8 Antiques Con Read Online Free PDF Page A

handcuffed to the briefcase—the Superman drawing safely within—but this time I did not make light of her precautionary measure. I didn’t even suggest that she leave the drawing behind in our little room safe, which wasn’t all that safe—according to the Internet (where things are sort of true), most hotel-room safes can be forced open with a screwdriver. Those not bolted down can even be carried out the door.
    Mother, in her lavender Breckenridge slacks and sweater outfit, looked rested and lovely—no dark circles under her eyes. I was a different story—my bags had bags. While I had stayed awake in case our intruder returned, Mother had snored contentedly away in the next room, as if a hotel break-in were just some typical big city fun arranged to show a couple of tourists a good time.
    Even Sushi had abandoned me for the comfort of Mother’s comforter, albeit burrowing her head in the latter to cut down on the sounds of sawing lumber.
    Today, I was wearing the same clothes I’d had on for the past twenty-four hours, lacking the will and the energy to change; next to me, Tommy Bufford would look natty.
    And now, in the light of day, as our elevator reached the lobby floor, I wondered if the whole nightmarish episode hadn’t been a simple misunderstanding; someone occupying the room next door, possibly a little tipsy after a festive night out, may have mistaken our connecting door for their bathroom.
    I was even starting to question whether I’d really seen a knife in the intruder’s hand. The room had been dark, and that glint could have been any number of things—a silver pen or cigarette lighter (or rape whistle).
    The security office, according to a sign with pointing arrow, was located down a short hallway beyond the registration desk. I hesitated, wondering if we should first speak with a hotel employee, the concierge perhaps, before barging into the security office. But the two check-in clerks were busy checking out guests, and the concierge desk was vacant. Besides, Mother had already barreled forward.
    “Now, let me do the talking, dear,” she instructed, hand gripping the doorknob of the security office. “I have much more experience with this kind of thing.”
    “Having your hotel room broken into?”
    “Dealing with New Yorkers. I lived here for a time, you know.”
    “I lived in Chicago.”
    “Different animal. Entirely different animal. You’ll follow my lead, dear?”
    There was another option?
    I dutifully nodded, and we entered.
    The room was as richly appointed as an office furniture showroom—ornate, mahogany desk with padded burgundy leather chair, two Deco-print visitors’ chairs angled in front, the mandatory standing fern plant in one corner, poised as if to take notes.
    On the wall behind the desk was a display of gold-framed photos, featuring the hotel’s interior and exterior at various times over its long history. On an adjacent wall, pictures of modern-day police officers—one grouping before a sign reading MIDTOWN PRECINCT SOUTH —hinted as to the manager’s previous occupation.
    Yes, over the course of these investigations, I have become a trained sleuth.
    We approached the desk, where a nameplate resting on its edge read R OBERT S IPCOWSKI, SECURITY MANAGER. The swivel chair was empty.
    “Not here,” Mother observed.
    Also a trained sleuth.
    “I suppose we might have phoned ahead,” she said a little irritably. Mother feels that everyone should be at her beck and call at all times.
    “We could leave a note,” I suggested, gesturing toward a pad and pen by the phone on the otherwise uncluttered desk.
    A door to our right suddenly opened, startling us both, and a man strode in.
    For a brief moment, before the door shut again, we got a peek into the adjoining room: the nerve center of the hotel’s security operation, where several dark-suited employees were monitoring a wall of security screens.
    “I’m Robert Sipcowski, head of security,” the man said,