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  The cop picked up the jacket and patted its pockets. Then he turned, draping the jacket over his arm, and Dortmunder, in the part at last, extended the tray. “You want a, a thing?”

  The cop shook his head. He still wasn’t looking at Dortmunder. He went away with the jacket, and Dortmunder sat on the now jacketless chair to have a quiet nervous breakdown. The hostess was going to say, “Why, that’s my husband’s jacket. In the kitchen? What was it doing there?” Then all the cops would come back and lay hands on him, and he would never be heard from again.

  The harried woman steamed in, her own tray empty. Dortmunder got to his feet and said, “Just resting a minute.”

  She raised a meaningful brow in his direction.

  Which he pretended not to see. “The cops didn’t want the tarts,” he said.

  “I wonder what they did want,” she said, still with that meaningful look.

  “Maybe the party’s too noisy,” Dortmunder suggested. “Maybe the neighbor upstairs complained.”

  “That many cops? The neighbor upstairs must be the police commissioner.”

  “That’s probably it,” Dortmunder said. “What do you think? Should I make a special tray for them?”

  “For the police?” This question brought her back to earth, and to business. “Nonguests are not our concern,” she said. “What’s that you’re taking out there?” She peered at his tray much more suspiciously than she’d peered at him; good. “Ah, the anchovy logs,” she said, nodding her approval.

  “Anchovy logs?”

  “You don’t have to mention the name, just distribute them. And stick to the area at the other end of the room from the bar to move people away from the drinks.”

  “These logs,” Dortmunder pointed out, “will drive them right back to the drinks.”

  “That’s OK. Circulation’s the name of the game.”

  The hostess came fluttering in, saying, “We have to do something. Can you believe this? Police!”

  “We noticed,” the harried woman said.

  “Police ruin a party,” the hostess announced.

  “They sure do,” Dortmunder agreed.

  He should have kept his mouth shut; this just made the hostess focus on him, saying, “Jerry, what you should do is —” She blinked. “You’re not Jerry.”

  “Sure I am,” Dortmunder said, and flashed the tray of logs. “I better get out there,” he said, scooting through the door. From behind he heard the harried woman say, “A different Jerry.”

  In the living room, the party wasn’t really ruined at all. The cops were nowhere in sight and the partygoers were peacefully at graze once more. Dortmunder moved his tray hither and yon, away from the bar, and soon the hostess returned, but she was not at ease. She kept flashing worried looks toward the hall.

  Hmmm. His tray still half full of logs, Dortmunder eased away from the party, skirted the hostess at some little distance and proceeded down the hall to reconnoiter, tray held out in front of himself as a carte d’identité.

  He heard them before he saw them, a cop voice saying, “Which coat is yours?” Then he made the turn into the bedroom and there were the three cops, plus two more cops, plus two male partygoers, who looked worried and guilty as hell as they pawed through the pile of coats. “Snack?” Dortmunder inquired.

  All the cops looked at him, but with annoyance, not suspicion. “Geddada here,” one of them said.

  “Right.” Dortmunder bowed from the waist, like butlers in the old black–and–white movies on TV, and backed out of the room. Moving down the hall toward the party, he considered the possibility that one or both of those suspects would prove to have some sort of illegal substance in his coat. A happy thought, but would it sufficiently distract the law? Probably not.

  Back at the party, Dortmunder unloaded more anchovy logs, and then somebody put two glasses onto his not–quite–empty tray and said, “Two white wines, pal.”

  Dortmunder looked at the glasses, then looked up, and it was his buddy Larry again, who turned away to continue pistol–whipping his girlfriend, saying, “Make your own decisions for yourself, Sheila, don’t put the blame on me.”

  Bewildered, she said, “The blame for what?”

  The waiter wasn’t supposed to get drinks for people, was he? Everybody else was getting his own. Dortmunder considered tucking the two glasses inside Larry’s shirt, but then he glanced over and saw a cop briefly in the doorway, looking around. He decided a waiter was somebody who waited on people, not somebody who knocked people around, so he carried the tray to the drinks table. The cop was gone again. Dortmunder filled one glass with white wine and the other with tonic and carried them back on the tray, being careful to give Sheila the wine. She was saying wistfully, “It just seems as though you’re trying to push me away, but making it my fault.”

