“Chloe.”
“And you knew this because anybody with a tattoo pretty much has to be named Chloe.”
“If the tattoo’s on her left arm, above the elbow.”
“Lots of tattoos—”
“And if it shows a gecko.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I didn’t ask her name,” I said, “because that would have been awkward. But I did ask about the tattoo. ‘My friend Carolyn has a tattoo,’ I told him. ‘It shows a snake, all wrapped around her arm.’ ”
“You used my name, Bern?”
“It was the first name that came to mind. What difference does it make? He doesn’t know you.”
“He will, the minute he spots my tattoo. Except I don’t have any tattoos, Bern.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah? How do you know for sure? I could have a butterfly like Rosalie or a frog like Denise, and how would you know it?”
“You’d tell me.”
“Yeah, I probably would. So you told him about my snake, and he told you about Chloe’s gecko.”
“Right.”
“There’s probably more than one gecko tattoo in New York City.”
“Probably.”
“But we both know it’s her.”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“You met her, Bern. In the bookstore. Then you spoke to her when you called Leopold. Did the voice sound familiar?”
“No, but—”
“But you weren’t looking for similarities. You just wanted to talk to Leopold. Bern, the woman you met. Can you picture her performing that particular service for him?”
“Vividly.”
“She’s the type, huh?”
“She turned up at Barnegat Books,” I said, “and picked an item out of my stock, booted up her Kindle, ordered the eQuivalent from Amazon, and reported her accomplishment with innocent pride. And then she steered Janine of Romania my way, allowing that enterprising young woman to take me out for a test drive. So yes, I’d say she’s definitely the type to put her hands to good use in order to keep her boss happy. If she worked at the Bronx Zoo, she’d probably do the same for the elephant.”
“I suppose I could have waited until morning,” I said. “But all I could think of was that victory was there, waiting to be snatched from the jaws of defeat.”
“And you wanted to share it with somebody.”
“With you, Carolyn.”
“One more lesbian club,” she said, “and you’d have shared it with the bartender. You were like Chloe herself, Bern, after she’d snatched Frank Norris from the jaws of Amazon.”
We had left Mytilene, with Rosalie’s butterfly and Denise’s frog still unseen, and walked the few blocks to Arbor Court, and I was telling her it was a little different. “In my case,” I said, “victory is still unsnatched.”
“And that’s where Chloe comes in.”
“I can’t get into Leopold’s building again. I had to steal a book to get in there the first time, and a fat lot of good it did me. The only way I could leave his apartment was in the attended elevator, and it took me straight to the lobby, where the elevator operator watched me walk to where the concierge and doorman were waiting.”
“Buildings like that,” she said, “don’t make it easy.”
“They don’t. I’m sure Leopold’s apartment has a service entrance, where the porter picks up the trash and whisks it away on the service elevator, but what good would that do me? And, knowing Leopold, it’s probably got three or four locks on it, too.”
“And a moat around it, Bern.”
“Complete with alligators. You know, I might have had a chance. When it was time to pay me, I was hoping he’d have to get the cash from a wall safe.”
“What were you gonna do, Bern? Hide in the safe?”
“It would be in another room,” I said, “and he’d probably have to take down a framed painting to get at it, and work a complicated combination. That might have given me enough time to pick the lock on the china cabinet.”
“And grab the spoon.”
“And possibly even lock up again before he got back. But possibly not, and what happens if he comes back right in the middle of things?”
“Not good.”
“Not good at all. But he had the money all ready for me, all he had to do was reach into his pocket for it. Then I thought maybe he’d get a call of nature. He had a couple of cups of coffee, and he may be in great shape but he’s had the same bladder and prostate for over sixty years, so you’d think sooner or later he’d have to pee.”
“Would that give you enough time?”
“I don’t know. Probably not, but I never got the chance to find out. I guess all those happy endings have kept his plumbing in good shape. He never left the room.”
“And then he told you about Miss Miller.”
“Miss Miller,” I said, “and her manual dexterity. And her tattoo, which served to identify Miss Miller for me. She could do it, Carolyn.”
“And evidently she did, on more or less a daily basis, but—”
“Not that. She could steal the spoon. All she’d have to do is get hold of the key, and she might already have one of her own. When those remarkably soft hands aren’t otherwise occupied, don’t you suppose they’re occasionally put to use polishing silver?”
“You want her to steal the spoon for you.”
“What could be simpler? She opens the cabinet, she removes the spoon, she pops it into her purse.”
“Where it can keep the Kindle company.”
“Whatever. Then the next time she has a class at Hunter, I’m there at the classroom door.”
“You could just walk right into the college?”
“Or I’ll meet her on the corner, or wherever she wants.”
“And she gives you the spoon.”
“Right. But here’s the problem, Carolyn. How do I find her?”
“How do you find her?”
“The first time,” I said, “she showed up at Barnegat Books, just walked in off the street. But who knows if that’ll ever happen again? But I happen to know someone who knows her.”
