The Burglar Who Studied Spinoza Read Free Page A

invitation I’d failed to accept. Now I rang the doorbell, giving it a good long poke and waiting a full minute for a response. Beside me, Carolyn stood with her hands in her pockets and her shoulders drawn inward, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
    I could imagine how she felt. This was only her third time. She’d been with me once in Forest Hills Gardens, a ritzy enclave in darkest Queens, and more recently when we hit an apartment in the East Seventies. I was an old hand at this sort of thing, I’d grown up letting myself into other people’s houses, but even so the edgy anxious thrill had not worn off. I have a hunch it never will.
    I shifted the attaché case to my left hand and dug out a ring of keys with my right. The iron gate was a formidable affair. It could be opened electrically by someone in the carriage house pushing a button, or it would yield to a key. And it was the type of old-fashioned lock that accepted a skeleton-type key, and there are only so many types, and I had a ringful of them. I’d looked the lock over some days ago and it had looked easy enough at the time, and easy it was; the third key I tried was a near miss, and the fourth one turned in the lock as if it had been placed on earth to do precisely that.
    I wiped my prints off the lock and the surrounding metal, shouldered the gate open. Carolyn followed meinto the covered passageway and drew the gate shut behind her. We were in a long narrow tunnel, all brick-lined and with a damp feel to it, but there was a light at the end of it and we homed in on it like moths. We came out into a garden that nestled between the brownstone in front and the Colcannons’ carriage house. The light that had drawn us did a fair job of showing off the garden, with its flower beds bordering a central flagstone patio. Late daffodils and early tulips put on a good show, and I suppose when the roses bloomed the place might look fairly spectacular.
    There was a semicircular bench next to what looked to be a fish pond fed by a little fountain. I wondered how they could keep fish there without their being wiped out by the local cats, and I would have enjoyed passing a few minutes on the bench, peering into the pond for signs of fish while listening to the tranquil gurgle of the fountain. But the setting was a trifle exposed for that sort of behavior.
    Besides, time was a-wasting. It was twenty to ten—I’d checked my watch before unlocking the iron gate. In a sense we had all night, but the less of it we used the happier I’d be, and the sooner we’d be out of there and on our way to Abel Crowe’s.
    “Lit up like a Christmas tree,” Carolyn said.
    I looked. I hadn’t paid much attention to the carriage house, intent as I was on checking out flowers and fish, and if it didn’t look like a Christmas tree neither did it look like your standard empty house. It stood three stories tall, and I suppose it had once had horses on the ground floor and servants overhead before someone converted it for human occupancy throughout. Now there were lights burning on all three floors. They weren’t the only source of illumination in the garden—there was also an electrified lantern mounted a few steps from the fountain—but they were probably responsible for most of the light that had reached us in the passageway.
    Most people leave a light or two for the burglar, that brave little beacon that shines away at four in the morning, announcing to all the world that nobody’s home. Some people improve on this with cunning little timing devices that turn the lights on and off. But Herbert and Wanda seemed to me to have gone overboard. Maybe they had overreacted to the notion of leaving the place unprotected by the noble Astrid. Maybe Herb had a ton of Con Ed stock and Wanda had overdosed on those five-year light bulbs blind people sell you over the telephone.
    Maybe they were home.
    I mounted the stoop and put my ear to the door. There was noise inside, radio or