  So she was catching on, was she? Airily, Larry smirked at her and said, “It’s all in your mind.”

  Dortmunder made a rapid retreat to the kitchen, not wanting to be in sight when Larry tasted the tonic, and now this room was absolutely full of cops talking to the harried woman, one of them saying, “You been here since the beginning of the party?”

  “We’re catering the party,” she said. “We had to be here an hour before it started, to set up the food and the bar.”

  The cop gave Dortmunder a full frontal stare. “Both of you?”

  “Of course both of us,” the harried woman said. To Dortmunder she said, “Tell them, Jerry. We got here at six–thirty.”

  “That’s right,” Dortmunder told the cops, then turned to his partner in crime to say, “They’re still hungry out there.”

  “We’ll give them the shrimps now,” she decided, and gestured for Dortmunder to join her at the counter next to the sink, where plastic pots of cold peeled shrimp and glass bowls of redsauce awaited.

  The cops stood around and growled together while Dortmunder and the harried woman worked, their fingers sliding on the slippery shrimp. At last, though, the law left the room, and Dortmunder whispered, “Thanks.”

  “I don’t know what you did —”

  “Mistaken identity.”

  “All I know is, you saved my sanity. Also, I still need help with these shrimp.”

  “You got it.”

  “There’s one thing, though, that I have to tell you,” she said as they arranged shrimp on decorative plates. “I’m married.”

  “So am I,” Dortmunder said. “Kinda.”

  “Me, too,” she agreed. “Kinda. But for real.”

  “Sure,” Dortmunder said. “We’re just trays of shrimp that pass in the night.”

  “Right.”

  Returning to the party, Dortmunder saw Larry at the drinks table, a wrinkled look around his mouth as he poured a glass of white wine. Dortmunder kept out of his way as he circulated, distributing shrimp. The two suspects from the bedroom came back, looking shaken but relieved, and both beelined to the drinks table, where they made quite a dent.

  A few minutes later, the apartment door thudded shut with a sound that gonged all the way down the hall and into the room with the party, where a whole lot of tense smiles suddenly loosened up.

  Really? Gone? Given up? Dortmunder, suspicious by nature and cautious by necessity, carried his half–full tray of shrimp and sauce down the empty hall, glanced into the empty bedroom, opened the apartment door and looked out at five cops looking in.

  Umm. Two of them were women cops. All five were just standing around the corridor with faintly eager and hungry looks, like lions in the Colosseum. Behind them, the door to the apartment across the hall was propped half–open.

  OK. So they still think the odds are that their missing burglar is at the party, so they’ve set up this corridor equivalent of a radar trap. Each partygoer on the way out will be taken into the apartment across the hall — with that good citizen’s cooperation and approval, no doubt — and frisked. The women cops are for the women partygoers. And all five were looking at Dortmunder as though he were th
eir first customer.

  Uh–uh. True, he didn’t have the stash on him, but the identity papers he carried were in case of routine stops, not for anything serious. These documents were like vampires, they crumbled when exposed to light.

  Dortmunder extended the tray, “Have a shrimp?”

  “We’re on duty,” one of the women cops said, and the other cops looked faintly embarrassed.

  “Maybe later,” Dortmunder suggested, and he closed the door on all those official eyes before they got the idea to dry–run their little gauntlet on the help.

  What now? Eventually, this party, like all good things, must end. Until then, he was probably more or less safe, but as things stood, there was absolutely no way for him to get out of this apartment. Until they got their hands on the burglar, the police would not relax their vigilance for a second.

  Until they got their hands on the burglar. Until they got their hands on somebody.

  Play the hand. Dortmunder slipped sideways into the bedroom, balancing the tray one–handed as he opened the dresser drawer where he’d stashed the stash. He was careful about his selection; a proper Christmas gift should be something you’d like to receive yourself, so he resisted the impulse to keep the best swag for himself, instead choosing to sacrifice two brooches and a bracelet that were definitely cream of the crop. These went into his pants pocket and back out of the bedroom he eased, on the alert.

