operator for the number of the Screen Actors Guild, which saved me from having to askwhat SAG was. Then she dialed another ten numbers and asked someone how to get in touch with our two actor friends. She wasn’t bothering to be David Merrick’s secretary this time. Evidently it wasn’t necessary. She waited a few minutes, then made circles in the air with her pen. I gave the phone book back to her and she scribbled some more on its cover. “It’s Brill,” she said. “You were right.”
“Don’t tell me they described him for you.”
“He has a New York agent. That’s all they would do is give me the agents’ names and numbers, and Couhig’s represented by the West Coast William Morris office and Brill has an agent named Peter Alan Martin.”
“And Martin’s here in New York?”
“Uh-huh. He has an Oregon 5 telephone number.”
“I suppose actors would tend to be on the same coast as their agents.”
“It does sound logical,” she agreed. She began dialing, listened for a few minutes, then blew a raspberry into the phone and hung up. “He’s gone for the day,” she said. “I got one of those answering machines. I hate the damn things.”
“Everyone does.”
“If my agent had a machine instead of a service I’d get a new agent.”
“I didn’t know you had an agent.”
She colored. “If I had one. If we had some ham we could have ham and eggs if we had some eggs.”
“We’ve still got some eggs. In the fridge.”
“Bernie—”
“I know.” I looked again in the phone book. No Wesley Brill, but there were a couple of Brill, W’s. The first two numbers answered and reported that there was no Wesley there. The third and last went unanswered, but it was in Harlem and it seemed unlikely that he’d live there. And telephone listings with initials are almost always women trying to avoid obscene calls.
“We can find out if he has an unlisted number,” Ruth suggested. “Information’ll tell you that.”
“An actor with an unlisted number? I suppose it’s possible. But even if we find out that he does, what good will it do us?”
“None, I suppose.”
“Then the hell with it.”
“Right.”
“We know who he is,” I said. “That’s the important thing. In the morning we can call his agent and find out where he lives. What’s really significant is that we’ve found a place to start. That’s the one thing we didn’t have before. If the police kick the door in an hour from now it’d be a slightly different story from if they’d kicked it in two hours ago. I wouldn’t be at a complete dead end, see. I’d have more than a cockeyed story about a round-shoulderedfat man with brown eyes. I’d have a name to go with the description.”
“And then what would happen?”
“They’d put me in jail and throw the key away,” I said. “But nobody’s going to kick the door in. Don’t worry about a thing, Ruth.”
She went around the corner to a deli and picked up sandwiches and beer, stopped at a liquor store for a bottle of Teacher’s. I’d asked her to pick up the booze, but by the time she came back with everything I’d decided not to have any. I had one beer with dinner and nothing else.
Afterward we sat on the couch and drank coffee. She had a little Scotch in hers. I didn’t. She asked to see my burglar tools and I showed them to her, and she asked the name and function of each item.
“Burglar tools,” she said. “It’s illegal to have them in your possession, isn’t it?”
“You can go to jail for it.”
“Which ones did you use to open the locks for this apartment?” I showed her and explained the process. “I think it’s remarkable,” she said, and gave a delicious little shiver. “Who taught you how to do it?”
“Taught myself.”
“Really?”
“More or less. Oh, once I was really into it I gotbooks on locksmithing, and then I took a mail-order course in it from an outfit in Ohio. You know, I wonder if anybody but burglars ever
“Don’t tell me they described him for you.”
“He has a New York agent. That’s all they would do is give me the agents’ names and numbers, and Couhig’s represented by the West Coast William Morris office and Brill has an agent named Peter Alan Martin.”
“And Martin’s here in New York?”
“Uh-huh. He has an Oregon 5 telephone number.”
“I suppose actors would tend to be on the same coast as their agents.”
“It does sound logical,” she agreed. She began dialing, listened for a few minutes, then blew a raspberry into the phone and hung up. “He’s gone for the day,” she said. “I got one of those answering machines. I hate the damn things.”
“Everyone does.”
“If my agent had a machine instead of a service I’d get a new agent.”
“I didn’t know you had an agent.”
She colored. “If I had one. If we had some ham we could have ham and eggs if we had some eggs.”
“We’ve still got some eggs. In the fridge.”
“Bernie—”
“I know.” I looked again in the phone book. No Wesley Brill, but there were a couple of Brill, W’s. The first two numbers answered and reported that there was no Wesley there. The third and last went unanswered, but it was in Harlem and it seemed unlikely that he’d live there. And telephone listings with initials are almost always women trying to avoid obscene calls.
“We can find out if he has an unlisted number,” Ruth suggested. “Information’ll tell you that.”
“An actor with an unlisted number? I suppose it’s possible. But even if we find out that he does, what good will it do us?”
“None, I suppose.”
“Then the hell with it.”
“Right.”
“We know who he is,” I said. “That’s the important thing. In the morning we can call his agent and find out where he lives. What’s really significant is that we’ve found a place to start. That’s the one thing we didn’t have before. If the police kick the door in an hour from now it’d be a slightly different story from if they’d kicked it in two hours ago. I wouldn’t be at a complete dead end, see. I’d have more than a cockeyed story about a round-shoulderedfat man with brown eyes. I’d have a name to go with the description.”
“And then what would happen?”
“They’d put me in jail and throw the key away,” I said. “But nobody’s going to kick the door in. Don’t worry about a thing, Ruth.”
She went around the corner to a deli and picked up sandwiches and beer, stopped at a liquor store for a bottle of Teacher’s. I’d asked her to pick up the booze, but by the time she came back with everything I’d decided not to have any. I had one beer with dinner and nothing else.
Afterward we sat on the couch and drank coffee. She had a little Scotch in hers. I didn’t. She asked to see my burglar tools and I showed them to her, and she asked the name and function of each item.
“Burglar tools,” she said. “It’s illegal to have them in your possession, isn’t it?”
“You can go to jail for it.”
“Which ones did you use to open the locks for this apartment?” I showed her and explained the process. “I think it’s remarkable,” she said, and gave a delicious little shiver. “Who taught you how to do it?”
“Taught myself.”
“Really?”
“More or less. Oh, once I was really into it I gotbooks on locksmithing, and then I took a mail-order course in it from an outfit in Ohio. You know, I wonder if anybody but burglars ever
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