The Burglar on the Prowl - By Lawrence Block Page 0,110

“They were Latvian patriots, after all. They might try to get some money for Kukarov’s photos, but they’d make sure they went to a good home—somebody who’d track the man down and bring him to justice.”

A nod from Grisek confirmed my supposition.

“So they removed those four pages,” I said, “and cut the photos free from the backing, and taped them to the pages of another book.”

“The one about the quarterback,” Ray Kirschmann said.

“You know,” I said, “you used that phrase once before, Ray, and I didn’t know what the hell you were talking about, so I let it pass. But now I get it, and QB VII isn’t about a quarterback.”

“It ain’t?”

“It’s a novel by Leon Uris, based on what he went through when some Nazi sued him for libel. The title is the name of the British courtroom where the trial took place.”

“Well, how’s anybody supposed to know that, Bernie? An’ who gives a rat’s ass, anyway? What I want to know is why didn’t the poor saps turn the book over to this Blintz guy so’s to keep from gettin’ shot? It was still there in the bookcase, right where anybody could find it.”

“Not just anybody,” I said. “It took a skilled professional, gifted with imagination and resourcefulness. You’re being too modest, Ray. When you told me how you went through every book in the bookcase until you found one with torn pages bearing telltale tape residue, it was clear what had happened. Somebody had found those photographs and spirited them away.”

This was all news to Ray, and I could see him working hard to adjust to new realities. Well, who told him to mention QB VII?

“It wouldn’t have saved them,” I said, moving along smoothly, “and they must have known that. And who’s to say they had a chance to raise the subject even if they wanted to?”

“So this guy took the book,” Lacey said, pointing at Quattrone, “and that guy murdered the man and woman,” she went on, nodding at Blinsky, “and the photos were still in the apartment. Right?”

“Hypothetically,” said Michael Quattrone.

“Hypothetically,” I agreed.

“Whatever,” she said. “But if somebody found them, and tore them out of the book, they aren’t there anymore. Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay,” she said, and flashed a smile at Carolyn. “I like to understand stuff. That’s all.”

I like to understand stuff, too, especially if I’m called upon to explain it. But sometimes you can start with the explanation and wait for the understanding to come along in its wake. That had worked once already—until Quattrone spoke, it hadn’t occurred to me that the Lyles could have had a second set of visitors after the first set made off with the book.

So I pressed on.

“Wednesday the Lyles were robbed and murdered,” I said, “and Thursday I got arrested and burglarized, and Friday morning coincidence once again hove into view. I got a phone call from a customer of mine, and perhaps he can tell us what he asked me for.”

“I guess it’s my turn,” Colby Riddle said. “I certainly thought my request was innocent enough. I’d called your bookstore, Bernie, and I asked if you had a particular book.”

“Not Principles of Organic Chemistry, I don’t suppose.”

“I’m afraid not. Nor QB VII, by the much lamented Mr. Uris. I asked for a book by Joseph Conrad.”

“I don’t suppose you remember the title?”

“The Secret Agent. You determined that you did, and said you’d set it aside for me. I said I’d come by and pick it up when I had the chance, and I suppose we exchanged further pleasantries, though perhaps we didn’t, as that’s as much as I can recall.”

“That may have been all there was,” I said, “because I didn’t know who you were.”

“Why didn’t you ask my name?”

“Because your voice was familiar, Colby, and you sounded as though you assumed I’d know who you were, and I didn’t want to appear boorish. I’d hardly had any sleep the night before, so I wasn’t at my best. I was sure I’d know you when you showed up.”

“And so you did, Bernie. But you didn’t have the book anymore.”

“Because I’d given it to a man named Valdi Berzins,” I said. “Mr. Grisek, I believe you may have known him.”

The Latvian nodded, looking unhappy. “A good man,” he said. “A fine man. A patriotist.”

“It was he to whom the Lyles had promised the Kukarov photos, wasn’t it?”

“He did not tell me the detailings,” Grisek said. His English was unaccented, but also unorthodox. “And always he looked on