The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian by Lawrence Block

them to blackmail you?”
    Her eyes widened. “Why would he do that? Gordon’s rich, and I don’t have any money of my own.”
    “He could have blackmailed you for something besides money.”
    “Oh, you mean sex? I suppose he could have but he didn’t. The affair ended by mutual consent. No, he simply wanted to retain the letters as a way of keeping the affair’s memory fresh. He said once that he intended to save them for his old age. Something to read when reading was the only thing left for him.”
    “I suppose it beats Louis Auchincloss.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Nothing. So he kept your letters.”
    “And the photographs.”
    “Photographs?”
    “He took pictures a couple of times.”
    “Pictures of you?”
    “Some of me and some of both of us. He has a Polaroid with a cable shutter release.”
    “So he could get some good shots of you verbing his noun.”
    “He could and did.”
    I straightened up. “Well, we’ve still got a few minutes,” I said, “and I’m pretty good at search-and-destroy missions. If the letters and photos are in this apartment, I bet I can find them.”
    “I already found them.”
    “Oh?”
    “They were in his dresser and it was almost the first place I looked.”
    “And where are they now?”
    “Down the incinerator.”
    “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.”
    “You have a way with words.”
    “Thank you. Mission accomplished, eh? You found the letters and pictures, sent them down to be burned or compacted or whatever they do at the Charlemagne, and then you were on your way.”
    “That’s right.”
    “So how come you were still here when I let myself in?”
    “I was on my way out,” she said. “I was heading for the door. I had my hand on the knob when you rang the bell.”
    “Suppose it had been Onderdonk.”
    “I thought it was. Not when I heard the bell, because why would he ring his own door? Unless he knew I was in his apartment.”
    “How’d you get in?”
    “He never double-locks the door. I opened it with a credit card.”
    “You know how to do that?”
    “Doesn’t everybody? All you have to do is watch television and you see them doing it. It’s educational.”
    “It must be. The door was double-locked when I tried it. I had to pick the tumblers.”
    “I turned the bolt from inside.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. Reflex, I guess. I should have put the chain on while I was at it. Then you’d have known somebody was here and you wouldn’t have come in, would you?”
    “Probably not, and you wouldn’t have had a chance to bring your fantasy to life.”
    “That’s a point.”
    “But suppose instead of me it had been Onderdonk. Would you have verbed him on the carpet or hauled him off to the bedroom?”
    She sighed. “I don’t know. I guess I would have told him what I’d done. I think he probably would have laughed about it. As I said, we parted on good terms. But he was a big man and he had a temper, and that’s why I was scrunched up against the wall hoping for a way to get out without being seen. And knowing it was impossible, but not knowing what else to do.”
    “What happened to the painting?”
    She blinked at me. “Huh?”
    “There. Over the fireplace.”
    She looked. “He had a painting hanging there, didn’t he? Of course he did. You can see the outline.”
    “A Mondrian.”
    “Of course, what am I thinking of? His Mondrian. Oh. You came here to steal his Mondrian!”
    “I just wanted to look at it. The museums all close around six and I had a sudden urge to bask in the inner glow of great art.”
    “And here I thought you just hit this apartment at random. But you were here for the Mondrian.”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “You didn’t have to. You know, he said something about that painting. It was a while ago. I wonder if I can remember what it was.”
    “Take your time.”
    “Isn’t there an exhibition forming of Mondrian’s work? Either Mondrian or the whole De Stijl school of abstract painting. They