Read Online Burglars Can't Be Choosers by Lawrence Block - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Block
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mouth, and she placed a small soft-palmed hand atop mine. “There’s nothing to worry about,” she said.
“There isn’t?”
“Of course not. I know you didn’t kill anybody. I’m an extremely intuitive person. If I hadn’t been pretty sure you were innocent I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of knocking the plant over in the first place, and—”
“You knocked it over on purpose?”
“Uh-huh. The stand, anyway. I picked up the plant itself so nothing would happen to it, and then I kicked the stand so that it bounced off the wall and fell over.”
“Then you knew all along.”
“Well, your name’s all over the papers, Bernie. And it’s also all over your driver’s license and the other papers in your wallet. I went through your pockets while you were sleeping. You’re one of the soundest sleepers I’ve come across.”
“Do you come across that many?”
Incredibly enough, the minx blushed. “Not all that many, no. Where was I?”
“Going through my pockets.”
“Yes. I thought I recognized you. There was a photo in the Times this morning. It’s not a very good likeness. Do they really cut a person’s hair that short when they send him to prison?”
“Ever since Samson pushed the temple down. They’re not taking any chances.”
“I think it’s barbaric of them. Anyway, the minute I looked at you I knew you couldn’t have murdered that Flaxford person. You’re not a murderer.” She frowned a little. “But I guess you’re a genuine burglar, aren’t you?”
“It does look that way.”
“It certainly does, doesn’t it? Do you really know Rod?”
“Not terribly well. We’ve played poker together a few times.”
“But he doesn’t know what you do for a living, does he? And how come he gave you his keys? Oh, I’m being dull-witted now. What would you need with keys? I saw your keys in your pants pocket, and all those other implements. I must say they look terribly efficient. Don’t you need something called a jimmy to pry doors open with?”
“Only if you’re crude.”
“But you’re not, are you? There’s something very sexual about burglary, isn’t there? How on earth did you get into a business like that? But the man’s supposed to ask the girl that question, isn’the? My, we have a lot to talk about, and it should be a lot more interesting than all that crap about Roger Armitage and the feed business in South Dakota, and I’ll bet you’ve never even been to South Dakota, have you? Although you do string out a fairly convincing pack of lies. Would you like some more coffee, Bernie?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I think I would.”
Chapter
Six
B y six twenty-four that evening the chaps at Channel 7 had said all they were likely to say about the five-state manhunt now under way for Bernard Rhodenbarr, gentleman burglar turned blood-crazed killer. I set one of the foxy old Colonel’s better chicken legs on my plate and crossed the room to turn off Rod’s Panasonic. Ruth sat cross-legged on the floor, a chicken leg of her own unattended while she muttered furiously about the perfidy of Ray Kirschmann. “The gall of that man,” she said. “Taking a thousand dollars of your hard-earned money and then saying such horrible things about you.”
In Ray’s version of the proceedings, I’d crouched in the shadows to take him and Loren by surprise; only his daring and perseverance had enabled him to identify me during the fracas. “I’ve felt for yearsthat Rhodenbarr was capable of violence,” he’d told the reporters, and it seemed to me that his baleful glower had been directed not at the TV cameras but through them at me.
“Well, I let him down,” I said. “Made him look foolish in front of his partner.”
“Do you think he really believed what he said?”
“That I killed Flaxford? Of course he does. You and I are the only people in the world who think otherwise.”
“And the real killer.”
“And the real killer,” I agreed. “But he’s
“There isn’t?”
“Of course not. I know you didn’t kill anybody. I’m an extremely intuitive person. If I hadn’t been pretty sure you were innocent I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of knocking the plant over in the first place, and—”
“You knocked it over on purpose?”
“Uh-huh. The stand, anyway. I picked up the plant itself so nothing would happen to it, and then I kicked the stand so that it bounced off the wall and fell over.”
“Then you knew all along.”
“Well, your name’s all over the papers, Bernie. And it’s also all over your driver’s license and the other papers in your wallet. I went through your pockets while you were sleeping. You’re one of the soundest sleepers I’ve come across.”
“Do you come across that many?”
Incredibly enough, the minx blushed. “Not all that many, no. Where was I?”
“Going through my pockets.”
“Yes. I thought I recognized you. There was a photo in the Times this morning. It’s not a very good likeness. Do they really cut a person’s hair that short when they send him to prison?”
“Ever since Samson pushed the temple down. They’re not taking any chances.”
“I think it’s barbaric of them. Anyway, the minute I looked at you I knew you couldn’t have murdered that Flaxford person. You’re not a murderer.” She frowned a little. “But I guess you’re a genuine burglar, aren’t you?”
“It does look that way.”
“It certainly does, doesn’t it? Do you really know Rod?”
“Not terribly well. We’ve played poker together a few times.”
“But he doesn’t know what you do for a living, does he? And how come he gave you his keys? Oh, I’m being dull-witted now. What would you need with keys? I saw your keys in your pants pocket, and all those other implements. I must say they look terribly efficient. Don’t you need something called a jimmy to pry doors open with?”
“Only if you’re crude.”
“But you’re not, are you? There’s something very sexual about burglary, isn’t there? How on earth did you get into a business like that? But the man’s supposed to ask the girl that question, isn’the? My, we have a lot to talk about, and it should be a lot more interesting than all that crap about Roger Armitage and the feed business in South Dakota, and I’ll bet you’ve never even been to South Dakota, have you? Although you do string out a fairly convincing pack of lies. Would you like some more coffee, Bernie?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I think I would.”
Chapter
Six
B y six twenty-four that evening the chaps at Channel 7 had said all they were likely to say about the five-state manhunt now under way for Bernard Rhodenbarr, gentleman burglar turned blood-crazed killer. I set one of the foxy old Colonel’s better chicken legs on my plate and crossed the room to turn off Rod’s Panasonic. Ruth sat cross-legged on the floor, a chicken leg of her own unattended while she muttered furiously about the perfidy of Ray Kirschmann. “The gall of that man,” she said. “Taking a thousand dollars of your hard-earned money and then saying such horrible things about you.”
In Ray’s version of the proceedings, I’d crouched in the shadows to take him and Loren by surprise; only his daring and perseverance had enabled him to identify me during the fracas. “I’ve felt for yearsthat Rhodenbarr was capable of violence,” he’d told the reporters, and it seemed to me that his baleful glower had been directed not at the TV cameras but through them at me.
“Well, I let him down,” I said. “Made him look foolish in front of his partner.”
“Do you think he really believed what he said?”
“That I killed Flaxford? Of course he does. You and I are the only people in the world who think otherwise.”
“And the real killer.”
“And the real killer,” I agreed. “But he’s
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