The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,85

long to search a hotel room—the occupants haven’t been there long enough to build up an accumulation of clutter—so it’s just a matter of checking the drawers and closet, going through the luggage, and dipping into the pockets of clothes in the closet.

More often than not there was nothing to take. But here and there I found jewelry, some of it worth lifting, and here and there I found cash. During the early-evening hours most of the rooms I hit were empty, but as the night wore on guests came back to the hotel and turned in for the night. Some growled at my knock, or came to the door; a simple apology sent them back to bed. Others didn’t hear me knocking, nor did they hear me open their doors and pad softly around their carpeted floors. My visits were briefer when the occupants were in, but they were also more profitable, because if they were home so were their purses and wallets. I didn’t have to look hard to find them, either.

Then back to my room to stow my prizes. Then off, passkey in hand, eager as a kid on Christmas morning, wondering what the next pretty package would hold.

Ah, youth! When I left the next morning I’d jettisoned the phone books that had given my suitcases a feeling of respectable substance, and I’d filled both bags with well-gotten gains. I don’t know how I wound up after I’d tallied the cash and fenced the rest of the swag, and I’m sure it didn’t add up to what I’d expect to net nowadays from a single halfway decent stamp or coin collection, but it was a decent night’s work all the same. And I felt like a hero, a veritable superman of burglars. I’d pulled not one job but dozens of jobs, one right after the other.

Of course, it’s not all that tricky when you’ve got a key.

I didn’t have a key this time, and it would have speeded things up, no question about it. No matter how quick you are with your picks and probes, a key makes it quicker. Still, a couple of guests had leveled the playing fields for me a bit by neglecting to lock their doors. I was grateful, if a touch bemused. It’s nice, I suppose, to go about assuming one’s fellow guests are as honest as oneself, but doesn’t the illusion get harder to maintain when people are getting bumped off left and right? I suppose a properly brought up murderer will still draw the line at entering another person’s private quarters, but even so…

I went about my work. I had to remind myself not to steal—old habits die hard—but the situation was urgent enough to keep me pretty well focused on the business at hand. I made sure I stayed a floor away from the rest of them, and I ducked out of sight when I heard someone on the stairs. When they were all on the ground floor I had a quick look at the servants’ quarters up above. A little later, when I looked out the window and saw them heading down the path toward the fallen bridge, I seized the moment and made a foray into a couple of rooms on the ground floor.

I came out of the Eglantine apartment knowing I wasn’t going to have much more time. It was cold out, and they’d been in too much of a hurry to bundle up, so they’d want to get back inside the house as soon as possible. I was counting on it, as a matter of fact; the more uncomfortable they were out there, the less time they’d waste on a good look at the late Bernard Grimes Rhodenbarr.

But I wanted a look at those lawn chairs.

The voices had been too muffled earlier for me to tell what had excited them, though I suspected it might be the lawn chairs out behind the house. Was there a fresh corpse on one of those chairs? And, if so, whose was it?

I found my way to the sunroom. Through its windows I saw the three chairs, and I could tell I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. The snow was tamped down all around them, and the snow-covered sheets that shrouded them had been removed.

But, alas, they’d been replaced. They weren’t covered with snow now, but they still hid the chairs’ contents from view.

Three bodies. I could tell that much, given a good look in decent light. But