Hell!

Swag in hand indeed. My swag, all of it neatly packed in the Ultrasuede attaché case, was not by any means in hand, not in hand and not at hand either. It was resting on the opposite side of the bedroom from me, propped against the wall under the pastel portrait of the disappointed mademoiselle. So even if Crystal didn’t notice the absence of her jewelry she seemed more than likely to notice the presence of the case, and that would indicate not merely that she had been burgled but that the burglar had been interrupted while at work, and that would mean she would put in an urgent phone call to 911, and cop cars would descend upon the scene of the crime, and some minion of the law would be bright enough to open the closet, and I, Bernard Grimes Rhodenbarr, would be instantly up the creek, and in no time at all, up the river as well.

Hell!

“Something more comfortable,” the woman said. I could hear them better now because they were en route to the bedroom, which I can’t say astonished me. And then they were in the bedroom, and then they did what they’d come to the bedroom to do, and that’s all you’re going to hear from me on that subject. It was no fun listening to it and I’m certainly not going to try to re-create the experience for you.

As a matter of fact, I paid them the absolute minimum of attention myself. I let my mind return to the question of the perfect wine as accompaniment to the sweetbreads. Not a French white, I decided, for all that the sweetbreads were a French dish. A German white might have a little more oomph. A Rhine? That would do, certainly, but I decided after some thought that a choice Moselle might carry a wee bit more authority. I thought about a Piesporter Goldtröpfchen I’d had not long ago, a bottle shared with a young woman with whom, as it turned out, that was all that was to be shared. That would be acceptable with the sweetbreads, certainly. One wouldn’t want anything too dry. And yet the dish did call for a wine with a slight lingering sweetness, a fruity nose-