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    Burglars Can't Be Choosers
    Burglars Can't Be Choosers
    Burglars Can't Be Choosers
    Ebook249 pages3 hours

    Burglars Can't Be Choosers

    By Lawrence Block

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Bernie Rhodenbarr is a personable chap, a good neighbor, a passable poker player. His chosen profession, however, might not sit well with some. Bernie is a burglar, a good one, effortlessly lifting valuables from the not-so-well-protected abodes of well-to-do New Yorkers like a modern-day Robin Hood. (The poor, as Bernie would be the first to tell you, alas, have nothing worth stealing.)

    He's not perfect, however; he occasionally makes mistakes. Like accepting a paid assignment from a total stranger to retrieve a particular item from a rich man's apartment. Like still being there when the cops arrive. Like having a freshly slain corpse lying in the next room, and no proof that Bernie isn't the killer.

    Now he's really got his hands full, having to locate the true perpetrator while somehow eluding the police -- a dirty job indeed, but if Bernie doesn't do it, who will?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateOct 13, 2009
    ISBN9780061808524
    Author

    Lawrence Block

    Lawrence Block is one of the most widely recognized names in the mystery genre. He has been named a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America and is a four-time winner of the prestigious Edgar and Shamus Awards, as well as a recipient of prizes in France, Germany, and Japan. He received the Diamond Dagger from the British Crime Writers' Association—only the third American to be given this award. He is a prolific author, having written more than fifty books and numerous short stories, and is a devoted New Yorker and an enthusiastic global traveler.

    Read more from Lawrence Block

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    Reviews for Burglars Can't Be Choosers

    3.5/5

    320 ratings18 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Burglars Can't Be Choosers by Lawrence Block; (4*)In this first book of Block's very readable and fun Burglar series his protagonist, Bernie, has accepted a job from a suspicious & shady character. His 'job' is to break into an apartment and steal a small blue box from the desk. It sounds too easy to be true. And generally if somethings seems too good to be true it usually is. This case is no different! After Bernie has broken into the apartment while he is going through the desk the police bust in and catch him red handed. When they search the residence they find a dead body. Now Bernie seems guilty of attempted robbery and of murder.He evades police capture and once on the run, he is forced to solve the murder to escape being convicted of it. Fortunately for Bernie he seems quite up to the challenge of amateur detective work and along the way he finds an unlikely female assistant and a cop who has an interesting take on the word 'honest'.It is a fun study of New York City and it's many complexities.
    • 4/5
      I decided to hunt down the first book in the Bernie Rhodenbarr series since it appeared that I had never read it. I'm glad that I did as it convinces me that while this one was great fun, the stories just kept getting better and better. The mystery was good, but some of the clues did not show up until the end. The humor, however, was right there in your face the whole time! Richard Ferrone was absolutely perfect for Bernie.
    • 3/5
      After reading this one, I will have to read all of the series, as the first book's proved a quick and fun read.

      One of the most satisfying impulse reads that started because I'm also reading Block's AFTERTHOUGHTS and figured it was about time I read the Bernie Rhodebarr series (of which I've had more than three or four for a while now, when I started collecting bibliomysteries years back).
    • 5/5
      Totally enjoyable, undemanding pulp fiction: perfect holiday reading.
    • 3/5
      I just love Mrs. Rhodenbarr's son, Bernie...even if he is a thief.
    • 4/5
      3.5*** This is the first in the series starring Bernie Rhodenbarr, a professional burglar with loads of charm. He’s successful and has an apartment in a nice building on the upper West Side, where he’s known as a good neighbor. He never burgles in his neighborhood, is methodical in his planning, quickly fences his take and lives a quiet life. He also always works alone. Until now. When he’s approached by a stranger offering a significant fee if he’ll retrieve a certain blue leather box, Bernie’s curious and agrees. Seems like a simple job. But the box isn’t where it should be, while a body is … and so are the police. I love this series, and this is a second reading, though I didn’t remember any of the plot, so the twists were all a surprise to me. I like Bernie as a character. He’s smart and nonviolent. He has a way with the ladies, but he’s a gentleman, through and through. The plots are intricate and the supporting characters a delight. I love his cop “friend” Ray Kirschman – honest, though not above taking a little cash to look the other way. And I love the way Block writes about New York City; I really feel as if I’m walking the streets right along with Bernie.
    • 5/5
      “Burglars Can’t Be Choosers,” first published in 1977, was the first of eleven “burglar” books published over the next two and a half decades. It is a crime fiction story that follows the old pulp classic theme of a man on the run from the law after being suspected of a murder he didn’t commit. Yet, it cannot be described as a hardboiled story. It is not dark and gloomy as most crime fiction is, but somehow light and humorous as bizarre as that sounds. Block, who is most well known for his Matt Scudder series, featuring a cynical, former police officer who nearly drinks himself into oblivion, purposefully fashioned the burglar series as something far different –perhaps more irreverent, more silly, more accessible.

