Part 6 (1/2)

I'd been meditating on a particular sword in my collection, a _katana_, which was totally without distinction except for a little oral history.

Reportedly the blade once tasted blood in a rather arcane episode. Noda probably would have approved. The story was, the samurai who'd commissioned it decided he liked it so much he didn't want the swordsmith telling anybody how he'd forged it. So after he'd thanked the guy graciously, deep bows and all the rest, he picked up the sword, bowed one more time, and then hauled back and sliced him in half, clean as a whistle. The _kesa _stroke, left collarbone straight through the right hip. It's said a samurai could do things such as that in the old days.

My meeting with Noda had made me want to look it over, to refresh my memory concerning that j.a.panese capacity for the unexpected. So after I let myself in through the front foyer, I tossed my raincoat over a banister, headed down to the kitchen to pour myself a nightcap, and proceeded upstairs to the ”office.”

I clicked on the light and then . . .

Jesus! The place had been trashed. Drawers open, files

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 h.e.l.l 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 doc.u.mentation. 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 G.o.d! 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 doc.u.ments, lovingly and painstakingly a.s.sembled, 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.