The Burglar on the Prowl by Lawrence Block Page A

enough to get in. You have to get out, too, and with something to show for your efforts. I was fairly sure they had a decent wine cellar, and a cozy billiard room, and a welcoming bar, but I couldn’t see myself waltzing out of there with a couple of bottles in hand, however splendid the vintage.
    There wouldn’t be any cash. You don’t part with cash at a private club. You don’t even need plastic, you just sign for everything, and write a check once a month. There’d be paintings on the walls, no doubt in elaborately carved and gilded frames, but they’d likely be portraits of whatever Williams had founded the school, along with various college presidents, distinguished alumni, and star athletes. If you wanted to turn them into cash, you’d have to cut them out of their frames—and then sell the frames, because no one would give you anything for the portraits.
    I walked on. Not without some reluctance, I have to say, because I’d already imagined the pleasure I’d take walking silently through the darkened rooms of the club, a fine if somewhat worn carpet underfoot, the heavy drapery redolent with the aroma of expensive cigars. Maybe there’d be a humidor of cigars behind the bar, and I could take one to the reading room, along with a glass of tawny port or a small snifter of brandy. I could sit in an overstuffed leather club chair with my feet on a matching ottoman and a lamp lit at my shoulder, and I could dip into one of the books from the club library, and—
    Go home, an inner voice suggested, but I barely heard it.
     
    I wanted a brownstone.
    In the loosest sense of the word, that is. Strictly speaking, a New York brownstone is a structure three or four or five stories tall, with a façade made of—surprise!—brown stone. The term, however, hasstretched to cover similar structures fronted in other materials, including limestone and even brick.
    If brownstones can vary some on their outsides, it is within their exterior walls that they approach infinite variety. Many were built originally as single-family homes; typically there’s a parlor floor, usually a half flight up from street level, with a higher ceiling than the two floors above (where the bedrooms are) or the semi-basement below. Others started out as three-or four-family residences, with one apartment per floor. (Tenements, with four apartments to a floor, sometimes sport façades of brown stone, which does tend to confuse things.)
    Over the years, a vast number of one-family brownstones have been chopped up for multiple occupancy, some of them converted into rooming houses, with a couple dozen individual tenants. These conversions have themselves occasionally been reconverted in the process of neighborhood gentrification, turned into three-family dwellings or even all the way back into single-family houses.
    Murray Hill was a neighborhood that had never declined significantly, and as far as I knew none of its brownstones had ever had more than one apartment to a floor. Many were still one-family dwellings. A few had commercial tenants on the lower floors, with residential apartments above. Some were private clubs—I’d already stumbled on one of those—and a few were entirely commercial, but the greater portion had people living in them, and looked to be better targets of opportunity than the apartment buildings, which almost all had doormen or security cameras or both.
    Although the uniform might lead you to think otherwise, the average New York doorman is a less formidable bulwark of security than the Beefeaters posted at the Tower of London. Under the right circumstances, I’m more than willing to try to flimflam a doorman. But these were by no means the right circumstances. I didn’t know the names of any of the tenants, didn’t have a particular apartment targeted, and knew I’d be a lot better off with a brownstone.
    So I walked around trying to decide which one to hit.
    I must have wandered around for a good half hour, and it may