Read Online A Thief in the House of Memory by Tim Wynne-Jones - Free Book Online

himself, no matter how unbelievable it seemed.
    â€œIf it were anyone but your dad,” said Ezra. “I mean, he strikes me as more of a Mr. Rogers kind of guy.”
    â€œYou got to watch out for the quiet ones,” Dec muttered.
    He wished he could tell Ezra about Lindy, what she’d said about his dad. But Ezra was looking at him way too sympathetically.
    â€œI met Runyon, Ezra,” he said, in one last futile attempt to get across his sense of unrest. “Runyon was cool. He may have been a thief but he was not dumb. I saw the list of the stuff they found in his bag; it was choice. What would he want with a stupid bust, which is worth a couple of hundred dollars, max?”
    Ezra took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
    â€œHis car was parked a kilometre away,” said Dec more urgently than he meant to. “Why take a heavy piece of crap like that if he has to walk a kilometre through the bush?”
    Ezra put his glasses back on and stared at Dec candidly for a long moment.
    â€œHere’s what I think,” he said. “They really should have let you go to the inquest. Because you’ve got way too big an imagination to be left on your own with this.”
    Dec managed a small smile. They punched fists together once, twice, three times. Then Ezra suddenly turned, craning his neck, distracted by something.
    â€œEnemy plane at twelve o’clock,” he said.
    Dec followed his gaze to the courthouse. A hulk of a man had just stepped out of the doorway. He was in his thirties, as bald as a bowling ball, but with a razor-thin beard accentuating the line of his fat jaw.
    He stood at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a sports jacket, but he took it off and slowly rolled up his shirt sleeves.
    â€œGet a load of the forearms,” whispered Dec. “Popeye does Ladybank.”
    â€œNot Popeye,” said Ezra. “Think of the plates. The Hood.
    Any bets the Duster belongs to Clarence Mahood?”
    â€œRunyon’s boyhood friend,” said Dec. “Nice work, Sherlock.”
    Mahood pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He looked steamed about something.
    The courthouse doors opened again and Bernard Steeple stepped out, holding the door for Birdie. She was in spike heels, holding on tightly to Bernard’s arm with one hand, shielding her eyes from the sun with the other. Bernard’s face was grave. They headed diagonally down the steps towards the Rendezvous, but Mahood must have said something because they stopped and looked back his way. He was pointing his finger, pointing it at Bernard, and he was mad.
    Bernard turned away and started down the steps again. But Birdie suddenly pulled her arm free and dashed back up the steps, her heels flapping. She went straight at the hulking man and pushed him hard in the chest. She was yelling, but Dec couldn’t hear a word over the traffic. Patiently, Bernard collected Birdie, avoiding Mahood’s eyes. Holding her around the waist, he led her away. She was flushed with anger. Her elaborate pile of coffee-coloured hair had come undone. Bernard talked quietly to her, leading her towardsthe car. Mahood called after them, shaking his fist, until they were in the car.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” murmured Ezra.
    Dec stared at him, his eyes filled with foreboding.
    â€œI ’m almost afraid to find out,” he said.

Shut Out
    B UT HE WAST’T about to find out anything.
    â€œClarence Mahood is a slug,” said Birdie.
    â€œYou know him?”
    She turned to Dec in the back seat of the Rendezvous, one pencil-thin painted-on eyebrow raised. “It’s a small town, kiddo. I’ve known Clare since kindergarten.”
    Dec was suddenly struck by the implication of what Birdie had said. “So you knew Runyon, too!”
    â€œNever said I didn’t.”
    But that wasn’t the point. She had never said she did! Dec was too flabbergasted