Read Online The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling by Lawrence Block - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Block
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appeared. He was just suddenly there, poking around among the shelves, a tall slender gentleman with a full black beard and a turban. I noticed him, of course, because one does notice that sort of thing, but I didn’t stare or gawp. New York is New York, after all, and a Sikh is not a Martian.
Shortly before five the store emptied out. I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand and thought about closing early. Just then the Sikh emerged from the world of books and presented himself in front of the counter. I’d lost track of him and had assumed he’d left.
“This book,” he said. He held it up for my inspection, dwarfing it in his large brown hands. An inexpensive copy of The Jungle Book, by our boy Rudyard K.
“Ah, yes,” I said. “Mowgli, raised by wolves.”
He was even taller than I’d realized I looked at him and thought of What’s-his-name in Little Orphan Annie. He wore a gray business suit, a white shirt, an unornamented maroon tie. The turban was white.
“You know this man?”
Punjab, I thought. That was the dude in Little Orphan Annie. And his sidekick was The Asp, and—
“Kipling?” I said.
“You know him?”
“Well, he’s not living now,” I said. “He died in1936.” And thank you, J. R. Whelkin, for the history lesson.
The man smiled. His teeth were very large, quite even, and whiter than his shirtfront. His features were regular, and his large sorrowful eyes were the brown of old-fashioned mink coats, the kind Ray Kirschmann’s wife didn’t want for Christmas.
“You know his books?” he said.
“Yes.”
“You have other books, yes? Besides the ones on your shelves.”
An alarm bell sounded somewhere in the old cerebellum. “My stock’s all on display,” I said carefully.
“Another book. A private book, perhaps.”
“I’m afraid not.”
The smile faded until the mouth was a grim line hidden at its corners by the thick black beard. The Sikh dropped a hand into his jacket pocket. When he brought it out there was a pistol in it. He stood so that his body screened the pistol from the view of passers-by and held it so that it was pointed directly at my chest.
It was a very small gun, a nickel-plated automatic. They make fake guns about that size, novelty items, but somehow I knew that this one wouldn’t turn out to be a cigarette lighter in disguise.
It should have looked ridiculous, such a little gun in such a large hand, but I’ll tell you something. Guns, when they’re pointed at me, never look ridiculous.
“Please,” he said patiently. “Let us be reasonable. You know what I want.”
CHAPTER
Six
I wanted to look him in the eyes but I couldn’t keep from staring at the gun.
“There is something,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I’ve got it behind the counter, see, because of a personal interest—”
“Yes.”
“But since you’re a fan of Kipling’s, and because your devotion is obvious—”
“The book, please.”
His free hand snatched it up the instant I laid it on the counter. The smile was back now, broader than ever. He tried the book in his jacket pocket but it didn’t fit. He set it back on the counter for a moment while he drew an envelope from an inside pocket. He was still pointing the gun at me and I wished he’d stop.
“For your trouble,” he said, slapping the envelope smartly on the counter in front of me. “Because you are a reasonable man.”
“Reasonable,” I said.
“No police, no troubles.” His smile spread. “Reasonable.”
“Like Brutus.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, he was honorable, wasn’t he? And I’m reasonable.” The book screamed at me from the counter top. “This book,” I said, my hand pawing the air above it. “You’re a stranger in my country, and I can’t let you—”
He scooped up the book and backed off, teeth flashing furiously. When he reached the door he pocketed the gun, stepped quickly outside, and hurried off westward on Eleventh Street.
Gone but not forgotten.
I stared after
Shortly before five the store emptied out. I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand and thought about closing early. Just then the Sikh emerged from the world of books and presented himself in front of the counter. I’d lost track of him and had assumed he’d left.
“This book,” he said. He held it up for my inspection, dwarfing it in his large brown hands. An inexpensive copy of The Jungle Book, by our boy Rudyard K.
“Ah, yes,” I said. “Mowgli, raised by wolves.”
He was even taller than I’d realized I looked at him and thought of What’s-his-name in Little Orphan Annie. He wore a gray business suit, a white shirt, an unornamented maroon tie. The turban was white.
“You know this man?”
Punjab, I thought. That was the dude in Little Orphan Annie. And his sidekick was The Asp, and—
“Kipling?” I said.
“You know him?”
“Well, he’s not living now,” I said. “He died in1936.” And thank you, J. R. Whelkin, for the history lesson.
The man smiled. His teeth were very large, quite even, and whiter than his shirtfront. His features were regular, and his large sorrowful eyes were the brown of old-fashioned mink coats, the kind Ray Kirschmann’s wife didn’t want for Christmas.
“You know his books?” he said.
“Yes.”
“You have other books, yes? Besides the ones on your shelves.”
An alarm bell sounded somewhere in the old cerebellum. “My stock’s all on display,” I said carefully.
“Another book. A private book, perhaps.”
“I’m afraid not.”
The smile faded until the mouth was a grim line hidden at its corners by the thick black beard. The Sikh dropped a hand into his jacket pocket. When he brought it out there was a pistol in it. He stood so that his body screened the pistol from the view of passers-by and held it so that it was pointed directly at my chest.
It was a very small gun, a nickel-plated automatic. They make fake guns about that size, novelty items, but somehow I knew that this one wouldn’t turn out to be a cigarette lighter in disguise.
It should have looked ridiculous, such a little gun in such a large hand, but I’ll tell you something. Guns, when they’re pointed at me, never look ridiculous.
“Please,” he said patiently. “Let us be reasonable. You know what I want.”
CHAPTER
Six
I wanted to look him in the eyes but I couldn’t keep from staring at the gun.
“There is something,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I’ve got it behind the counter, see, because of a personal interest—”
“Yes.”
“But since you’re a fan of Kipling’s, and because your devotion is obvious—”
“The book, please.”
His free hand snatched it up the instant I laid it on the counter. The smile was back now, broader than ever. He tried the book in his jacket pocket but it didn’t fit. He set it back on the counter for a moment while he drew an envelope from an inside pocket. He was still pointing the gun at me and I wished he’d stop.
“For your trouble,” he said, slapping the envelope smartly on the counter in front of me. “Because you are a reasonable man.”
“Reasonable,” I said.
“No police, no troubles.” His smile spread. “Reasonable.”
“Like Brutus.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, he was honorable, wasn’t he? And I’m reasonable.” The book screamed at me from the counter top. “This book,” I said, my hand pawing the air above it. “You’re a stranger in my country, and I can’t let you—”
He scooped up the book and backed off, teeth flashing furiously. When he reached the door he pocketed the gun, stepped quickly outside, and hurried off westward on Eleventh Street.
Gone but not forgotten.
I stared after
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