“Janine.”
“Janine. She’ll know how to get in touch with Chloe. I bet she’s got Miss Manual Dexterity on speed dial. But I don’t have a number for Janine, or an address, and she never told me her last name, and I’m pretty sure the first name she gave me is bogus. So how do I find her?”
“She said she lives just a few blocks from your store.”
“What do I do, go door to door?”
“Maybe Ray could help,” she said. “You’ve been helping him with Mrs. Ostermaier, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t been all that much help.”
“But you’ve been trying. Maybe he could sit you down with one of those police artists, and you could describe her.”
“And the guy’ll draw a pornographic picture.”
“Bern—”
“All right, I sit down with an artist, and together we come up with a sketch that looks about as much like Janine as that sketch of the Unabomber looked like the guy they caught.”
“He got the hoodie right. And anyway, they caught him, didn’t they?”
“His brother turned him in.”
“Well, all that counts is they caught him. And you probably got a better look at Janine than anybody ever got of the Unabomber.”
“I got a very good look at her, Carolyn.”
“So maybe your sketch’ll turn out better.”
“And then what? Ray puts out an APB of it? We run around taping it to lampposts? The woman didn’t do anything.” I thought about that last sentence. “Nothing illegal, anyway. Well, considering all the things people do in private that are technically against the law—”
“Bern.”
“Sorry. I don’t think a police artist is the answer. Maybe an ad.”
“You mean like Missed Connections in Craigslist?”
“I was thinking more of a personal notice a
t the bottom of the front page of the New York Times.”
“They still have those? The only one I ever see is to tell Jewish women to light Shabbos candles. What would you put?”
“I don’t know. ‘You said your name was Janine. There’s something I need to ask you. Call me at the bookshop.’ ”
“Would you put the number? No, because this way you’ll only hear from somebody who knows which bookstore to call. I suppose it might work.”
“I don’t know. I’d probably stand a better chance with a Ouija board. Those ads probably work when a person’s waiting to get a message that way, but who else actually reads them?”
“People with a lot of time on their hands, Bern. Not people who are busy day and night looking for a husband.”
I stood up. “I’m going home,” I said, “to sleep on it. There’s got to be a better way to reach her, Carolyn. We’re just not thinking of it.”
I went home, I went to bed, I woke up. And I caught the phone midway through the first ring. “We’re both stupid,” I said.
“I can’t believe how stupid we are, Bern. You only had one drink, too.”
“It was a double.”
“I had more than that, but then I stopped and switched to coffee. I don’t think we were drunk.”
“No, just stupid.”
“I can see one of us being that stupid, but—”
“Which one?”
“Either one, depending on circumstances. But both of us? I think the French have a word for it.”
“Stupide?”
“No, it’s a phrase. Folie à deux, I think. You know, when two people get stupid together.”
“Really stupid, in this case.”
“Boneheaded, brainless-type stupid. All the schemes we kept coming up with.”
“Craigslist,” I said. “The New York Times.”
“Sitting down with Ray and a police artist.”
“Going around the neighborhood putting up fliers and knocking on doors.”
“Stupid. When all along—”
“I knew her name—”
“Chloe Miller.”
“And where she lives and works.”
“I’ve even got her number. And you know something else, Carolyn?”
“What?”
“If it’s not Chloe, if it’s some other young woman with remarkably soft hands—”
“But we figured out that it has to be her.”
“And it does,” I agreed, “but on the remote chance that it isn’t, so what? Even if her name is Madeleine Miller, or Rachel Miller, or, I don’t know—”
“Janine Miller?”
“Whatever. She still lives there, and works there, and polishes the silver. And can come and go as she wishes.”
“With a spoon in her bag. Did you call her yet?”
“I was just about to,” I said. “I wanted to wait until I had a chance to brush my teeth.”
“Ewww,” she said. “You’re talking to me and you haven’t brushed your teeth yet? That’s gross, Bern. I’m hanging up.”
“Edwin Leopold’s residence.”
“Chloe?”
Her pause was confirmation enough. When she didn’t tell me I had the wrong number, I knew I had the right one.
“My name’s Bernie Rhodenbarr,” I told the silence. “We met recently.”
“We did?”
“In my bookstore. I have a store on East Eleventh Street, and you came in looking for Frank Norris.”
“I don’t think I know a Frank Morris.”
“Uh—”
“Wait a minute. Frank Norris? The writer? Now I remember. What did you say your name was?”
“Bernie Rhodenbarr.”
“No,” she said. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s not your name. You’d know that better than I would, wouldn’t you?”
“Uh—”
“But I don’t think I ever got your name. The store had an unusual name. Book Barn? No, but it had barn in it.”
“Barnegat Books.”
“Right.”
“The previous owner had a summer place at Barnegat Light, in New Jersey.”
“So?”
“So that’s how the store got its name.”
“Oh,” she said. “How did you get my name?”
