“I’m impressed,” I said. “All you left out was his weight and the amount of change in his pocket.”
“I kept my hands out of his pockets,” she said, “so I don’t know about the second part. I’d say he weighed somewhere around three hundred and fifty pounds.”
I made a sound by snicking the tip of my tongue back from my teeth. “Tssss,” I said.
“As in Tsarnoff. That would be my guess, Bern.”
“You had a busy day,” I said. “You did great, Carolyn.”
“Thanks.”
“It was a good idea to open the store, and I’d say it was productive. I don’t know what they all want from me or what I’m going to give them, but it’s good to know they’re looking for me. At least I think it is. I’ll know more when I make some calls in the morning.”
“I don’t know what Ray wants,” she said. “I guess everybody else wants the documents.”
“Whatever they are.”
“And wherever they are.”
“Oh, I think I know where they are,” I said.
“You do?”
“Well, I’ve got an inkling. Put it that way.”
“That’s great. And you’ve got a partner, too. I don’t mean me, I mean the mouse.”
“The mouse? Oh, Charlie Weeks. I guess we’re partners. In that case I hope he takes care of himself.”
“Why’s that? Oh, if he gets killed you’ll have to do something about it.”
“You got it,” I said, and leaned back and yawned. “I’m beat,” I said. “Ray can wait until morning, and so can everybody else. I’m going to bed. Or to couch, if I can persuade you to-”
“Let’s not have that argument again. You’re not going out? You could have been drinking Scotch after all.”
“Somehow,” I said, “I don’t think I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning and regret that I didn’t have anything stronger than Evian this evening.”
“Maybe not,” she said, “but you can’t miss days and expect to stay in shape. That’s my theory. You want me to mind the store tomorrow?”
“I’m never open Sundays.”
“Is that carved in stone somewhere? It wouldn’t hurt anything if I opened up, would it?”
“No, but-”
“Because I found a book there that I was reading, and I might as well finish it before I start something else. And you never know who’ll pop in looking for you.”
“Well, that’s true. What did you find to read?”
“Reread, actually, but it’s one I haven’t looked at since it came out. It’s an early one of Sue Grafton’s.”
“I didn’t think I had anything of hers in stock. Oh, I remember. It’s a book club edition, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “It’s the one about the jazz musician who kills his unfaithful wife by throwing her onto the subway tracks.”
“I don’t think I ever read that one. What’s the title?”
“‘A’ Is for Train,” she said. “You can borrow it when I’m done with it.”
“Borrow it? It’s my book.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “You can still borrow it, but you’ll have to wait until I’m finished.”
CHAPTER Seventeen
I slept soundly and woke up early, managing to get dressed and out the door without waking Carolyn, who looked so blissful curled up on the couch that I couldn’t feel too guilty for taking her bed. I walked across town, pausing at my bookshop only long enough to feed Raffles and give him fresh water, then catching the IRT at Union Square and riding to the Hunter College stop at Sixty-eighth and Lex. I walked six blocks up and two blocks over, stopping en route at a deli for a container of coffee and a bagel. When I got to where I was going I found a good doorway and lurked in it, passing the time by sipping the coffee and gnawing at the bagel. I kept my eyes open, and when I finally saw what I’d come there to see I retraced my steps, but this time I passed up the deli and went straight to the subway station.
I caught another train, this one headed downtown, and got off at Wall Street. There’s no more peaceful place in the city on a Sunday morning, when the engines of commerce have ground to a halt. It’s never entirely deserted. I saw joggers on training runs, chugging away, and folks wandering around singly and in pairs, intent on enjoying the stillness.
I’d come to use the phone.
There were more convenient phones, including one in the bookstore and another in Carolyn’s apartment, but you can never be sure you’re not calling someone with one of those gadgets on his phone that displays the number you’re calling from. I was reasonably certain Ray Kirschmann wouldn’t have anything like that at his home in Sunnyside, if only because he wouldn’t want to spend the extra $1.98 a month, or whatever they charge for the service. But he’d have the resources of the New York Police Department, and thus could probably get the folks at NYNEX to trace the call.
If he traced it to a pay phone in the West Village, he’d guess I was at Carolyn’s apartment. So I had to go someplace, and Wall Street seemed as good a choice as any. Let him trace the call, and let him race down to the corner of Broad and Wall, and let him wonder if I was planning to knock over the New York Stock Exchange.
Even so, I saved him for last.
My first call was to the fat man, and my first thought was that the card was a phony, or that I’d dialed wrong. Because the man who answered didn’t sound fat.
I know, I know. You can’t judge a book by its cover (but try to get a decent price for it if it’s stained or water-damaged, or, God forbid, missing altogether). Nor can you tell much about a body by the voice that comes out of it, which is a good thing for the phone-sex industry. All that notwithstanding, the voice I heard didn’t sound like one that might have come out of a man who weighed three hundred and fifty pounds, had a beak like an eagle, and wore a white suit. It sounded instead as though its owner never got past the sixth grade, moved his lips on the rare occasions when he read something, spent his most productive hours with a pool cue in his hand, and, when not using that cue for massé shots, was skinny enough to hide behind it.
I asked to speak to Mr. Tsarnoff, and he asked me what I wanted.
“Tsarnoff,” I said confidently, “and you’re not him. Tell him it’s the man who wasn’t at the bookstore yesterday.”
There was a pause. Then a voice-a round voice, a rich voice, a voice that hit every consonant smack on the head and got the last drop of flavor out of every syllable-said, “In point of fact, sir, there is no end of people who were not at that bookstore yesterday. Or at any bookstore, on any occasion.”
Now this was more like it. This was the kind of voice I’d had in mind, a voice that could have introduced The Shadow.
“I’m obliged to agree with you,” I said. “Ours is a subliterate age, sir, and the frequenter of bookstores a rare reminder of a better day.”
“Ah,” he said. “It’s good of you to call. I believe you have found something that belongs to me. I trust you’re aware there’s a substantial reward offered for its return.”
I asked if he could describe it.
“A sort of leather envelope stamped in gold,” he said.
“And its contents?”
“Diverse contents.”
“And the amount of the reward?”
“Ah, did I not say, sir? Substantial. Unquestionably substantial.”
“Sir,” I said, “I must say I like your style. Were I in possession of the article you seek, I’ve no doubt we could come to terms.”
There was a pause, but not a very long one. “The subjunctive mode,” he said, “would seem to imply, sir, that you are not.”
“The implication was deliberate,” I said, “and the inference sound.”
“Yet one has the sense that there is more to the story.”
It was a pleasure having this sort of conversation, but it was also a strain. “It is my earnest hope, sir, to be able to report altered circumstances, and indeed to have it in my power to claim your generous reward.”
“Your hope, sir?”
“My hope and expectation.”