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A Resourceful Man

Bob Strother

    The pen light beam played slowly across the bedroom walls and furniture. Once it steadied, Adrian Randall crept to the darkened doorway and placed his finger on the light switch. The burglar was apparently so intent on rifling the jewelry cabinet, he didn’t notice a thing until the overhead light flicked on. Then he spun around and dropped to a crouch, eyes wide and jittery. Adrian leaned casually against the doorjamb, a gleaming blue-black .380 automatic in his hand. “Surprise.”
    “I thought you were out!” the burglar said, straightening, his pulse clearly throbbing in his neck. “I rang your phone and knocked on the door.”
    “I was out,” Adrian said. “I just slipped back in. It’s a big house. You couldn’t have heard me.”
    “Well, this is my luck running true to form,” the burglar said. “Earlier today someone dented my car in the supermarket parking lot, and this afternoon I got stuck in an elevator for half an hour.”
    “Yes,” Adrian said. “I’ve always heard bad things come in threes.”
    The burglar glanced down at the diamond choker he still held in his hand, then at Adrian’s gun, and finally at the open leather satchel beside his feet. “I suppose I should return this to its proper place.”
    “No, no” Adrian said. “It’s all right. You can keep it.”
    The burglar raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? It’s a beautiful piece.” Adrian nodded, and the burglar let the necklace slide from his hand into the bag. “I must say, you’re being very gracious about all this.”
    “It’s actually very interesting,” Adrian said. “I’ve never encountered a burglar before, at least not someone I’ve actually known to be a burglar. And you don’t appear to be a violent man. As a matter of fact, you don’t look to be a burglar; judging from your tweed jacket and flannel trousers, you look more like a college professor—sound like one, too.”
    “True enough, although that usually works to my advantage.”
    “I can see that it would.”
    The two men were quiet for a moment, just standing there looking at each other, then the burglar shrugged. “What do we do now?”
    Adrian tilted his head and let a half smile play across his lips. He tucked the pistol in his waistband and buttoned his navy blazer over it. “For starters, why don’t we retire to my study?”
    When the men were seated, Adrian in an upholstered chair, the burglar and his satchel on a love seat opposite him, Adrian asked, “Is burglary what you do for a living, or just a sideline? Do you have a regular job?”
    “I studied business management in college, but never felt suited to the regular workplace. Burglary is probably my only real skill. Fortunately, it provides enough for drinkable wines, some original but unremarkable art, and the occasional opera or a night out with the ladies.”
    “Nonsense,” Adrian said. “You’re well-spoken, at least somewhat cultured, and obviously not averse to risk-taking. It seems to me a resourceful man could parlay those attributes into a lucrative career.”
    The burglar sighed. “You’re very kind, sir, and generous with your encouragement, but sadly, I’ve already done two stretches in prison. The first time I worked in the laundry, the second time in the print shop—neither a truly valuable experience. And now, I suppose, you’ll be calling the police soon. The third time’s the charm, you know, probably get a life sentence.”
    “Let’s not jump to hasty conclusions,” Adrian said. “The more we talk, the more I think I might be able to use a man of your skills.” He rose from the chair. “Would you care for a glass of cabernet? I have a very nice 2006 Chateau Branda from the Napa Valley.”
    The burglar smiled for the first time. “That would be lovely,” he said.
    Adrian went to a large mahogany bar, selected a bottle, and checked the label. Then he opened and decanted it and poured two glasses.
    The burglar took his and swirled the wine gently, then brought the glass to his nose. “Excellent color and bouquet,” he said. He sipped the liquid, rolled it over his tongue, and smiled for the second time. “It’s as good a California wine as I’ve tasted.”
    Adrian returned his smile. “My wife gave it to me.”
    “She’s a woman of rare judgment,” the burglar remarked, raising his glass. “Here’s to your wife.”
    “To my wife,” Adrian said. He checked his watch. “Do you by any chance play chess?”
    “I do, but I noticed you checking the time. Are you expecting someone?”
    “My wife will be along shortly, although I’m not sure of the timing.”
    A frown creased the burglar’s forehead. “Won’t she think it unusual, my being here?”
    “I’ll tell her you’re a business colleague,” Adrian said. “Let me get that chess set.”
    The men played for over an hour, finishing the cabernet as they did so. Adrian took the first two games and wondered if the burglar was letting him win to stay on his good side. During a break, they discussed various topics including religion and politics. The burglar was agnostic, he said, which was no surprise to Adrian, as he felt much the same way himself. Adrian was surprised to learn the man held fairly strong Republican sympathies. It seemed incongruous, he thought, with the man’s chosen profession.
    At one point, the burglar asked, “What do you do for a living, if I might inquire? Your home is magnificent, albeit somewhat remote, and your grounds are immaculate.” He hesitated briefly and then added, “Your security system, though, could be updated. In fact, I might be able to give you a few pointers on that if you like.”
    Adrian chuckled. “You might, indeed. To answer your question, it’s a family manufacturing business—not my family, but rather my wife’s. She inherited control from her father. You could say I married into my wealth.”
    “Not a bad way to go about it, I’d think.”
    “It has its moments,” Adrian said, “but its drawbacks, too.”
    The burglar looked slowly around the well-appointed room. “Perhaps so, but none appear obvious to me at the moment.”
     “Care for another game of chess?” Adrian asked.
    They were midway through the next game when Adrian heard the front door open and close, and the sound of his wife’s keys being tossed onto the foyer table. He stuffed the automatic into the waistband behind his back.
    “Adrian,” his wife called out. “Are you home?”
    “I’m in the study, dear.”
    Despite everything, when she appeared in the doorway, Adrian couldn’t help but be taken with his wife’s beauty. Too bad it didn’t extend to her soul.
    “Oh,” she said, advancing into the room. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
    The two men stood. “This is my colleague,” Adrian said. “Mister ... Smith”
    The burglar nodded deferentially in her direction. “John,” he offered. “John Smith.”
    The woman gave him a vacant smile and turned back to Adrian. “I thought you were working late tonight, dear.”
    “I was out,” Adrian said, “but not working. Rather, I was following you to the home of your most recent lover. But then, we don’t need to get into a recitation of all your sins, do we? Not in front of our guest.” He walked calmly to the fireplace and lifted an iron poker from its stand. It had a good bit of heft, he thought, plenty enough to do the job.
    Adrian swung the poker in a vicious arc, striking his wife on the top of her head. She dropped to her knees. He hit her twice more and she pitched forward onto her face.
    The burglar stood aghast, witnessing the bloody spectacle, mouth gaping open. After a moment, he asked, “Is she dead?”
    “I certainly hope so,” Adrian replied.
    “But why did you kill her?”
    “Oh, I didn’t kill her,” Adrian said.
    “I don’t understand,” the burglar said.
    “It’s not relevant whether you understand. The police will understand, though. My poor wife surprised you while you were burglarizing our home, and you beat her to death with this poker. Fortunately, I surprised you in the act.”
    “But...”
    Adrian pulled the automatic from his waistband and shot the burglar through the heart. “At least your skills didn’t go to waste in some prison cell,” he said as the burglar collapsed onto the carpet. And then he set about tidying up and arranging things—all the important little details that would support his story for the police.
    Sometimes, Adrian mused as he folded the burglar’s hand around the poker, bad things come in fours.

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