The Burglar Who Counted the Spoons (Bernie Rhodenbarr)
“And it was just as well, because in less than a minute Ray was back, holding a small piece of paper.
“On your table,” he said. “I read it on the chance it might be a clue.”
“And was it?”
“Same blue felt tip,” he said, “but see the thickness of the letters?”
“I guess the tip’s showing a lot of wear.”
“What I’d guess,” he said, “is that she pressed really hard on it, just to show you how pissed off she is. You gotta treat your customers right, Bernie, if you expect to make a go of it in a legit business.”
I said I’d keep that in mind. He left again, and the bell jingled again, and I went and made my phone call.
“I have to apologize,” I told Burton Barton the Fifth. “Someone came into the store, and I didn’t want our conversation overheard.”
“I assumed as much. You have the, uh—”
“Book,” I supplied.
“Yes, let’s call it that. It’s in your possession?”
“It is, and I’d rather it were in yours.”
“As would I. Shall I come to your shop?”
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