      This story is terrific and Bernie Rhodenbarr is a hell of a burglar. Yes, that is what he does for a living, although he is not a vicious, violent kind of burglar. He would prefer to burgle your home when you are not at home so as not to trouble you. He has fairly friendly relations with the local officers who know him on a first name basis, but he is a whiz with his tools and there is no lock that he can’t pick. His luck and his karma are not to be trusted, however. And, even though he is the most excellent burglar you will ever find, he often breaks into an apartment and doesn’t realize that there is a body in the bedroom, one still oozing blood all over the floor. At least in this story he doesn’t realize that the body is there until the police find him in the apartment. Is it just bad luck? Has he been set up? Why is he a convenient fall guy?
    • 4/5
      This is a terrific light mystery. The story is engaging and amusing, with a great ending. Looking forward the rest of the series.
    • 4/5
      Enjoyable read.
    • 4/5
      I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed good old Bernie. The flavor of Archie MacNally, but not quite so dapper. In oher words, an incredibly enjoyable anti-hero.
    • 4/5
      Bernie might be a burglar but he isn't out to hurt anyone. So when he's approached to burgle an apartment for one specific item (a blue box -no not the Doctor's Blue Box), he figures it's easy money. Well, it was until he's caught flat-footed by two flatfoots. Oh and then he finds an annoyingly dead guy though this one is in the bedroom at least, not the bathtub.
    • 3/5
      Block has a very low-key voice in his books & this audio was well done by Adams Morgan - the voice fits Bernie Rhodenbarr perfectly. Bernie is a nice guy who is just trying to get by in NYC like everyone else. His profession is as a burglar & he's a pretty good one, well liked by his neighbors ("Who cares if you take from the rich east side? You don't steal around here.") & the cops, who know he is reasonable about splitting profits.

      He has a good thing going until his job is connected to a murder. Then Bernie has to figure out who the murderer is or else he's going to go away for it & he doesn't want to go back to prison again. He did that once & it just isn't his style. The company is atrocious.

      The murder mystery is convoluted & wrapped up nicely at the end. A sharp reader can probably pick up all the clues & solve parts, but Bernie holds back a little to give the end a bit of twist.

