Part 5 (2/2)
”The patron saint of dancers?”
”Comedians, actually. Dancers have somebody else, but don't ask me who.”
”What about dog groomers?”
”I'll have to consult more sources.”
”And lesbians. You honestly couldn't find anything about lesbians?”
”Well, there's somebody who comes to mind. But I don't know his name and I don't think he was a saint.”
”Lesbians have a male saint?”
”He's probably not a saint anyway.”
”Well, don't keep me in suspense. Who is he?”
”That little Dutch boy.”
”What little Dutch boy?” little Dutch boy?”
”You know. The one who put his finger-”
”n.o.body likes a smarta.s.s, Bernie. Not even St. Vitus.”
The afternoon sped by without further reference to patron saints. I racked up a string of small sales and moved a nice set of Trollope to a fellow who'd been sniffing around it for weeks. He wrote out a check for sixty bucks and staggered off with the books in his arms.
Whenever I had a minute I called Whelkin without once reaching him. When he didn't answer the page at the Martingale Club, I left a message for him to call Mr. Haggard. I figured that would be subtle enough.
The phone rang around four. I said, ”Barnegat Books?” and n.o.body said anything for a moment. I figured I had myself a heavy breather, but for the h.e.l.l of it I said, ”Mr. Haggard?”
”Sir?”
It was Whelkin, of course. And he hadn't gotten my message, having been away from home and club all day long. His speech was labored, with odd pauses between the sentences. An extra martini at lunch, I figured.
”Could you pop by this evening, Mr. Rhodenbarr?”
”At your club?”
”No, that won't be convenient. Let me give you my address.”
”I already have it.”
”How's that?”
”You gave me your card,” I reminded him, and read off the address to him.
”Won't be there tonight,” he said shortly. He sounded as though someone had puffed up his tongue with a bicycle pump. He went on to give me an address on East Sixty-sixth between First and Second avenues. ”Apartment 3-D,” he said.
”Ring twice.”
”Like the postman.”
”Beg pardon?”
”What time should I come?”
He thought it over. ”Half past six, I should think.”
”That's fine.”
”And you'll bring the, uh, the item?”
”If you'll have the, uh, cash.”
”Everything will be taken care of.”
Odd, I thought, hanging up the phone. I was the one running on four hours' sleep. He was the one who sounded exhausted.
I don't know exactly when the Sikh appeared. He was just suddenly there, poking around among the shelves, a tall slender gentleman with a full black beard and a turban. I noticed him, of course, because one does notice that sort of thing, but I didn't stare or gawp. New York is New York, after all, and a Sikh is not a Martian.
Shortly before five the store emptied out. I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand and thought about closing early. Just then the Sikh emerged from the world of books and presented himself in front of the counter. I'd lost track of him and had a.s.sumed he'd left.
”This book,” he said. He held it up for my inspection, dwarfing it in his large brown hands. An inexpensive copy of The Jungle Book, The Jungle Book, by our boy Rudyard K. by our boy Rudyard K.
”Ah, yes,” I said. ”Mowgli, raised by wolves.”
He was even taller than I'd realized I looked at him and thought of What's-his-name in Little Orphan Annie. He wore a gray business suit, a white s.h.i.+rt, an unornamented maroon tie. The turban was white.
”You know this man?”
Punjab, I thought. That was the dude in Little Orphan Annie. And his sidekick was The Asp, and- ”Kipling?” I said.
”You know him?”
”Well, he's not living now,” I said. ”He died in1936.” And thank you, J. R. Whelkin, for the history lesson.
The man smiled. His teeth were very large, quite even, and whiter than his s.h.i.+rtfront. His features were regular, and his large sorrowful eyes were the brown of old-fas.h.i.+oned mink coats, the kind Ray Kirschmann's wife didn't want for Christmas.
”You know his books?” he said.
”Yes.”
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