  And here came Larry and Sheila down the hall away from the party, he still assuring her that she was the one making all the decisions, while she wore the expression of someone who can’t figure out what it is that keeps biting her on the ass. They would all meet at the midpoint of the hall, with just enough room for everybody to get by.

  Well, it could have been anybody, but, in fact, Dortmunder had been thinking about Larry a bit, anyway. The guy was a smart–aleck, which was good; he’d be more likely to think he could bullshit the cops the way he was doing Sheila, more likely to rub them the wrong way and attract their attention. And now this business of sidestepping past one another in the hall just made it easier.

  “I don’t want to go if you don’t want to go,” Sheila was saying, her eyes phosphorescent with tears that hadn’t yet started to fall, and at that point in the middle of Larry’s long–suffering sigh, darned if the server didn’t almost dump his whole tray of shrimp and red sauce all over Larry’s shirt. “Hey! Watch it!”

  “Oops! Here, let me —”

  “That’s all right, that’s all right, no harm done, everything’s fine, if you don’t mind,” Larry said with an aggressive, splay–fingered brushing down of his front, where nothing had actually spilled but where the server had been apologetically pawing and patting.

  Timing is all. Dortmunder made his way back to the party, distributed the rest of his shrimp among the needy, and when he saw the harried woman, empty–trayed, heading for the kitchen, he followed her.

  Now she was putting little sausages on the tray, each with its own yellow toothpick. Dortmunder reached into his pocket for the one prize he hadn’t given Larry: an extremely nice gold brooch shaped like a feather. “Hold it,” he said, walking over behind her, and tucked it into the raveled bun of her hair.

  “What? What? What’s that?” She didn’t know what was happening but was afraid to turn her head.

  “When you get home,” Dortmunder advised, “have your guy fish that out of there. Not before.”

  “But what is it?”

  “A feather,” he said accurately, and disrobed himself of the dish towel he’d been hiding behind. Too bad that jacket wasn’t around anymore. “Well,” he said, “up the chimney I speed.”

  She laughed, a happier person than when they’d met, and picked up her refilled tray. “Say hello to the elves.”

  “I will.”

  They both left the kitchen, she to continue her good works and he moving briskly but without unseemly haste down the hall toward the apartment door, through which, as he neared it, came the muffled sound of voices raised in dispute, among them the high tones of the perhaps unnecessarily loyal Sheila.

  “Just who do you think you are?” And that was Larry, bless him.

  Eventually, of course, Larry’s innocence — at least in this context — would be established, and the manhunt would resume. But by then the wily perpetrator would be long gone. Flexing into the bedroom, the wily perpetrator found his pea–coat at the bottom of the pile again and refilled it quickly and silently with his tools and the evening’s profits. Before leaving, he paused briefly to pick up the bedside phone and dial his faithful companion, May, waiting for him at home, who answered by saying “Wrong number,” which was her form of preemptive strike against possible breathers and objectionable conversationalists.

  “I’m a little bit late, May,” Dortmunder said.

  “You certainly are,” May agreed. “Where are you, the precinct?”

  “Well, I’m at a party,” Dortmunder said, “but I’ll be leaving in a minute.” Leaving, to be specific, to continue his interrupted descent of the fire escape. “There was a complication,” he explained, “but it’s OK now.”

  “Is it a nice party?”

  “The food’s good,” Dortmunder said. “See you soon.”

  GIVE TILL IT HURTS

  __________________

  It was hard to run, Dortmunder was discovering, with your pockets full of bronze Roman coins. The long skirt flapping around his ankles didn’t help, either. This hotel is either too damn big, he told himself, huffing and puffing and trying to keep his pants up under this bulky white dress, or it’s too small.

  Okay, the dress isn’t really a dress, it’s an aba, but it gets in the way of running legs just as much as any dress in the world. How did Lawrence of Arabia do it, in that movie that time? Probably trick photography.