      Fun, but nothing remarkable. Great to listen to on my commute. On to the next!
    • 4/5
      A fun lighthearted mystery with a little edge. This is the first book in Lawrence Block's Burglar series which feature the criminal activities and subsequent misadventures of gentleman burglar Bernard G. Rhodenbarr - Bernie the Burglar.It all starts when Bernie's hired by an odd little man he doesn't know - but who knows him - to retrieve an item from someone's apartment while they aren't home. Simple enough task for someone with Bernie's skills. Except when the police catch him in the act... except when a dead body then shows up in the next room... except when Bernie freaks out and makes a runs for it!After the initial setup the story coasts at a pace that verges on plodding, for a chapter or so there's not a lot happening other than Bernie going over everything that has led him to be a fugitive and trying to piece together a clue. Once the first clue is discovered the story starts moving again and keeps a fairly steady pace. The ending struggles a little, the plot is somewhat convoluted and the whole thing teeters on the edge of implausibility (a common trait among several stories in the burglar series) but it's all great fun.In typical Block fashion the author sprinkles a few obvious - and some not so obvious - clues here and there giving the reader the impression of being oh-so-clever because they already know exactly where the story is going and then, again in typical Block fashion, he turns it on its head and you realize you've been gobbling up the trail of bread crumbs he's left for you and never focused on the inconsequential things that may or may not have been the real clues (some are, some aren't) and it's all incredibly satisfying because the only thing greater than outsmarting a great mystery writer is falling so completely into his web that you don't even know you're on the wrong track until it's too late.If you are only familiar with Lawrence Block's more famous character Private Detective Matthew Scudder then you might be in for a big surprise because the Burglar series has always been much more lighthearted. It's full of the kind of puns, laughs, wise cracks and occasional silliness that you would never find in a Scudder novel.There is some violence and sexual content, most all of it is more implied than explicit and the language does include a few 4-letter words but it falls well within the PG-13 range. I would recommend this to just about anyone who likes mysteries, and detective novels with the possible exception of those who prefer them hard-boiled and no nonsense.
    • 4/5
      Bernie is a likeable rogue, although, he has the worst luck. There's always a dead body laying around during his break-ins. This time he has a client asking him to steal a blue leather box for $5000 from an antique roll-top desk. The police catch him in the act and discover a dead man in the next room. Bernie gets away, hides out, and solves the case with the help of a very friendly new girlfriend.
    • 4/5
      A light-hearted mystery where the sleuth is also a burglar. That's the scenario for this book (and rest of the series I believe). Bernie Rhodenbarr is a thief and doesn't try to justify his actions. It's not that he goes around advertising his profession but he's not looking for a new one. He makes a good living and enjoys what he does and doesn't have to work too often either so why should he? When he's offered $5000 for what sounds like an easy job he overcomes some initial misgivings and accepts. He breaks into the apartment but can't find the item he's been asked to collect where he was told it would be and before he can look around for it he's interrupted by the arrival of two cops on the scene. Negotiations for the cops to look the other way have been pretty much concluded when one of the boys in blue discovers a dead body which complicates matters somewhat.Managing to flee the scene and find a bolt-hole to hide up in Bernie tries to find out if he was set up on the job or if his luck was particularly bad that night. He's helped out by a young lady who discovered his hiding place when she came in to water the plants. Can they discover the real murderer before Bernie gets caught?This is a really quick read. Fast-paced without much superfluous action. It's a fun escapade but the characters aren't hugely developed but enjoyable nonetheless.
    • 3/5
      Bernie Rhodenbar, professional burglar gets framed for murder while in the midst attempting to steal a special item he was requested to steal. He becomes involved in solving the murder in order to clear his "good name".This is a interesting series, but not sure if I like it yet or not. It seems to take place a million years ago, and doesn't feel like the 1970's. The story is first person narrated and Bernie is somewhat of a pig, but clever at times. His thoughts on women is pretty dated. I have to try one more in the series to get the feel for it. I like premise of the series... a professional burglar.
    • 4/5
      The misplaced apostrophe in the first word of the title disappeared in later editions. Other than that, there's nothing wrong one can say about this series. Bernie and the rest of the cast are hysterical. The tone of the books are light and easily-read. Definitely a recommendation.
    • 3/5
      Fun book to read. Kind of a stretch to bring the "mystery" to a close, but still fun.

    Book preview

    Burglars Can't Be Choosers - Lawrence Block

    BURGLARS

    CAN’T

    BE

    CHOOSERS

    LAWRENCE

    BLOCK

    Dedication

    For Steve and Nancy Schwerner

    Contents

    Dedication

    Chapters

    One

    Two

    Three

    Four

    Five

    Six

    Seven

    Eight

    Nine

    Ten

    Eleven

    Twelve

    Thirteen

    Fourteen

    Fifteen

    Sixteen

    Seventeen

    Burglar’s Choice

    About the Author

    Praise

    Books by Lawrence Block

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    Chapter

    One

    A handful of minutes after nine I hoisted my Bloomingdale’s shopping bag and moved out of a doorway and into step with a tall blond fellow with a faintly equine cast to his face. He was carrying an attaché case that looked too thin to be of much use. Like a high-fashion model, you might say. His topcoat was one of those new plaid ones and his hair, a little longer than my own, had been cut a strand at a time.

    We meet again, I said, which was an out-and-out lie. Turned out to be a pretty fair day after all.

    He smiled, perfectly willing to believe that we were neighbors who exchanged a friendly word now and then. Little brisk this evening, he said.

    I agreed that it was brisk. There wasn’t much he might have said that I wouldn’t have gladly agreed with. He looked respectable and he was walking east on Sixty-seventh Street and that was all I required of him. I didn’t want to befriend him or play handball with him or learn the name of his barber or coax him into swapping shortbread recipes. I just wanted him to help me get past a doorman.

