tipped over, piles of paper askew. After the first numbing shock, that
perception-delay your senses impose before you can actually accept what
you're seeing, I quickly started taking inventory. Okay, what did they
get this time?
Well, the computer and printer were both intact, cordless phone was
there still, the little nine-inch Sony in the corner was untouched. . .
. Hey, could it be they hadn't actually lifted anything?
Then I remembered why I'd come upstairs. Off to the side, under the
back stair, was a big walk-in closet I called my sword room, always
kept under lock and key. I glanced over at the door.
Hold on. It was hanging open slightly. I strolled over and checked it
more closely. The mechanism had been jimmied, professionally, but with
enough force that the metal frame around the door was askew. Not a
blatant entry, but a determined one.
My heart skipped a beat. That's why they didn't bother with TVs. These
guys knew where the real action was, the lightweight, very expensive
loot. I opened the door, took a deep breath, and felt for the light.
You could have heard my sigh of relief all the way out in the street.
From the looks of it, nothing was missing here either.
Be sure now. I quickly glanced down the racks, mentally cataloging the
pieces. Everything had a place, and all the places were still full.
Strange. This stuff was worth thousands. Burglars break in to steal. So
what happened? Maybe something scared them off. My sheepdog Benjamin,
the fearless terror of the streets? He was now snoring at the foot of
the stairs, but who knows . . .
Walton, you lucky stiff, this could have been a major hit. I cursed at
the thought of having to have the door and lock repaired, made a mental
note to remember to call the locksmith over by Sheridan Square in the
morning, and pushed the damaged door closed.
What a hell of a night. I pulled the Sotheby's catalogue out of my
pocket, recalling the auction that had inaugurated this fateful
evening, and turned to chuck it in the file cabinet where I kept all
the records for my hobby: prices, news clippings, correspondence, the
rest.
The cabinet, one of those cheap tin jobs you buy at discount office-
supply places, was slightly askew. What's this? I yanked open the top
drawer and saw chaos.
Uh, oh. I went down the row, checking. Tell you one thing, my intruders
had been thorough. Every drawer was a mess, just like the office. Then
I got to the bottom, the one with backup data on the collection.
Appraisals, provenance of the pieces, that kind of thing.
It was empty.
But of course! Any pro would know that half the value of a collection
such as this would be in all the documentation. Which meant my
methodical thieves were no dummies; they'd started with the paperwork,
the valuations and authenticity info . . . which meant they weren't
through. I must have interrupted their . . .
My God! They could still be here.
I edged for the phone and punched 911, the police emergency number.
Next I went back and pulled down a sword, just for protection, and
swept the empty house. It was all nice and tidy.
Finally New York's men in blue showed, an overweight Irishman and his
Puerto Rican partner, both with mustaches. I actually knew them, having
once received a ticket for walking Ben off the leash. We went through
the formalities, lots of questions with no answers worth writing down,
and then they offered to send around a fingerprint squad in the
morning. Sure, why not. And you'd better get new locks for this place,
Mr. . . . Walton. Right. We all thanked each other and I saw them out.
Then I headed back down to the kitchen. What was this all about?
Stealing files? Papers? Those documents, lovingly and painstakingly
assembled, were what made the swords somehow uniquely a part of my
life. Something that actually wasn't going to decide to take a hike the
next week. The stuff had no value to anybody except Matt Walton.
Or so I thought.