  Also, the sheet on his head, called a keffiyeh, held on by this outsize cigar band circlet called an akal, is fine and dandy if you’re just walking around looking at things, but when you run it keeps sliding over your eyes, particularly when you have to go around a corner and not run straight into the wall, like now.

  Dortmunder turned the corner, and here came a half dozen of his fellow conventioneers, Arabian numismatists jabbering away at each other and kicking their skirts out ahead of them as they walked. How did they do that?

  Dortmunder braked hard to a walk, to a stroll, and fixed a brotherly smile on his face as he approached the approaching sheiks, or whatever they were. “Sawami,” he said, using the one word he’d found that seemed to work. “Sawami, sawami.”

  They all smiled back, and nodded, and said some stuff, and proceeded on around the corner. With any luck, the cops would arrest one of them.

  Here’s the thing. If you happen to hear that in a big hotel in midtown Manhattan there’s going to be a sale of ancient coins, where most of the dealers and most of the customers are going to be rich Arabs, what can you possibly do but dress yourself up like a rich Arab, go to the hotel, mingle a little, and see what falls into your pockets? If the dealer with the heavy beard and the loud voice hadn’t also happened to see what was falling into Dortmunder’s pocket, everything would have been okay. As it was, he’d eluded pursuit so far, but if he were to try to leave the hotel by any of its known exits he was pretty sure he’d suddenly feel a lot of unfriendly hands clutching at his elbows.

  What to do, what to do? Getting out of this OPEC drag wouldn’t help much, since his pursuers had no doubt already figured out he was a goof in sheik’s clothing. In fact, wearing it helped him blend in with the hotel’s regular guests, so long as he didn’t have to engage in conversation more complicated than, “Sawami sawami. Sawami? Ho, ho, sawami!”

  And at least he wasn’t up in Santa Claus rig. Every year around this time, with shiny toys in the store windows and wet snow inside your shoes, wherever there might happen to be any kind of a robbery in a public setting, the cops immediately would nick the nearest Saint Nick, because it is well known that Santa Claus is every se
cond–rate second story guy’s idea of a really terrific disguise.

  Not Dortmunder. Better a sheet among sheiks than a red suit, a white pillow and handcuffs. Leave your camel at home.

  NO ADMISSION. That was what the door said, and that was perfect. That was exactly what you would look for when you’re on the run, a door that says No Admission, or Authorized Personnel Only, or Keep Out; any of those synonyms for quick–exit. This particular door was at a turn in the corridor, tucked away mostly out of sight in the corner of the L. Dortmunder looked down both lengths of empty hallways, tried the knob, found it locked, and stepped back to consider just what kind of lock he was expected to go through here.

  Oh, that kind. No problem. Hiking up his skirt, reaching into a coin–laden pants pocket, he brought out a little leather bag of narrow metal implements he’d once told an arresting officer was his manicure set. That cop had looked at Dortmunder’s fingernails and laughed.

  Dortmunder manicured No Admission, pushed the door open, listened, heard no alarm, saw only darkness within, and stepped through, shutting the door behind him. Feeling around for a lightswitch, his fingers bumped into some sort of shelf, then found the switch, flipped it up, and a linen closet sprang into existence: sheets, towels, tissue boxes, soap, quart–size white plastic coffee pitchers, tiny vials of shampoo. Well, hell, this was no way out.

  Dortmunder turned and reached for the doorknob and felt a breeze. Yes? He turned back, inspecting the small but deep crowded room with all his eyes, and there at the rear was a window, an ordinary double hung window, and its bottom half was just slightly open.

  What floor am I on? Dortmunder had gone out windows before in his career that had turned out to be maybe a little too high up in the air for comfort and he’d lived to regret it, but at least he’d lived. But where was he now?

  The window was behind shelves piled with towels. Dortmunder moved towels out of the way, leaned his head in between two shelves, pushed the window farther open and looked out into December darkness. A kind of jumbled darkness lay in an indefinite number of stories below, maybe three, maybe five. To the right were the backs of tall buildings facing 57th Street and to the left were the backs of shorter buildings facing 56th Street.