    The doorman in question was planted in front of a seven-story brick building halfway down the block, and he’d been very nearly as stationary as the building itself during the past half-hour. I’d given him that much time to desert his post and he hadn’t taken advantage of it, so now I was going to have to walk right past him. That’s easier than it sounds, and it’s certainly easier than the various alternatives I’d considered earlier—circling the block and going through another building to get into the airshaft behind the building I wanted, doing a human fly act onto the fire escape, torching my way through steel grilles on basement or first-floor windows. All of those things are possible, I suppose, but so what? The proper method is Euclidean in its simplicity: the shortest route into a building is through its front door.

    I’d hoped that my tall blond companion might be a resident of the building himself. We could have continued our conversation, such as it was, right through the lobby and onto the elevator. But this was not to be. When it was clear that he was not going to turn from his eastward course I said, Well, here’s where I get off. Hope that business in Connecticut works out for you.

    This ought to have puzzled him, as we hadn’t talked about any business in Connecticut or elsewhere, but perhaps he assumed I’d mistaken him for someone else. It hardly mattered. He kept on walking toward Mecca while I turned to my right (toward Brazil), gave the doorman a quick unfocused nod and smile, warbled a pleasant Good evening at a gray-haired woman with more than the traditional number of chins, chuckled unconvincingly when her Yorkie made snapping sounds at my heels, and strode purposefully onto the self-service elevator.

    I rode to the fourth floor, poked around until I found the stairway, and walked down a flight. I almost always do this and I sometimes wonder why. I think someone must have done it in a movie once and I was evidently impressed, but it’s really a waste of time, especially when the elevator in question is self-service. The one thing it does is fix in your mind where the stairs are, should you later need them in a hurry, but you ought to be able to locate stairs without scampering up or down them.

    On the third floor, I found my way to Apartment 311 at the front of the building. I stood for a moment, letting my ears do the walking, and then I gave the bell a thorough ring and waited thirty thoughtful seconds before ringing it again.

    And that, let me assure you, is not a waste of time. Public institutions throughout the fifty states provide food and clothing and shelter for lads who don’t ring the bell first. And it’s not enough just poking the silly thing. A couple of years back I rang the bell diligently enough at the Park Avenue co-op of a charming couple named Sandoval, poked the little button until my finger throbbed, and wound up going directly to jail without passing Go. The bell was out of order, the Sandovals were home scoffing toasted English muffins in the breakfast nook, and Bernard G. Rhodenbarr soon found himself in a little room with bars on the windows.

    This bell was in order. When my second ring brought no more response than my first, I reached a hand beneath my topcoat—last year’s model, not plaid but olive—and drew a pigskin case from my trouser pocket. There were several keys in the case and several other useful things as well, these last made of the finest German steel. I opened my case, knocked on the door for luck, and set to work.

    A funny thing. The better your building, the higher your monthly rental, the more efficient your doorman, why, the easier it’s going to be to crack your apartment. People who live in unattended walkups in Hell’s Kitchen will fasten half a dozen deadbolt locks to their doors and add a Segal police lock for insurance. Tenement dwellers take it for granted that junkies will come to kick their doors in and strong-arm types will rip the cylinders out of their locks, so they make things as secure as they possibly can. But if the building itself is so set up as to intimidate your garden variety snatch-and-grab artist, then most tenants make do with the lock the landlord provides.

    In this case the landlord provided a Rabson. Now there’s nothing tacky about a Rabson lock. The Rabson is very good. But then so am I.

    I suppose it took me a minute to open the lock. A minute may be long or short, significant or inconsequential. It is long indeed when you are spending it inserting burglar’s tools into a lock of an apartment manifestly not your own, and when you know that during any of its sixty seconds another door down the hallway might open and some Nosey Parker might want to know just who you think you are and just what you think you are doing.

    No one opened a door, no one got off the elevator. I did creative things with my finely tempered steel implements, and the tumblers tumbled and the lock mechanism turned and the deadbolt drew itself deliberately back and disengaged. When that happened I let out the breath I’d been holding and drew a fresh one. Then I wiggled my picks a little more and opened the spring lock, which was child’s play after the deadbolt, and when it snicked back I felt that little surge of excitement that’s always there when I open a lock. It’s a little like a roller coaster ride and a little like sexual triumph, and you may make of all that what you will.

    I turned the knob, eased the heavy door inward half an inch or so. My blood was really up now. You never know for certain what’s going to be on the other side of the door. That’s one of the things that makes it exciting, but it also makes it scary, and it’s still scary no matter how many times you’ve done it.

