The Burglar Who Studied Spinoza Read Free Page B

television, but nothing that sounded like live conversation. I rang the doorbell and listened carefully, and there was no change in the sounds within the house. I set down my attaché case and pulled on my rubber gloves whileCarolyn put hers on. I said a silent prayer that the house wasn’t hooked into a burglar alarm that I didn’t know about, addressing the prayer to Saint Dismas. He’s the patron saint of thieves, and he must get to hear a lot of prayers these days.
    Let there not be a burglar alarm, I urged the good Dismas. Let the dog really be in Pennsylvania. Let what lies within be a burglar’s fondest dream, and in return I’ll—I’ll what?
    I took out my ring of picks and probes and went to work.
    The locks were pretty good. There were three of them on that door, two Segals and a Rabson. I left the Rabson for last because I knew it would be the toughest, then surprised myself by knocking it off in no more than a minute. I heard Carolyn’s intake of breath when the bolt turned. She knows a little about locks now, and has been known to open her own without a key, and she’s driven herself half mad practicing with a Rabson I gave her, and she sounded impressed.
    I turned the knob, opened the door a crack, stood aside for Carolyn. She shook her head and motioned for me to go first. Age before beauty? Pearls before swine? Death before dishonor? I opened the door and committed illegal entry.
    Lord, what a feeling!
    I’m grateful there isn’t something even more despicable than burglary that gives me that feeling, becauseif there were I probably wouldn’t be able to resist it. Oh, I’m a pro, all right, and I do it for the money, but let’s not kid ourselves. I draw such an intense charge out of it it’s a wonder lamps don’t dim all over the city every time I let myself into somebody else’s abode.
    God knows I’m not proud of it. I’d think far more highly of myself if I eked out a living at Barnegat Books. I never quite cover expenses at the store, but maybe I could if I took the trouble to learn to be a better businessman. The shop supported old Mr. Litzauer for years before he sold it to me and retired to St. Petersburg. It ought to be able to support me. I don’t live all that high. I don’t shoot crap or snort coke or zoom around with the Beautiful People. Nor do I consort with known criminals, as the parole board so charmingly phrases it. I don’t like criminals. I don’t like being one myself.
    But I love to steal. Go figure.
     
    The radio program was one of those talk-show things with listeners calling in to share their views on fluoridation and child labor and other burning issues. I stood there and resented its blaring away at me. The lights were a nice touch—we wouldn’t have to turn on lights ourselves, which might draw attention, nor would we have to curse the darkness. But I stood there in the entrance foyer and resolved to turn off the damned radio. It was a distraction. You have to think straight to burgle efficiently, and who could do so with all that noise?
    “Jesus, Bern.”
    “What?”
    “She always dresses so nice. Who figured she’d be such a slob around the house?”
    I followed her into the living room to see what she was talking about. It looked as though an out-of-season tropical storm had wandered far off course, only to sneak down through the chimney and kick the crap out of everything. The pillows were off the couch. Desk drawers had been pulled out and upended, their contents strewn all over the Aubusson carpet. Pictures had been taken down from the walls, books tossed from their shelves.
    “Burglars,” I said.
    Carolyn stared.
    “They beat us to the punch.”
    “Are they still around, Bern? We better get out of here.”
    I went back to the front door and checked it. I’d relocked the locks when we were inside, fastening an additional chain lock for good measure. The three locks had been locked when I found them, the chain bolt unengaged.
    Strange.
    If