“These aren’t stolen,” I said. “Are they, Mowgli?”

“How could they be otherwise? ‘Property is theft.’ You know who said that, Bernie?”

“Proudhon.”

“Give the man a cigar. Proudhon indeed. Matter of fact, St. John Chrysostom said something much along the same line. You wouldn’t expect it of him, would you?” We kicked that around, and then he said, “What can I tell you, Bernie? None of this stuff was stolen by me, unless it’s stealing to buy a David Goodis first from the Sally Ann for two bits when I know I can get a finif for it. Is that stealing?”

“If it is,” I said, “then we’re all in trouble.”

The next time the bell rang it was a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses who wanted to talk with me, and we had a nice conversation. Proudhon’s name didn’t come up once, or St. John Chrysostom’s, either. I had to cut the conversation short-they’d still be talking if I hadn’t-but they went away happy and I went back to Will Durant. And a few minutes later the bells sounded again, but this time I didn’t look up until I heard a familiar voice.

“Well, well, well,” said the best policeman money can buy. “If it ain’t Mrs. Rhodenbarr’s boy Bernard. Every time I see you you got your nose in a book, Bernie. Which more or less figures, seein’ as you got your ass in a bookstore.”

“Hello, Ray.”

“‘Hello, Ray.’ You want to put more energy into it, Bernie. Otherwise it don’t sound like you’re glad to see me.”

“Hello, Ray.”

“That’s a little better.” He leaned forward, propped an elbow on my counter. “But you always seem nervous when I drop in for a visit, like you’re waitin’ for the third shoe to drop. Why do you figure that is, Bernie?”

“I don’t know, Ray.”

“I mean, whattaya got to be nervous about? Respectable businessman, never strays on the wrong side of the law, it oughta be a load off your mind when a sworn police officer comes into your place of business.”