    Once the lock’s open, though, you can’t do it an inch at a time like an old lady slipping into a swimming pool. So I pushed the door open and went inside.

    The room was dark. I closed the door behind me, turned the bolt, dug a penlight flash out of my pocket and played the beam around. The drapes were drawn. That explained the room’s utter darkness, and it meant I might as well turn the lights on because no one could see in from the building across the street. Apartment 311 fronted on Sixty-seventh Street but with the drapes drawn it might as well have been fronting on a blank wall.

    The wall switch near the door turned on a pair of table lamps with leaded glass Tiffany-type shades. They looked like reproductions to me but they were nice ones. I moved around the room, taking time to get the feel of it. I’ve always done this.

    Nice room. Large, about fifteen by twenty-five feet. A highly polished dark oak floor with two oriental rugs on it. The larger one was Chinese and the smaller one at the far end of the room might have been a Bokhara, but I couldn’t tell you for sure. I suppose I ought to know more about rugs but I’ve never taken the time to learn because they’re too much trouble to steal.

    Naturally I went over to the desk first. It was a nineteenth-century rolltop, oaken and massive, and I’d probably have been drawn to it simply because I like desks like that, but in this case my whole reason for being in this apartment was tucked away in one of its drawers or cubbyholes. That’s what the shifty-eyed and pear-shaped man had told me, and who was I to doubt his word?

    There’s this big old desk, he had said, aiming his chocolate eyes over my left shoulder. What you call a rolltop. The top rolls up.

    Clever name for it, I’d said.

    He had ignored this. You’ll see it the minute you walk in the room. Big old mother. He keeps the box in the desk. He moved his little hands about, to indicate the dimensions of the box we were discussing. About like so. About the size of a box of cigars. Maybe a little bigger, maybe a little smaller. Basically I’d call it cigar-box size. Box is blue.

    Blue.

    Blue leather. Covered in leather. I suppose it’s wood under the leather. Rather than being leather straight through. What’s under the leather don’t matter. What matters is what’s inside the box.

    What’s inside the box?

    That don’t matter. I stared at him, ready to ask him which of us was to be Abbott and which Costello. He frowned. What’s in the box for you, he said, is five thousand dollars. Five kay for a few minutes’ work. As to what’s actually inside the box we’re talking about, see, the box is locked.

    I see.

    His eyes moved from the air above my left shoulder to the air above my right shoulder, pausing en route to flick contemptuously at my own eyes. Locks, he said, prolly don’t mean too much to you.

    Locks mean a great deal to me.

    This lock, the lock on the box, you prolly shouldn’t open it.

    I see.

    Be a very bad idea for you to open it. You bring me the box, you get the rest of your money, and everybody’s happy.

    Oh, I said. I see what you’re doing.

    Huh?

    "You’re threatening me, I said. How curious."

    The eyes widened but only for a moment. Threats? Not for the world, kid. Advice and threats, there’s a world of difference. I wouldn’t dream of threatening you.

    Well, I wouldn’t dream of opening your blue leather box.

    Leather-covered.

    Right.

    Not that it makes a difference.

    Hardly. What color blue?

    Huh?

    Dark blue, light blue, robin’s egg blue, Prussian blue, cobalt blue, powder blue. What color?

    What’s the difference?

    I wouldn’t want to bring the wrong blue box.

    Don’t worry about it, kid.

    If you say so.

    Just so it’s a blue leather box. Unopened.

    Gotcha.

    Since that conversation I’d been whiling away the hours trying to decide whether I’d open the box or not. I knew myself well enough to recognize that any lock constitutes an immediate temptation for me, and when I’ve been cautioned against opening a particular lock that only increases the attraction of it.

    On the other hand, I’m not a kid anymore. When you’ve been inside a couple of times your judgment is supposed to improve, and if it seemed likely that there was more danger than profit in opening the elusive blue box…

    But before I came to terms with the question I had to find the box, and before I did that I had to open the desk, and I wasn’t even ready to tackle that project yet. First I wanted to get the feel of the room.

    Some burglars, like some lovers, just want to get in and get out. Others try to psych out the people they’re thieving from, building up a whole mental profile of them out of what their houses reveal. I do something a little different. I have this habit of creating a life for myself to suit the surroundings I find myself in.

    So I now took this apartment and transformed it from the residence of one J. Francis Flaxford to the sanctum sanctorum of yours truly, Bernard Grimes Rhodenbarr. I settled myself in an oversized wing chair upholstered in dark green leather, swung my feet up on the matching ottoman, and took a leisurely look at my new life.

