Free The Burglar Who Liked to Quote Kipling by Lawrence Block Page A

sugar, and I decided that chicory was one of those things I don’t really like but just think I do.
    “Ruddy said you were bringing him something, Mr. Rhodenbarr.”
    “Yes.”
    “He seemed very anxious about it. You have it with you, of course?”
    I drank more coffee and decided that it wasn’t really all that bad. The Haydn symphony rolled in waves, echoing within the little room.
    “Mr. Rhodenbarr.”
    “Nice music,” I said.
    “Do you have the book, Mr. Rhodenbarr?”
    I was smiling. I had the feeling it was a sort of dopey smile but I couldn’t seem to do anything about it.
    “Mr. Rhodenbarr?”
    “You’re very pretty.”
    “The book, Mr. Rhodenbarr.”
    “I know you from somewhere. You look familiar.” I was spilling coffee on myself, for some reason, and I felt deeply embarrassed. I shouldn’t have had that Rob Roy, I decided, and then Madeleine Porlock was taking the cup away from me and placing it carefully on the glass-topped coffee table.
    “I always walk into those things,” I confided. “Glass tables. Don’t see them. Walk right into them. You have orange hair.”
    “Close your eyes, Mr. Rhodenbarr.”
    My eyes slammed shut. I pried them open and looked at her. She had a mop of curly orange hair, and as I stared at her it disappeared and her hair was short and dark again. I blinked, trying to make it orange, but it stayed as it was.
    “The coffee,” I said, brilliantly. “Something in the coffee.”
    “Sit back and relax, Mr. Rhodenbarr.”
    “You drugged me.” I braced my hands on the arms of the chair and tried to stand. I couldn’t even get my behind off the chair. My arms had no strength in them and my legs didn’t even appear to exist anymore.
    “Orange hair,” I said.
    “Close your eyes, Mr. Rhodenbarr.”
    “Have to get up—”
    “Sit back and rest. You’re very tired.”
    God, that was the truth. I gulped air, shook my head furiously in an attempt to shake some of the cobwebs loose. That was a mistake—the motion set off a string of tiny firecrackers somewhere in the back of my skull. Haydn dipped and soared. My eyes closed again, and I strained to get them open and saw her leaning over me, telling me how sleepy I was.
    I kept my eyes open. Even so, my field of vision began to darken along its edges. Then patches of black appeared here and there, and they grew together until it was all black, everywhere, and I gave up and let go and fell all the way down to the bottom.
     
    I was dreaming something about an earthquake in Turkey, houses crumbling around me, boulders rolling down the sides of mountains. I fought my way out of the dream like an underwater swimmer struggling to reach the water’s surface. The Turkish earthquake was part of the hourly newscast on the radio. The Social Democrats had scored substantial gains in parliamentary elections in Belgium. A Hollywood actor had died of an overdose of sleeping pills. The President was expected to veto something or other.
    A buzzer was sounding nearby, interrupting the monotony of the newscast. I managed to open my eyes. My head ached and my mouth tasted as though I’d fallen asleep sucking the wad of cotton from the vitamin jar. The buzzer buzzed again and I wondered why nobody was answering it.
    I opened my eyes again. Evidently they had closed without my knowing it. The radio announcer was inviting me to subscribe to Back- packer Magazine. I didn’t want to but wasn’t sure I had the strength to refuse. The buzzer was still buzzing. I wished Madeleine Porlock would get up from the Victorian love seat and answer it, or make them stop buzzing, or something.
    The radio switched to music. Something with violins. Soothing. I opened my eyes again. The buzzing had stopped and there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.
    I was still in the tub chair. My left hand lay in my lap like a small dead animal. My right arm was draped over the side of the chair, and there was something in my right hand.
    I opened my