yes?”
“Gorgeous,” I agreed.
“And how may I help you?”
Good question. “Ah,” I said. “I’m Bill Thompson, and I’m the building’s representative for the American Hip Dysplasia Association.”
“You are from the building?”
“I live in the building,” I explained. “On another floor. I work on Wall Street, but I volunteered to collect for this charity. Very good cause, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes,” he said, one hand dipping into a pocket of his jeans. He was wearing black Levi’s and a polo shirt that I’d call blue-green, but that the Lands’ End catalog probably calls teal. “Well, of course I would like to make a donation.”
Jesus, maybe I was in the wrong business. “I don’t even have my receipt book with me,” I said. “That’s not what I came to see you about. Let’s see now, you’d be James Driscoll, have I got that right?”
He smiled and shook his head.
“No? How can that be?” I dug out my wallet, consulted a slip of paper-one I’d be well advised to hang on to, if I ever wanted to get my shirts back from the Chinese laundry-and looked up at him again. “O’Driscoll,” I said. “You’re either James O’Driscoll or Elliott Bookspan. Or else I’ve got the wrong apartment.”
“It would seem you have the wrong apartment.”
“Well, I’ll be. This is Eight-B?”
“It is.”
“And your name is-?”
“Not O’Driscoll, I assure you. Or the other either. What was the second name you said?”
What indeed? I had to think a moment myself. “Bookspan,” I said.
“Bookspan,” he agreed. “No, not that either.”
“Well, hell,” I said, and shook my head and clucked my tongue. “I guess you’d be a better judge of that than I. Man’s a good bet to know his own name. Obviously I copied down the apartment number wrong, and I’m sorry to bother you.”
“It’s no trouble.”
What did I have to do to get a name out of him? Or a look around his apartment? Tentatively I said, “I don’t suppose I could use your phone?”
Another smile, another shake of the head. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “but that would be awkward. I have company.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Ordinarily it would be my pleasure, but-”
“I understand. Say no more.”
“Well,” he said.
“Well,” I said. “Again, my name’s Bill Thompson”-and what’s yours, you idiot?-“and I’m very sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Please. There is no need for apology.”
“That’s damned decent of you,” I said, “and I hope you’ll be just as gracious a couple of days from now when I come around again to ask you for a donation.”
“Ah,” he said, and went for his pocket again, this time coming up with a black morocco billfold. He reached in and drew out a twenty.
“That’s damned generous of you,” I said, “but I wasn’t planning on collection today. I don’t have my receipts with me.”
“I won’t need a receipt. And this will save you a visit next week.” And would save him an interruption, but that he left unsaid.
“Well…”
“Please,” he said.
I reached for the bill but did not let my fingers close around it. “I’m supposed to give you a receipt,” I said. “I suppose I could put it in the mail. At any rate, I need your name for the records.”
“Of course,” he said. “It’s Todd.”
“Good to meet you, Todd. And your last name?”
“No, no. Todd is the last name.”
“Well, it’s certainly not O’Driscoll or Bookspan, is it?” We chuckled at that one, and I asked him his first name.
“Michael,” he said.
“Michael Todd. The same name as-”
“As the filmmaker, yes.”
“I bet you get that all the time, jokers asking you what it was like being married to Elizabeth Taylor.”
“Not so much,” he said. “After all, it is not an uncommon name.”
“Hell, neither’s mine. When I think of the number of Bill Thompsons in the world-”
“Yes,” he said, “and now I really must not keep you any longer, Mr. Thompson.”
“Michael,” a woman called from deep within the apartment. “What is taking so long? Is anything the matter?”
“One moment,” he called to her. He gave me a smile that was not so much sheepish as goaty. “You see?” he said. “I really must say good day now. Thank you again.”
For what? But I nodded and smiled while he closed the door, and then stood there for another few seconds, taking it all in, thinking it all over. Then I walked to the nearest stairwell and headed up to the twelfth floor again. It struck me that it would be just my luck to run into Charlie Weeks in the hallway, and I tried to figure out what to tell him. I couldn’t pretend I’d spent all that time waiting for the elevator, or he’d be on the phone in a flash, wanting to know what the hell had gone wrong with the Boccaccio’s vaunted white-glove service.
I’d tell him the truth, I decided, but I’d amend it a little. I’d say that I did spend a long time waiting for the elevator, and at length decided to have a look-see on Eight. And should I tell him the fellow had been home? No, I’d say nobody was home, and that I’d decided against letting myself in. Or maybe I should say-
But I didn’t have to say anything. The elevator came, the doors opened, the attendant and I beamed at each other, and I went down and out.
It was a beautiful day, by God, just as Michael Todd-not the film producer-had said it was. I walked two blocks west to the park, bought a hot dog and a kasha knish from a vendor, and found a bench to sit on. It seemed like a good enough venue for thought, and I had some things to think about.