By Lawrence Block
It isn't that used book shop proprietor and part-time burglar Bernie Rhodenbarr believes the fewer criminal of his professions is especially moral. (It is, notwithstanding, a hurry, and he's excellent at it.) He simply thinks it is unfair to stand a jail time period for his valid actions. After appraising the price of a wealthy man's library -- very easily leaving his fingerprints all around the technique -- Bernie reveals he is the law enforcement officials' leading suspect while his customer is murdered. a person has framed Bernie Rhodenbarr higher than they do it on the Whitney. And if he desires to get out of this nook he is been masterfully painted into, he will need to unravel a slightly crafty -- if multiply murderous -- rip-off.
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Additional resources for The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian (Bernie Rhodenbarr Mysteries)
Just the usual roaches and silverfish. ” “Oh, God,” she said. ” THE BURGLAR WHO PAINTED LIKE MONDRIAN 43 “Your kid’s been— Carolyn, you don’t have any kids. How much did you have to drink, anyway? ” “Shit on toast,” she said, loud. “Will you just listen to me? Please? ” She nodded. “Archie,” she said. ” CHAPTER Four “T he cat,” I said. ” “Archie the cat. Your Burmese cat. ” “Of course, Bern. ” “I didn’t mean Archie Goodwin the person, Bern, because he’s a character in the Nero Wolfe stories, and the only way he could have been kid napped would be in a book, and if that happened I wouldn’t run up here in the middle of the night and carry on about it.
I suppose he’d have held the lobby door for me but he didn’t have to. It was propped open. He stayed on his stool, greeting me with a sly conspiratorial smile. I wonder what secret he thought we shared. Upstairs I fumbled my own key into my own lock, for a change, and opened the door. The light was on. Considerate of them, I thought, to leave a light for the burglar. Wait a minute, I thought. 40 Lawrence Block What was this them stuff? I was the one who’d left the light on, except I hadn’t, I never did.
A hun dred thousand? It wasn’t impossible. And what could I net for it? Thirty, thirty-five thousand? A fair ballpark figure. But it was no more than a guess and I might be miles off in either direction. In twenty-four hours’ time I’d know a good deal more. By then all of the stamps would be off their pages and out of their mounts, sorted by sets and tucked into little glassine envelopes, their prices checked in last year’s Scott catalog, which was the most recent copy to have turned up at the store.