They don't have to know I was here, Judson assured himself. I don't want to be some pest hanging around, like some little kid yelling, "Wait for meee!" So I'll just leave, and they'll never know I was here. But those guys are good, aren't they?
Walking back down the hall, he noticed they hadn't taken any of the few pictures hanging along here. They'd only taken things from the living room and dining room, probably figuring this stuff back here was less important.
One of the pictures attracted his attention, though it was kind of dark and small, less than a foot wide and maybe eight inches high. But for its size, it had a lot of detail. It was kind of medieval, with two guys his own age, in peasant clothes, and they were carrying a pig hung on a long pole, each of the guys having an end of the pole on his shoulder. They were walking on a path on a hillside with woods around them, and down the hill you could see what looked like a lake, with a few very rustic houses and wagons beside it, and a few people chopping wood and stuff like that.
What drew Judson's eye to this picture was the expressions on the two young guys' faces. They had, like, goofy grins on, as though they were getting away with something and couldn't help laughing about it.
Judson looked at the guys and their mischievous eyes and goofy grins, and he felt a kinship. He'd be one of those two, if he had lived then.
And all at once he got it: they'd stolen the pig.
Judson took the picture down off its hook on the wall, and studied it more closely. It was old, all right, done when those clothes were what you wore. It was painted on wood, and it was signed in the lower right with a signature he couldn't figure out.
The painting was in an elaborate gilded frame that didn't seem right for those two guys. There was also a sheet of non-reflective glass. Once Judson removed the picture from the frame, it wasn't heavy. It wasn't big. He liked it. He slid it under his shirt, tucked into the front of his pants, and headed for the elevator.
53
BY THE TIME they got back to Arnie's place, he was a nervous wreck in a completely different way. At first, when he'd rushed from Fareweather's garage with Dortmunder and Tiny, Arnie had been convinced Fareweather was no more than six feet behind him, probably still in his jammies, coming on like the avenging angel, whistling up cops right and left. When Dortmunder, constantly looking back because Arnie was too scared to, assured him over and over that no one matching Preston Fareweather's description was anywhere on the sidewalk back there, nor were there any cops, nor was there anything that looked remotely like pursuit of any kind, it didn't matter. Arnie, jiggling and jabbering like a marionette with electrified springs, just kept rushing forward, ahead of Dortmunder and Tiny, barely ahead of the imaginary hounds.
Then he was too scared to take a taxi, because the cabbie would write on his trip sheet what neighborhood he'd picked Arnie up in and would be able to testify against him at the inevitable trial before the inevitable incarceration of poor Arnie Albright, who should never, ever have been in that place in the first place, and where could he go now that the law was waiting for him at home?
"They're not waiting for you at home, Arnie," Dortmunder told him. "You'll go home, if somebody ever comes around, you say, that wasn't me, I don't know what the guy's talking about, search my place if you want."
"Ooohh."
"All right, you'll clean out a couple things. I'll come to your place with you, I know I'm partly responsible for you being—"
"Partly!"
"Well, Preston Fareweather has to take some of the burden, too, you know. Come on, Arnie, I'll come with you."
"I won't," Tiny said. "Good-bye." And he walked off down Madison, headed for lunch with J. C.
"Here we go, Arnie," Dortmunder said, "here's a nice cab—"
"No cabs!"
So it wound up, Arnie did walk through Central Park that day, though not in the cool of the morning but in the absolute heat and glare of the midday sun, like something in Lawrence of Arabia. Arnie didn't so much walk across the park, though, as hop from tree shade to tree shade and, where there were no trees, scuttle on like something you might see when you switch on the kitchen light.
Eventually they did traverse the park, and some of the West Side as well, and reached Annie's building, in front of which there were no official presences. Arnie scrambled up into the vestibule, followed by Dortmunder, but then, instead of unlocking the door he rang his own bell.
Dortmunder said, "Arnie? You're not home, we know that."
"But is somebody else?" Arnie said darkly, and stared at the intercom until it became obvious even to him that it wasn't going to say anything. Only then did he unlock the door and lead the way up to his apartment, where he looked around, grabbed his head with both hands in tragic despair, and cried, "How do I clean this place for the cops? You think I got receipts?"
"I'll wait with you, Arnie," Dortmunder said. "There isn't gonna be a problem, because if there was gonna be a problem, by now there'd be a problem, with how long it took us to walk across town."
"You're the one wanted to walk."
"Going that way, not coming this way. You got a radio?"
Arnie looked at him in disbelief. "You want music?"
"I want the news," Dortmunder said.
"Oh. Sure. Right. Lemme bring it out."
Arnie went away to the bedroom and came back with a white plastic radio originally given as a bonus for opening a bank account in 1947. He plugged it in and turned it to the local news station. "You give us twenty-two minutes," they threaten, "we'll give you the world," and then they give you mostly sports. They may not know this, but sports is not the world.
After hearing some scores, and some manager firings, and some commercials, however, they did actually get some news, and it began, "A Manhattan penthouse was robbed this morning of over six million dollars' worth of rare art. Julie Hapwood has this late-breaking story."
"A luxurious Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment in Manhattan overlooking Central Park was the scene this morning of a daring daylight robbery of over nine million dollars in rare art. The owner of the apartment, financier Preston Fareweather, fifty-seven, who had just returned from abroad last night, apparently slept through the entire robbery, as did an associate, Alan Pinkleton, forty-four, who was a guest in the apartment. Quick thinking on the part of two members of the building's security guard detail, José Carreras, twenty-seven, and José Otsego, twenty-four, who grew suspicious of a truck they spotted near the building and called police, put authorities early on the trail of the daring bandits. Police hope to catch the gang before they can dispose of their loot. This is Julie Hapwood, continuing to stay on this breaking story."
"You give us twenty-two minutes, we'll give you the world," and then they got more sports.
Twenty minutes later, while Dortmunder was trying to decide whether to eat the omelet Arnie had made in his dubious kitchen, the radio said, "Arrests have been made in the daring daylight penthouse robbery on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan this morning. Julie Hapwood is here with this late-breaking story."
Arnie quick looked at himself to see if he'd been arrested, while Dortmunder leaned closer to the radio and farther from the omelet.
"Just moments ago, police on Eleventh Avenue in Manhattan intercepted the white Ford truck seen fleeing the scene of this morning's daring daylight robbery at the Imperiatum, the deluxe high-rise apartment building at East Sixty-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Early reports are that arrests have been made and the loot has been recovered. Mayoral assistant Zozo Von Cleve, thirty-six, announced, 'This is the kind of immediate instant-response activity we have come to expect from our New York Police Department, rightly known as New York's Finest. This is Julie Hapwood, continuing to stay on this breaking story."