"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)

It's quiet out there, I thought, like so many supporting characters in so many Westerns. And the thought came back, as it had from so many heroes in those same Westerns: Yeah . . . too quiet.

I descended the flight of stairs, turned a corner and bumped into Eva. "He hasn't come out," she said. "Bernie, I'm worried."

"Maybe he lost track of the time."

"Never. He's like a Swiss watch, and he has a Swiss watch and checks it constantly. He comes out every day at six on the dot. It is ten minutes past the hour and where is he?"

"Maybe he came out and-"

"Yes?"

"I don't know. Drove into town to buy a paper."

"He never does that. And the car is in the garage."

"He could have gone for a walk."

"He hates to walk. Bernie, he is still in there."

"Well, I suppose he's got the right. It's his room and his books. If he wants to hang around-"

"I'm afraid something has happened to him. Bernie, I knocked on the door. I knocked loud. Perhaps you heard the sound upstairs?"

"No, but I probably wouldn't. I was all the way upstairs, and I had the shower on for a while there. I take it he didn't answer."

"No."

"Well, I gather it's pretty well soundproofed in there. Maybe he didn't hear you."

"I have knocked before. And he has heard me before."

"Maybe he heard you this time and decided to ignore you." Why was I raising so many objections? Perhaps because I didn't want to let myself think there was any great cause for alarm.

"Bernie," she said, "what if he is ill? What if he has had a heart attack?"

"I suppose it's possible, but-"

"I think I should call the police."

I suppose it's my special perspective, but I almost never think that's a great idea. I wasn't mad about it now, either, being in the possession of stolen property and a criminal record, not to mention the guilty conscience that I'd earned a couple of hours ago in the upstairs guest room.

"Not the police," I said. "Not yet. First let's make sure he's not just taking a nap, or all caught up in his reading."

"But how? The door is locked."

"Isn't there an extra key?"

"If there is, he's never told me where he keeps it. He's the only one with access to his precious books."