Read Online The Burglar on the Prowl by Lawrence Block - Free Book Online Page A

would have at least as much square footage, and a front lawn and back yard in the bargain.)
    There were blackout shades on the bedroom windows, which I lowered, and curtains as well, which I drew. I wondered if perhaps Creeley worked nights and slept days, which would account both for the blackout shades and the tenant’s absence. It would also give me all the time in the world to finish my work.
    I turned on a bedside lamp and had a look around. The bed—queen size, of Danish teak—was made, the pillows plumped. That alone suggested Creeley was a woman or lived with one, because what man living alone bothers to make the bed? Oh, I suppose military service gets some men in the habit, but my immediate thought was that Creeley was of the female persuasion, and a glance at the mahogany dresser, topped with little jars and bottles of makeup and scent and such, cinched it. Creeley was a lady, and a reasonably girly girl at that, with dresses sharing her closet with the suits she wore to work, and the jeans she wore for play.
    I left the bedroom, closing the door far enough to block most but not all of the light, and with what leaked out I made my way through the kitchen to the living room, where some light came through the front windows from the street. The living room windows had floor-to-ceiling drapes, heavy velvet things that must havebeen hanging there since the Korean War. I drew them shut and turned on a lamp or two and made myself at home.
    Sometimes I think that’s the best part, when you can just take a few moments to slip into another person’s life as effortlessly as you’ve slipped into their abode. I stretched out on the sofa, sat in the matching armchair, browsed the small bookcase (mostly trade paperbacks, proclaiming their owner as hip and sophisticated but cost-conscious, pretentiously lacking in pretension). I ambled into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Eggs, bacon, a few kinds of sausage, and an array of cheeses from Murray’s on Bleecker Street. No milk, but a half-pint of heavy cream. No beer, no bread, no bagels. No carbs, I noted, and recalled that one of the books in the bookcase was the latest work of the late Dr. Atkins. Ms. Creeley’s refrigerator suggested that she practiced what he preached.
    And to good effect, judging from the sizes of the clothes in her closet. If she’d ever been a chubbette, she’d long since banished her fat clothes to the Salvation Army.
    Her first name, I learned from the Con Ed bill in her desk, was Barbara, and other bills and payment stubs confirmed this. I didn’t find a checkbook, and assumed she kept it in her purse. Barbara Creeley lived alone, I knew, and generally slept alone, I could tell, though she evidently had High Hopes.
    And how did I know all this? Well, the wardrobe told me she lived alone. If she had a boyfriend who stayed over with any degree of regularity, there’d be a few garments of his left at her place for convenience, and there weren’t. The queen-size bed had surely been purchased with the intention of sharing it at least occasionally, and the mattress, with its shallow depression on one side and no evidence of wear whatsoever on the other, told me that she slept alone, and always on the right-hand side of the bed.
    Yes, I checked. Yes, I pulled back the covers and felt each side of the mattress for firmness. Not out of prurient interest, I assure you, but out of a fierce curiosity that may well be every bit as shameful. I disturbed her bedclothing, I thrust my gloved hands into her linen. Of course I made the bed again afterward, but that didn’t erase the psychic stain, did it?
    Some years ago a friend of Carolyn’s was burglarized. Whoever it was who did it didn’t take much—he couldn’t, she didn’t have much—but she told us that what she’d lost was the least of it. “He was in my place ,” she said, shuddering. “He was touching my things . I feel like burning all my clothes and having the place tented and