Similarly, when I'm immersed in another person's life, or at least the glimpse of it I get by rummaging through their furnishings and worldly goods, I'm in danger of forgetting what brought me there in the first place. Which, pure and simple, is greed.

Crooks are greedy. It's not nice to admit it, but there's no way around it. Otherwise we'd be content to live on what came to us honestly, but we're not. We want more, and what I wanted-what had brought me here-was whatever Barbara Creeley had that was worth taking.

She made a decent living, that was clear from her address and from the clothes in her drawers and closet, but that didn't necessarily tell me she had anything I wanted. Maybe she saved her money, or spent it on travel and high living. Maybe she kept all her money in the bank and anything valuable in a safe-deposit box.

I gave her three rooms a systematic search. By the time I was ready to call it a night, I had turned up the following: a pair of earrings, with what looked to be rubies and diamonds, set in what was definitely gold; a watch for evening wear, a Graubunden, with a platinum case and band; a gold charm bracelet with eight or ten charms in the shape of different animals, along with fifteen gold coins attached as charms, none of them of any particular numismatic value but all of them, like the bracelet itself, worth their weight in gold; and, in the freezer compartment of her refrigerator, in among enough steaks and chops and roasts to comfort Dr. Atkins in the hereafter, a brown manila bank envelope containing $1240 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

That wasn't the only jewelry she had, of course. There was a high school class ring, gold and onyx, that was not without value, and a whole array of earrings and bracelets. There was a gold locket on a gold chain, and in it were pictures of a man and woman whom I took to be Barbara Creeley's parents.

All of these things were worth taking from a pure dollars-and-cents standpoint, but I've found that I tend to balance the cash value of an artifact against its likely sentimental value to its owner. Why deprive this woman of her class ring and her locket for the few dollars they would bring me? I'd be hurting her far more than I'd be helping myself, and it didn't seem right.

Now if my unwitting hostess had been not Barbara Creeley but Elizabeth Taylor, say, and the object in question had been not a high school ring but a diamond necklace, I wouldn't care if Richard Burton gave it to her and she couldn't look at it without getting tears in her violet eyes. Sentimental value only goes so far. But I didn't notice a pearl richer than all my tribe in the Creeley jewel box, so I took what I've told you about and left the rest. It's not conscience, not inherent decency, just a sense of proportion.

I tidied up as I went along, and when I was finished I went through the whole apartment, making sure I left everything as I'd found it, except of course for having removed the few items I've mentioned. I took a last look around, turned off the lights in the living room, opened the velvet drapes, and had just turned from that task when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

Hell.

I moved quickly through the apartment, killed a light in the kitchen, switched off the bedside lamp. The footsteps paused at the second-floor landing, and I had a moment where I hoped, all logic notwithstanding, that this was not Barbara Creeley on the stairs but someone planning a late visit to J. Feldmaus.

No such luck. The footsteps resumed, and I heard human speech (What other kind is there? Parrot?) but could not make out what was being said. Either Barbara had company or she was talking to herself. Well, the locks would delay her, and by the time she got past them I'd be down the fire escape.

I opened the curtains, raised one of the blackout shades, and took hold of the window.

And the damned thing wouldn't budge.

I checked to see if it was locked, and learned it was worse than that. The damned thing was nailed shut. Evidently Barbara (or some previous tenant) had been paranoid about an intruder coming in off the fire escape, and had taken up hammer and nails to safeguard herself. Cross-ventilation wasn't a problem, you could still open the window from the top, but you couldn't get out that way. What was she going to do if she had a fire?

More to the point, what wasI going to do?

They'd reached the top of the stairs now, and it was clear there were two of them, because I could hear two voices, one basso and one soprano, or perhaps mezzo. So Barbara, who typically slept alone on the right side of the bed, had found someone to bring home with her. That made it her lucky night, but it certainly wasn't mine.

She had trouble with the locks, and I gave thanks for that. It sounded as though she and her companion had had a few drinks, not infrequently the case before two people decide to go home together, and her dexterity had gone the way of her inhibitions. Sooner or later she'd get it right, however, and then where would I be?

I raised the shades, opened the curtains. And now what? The closet? Twice in my career I've hidden in closets, and both times I went undetected, but somehow I knew the third time would be the charm. I couldn't hope to get away with it again.

"Jesus, gimme the fucking keys," said young Lochinvar, and I knew my time was running out.

I hit the floor and dove under the bed.

I tried not to listen.

I'd been willing enough to snoop around in Barbara Creeley's private life earlier, but that was different. She wasn't around at the time, and all I was doing was going through her things and getting what sense I could of the person who owned them. Now, though, she was in the apartment with me, and so was he. It wasn't hard to guess what they were going to do now that they'd managed to get through the door, and unless an excess of passion made them rip off their clothes and do it in the kitchen, they were going to do it right on top of me.

I'd been home, for God's sake. I'd put away my burglar's tools, I'd stowed them in my hidden compartment. I was all settled in for the night. Why couldn't I have gone to bed?

But no, that would have been too easy. So instead of lying comfortably in my own bed I was wedged underneath Barbara Creeley's. There was no room to spare, and there'd be even less when a pair of bodies piled on top of the mattress.

And if anybody looked under the bed, well, then I was sunk. It was not a refuge I could leave in a hurry. All I could do was stay there and wait for the cops to drag me out.

"Kinda sleepy," the woman said.

"Yeah, well, you're gonna get the best night's sleep you ever had," the man said.

"Ca' keep m'eyes open…"

"Roofies'll do that."

"How'd I get here?"

"You live here, you dizzy bitch. Jesus, you're built nice, aren't you? Hang on now, just let me get your clothes off."

"Sleeeeepy…"

In spite of myself I listened, and somewhere along the way it dawned on me what I was listening to. One thing he'd said-"Roofies'll do that"-was enough to clue me in, once I'd allowed it to register. Roofies is one of the names for Rohypnol, that miracle of modern medical science known as the date-rape drug. Barbara Creeley, who'd already been burglarized (even though she didn't know it yet), was about to get raped (even though she didn't know that, either).

It struck me that I ought to do something, but what? If I tried to squirm out from under the bed, I'd alert him long before I was in a position to do anything. I'd gone in headfirst, more or less, so I'd be coming out feet first, and by the time my head cleared the bedframe he'd be in a position to break something over it. And even if I somehow got out before he reacted, well, then what? I never studied martial arts, never put on a pair of boxing gloves, and the last time I was in a fight was when I was eleven years old. My opponent was Kevin Vogelsang, and he gave me a bloody nose, which I probably deserved for chirping "Tweet, tweet, tweet" at him. (His last name means Birdsong. If it had been Feldmaus I'd very likely have gone "Squeak, squeak, squeak" at him, and gotten the same bloody nose. I was a real pain in the ass when I was eleven.)