The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian by Lawrence Block Page B

temples. I’ll say more than that. The destruction of bad art is in itself a work of art. Bakunin said the urge to destroy is a creative urge. To slash some of these canvases—” He took a deep breath, expelled it all in a sigh. “But I’m a talker, not a destroyer. I’m an artist, I paint my paintings and I live my life. I saw the interest you were taking in my favorite painting and it provoked this outburst. Am I forgiven?”
    “There’s nothing to forgive,” Carolyn told him.
    “You’re kind people, gracious people. And if I’ve given you something to think about, why, then you haven’t wasted the day and neither have I.”

Chapter Six
    “T here’s the answer,” Carolyn said. “We’ll destroy the painting. Then they couldn’t expect us to steal it.”
    “And they’ll destroy the cat.”
    “Don’t even say that. Can we get out of here?”
    “Good idea.”
    Outside, a young man in buckskin and a young woman in denim were sprawled on the Hewlett’s steps, passing an herbal cigarette back and forth. A pair of uniformed guards at the top of the stairs ignored them, perhaps because they were over sixteen. Carolyn wrinkled her nose as she passed the two.
    “Sick,” she said. “Why can’t they get drunk like civilized human beings?”
    “You could try asking them.”
    “They’d say, ‘Like, man, wow.’ That’s what they always say. Where are we going?”
    “Your place.”
    “Okay. Any particular reason?”
    “Somebody took a cat out of a locked apartment,” I said, “and I’d like to try to figure out how.”
     
    We walked west, subwayed downtown, and walked from Sheridan Square to Carolyn’s place on Arbor Court, one of those wobbly Village streets that slants off at an angle, bridging the gap between hither and yon. Most people couldn’t find it, but then most people wouldn’t have occasion to look for it in the first place. We walked through a lazy overcast September afternoon that made me want to dash uptown and lace up my running shoes. I told Carolyn it was a great day for running, and she told me there was no such thing.
    When we got to her building I examined the lock out in front. It didn’t look too challenging. Anyway, it’s no mean trick to get in the front door of an unattended building. You ring the other tenants’ bells until one of them irresponsibly buzzes you in, or you loiter outside and time your approach so that you reach the doorway just as someone else is going in or out. It’s a rare tenant who’ll challenge you if you have the right air of arrogant nonchalance.
    I didn’t have to do all that, however, because Carolyn had her key. She let us in and we went down the hall to her apartment, which is on the ground floor in the back. I knelt and studied keyholes.
    “If you see an eye staring back at you,” Carolyn said, “I don’t want to know about it. What are you looking for?”
    “A sign that somebody tampered with the locks. I don’t see any fresh scratches. Have you got a match?”
    “I don’t smoke. Neither do you, remember?”
    “I wanted better light. My penlight’s home. It doesn’t matter.” I got to my feet. “Let me have your keys.”
    I unlocked all the locks, and when we were inside I examined them, especially the Fox lock. While I was doing this, Carolyn walked around calling for Ubi. Her voice got increasingly panicky until the cat appeared in response to the whirr of the electric can opener. “Oh, Ubi,” she said, and scooped him up and plopped herself down in a chair with him. “Poor baby, you miss your buddy, don’t you?”
    I went over to the little window and opened it. Cylindrical iron bars an inch thick extended the length of the window, anchored in the brick below and the concrete lintel above. All the window needed was a few similar bars running horizontally and a few squares of color and it could be a Mondrian. I took hold of a couple of bars and tugged them to and fro. They didn’t budge.
    Carolyn asked me what the