“From a friend of yours.”
“A friend of mine? You want to narrow it down a little?”
“Her name’s Janine.”
“It is, huh? And who’s she supposed to be, Frank Morris’s sister? I don’t know anybody named Janine.”
This was not going well. “That’s the name she gave me,” I said, “after she realized I wasn’t husband material. I had a feeling it wasn’t her real name, but what was I supposed to do, go through her purse?”
“Wait a minute.”
“Okay.”
“Her name’s not Janine.”
“There’s a shock.”
“Look, if you’re trying to get in touch with her, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“I’m not.”
“Because if she wanted to hear from you she would have given you her number, and—you’re not?”
“No. You’re the one I’m trying to get in touch with.”
“Me? You mind telling me why?”
“Well, to thank you, for one thing. Your friend and I spent a few very enjoyable hours together, whatever her name might be.”
Her voice softened. “So she said.”
“And all because you told her I was cute.”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact—”
“What?”
“Well, she had some nice things to say about you.”
“Oh?”
“And I sort of thought I’d come say hello if I was in the neighborhood. But the one time I got down there you were closed, and—”
“I got your note.”
“What note?”
“On my bargain table.”
“I didn’t leave a note. Why would I leave you a note?”
“It must have been somebody else,” I said. “Look, Chloe, I think we should meet. I can’t go into this over the phone, but there’s an opportunity that you don’t want to miss.”
“An opportunity?”
“With the prospect of considerable financial reward.”
A pause. “How did you get this number?”
“I told you, your friend said—”
“The only number she could have given you is my cell. She doesn’t even have this number.”
“Ten minutes,” I said. “That’s all it’ll take.”
“You’re way downtown. I can’t—”
“Your neighborhood is fine. You give me ten minutes and I’ll give you five thousand dollars.”
“For what?”
“For listening. Pick a place that’s convenient for you, set a time, and I’ll be there.”
“Oh, God, I can’t think. And he just got off the treadmill. Five minutes in the shower and he’s going to want his massage. I have to get off.”
“I guess you’re not the only one.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Say where and when.”
“Five thousand dollars? Just for listening?”
“That’s right.”
“Two-thirty this afternoon. Is that okay?”
“It’s fine. Where?”
“The only place I can think of is Three Guys.”
“I think you mean Two Guys.”
“Jesus, don’t you think I can count? It’s Three Guys, it’s a coffee shop on Madison Avenue.”
“I’m sorry, I thought—”
“Three Guys at half past two,” she said. “And if you show up at Two Guys at half past three, the hell with you.”
It was a gecko, all right, and a dead ringer for the TV gecko with the Australian accent. She was wearing a denim jacket over a sleeveless pink blouse, and she’d slipped off the jacket even as she’d slipped into the booth opposite me.
I’d been there for almost ten minutes when sh
e showed up right on time. “Well, you’re here,” she said. “Just like you said. That’s not all you said.”
“Oh, right.” I handed her an envelope. It was the last one my client had handed me, the one I’d put away unopened. This morning when I fetched it from the store I checked its contents, and she did the same now, holding the bills in her lap and giving them a careful count, while I kept one eye on the little lizard on her arm and the other on the coffee shop entrance.
I was fairly sure the gecko would stay put, and more anxious about who might walk through the door. It wouldn’t be Leopold, not unless someone had come up with an instant cure for agoraphobia, but a woman like Chloe could probably count on more than a tattoo for protection.
“It’s five thousand dollars,” she said.
“I’m a man of my word.”
“Well, have you got any more words? You said this was for listening. I guess you’ve got my attention.”
While I talked, she held the money in her hand and kept her hand in her lap, making a fan of the bills, then gathering them together. When the waiter brought more iced tea, she shifted her bag to block his view of the cash. When he withdrew, her hands resumed their play.
When I stopped, she returned the bills to the envelope. She said, “Suppose I say no. Then what?”
“Then I’ll be disappointed, but it won’t be the first time.”
“And?”
“And my client will be disappointed, but he’ll have to learn to live with it.”
“Do I have to give back the money?”
I shook my head. “You earned it when you showed up.”
“But I could have a lot more. Just for one spoon.”
“That’s right. But not just any spoon. I’m not sure if you know the one I mean, but—”
“There are four of them,” she said patiently, “in the cabinet with the rest of Whatsisname’s stuff.”
“Myer Myers.”
“Uh-huh. Caesar Rodney from Delaware with the horse he rode in on. Benjamin Franklin from Pennsylvania with a key, because of that experiment with the kite. And John Hart from New Jersey, with a deer’s head, antlers and all. I don’t know who he was or what the deer’s about.”
“I don’t know who he was either, but I think it’s a pun. A hart is another name for a male deer.”
“I bet that’s it,” she said, “because the fourth spoon’s a play on the name, too. Button Gwinnett of Georgia, and it’s got, duh, this little button. That’s the only one you want? You don’t care about the others?”