Read Online The Good Thief's Guide to Berlin by Chris Ewan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Ewan
Tags: Fiction
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found what he’s looking for. Tell him the guilty culprit was suspect number two, and that we’ll meet him tomorrow morning to return his precious package. Oh, and add some kisses from me.”
“That’s it?”
“See?” I said, and opened the taxi door. “This burglary lark is a lot simpler than you realize.”
But not for the first time that night, I turned out to be wrong. The situation I was involved in wasn’t the least bit simple. Not even close.
TEN
The lights in my hallway and living room came on before I’d even reached for the switch. I’d like to be able to tell you that they were triggered by some kind of sensor, but the truth was a lot more basic. They were flicked on in the old-fashioned way, by a guy using the muzzle of a gun.
He was stocky and bullnecked. His hair was shaved close to the scalp and the stubble on his face looked abrasive enough to sand wood. Naturally, he had a scar on his cheek. He wouldn’t have been much of a thug without one. The scar was long and jagged and stretched from close to his right ear to the corner of his mouth. The way the skin had healed and tightened meant that his mouth was tugged down on one side, as if he was suffering from Bell’s palsy. I waited for him to speak, half expecting him to slur his words. But it was the second stranger in my apartment, the guy sitting over in my desk chair, who did the talking.
“Come forward into the room. Put your hands in the air.”
“Impressive,” I told the first guy, acting as if I hadn’t noticed his talkative buddy. “Learn to do that while you’re drinking a pint of beer and you could make a lot of money.”
“I said, hands up. High.”
“Amazing. And in English, too. Though I do believe I detect a strong Russian accent.”
The mute thug looked perplexed for a moment. Then he did that thing crooks do when they want to emphasize a point. He looked mean and he cocked the trigger on his gun and pointed it at my head. They do that for a reason. It does tend to grab one’s attention.
The gun really wasn’t all that big. It looked sort of cute in the tough guy’s hand—like a toy water pistol. But I was pretty sure it was real. Sure enough to do as I’d been told.
I reached for the ceiling and Victoria did likewise. She was lurking behind me, treating me a lot like a human shield. I couldn’t really complain. If she’d been the first one inside the room, I might have done the same thing.
“Both of you step forward.” The guy in my chair was growing less patient every moment. “Away from the door.”
“Glad to,” I said. “There’s a nasty draft coming in.”
“Enough with your jokes. You will turn and look at me now.”
I shuffled to my right and finally faced the guy issuing the instructions. His pose was relaxed, with one leg crossed over his knee, and he was much younger and slimmer than the thug with the gun. They say you should dress to impress and he’d certainly done that. His shoes were highly polished brown leather brogues and his tan trousers had stiff pleats ironed into them. His woolen overcoat was neatly tailored and unbuttoned to reveal a navy cashmere sweater over a crisp white shirt. There was a fawn-colored scarf knotted rakishly about his neck and he wore his dark hair in a no-nonsense crew cut. To complete his outfit, he sported a pair of black leather gloves on his hands.
I didn’t like the gloves. Oh, they were beautifully stitched and made from what appeared to be a supple, high-grade hide, but they conjured some unfortunate associations in my mind. Associations that had to do with violence and pain and suffering. With the breaking of bones and the application of pressure and the clean, efficient sort of killing that spoke of a certain kind of professional.
I didn’t like what he was touching with his gloves very much, either. He was holding my badly burned copy of The Maltese Falcon, a single gloved finger resting between the splayed pages. He must have removed
“That’s it?”
“See?” I said, and opened the taxi door. “This burglary lark is a lot simpler than you realize.”
But not for the first time that night, I turned out to be wrong. The situation I was involved in wasn’t the least bit simple. Not even close.
TEN
The lights in my hallway and living room came on before I’d even reached for the switch. I’d like to be able to tell you that they were triggered by some kind of sensor, but the truth was a lot more basic. They were flicked on in the old-fashioned way, by a guy using the muzzle of a gun.
He was stocky and bullnecked. His hair was shaved close to the scalp and the stubble on his face looked abrasive enough to sand wood. Naturally, he had a scar on his cheek. He wouldn’t have been much of a thug without one. The scar was long and jagged and stretched from close to his right ear to the corner of his mouth. The way the skin had healed and tightened meant that his mouth was tugged down on one side, as if he was suffering from Bell’s palsy. I waited for him to speak, half expecting him to slur his words. But it was the second stranger in my apartment, the guy sitting over in my desk chair, who did the talking.
“Come forward into the room. Put your hands in the air.”
“Impressive,” I told the first guy, acting as if I hadn’t noticed his talkative buddy. “Learn to do that while you’re drinking a pint of beer and you could make a lot of money.”
“I said, hands up. High.”
“Amazing. And in English, too. Though I do believe I detect a strong Russian accent.”
The mute thug looked perplexed for a moment. Then he did that thing crooks do when they want to emphasize a point. He looked mean and he cocked the trigger on his gun and pointed it at my head. They do that for a reason. It does tend to grab one’s attention.
The gun really wasn’t all that big. It looked sort of cute in the tough guy’s hand—like a toy water pistol. But I was pretty sure it was real. Sure enough to do as I’d been told.
I reached for the ceiling and Victoria did likewise. She was lurking behind me, treating me a lot like a human shield. I couldn’t really complain. If she’d been the first one inside the room, I might have done the same thing.
“Both of you step forward.” The guy in my chair was growing less patient every moment. “Away from the door.”
“Glad to,” I said. “There’s a nasty draft coming in.”
“Enough with your jokes. You will turn and look at me now.”
I shuffled to my right and finally faced the guy issuing the instructions. His pose was relaxed, with one leg crossed over his knee, and he was much younger and slimmer than the thug with the gun. They say you should dress to impress and he’d certainly done that. His shoes were highly polished brown leather brogues and his tan trousers had stiff pleats ironed into them. His woolen overcoat was neatly tailored and unbuttoned to reveal a navy cashmere sweater over a crisp white shirt. There was a fawn-colored scarf knotted rakishly about his neck and he wore his dark hair in a no-nonsense crew cut. To complete his outfit, he sported a pair of black leather gloves on his hands.
I didn’t like the gloves. Oh, they were beautifully stitched and made from what appeared to be a supple, high-grade hide, but they conjured some unfortunate associations in my mind. Associations that had to do with violence and pain and suffering. With the breaking of bones and the application of pressure and the clean, efficient sort of killing that spoke of a certain kind of professional.
I didn’t like what he was touching with his gloves very much, either. He was holding my badly burned copy of The Maltese Falcon, a single gloved finger resting between the splayed pages. He must have removed
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