The Burglar in the Rye by Lawrence Block

hear a thing, and I backed to and through the bedroom door, taking little steps on tiptoe, careful not to make a sound. If that file was on her nightstand—and I hadn’t seen it, hadn’t even noticed if she had a nightstand—if it was there, then it could stay there. I wasn’t going to risk waking the woman. If she opened her eyes and saw me, it might scare her to death. If she let out a scream, it might scare me to death.
    Back in the other room, I went to the desk and went to work on the drawers. There were seven of them, three on each side and one center drawer. I opened andclosed them one after the other until I found the locked one. The drawer that’s worth locking generally turns out to be the one worth unlocking.
    The locks on desk drawers are never much of a challenge. It’s a little trickier when the light’s not good and you’re wearing gloves and trying not to make any noise, but it’s still easy work.
    I hoped there wouldn’t be a gun in there. The locked desk drawer is where you generally find a handgun, if there’s one to be found. That way, if the householder needs to protect himself, he can start by trying to remember where he put the key.
    I’ve never liked guns, and I especially dislike the guns you find in desk drawers. They’re there so that people can shoot burglars, and I’m opposed to that. I hate the very idea of it.
    I opened the drawer, and I didn’t find a gun in it, but neither did I find the Fairborn file. I closed the drawer, and if I had all the time in the world I’d have locked up after myself, but I didn’t. I opened and closed the other drawers, just taking time for a quick glance within, and I didn’t find Gully Fairborn’s letters, and I didn’t find any guns, either, and—
    Gunpowder.
    That’s what I’d smelled. Gunpowder, cordite, call it what you will. I’d smelled what you smell in a room where a gun’s been fired. And I could smell it now, and that’s definitely what it was, and it had been stronger in the bedroom, and I hadn’t heard any breathing, and the way she smoked you’d think her breathing would be a pretty audible affair, and—
    I went back to the bedroom. I was more concerned with speed and less with stealth this time around, and I walked right up to the side of the bed. I still couldn’thear any breathing, and at this range that meant there wasn’t any to hear.
    I reached out a hand and touched her forehead.
    She was dead. She wasn’t up there at 98.6, but she wasn’t all the way down to room temperature, either. She hadn’t been dead long, but then I’d guessed that much before I laid a hand on her. If she’d been dead any length of time, I’d have smelled more than cordite and cigarette smoke in that little room.
    Didn’t I tell you? nagged an inner voice. Didn’t I say to abort the mission? Didn’t I tell you to pull the plug? But did you listen? Do you ever listen?
    I was listening now, but not to inner voices. I was listening to sounds outside the apartment, sounds in the hallway. I could hear footsteps, and it took a lot of feet to make that sort of sound, and flat feet at that. I heard voices, too, and I heard men knocking on doors and calling out. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I didn’t think it was anything I wanted to hear.
    And now someone was pounding on my door—well, Ms. Landau’s door—and calling out “Police!” and “Open up in there!” I knew it was the police, and opening up was the last thing I wanted to do.
    I drew the curtains, looked out the window. No fire escape, and the street was a long way down.
    I heard a key in the lock, Carl’s passkey, and the lock turned. By the time the door opened a crack I was in the bedroom, and the chain lock kept them out while I fumbled behind the drawn curtains. I flung open the window, and, thank God and St. Dismas, there was a fire escape out there.
    I climbed out onto it, and I was just shutting the window behind me when I heard them crashing