And who kicked my door in, I thought, since their MO was the same as in the Rogovin home invasion, down to the duct tape on the doorman. But I hadn't mentioned my own break-in to Ray, probably because I'd promised Edgar to keep the INS away from him. I could mention it now, but then I'd have to explain why I'd held off mentioning it for so long, and it was easier just to avoid the subject altogether.

"Two sets of bad guys," he said, "an' one of them's killed four times already. An' where's Mrs. Rhodenbarr's son Bernie? Right smack dab in the middle."

"Well, I shouldn't be," I said. "I'm only there because you picked me up. They found out I'd been arrested, and they didn't spot it for the police incompetence it was."

"Easy there, Bernie."

"They actually thought you jokers knew what you were doing," I said. "You know what I ought to do? I ought to demand around-the-clock police protection."

"You want it? Easiest thing in the world, Bernie. Come on over to the precinct an' I'll toss you in a cell."

"Very funny."

"Seriously, do you want me to get a plainclothes guy to follow you around? I'd have to clear it with the captain, but it could be done."

That would be peachy, I thought. The guy could tag along when we went up to Riverdale to knock off the Mapes house. He could watch the car, make sure no one ticketed it for parking in a No Burglars zone.

"Thanks," I said, "but I think I'll pass."

I actually did some business while Ray was there. Customers drifted in and out of the store, doing more browsing than buying, but occasionally one brought a book to the counter and I interrupted Ray and rang the sale. Now and then someone asked about the shooting outside, and I agreed it was a terrible thing and let it go at that.

When Ray finally left (though not without promising to return) I had an actual breathing spell and went back to John Sandford. The book was getting exciting, although the main plotline struck me as a little more far-fetched than others in the series. As usual, the point of view shifted back and forth, from Lucas Davenport, Sandford's macho hero cop, to the villain, who was in this case a disillusioned ex-vegetarian Congregationalist minister making his brutal way around Minnesota, slaughtering prominent vegans and organic farmers, butchering them, and eating their livers. Pretty wild, but somehow he made you believe it, and I was starting to get caught up in it when, dammit, somebody else came in the door and headed straight for the counter.

He was a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard, thin as a pipe cleaner, and wearing a three-piece brown tweed suit. His name was Colby Riddle and he was a professor at the New School. I forget what field he was in, but I'm pretty sure it ends in-ology.

"Well," he said, "and how are you today?"

And, of course, it was the voice I'd heard on the phone that morning, heard and recognized but failed to place. "Oh, hell," I said. "You've come for the book."

"Is this a bad time, Bernie?"

"No, not at all," I said. "Or at least no more so than any other time. Colby, somebody else walked off with your book."

"Oh," he said.

"I'm really sorry."

"I thought you were going to put it aside for me."

"I did."

"Oh."

"And then someone came in and I handed it to him."

He tried to make sense out of this, and I wished him the best of luck. "You thought he was me," he said at length.

"I thought you sent him. He said he understood I had something for him, and-"

"And you thought I'd sent him, so you handed himThe Secret Agent. Why didn't he hand it right back?"

"I don't know."

"Because I have to say that it strains the bonds of permissible coincidence that he happened to be looking for the very book I'd asked about."

"He wasn't. I don't believe he knew what he was looking for."

"But you gave him my book and he was satisfied."

"Apparently so."

"He paid for it?"

"Sales tax and all."

"How nice for the governor. Do you suppose he'll bring it back?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Really? When he realizes it's not what he wanted-"

"He's not going to realize it."

"Why, is he brain-dead?"

I decided he was going to hear about it onLive at Five, or read about it in the morning paper, so why not tell him now? "Among other things," I said. "He walked out of here, book in hand, and a car pulled up and somebody rolled down the window and blew him away."

"Good grief. You're serious, aren't you? It's not just a ruse to get around the fact that someone else paid more money for the book than the price you quoted to me."

"I wouldn't sell it out from under you," I said. "And yes, I'm serious. You can check out the hole in Cooperstone's window. The bullet that made it missed the guy, but most of the other rounds didn't."

"How shocking," he said, "and how dramatic. More exciting than anything old Joe Conrad ever wrote, I'll have to say that for it. Bernie, I'm sure it's in dreadful taste to bring it up, but when they shot him and he crumpled to the pavement-I assume he crumpled, didn't he?"

"More or less."

"Well, he would have dropped the book, wouldn't he? I don't suppose you managed to retrieve it."

"No."

"But do you think you might?"

"No."

"Oh. Evidence? The police have it?"

"The killers have it."

"The killers?"

"Scooped it up and drove off with it. Broke a few traffic laws while they were at it, but I don't suppose they were much concerned about that."

"They killed the man," he said thoughtfully, "and took my book. Well, notmy book. I hadn't paid for it, so title hadn't transferred. It was still your book."

"If you say so, Colby."

"Well, let me see," he said, heading for the stacks. "I've got to find something to read this weekend, haven't I?"

I joined him in Fiction. I pointed out what other books of Conrad's I had, but he wasn't interested in them. The appealing thing aboutThe Secret Agent, he said, was that it was set on dry land. Conrad's sea stories were just too nautical for his taste.

"Here's Graham Greene," I told him. "I've got a larger than usual stock of Greene, and I think a couple of these are firsts."

"Oh, God," he said. "Not Graham Greene."

"Don't care for him?"

"The salient fact about Graham Greene," he said, "is that his characters get less joy from adultery than the rest of us do embracing our wives. No, I'll pass on Graham Greene."

He settled for one of Evelyn Waugh's Guy Crouchback stories, I forget which one. He'd read it, but didn't own it, and enough time had passed so that he could happily read it again. The prospect pleased him so much that he decided it was time to go on a Waugh jag, and accordingly he picked out three more books and wrote out a check for the lot. "But I do still wantThe Secret Agent, " he said from the doorway. "If someone happens to bring in a copy-"

"It's yours," I assured him. "And nobody'll get it away from me, either."