The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrian (Bernie Rhodenbarr)

It's not that used bookstore owner and part-time burglar Bernie Rhodenbarr believes the less legal of his two professions is particularly ethical. (It is, however, a rush, and he is very good at it.) He just thinks it's unfair to face a prison term for his legitimate activities. After appraising the worth of a rich man's library -- conveniently leaving his fingerprints everywhere in the process -- Bernie finds he's the cops' prime suspect when his client is murdered.Someone has framed Bernie Rhodenbarr better than they do it at the Whitney. And if he wants to get out of this corner he's been masterfully painted into, he'll have to get to the bottom of a rather artful -- if multiply murderous -- scam.

From the Back Cover

It's not that used bookstore owner and part-time burglar Bernie Rhodenbarr believes the less legal of his two professions is particularly ethical. (It is, however, a rush, and he is very good at it.) He just thinks it's unfair to face a prison term for his legitimate activities. After appraising the worth of a rich man's library -- conveniently leaving his fingerprints everywhere in the process -- Bernie finds he's the cops' prime suspect when his client is murdered.Someone has framed Bernie Rhodenbarr better than they do it at the Whitney. And if he wants to get out of this corner he's been masterfully painted into, he'll have to get to the bottom of a rather artful -- if multiply murderous -- scam.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Burglar Who Painted Like MondrianBy Lawrence BlockHarperCollins Publishers, Inc.Copyright © 2005 Lawrence BlockAll right reserved.ISBN: 0060731435Chapter OneIt was a slow day at Barnegat Books, but thenmost of them are. Antiquarian booksellers, afterall, do not dream of retiring to the slow and simplelife. They are already leading it.This particular day had two high points, and asluck would have it they both came at once. Awoman read me a poem and a man tried to sell mea book. The poem was "Smith, of the Third Oregon,Dies," by Mary Carolyn Davies, and thewoman who read it was a slender and fresh-facedcreature with large long-lashed brown eyes and away of cocking her head that she must havelearned from a feathered friend. Her hands -- smalland well formed, unringed fingers, unpolishednails -- held a copy of Ms. Davies' first book,Drums in Our Street, which the Macmillan Companyhad seen fit to publish in 1918. And she readto me."Autumn in Oregon -- I'll never seeThose hills again, a blur of blue and rainAcross the old Willamette. I'll not stirA pheasant as I walk, and hear it whirrAbove my head, an indolent, trusting thing ... "I'm rather an indolent, trusting thing myself, butall the same I cast a cold eye on the Philosophy &Religion section, where my most recent visitor hadstationed himself. He was a hulking sort, latetwenties or early thirties, wearing low Frye bootsand button-fly Levi's and a brown wide-wale corduroyjacket over a darker brown flannel shirt.Horn-rimmed glasses. Leather elbow patches onthe jacket. A beard that had been carefullytrimmed. A headful of lank brown hair that hadnot."When all this silly dream is finished here,The fellows will go home to where there fallRose petals over every street, and allThe year is like a friendly festival ... "Something made me keep my eyes on him. Perhapsit was an air about him, a sense that he mightat any moment commence slouching toward Bethlehem.Maybe it was just his attaché case. AtBrentano's and the Strand you have to check bagsand briefcases, but my customers are allowed tokeep them at hand, and sometimes their carryalls are heavier upon departure than arrival. The secondhandbook trade is precarious at best and onehates to see one's stock walk out the door like that."But I shall never watch those hedges dripColor, not see the tall spar of a shipIn our old harbor. -- They say that I am dying,Perhaps that's why it all comes back again:Autumn in Oregon and pheasants flying -- "She let out a small appreciative sigh and closedthe little book with a snap, then passed it to meand asked its price. I consulted the penciled notationon its flyleaf and the tax table that's taped tomy counter. The last hike boosted the sales tax to8¼ percent, and there are people who can figureout that sort of thing in their heads, but they probablycan't pick locks. God gives us all different talentsand we do what we can with them."Twelve dollars," I announced, "plus ninetyninecents tax." She put a ten and three singles onthe counter, and I put her book in a paper bag, fastenedit with a bit of Scotch tape, and gave her apenny. Our hands touched for an instant when shetook the coin from me, and there was a bit of acharge in the contact. Nothing overpowering,nothing to knock one off one's feet, but it wasthere, and she cocked her head and our eyes metfor an instant. The author of a Regency romancewould note that a silent understanding passed between us, but that's nonsense. All that passed betweenus was a penny.My other customer was examining a buckramboundquarto volume by Matthew Gilligan, S. J.The Catogrammatic vs. the Syncogrammatic, itwas called, or was it the other way around? I'd hadthe book ever since old Mr. Litzauer sold me thestore, and if I'd never dusted the shelves it wouldnever have been picked up at all. If this chap wasgoing to steal something, I thought, let him hookthat one.But he returned Father Gilligan to his shelf evenas Mary Carolyn Davies went out the door withmy demure little poetry lover. I watched her untilshe crossed my threshold -- she was wearing a suitand matching beret in plum or cranberry or whateverthey're calling it this year, and it was a goodcolor for her -- and then I watched him as he approachedmy counter and rested one hand on it.His expression, insofar as the beard showed it,was guarded. He asked me if I bought books, andhis voice sounded rusty, as if he didn't get toomany chances to use it.I allowed that I did, if they were books I thoughtI could sell. He propped his attaché case on thecounter, worked its clasps, and opened it to reveala single large volume, which he took up and presentedto me ...Continues...Excerpted from The Burglar Who Painted Like Mondrianby Lawrence Block Copyright © 2005 by Lawrence Block. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

Lawrence Block is one of the most widely recognized names in the mystery genre. He has been named a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America and is a four-time winner of the prestigious Edgar and Shamus Awards, as well as a recipient of prizes in France, Germany, and Japan. He received the Diamond Dagger from the British Crime Writers' Association—only the third American to be given this award. He is a prolific author, having written more than fifty books and numerous short stories, and is a devoted New Yorker and an enthusiastic global traveler.

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