    Pictures on the walls, old oils in elaborate gilded frames. A little landscape that clearly owed a lot to Turner, although a lesser hand had just as clearly held the brush. A pair of old portraits in matching oval frames, a man and a woman eyeing each other thoughtfully over a small fireplace in which not a trace of ash reposed. Were they Flaxford’s ancestors? Probably not, but did he attempt to pass them off as such?

    No matter. I’d call them my ancestors, and make up outrageous stories about them. And there’d be a fire in the fireplace, casting a warm glow over the room. And I’d sit in this chair with a book and a glass, and perhaps a dog at my feet. A large dog, a large old dog, one not given to yaps or abrupt movements. Perhaps a stuffed dog might be best all around….

    Books. There was a floor lamp beside my chair, its bulb at reading height. The wall behind the chair was lined with bookshelves and another small case of books, one of those revolving stands, stood on the floor alongside the chair. On the other side of the chair was a lower table holding a silver cigarette dish and a massive cut-glass ashtray.

    All right. I’d do a lot of reading here, and quality stuff, not modern junk. Perhaps those leather-bound sets were just there for show, their pages still uncut. Well, it would be a different story if I were living here. And I’d keep a decanter of good brandy on the table beside me. No, two decanters, a pair of those wide-bottomed ship’s decanters, one filled with brandy, one with a vintage port. There’d be room for them when I got rid of the cigarette dish. The ashtray could stay. I liked the size and style of it, and I might want to take up smoking a pipe. Pipes had always burned my tongue in the past, but perhaps as I worked my way through the wisdom of the ages, feet up on the hassock, book in hand, port and brandy within easy reach, a fire glowing on the hearth…

    I spent a few minutes on the fantasy, figuring out a little more about the life I’d lead in Mr. Flaxford’s apartment. I suppose it’s silly and childish to do this and I know it wastes time. But I think it serves a purpose. It gets rid of some tension. I get wired very tight when I’m in someone else’s place. The fantasy makes the place my own home in a certain way, at least for the short time I’m inside it, and that seems to help. I’m not convinced that’s why I started doing it in the first place, or why I’ve continued.

    The time I wasted couldn’t have amounted to very much, anyway, because I looked at my watch just before I put my gloves on to go to work and it was only seventeen minutes after nine. I use sheer skintight rubber gloves, the kind doctors wear, and I cut out circles on the palms and backs so my hands won’t perspire as much. As with other skintight rubber things, you don’t really lose all that much in the way of sensitivity and you make up for it in peace of mind.

    The desk had two locks. One opened the rolltop and the other, in the top right-hand drawer, unlocked that drawer and all the others at once. I probably could have found the keys—most people stow desk keys very close to the desk itself—but it was faster and easier to open both locks with my own tools. I’ve never yet run into a desk lock that didn’t turn out to be candy.

    These two were no exception. I rolled up the rolltop and studied the usual infinite array of pigeonholes, tiny drawer upon tiny drawer, cubicle after cubicle. For some reason our ancestors found this an efficient system for the organization of one’s business affairs. It’s always seemed to me that it would have to be more trouble keeping track of what bit of trivia you stowed in what arcane hiding place than it would be to keep everything in a single steamer trunk and just rummage through it when there was something you needed. But I suppose there are plenty of people who get enormously turned on by the notion of a place for everything and everything in its place. They’re the people who line up their shoes in the closet according to height. And they remember to rotate their tires every three months, and they set aside one day a week for clipping their fingernails.

    And what do they do with the clippings? Stow ’em in a pigeonhole, I suppose.

    The blue leather box wasn’t under the rolltop, and my pear-shaped client had so positioned his little hands as to indicate a box far too large for any of the pigeonholes and little drawers, so I opened the other lock and released the catches on all the lower drawers. I started with the top right drawer because that’s where most people tend to put their most important possessions—I’ve no idea why—and I worked my way from drawer to drawer looking for a blue box and not finding one.

    I went through the drawers quickly, but not too quickly. I wanted to get out of the apartment as soon as possible because that’s always a good idea, but I had not committed myself to pass up any other goodies the apartment might contain. A great many people keep cash around the house, and others keep traveler’s checks, and still others keep coin collections and readily salable jewelry and any number of interesting things which fit neatly enough into a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. I wanted the four

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