The Hot Rock by Donald Westlake Read Free Book Online Page A

that the stains and smears on Murch’s face and clothing had been carefully applied almost an hour ago in a small apartment on the Upper West Side.

    The crash, at any rate, was magnificent. The car had leaped the curb, had seemed to bounce twice in crossing the wide sidewalk, and had lunged into and through the glass doors on the right, thudding to a grinding halt, half in and half out, and then bursting at once into flame. Within seconds the fire reached the gas tank — it was supposed to, having been assured by some alterations Murch had made this afternoon — and the explosion shattered what glass the car had missed.

    No one in the building could have failed to hear Murch’s arrival. Dortmunder and the others heard it, and they smiled at one another and moved out, leaving Kelp behind to guard the door.

    Their route to the exhibit area was roundabout, involving several corridors and two flights of stairs, but when they at last opened one of the heavy metal doors leading to the second floor exhibit area, they saw their timing had been perfect. There wasn’t a guard in sight.

    They were all out front, by the fire. Several of them were clustered around Murch, whose head was in a guard’s lap and who was obviously in shock, lying there twitching, muttering, “It wouldn’t steer … it wouldn’t steer …” and moving his arms vaguely, like a man trying to turn a steering wheel. Some of the other guards were standing around the blazing car, telling one another what a lucky guy that lucky guy was, and at least four of them were at four different telephones, calling hospitals and police stations and fire departments.

    Inside, Dortmunder and Chefwick and Greenwood made their way quickly and silently through the exhibits toward the Akinzi display. Only a few lights were on, and in the semi–dark some of the exhibits they moved among tended toward the startling. Devil masks, warriors in spear and costume, even wildly designed tapestries, all were a lot more effective now than during normal visiting hours, with all the lights lit and lots of other people around.

    When they reached the Akinzi display they went immediately to work. They’d studied this for a week now, they knew what to do and how.

    There were four locks to be undone, one in the middle of each side of the glass cube, down at the base, in the steel rim between glass and floor. Once these locks were opened the glass cube could be lifted out of the way.

    Chefwick had with him a small black bag of the sort country doctors used to favor, and this he now opened, revealing many slender metal tools of the sort most country doctors never saw in their lives. While Greenwood and Dortmunder stood on either side of him, watching the exit doors on the far walls and the railing of the third–floor balcony overlooking this area and the stairs and escalator toward the front of the building, where they could see the reflected red glow from the fire down in the lobby, while they kept careful watch on all this, Chefwick went to work on the locks.

    The first one took three minutes, but after that he knew the system and he did all the other three in less than four minutes more. But still, seven minutes was a long time. The red glow was fading, and the noise from downstairs was ebbing; soon the guards would be coming back to their duties. Dortmunder refrained from telling Chefwick to hurry, but with difficulty. Still, he knew Chefwick was doing the best he could.

    At last Chefwick whispered a shrill “Done!” Still kneeling by the last breached lock, he hurriedly put his tools back into his bag.

    Dortmunder and Greenwood got on opposite sides of the glass cube. It weighed close to two hundred pounds, and there was no way for them to get a really good grip on it. They could only press their palms against it at the edges and lift. Straining, sweating, they did so, gazing at each other’s tense face through the glass, and when they got it up two feet Chefwick slid under