television. And they don’t always have them in the first place, do they?”
“I don’t think so. Would he be listed anyway? If he didn’t say more than ‘Where to, Mac?’ ”
“Oh, he had other lines, Maybe half a dozen lines. You know, talking about the weather and the traffic, doing the typical New York cabbie number. Or at least what Hollywood thinks the typical New York cabbie number ought to be. Did a cabdriver ever say ‘Where to, Mac?’ to you?”
“No, but not that many people call me Mac. It’s funny. You said he seemed familiar to you and you couldn’t figure out where you saw him before.”
“I saw him on the screen. Over and over. That’s why even his voice was familiar.” I frowned. “That’s how I recognized him, Ruth. But how in the hell did he recognize me? I’m not an actor. Except in the sense that all the world’s a stage. Whywould an actor happen to know that Bernie Rhodenbarr is a burglar?”
“I don’t know. Maybe—”
“Rodney.”
“Huh?”
“Rod’s an actor.”
“So?”
“Actors know each other, don’t they?”
“Do they? I don’t know. I suppose some of them do. Do burglars know each other?”
“That’s different.”
“Why is it different?”
“Burglary is solitary work. Acting is a whole lot of people on a stage or in front of a camera. Actors work with each other. Maybe he worked with this guy.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“And Rodney knows me. From the poker game.”
“But he doesn’t know you’re a burglar.”
“Well, I didn’t think he did. But maybe he does.”
“Only if he’s been reading the New York papers lately. You think Rodney happened to know you were a burglar and then he told this actor, and the other actor decided you’d be just the person to frame for murder, and just to round things out you went from the murder scene to Rodney’s apartment.”
“Oh.”
“Just like that.”
“It does call for more than the usual voluntary suspension of disbelief,” I admitted. “But there are actors all over this thing.”
“Two of them, and only one of them’s all over it.”
“Flaxford was connected with the theater. Maybe that’s the connection between him and the actor who roped me in. He was a producer, and maybe he had a disagreement with this actor—”
“Who decided to kill him and set up a burglar to take a fall for him.”
“I keep blowing up balloons and you keep sticking pins in them.”
“It’s just that I think we should work with what we know, Bernie. It doesn’t matter how this man found you, not right now it doesn’t. What matters is how you and I are going to find him. Did you notice the name of the picture?”
“ The Man in the Middle. And it’s about a corporate takeover, not a homosexual ménage à trois as you might have thought. Starring James Garner and Shan Willson, and I could tell you the names of two or three others but none of them were our friend. It was filmed in 1962 and whoever the droll chap is who does the TV listings in the Times, he thinks the plot is predictable but the performances are spritely. That’s a word you don’t hear much anymore.”
“You wouldn’t want to hear it too often.”
“I guess not,” I said. She picked up the phone book and I told her she’d want the Yellow Pages. “I thought of that,” I said. “Call one of those film rental places and see if they can come up with a print of the picture. But they’ll be closed at this hour, won’t they?”
She gave me a funny look and asked me what channel the movie had been on.
“Channel 9.”
“Is that WPIX?”
“WOR.”
“Right.” She closed the phone book, dialed a number. “You weren’t serious about renting the film just so we could see who was in it, were you?”
“Well, sort of.”
“Someone at the channel should have a cast list. They must get calls like this all the time.”
“Oh.”
“Is there any coffee, Bernie?”
“I’ll get you some.”
It took more than
“I don’t think so. Would he be listed anyway? If he didn’t say more than ‘Where to, Mac?’ ”
“Oh, he had other lines, Maybe half a dozen lines. You know, talking about the weather and the traffic, doing the typical New York cabbie number. Or at least what Hollywood thinks the typical New York cabbie number ought to be. Did a cabdriver ever say ‘Where to, Mac?’ to you?”
“No, but not that many people call me Mac. It’s funny. You said he seemed familiar to you and you couldn’t figure out where you saw him before.”
“I saw him on the screen. Over and over. That’s why even his voice was familiar.” I frowned. “That’s how I recognized him, Ruth. But how in the hell did he recognize me? I’m not an actor. Except in the sense that all the world’s a stage. Whywould an actor happen to know that Bernie Rhodenbarr is a burglar?”
“I don’t know. Maybe—”
“Rodney.”
“Huh?”
“Rod’s an actor.”
“So?”
“Actors know each other, don’t they?”
“Do they? I don’t know. I suppose some of them do. Do burglars know each other?”
“That’s different.”
“Why is it different?”
“Burglary is solitary work. Acting is a whole lot of people on a stage or in front of a camera. Actors work with each other. Maybe he worked with this guy.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“And Rodney knows me. From the poker game.”
“But he doesn’t know you’re a burglar.”
“Well, I didn’t think he did. But maybe he does.”
“Only if he’s been reading the New York papers lately. You think Rodney happened to know you were a burglar and then he told this actor, and the other actor decided you’d be just the person to frame for murder, and just to round things out you went from the murder scene to Rodney’s apartment.”
“Oh.”
“Just like that.”
“It does call for more than the usual voluntary suspension of disbelief,” I admitted. “But there are actors all over this thing.”
“Two of them, and only one of them’s all over it.”
“Flaxford was connected with the theater. Maybe that’s the connection between him and the actor who roped me in. He was a producer, and maybe he had a disagreement with this actor—”
“Who decided to kill him and set up a burglar to take a fall for him.”
“I keep blowing up balloons and you keep sticking pins in them.”
“It’s just that I think we should work with what we know, Bernie. It doesn’t matter how this man found you, not right now it doesn’t. What matters is how you and I are going to find him. Did you notice the name of the picture?”
“ The Man in the Middle. And it’s about a corporate takeover, not a homosexual ménage à trois as you might have thought. Starring James Garner and Shan Willson, and I could tell you the names of two or three others but none of them were our friend. It was filmed in 1962 and whoever the droll chap is who does the TV listings in the Times, he thinks the plot is predictable but the performances are spritely. That’s a word you don’t hear much anymore.”
“You wouldn’t want to hear it too often.”
“I guess not,” I said. She picked up the phone book and I told her she’d want the Yellow Pages. “I thought of that,” I said. “Call one of those film rental places and see if they can come up with a print of the picture. But they’ll be closed at this hour, won’t they?”
She gave me a funny look and asked me what channel the movie had been on.
“Channel 9.”
“Is that WPIX?”
“WOR.”
“Right.” She closed the phone book, dialed a number. “You weren’t serious about renting the film just so we could see who was in it, were you?”
“Well, sort of.”
“Someone at the channel should have a cast list. They must get calls like this all the time.”
“Oh.”
“Is there any coffee, Bernie?”
“I’ll get you some.”
It took more than
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