The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr) by Lawrence Block

when he’s no longer around to enjoy it. He’s already added a codicil to his will to that effect.”
    “How old would you say he is, Bern?”
    “I don’t know. Forty-five? Fifty? Somewhere in there.”
    “So Princeton’ll have a while to wait.”
    “Well, you never know. But let’s hope so.”
    She picked up her drink, and when she set the glass down there was nothing left but a couple of melting ice cubes. She looked at my glass, which remained half-full or half-empty, depending on your state of mind, gave Maxine a wave and held up a single finger, then pointed that finger at herself.
    “Let’s hear the rest,” she said.

    Her third drink was mostly gone when she said, “I’ve been meaning to go to the Galtonbrook, Bern.”
    “You’ve never mentioned it.”
    “Well, it’s not at the top of the list. It’s somewhere on page three, along with Lose five pounds and Read Proust . But I’ve thought about it. Tell me his name again?”
    “Smith?”
    She rolled her eyes. “Galton.”
    “Martin Greer Galton.”
    “And he just ran around buying things?”
    “He didn’t have the kind of money William Randolph Hearst had,” I said, “and he didn’t employ a staff of agents to run all around Europe and buy everything they saw, but in his own small way he did what he could to turn a mansion on Fort Washington Avenue into an East Coast version of San Simeon. He bought whole estates, which meant that along with art and artifacts he picked up papers and manuscripts by the carton if not the carload, and he wound up with a fair amount of crap, but he also got enough decent stuff to found a museum.”
    “And one of the manuscripts—”
    “Is the original holograph version of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button .”
    “And I suppose Smith wants it.”
    “He does.”
    “Couldn’t he bribe some flunky to make him a copy?”
    “In this instance,” I said, “I’m afraid only the original will do.”
    “He’s seen it?”
    I shook my head. “Their archives are in the basement, and access is restricted to employees. He could probably pull some strings to get in, but then they’d know he’d been there, and he doesn’t want to look at the goddam thing. He wants to own it.”
    “That’s why he went to your shop.”
    “I’m afraid so, yes.”
    “He didn’t just know your name. He knew your sideline.”
    “If that’s what it is. Sometimes it’s hard to say which is the sideline and which is the primary occupation. But yes, he was aware that of the several activities in which I’ve been known to engage, one is breaking and another is entering.”
    “You’ve never stolen from a museum.”
    “No.”
    “You won’t even buy a book if you suspect someone stole it from a library.”
    “No.”
    “So how is this different?”
    “All the manuscript’s doing,” I said, “is sitting there in the basement. I almost said ‘gathering dust,’ but it would have to be out in the open for the dust to get at it, and instead it’s in a box where nobody ever lays eyes on it. It’s listed and catalogued, because otherwise Smith wouldn’t know about it, but it’s got Fitzgerald’s original title on it so they don’t know what it is. They’ll very likely never know, because nobody there cares enough to find out. You know where that manuscript belongs? At Princeton, with the rest of the author’s papers, and the only way it’s going to get there is if my friend Smith gets hold of it and leaves it to them in his will.” I frowned. “What’s the matter, Carolyn? You’re sitting there looking like the wise old owl.”
    “The scotch may have something to do with it,” she allowed. “It brings out my inner owl. But I’m sitting here listening, Bern, and if you haven’t already talked yourself into taking the job, I’d say you’re well on your way.”
    “I guess I’m going to do it. It’s either that or give the man back his five thousand dollars.”
    “What did you just say?”
    “I said it’s