"Block, Lawrence - collection - The Collected Mystery Stories - 03 - Bernie Rhodenbarr - The Burglar Who Smelled Smoke - with Lynne Wood (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Block Lawrence)

"Not all of them," she said. "My husband's collection is limited to books published before 1975, along with the more recent work of a few of his very favorite authors. But he buys other contemporary crime novels as well, and keeps them here and there around the house. The bookcase in the guest room is well stocked."

"That's good news. As far as that goes, I was in the middle of a magazine story."

"In Ellery Queen, wasn't it? Come with me, Mr. Rhodenbarr, and I'll-"

"Bernie."

"Bernie," she said, and colored slightly, those dangerous cheekbones turning from ivory to the pink you find inside a seashell. "I'll show you where the guest room is, Bernie, and then I'll bring you your magazine."

The guest room was on the second floor, and its glassed-in bookcase was indeed jam-packed with recent crime fiction. I was just getting drawn into the opening of one of Jeremiah Healy's Cuddy novels when Eva Bellermann knocked on the half-open door and came in with a tray quite like the one she'd brought her husband. Coffee in a silver pot, a gold-rimmed bone china cup and saucer, a matching plate holding shortbread cookies. And, keeping them company, the issue of EQMM I'd been reading earlier.

"This is awfully nice of you," I said. "But you should have brought a second cup so you could join me."

"I've had too much coffee already," she said. "But I could keep you company for a few minutes if you don't mind."

"I'd like that."

"So would I," she said, skirting my chair and sitting on the edge of the narrow captain's bed. "I don't get much company. The people in the village keep their distance. And Karl has his books."

"And he's locked away with them..."

"Three hours in the morning and four in the afternoon. Then in the evening he deals with correspondence and returns phone calls. He's retired, as you know, but he has investment decisions to make and business matters to deal with. And books, of course. He's always buying more of them." She sighed. "I'm afraid he doesn't have much time left for me."

"It must be difficult for you."

"It's lonely," she said.

"I can imagine."

"We have so little in common," she said. "I sometimes wonder why he married me. The books are his whole life."

"And they don't interest you at all?"

She shook her head. "I haven't the brain for it," she said. "Clues and timetables and elaborate murder methods. It is like working a crossword puzzle without a pencil. Or worse-like assembling a jigsaw puzzle in the dark."

"With gloves on," I suggested.

"Oh, that's funny!" She laughed more than the line warranted and laid a hand on my arm. "But I should not make jokes about the books. You are a bookseller yourself. Perhaps books are your whole life, too."

"Not my whole life," I said.

"Oh? What else interests you?"

"Beautiful women," I said recklessly.

"Beautiful women?"

"Like you," I said.