The Burglar on the Prowl Read Online Free PDF

street—Mapes’s was among them—situated at the top of the slope. They were large houses and they stood on good-sized lots, with their lawns angling down to the sidewalk. The lawns looked too steep for easy mowing, and about a third of the homeowners had finessed the problem by substituting a ground cover, ivy or pachysandra, for the usual grass. Mapes had grass, though, and his lawn looked well tended, his shrubbery neatly trimmed. Well, he was a plastic surgeon, wasn’t he, given to reshaping things to their aesthetic betterment? He might not be out there with hedge clippers himself, but he’d damn well make sure the job got done.
    You couldn’t see the Hudson from where I was standing, but when I walked up the driveway to where the house began, there was just a sliver of river visible. You’d see more from the first-floor windows, and you’d have a good view from either of the two higher floors. There’s something in the human spirit that longs to look at water, and I think that may explain why so many people have fish tanks in their houses and apartments. It’s not the fish, it’s the water, and I knew that the folks on Devonshire Close didn’t need to stare at tanks full of guppies. They’d be able to see the Hudson.
    I returned to the front walk, where all I could see was the baronial manse of Crandall Rountree Mapes, and for the time being thatwas plenty. It was quite a house, but then so were all the others on the block. A few were of red brick, and two were of Tudor-style half-timbered stucco, but the rest were made of stone, which you’ll recall is the very same material they build castles out of. The houses on Devonshire Close weren’t castles—I didn’t spot a single moat or drawbridge, and not even a portcullis—but there was nevertheless something distinctly castleish—castlesque? castleine? Castilian?—about them. They felt substantial, which was ideal from my point of view, but they also felt impregnable, which was not. No one’s getting in here, roared the lion’s-head brass knocker in the center of the massive oak door. Go home and start over, murmured the thick stone walls. Don’t even think about it, growled the windows, all so neatly outlined at their borders with metallic tape.
    The tape indicated the presence of a burglar alarm system, and an extra escutcheon plate just below the Rabson lock on the front door told me the system was a Kilgore. I’m familiar with the Kilgore, and even bought one to increase my familiarity, and for a change familiarity bred not contempt but grudging respect. I couldn’t bypass it, not without running an electric drill that would draw more attention than the alarm itself. I could turn it off once I was inside the house, I knew how to do that, but first I had to get in, and the Kilgore system was sitting there smugly and telling me I’d have an easier time getting into Fort Knox.
    The thing is, you can get in anywhere. I’ve never had a look at Fort Knox, and can’t see why I would want to—I’m not even certain there’s any gold there, are you?—but I’m sure it would be possible to get in. It wouldn’t be easy, but you can sail a long ways from Easy before you reach the shores of Impossible.
    And the Mapes house wasn’t Fort Knox. It might be tricky, but there would be a way in. There always was, and the idea was to spot it now so I’d know just what to do come Friday.
    First, though, I walked back to Ploughman’s Bush and circled the block. I’d been standing in front of the Mapes house for several minutes, and I didn’t want to attract any attention. If anyone had spotted me, I’d give them a chance to watch me walk away, and while I was at it I could get a fuller picture of the overall neighborhood.
    I took five or ten minutes, and when I came back the big stone house with the manicured lawn and shrubbery looked just as I had left it, with the same lights glowing in the same windows. I couldn’t tell if anyone was home or not,