The Burglar Who Thought He Was Bogart Read Free Page B

get a cab?”
    “Let’s walk,” I said. “It’s only three blocks.”
    “One of ’em’s crosstown.”
    “Even so.”
    He shrugged, lit a cigarette, and off we went. I counted that a victory, but changed my mind when he steamed on into the Wexford Castle, an Irish bar on Lexington Avenue. “Time for a quick one,” he announced, and ordered a double shot of vodka. The bartender, who looked like a man who’d seen everything but remembered none of it, poured from a bottle with a label showing a Russian wearing a fur hat and a fierce grin. I started to say that we were supposed to get to our destination by midnight, but before I had the sentence out the captain had downed his drink.
    “Something for you?”
    I shook my head.
    “Then let’s get going,” he said. “Supposed to get there before midnight. That’s when the late shift comes on duty.”
    We hit the street again, and the drink seemed to loosen him up. “Here’s a question for you,” he said. “How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”
    “It’s a question, all right.”
    “Known that fellow a long time, have you?”
    Thirty-two hours, getting on for thirty-three. “Not too long,” I admitted.
    “What do you make of this? When he told me about you, he didn’t use your actual name. He called you something else.”
    “Oh?”
    “I want to say Road and Track, but that’s not it.Road and Car? Makes no sense. Roadieball?” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, but it sure wasn’t Thompson. Wasn’t even close.”
    “Well, he’s getting on in years,” I said.
    “Hardening of the brain,” he said. “That how you read it?”
    “I don’t think it’s that extreme, but—”
    “It’s enough to worry me,” he said, “and I don’t mind telling you that. There’s a whole lot at stake here, a whole lot of people’s hopes riding on this. But I don’t guess I have to tell you that, do I?”
    “I guess not.”
    “Talk too much anyway,” he said. “Always been my problem.” And he didn’t say another word until we got to the building.
    It was a fortress, all right. The Boccaccio, one of the great Park Avenue apartment buildings, twenty-two stories tall, its sumptuous Art Deco lobby equipped with enough potted plants to start a jungle. There was a doorman out front and a concierge behind the desk, and damned if the elevator didn’t have an attendant, too. All three of them wore maroon livery with gold braid, and a pretty sight they were. They wore white gloves, too, which almost spoiled the effect, giving them the look of Walt Disney animals until you got used to it.
    “Captain Hoberman,” Hoberman told the concierge. “I’m here to see Mr. Weeks.”
    “Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Weeks is expecting you.” Hechecked his book, made a little note in it, then looked up expectantly at me.
    “And this is Mr. Thompson,” Hoberman said. “He’s with me.”
    “Very good, sir.” Another little note in the book. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a piece of cake getting in here on my own. Still—
    The elevator attendant had been watching all this from across the lobby, and probably heard it, too; Hoberman had a booming voice, audible, I suppose, from stem to stern. When we approached he said, “Twelve, gentlemen?”
    “Twelve-J,” Hoberman said. “Mr. Weeks.”
    “Very good, sir.” And up we went, and out we popped on twelve. The attendant pointed us toward the J apartment and watched after us to make sure we found our way. When we got there Hoberman shot me a look and cocked a bushy eyebrow. The stairwell, my immediate goal, was just steps from where we stood, but the elevator was still within my view and the attendant was still doing his job. I stuck out a finger and poked the doorbell.
    “But what will I say to Weeks?” Hoberman wondered. Softly, thanks be to God.
    “Just introduce me,” I said. “I’ll take it from there.”
    The door opened. Weeks turned out to be a short pudgy fellow with bright blue